Pink? Anne still tried to fathom the idea of a budgetless wedding. “I’m positive we can find the perfect dress for you.” She turned to George, sitting so erect his back hardly touched the sofa cushion, hands clasped in his lap. “I realize you’ve told Courtney she can have whatever she wants no matter the cost, but can you give me a ballpark figure so I can start working up a plan of action?”

“I’ve—it’s just as she said: whatever she wants, no matter the cost.”

Really? Anne bit the inside of her cheek to keep her grin intact. Going to play that way, huh? Well, his “no matter the cost” would be put to the test as soon as she could sit down at the computer and start working up a plan based on everything Courtney said she wanted. No calling in favors from childhood friends on this wedding. If he really meant what he said, all of her vendors— all of them—would be rewarded for every discount, freebie, or no-charge delivery they’d ever given her. And for the first time, she might actually get her full fee, on time.

She picked up her planner. “Let’s talk dates.”

“Third Saturday in October,” Courtney said. “That’s the date we’ve chosen. Oh, but we want to have an engagement party the Friday after the Fourth of July.”

Five weeks for the engagement party and four and a half months for the wedding. If she truly had unlimited financial resources, no problem. Anne had planned to take the weekend after the Fourth off, but for a commission this size…

“Let’s see. That would be Friday, July seventh….” She marked the date in July, then flipped to October. Nothing else on her calendar for that week. “Both dates look good.” She closed the planner. “Now here’s what we do next: I’ll work up a proposal, complete with a budget, based on what you’ve told me, as well as a contract. If I can get an e-mail address, I can send both to you for review before our next meeting. Can you come in at three o’clock Thursday?”

George pulled out a touch-screen PDA and tapped away at the surface with a stylus. “Thursday afternoon looks clear.” He clipped the thing onto his belt and reached into his shirt pocket, withdrawing a business card.

Anne took the card, hoping to get some idea of who this guy was. Against a plain white background, all she saw was GEORGE F. LAURENCE in the middle with his mobile number—a New York area code—at the bottom left and an e-mail address at his own dot-com on the right. Aha. If he had his own Web site, she could look it up and find out more about him.

Standing, she gave each of them one of her cards. “If you think of anything else you’d like me to figure into the plan, please call.”

Courtney came around the coffee table to hug her again. “Thank you, Miss Anne. I know I’m going to have so much fun working with you.”

“I’m delighted to have the opportunity.” She walked arm in arm with Courtney to the door. “I’m serious. Call me if you think of anything. I’m available all hours, not just when I’m in the office.”

“Thanks.” Courtney grinned.

Anne turned and extended her hand to George. “Mr. Laurence, it was nice to see you again.”

He shook hands with firm brevity. “Ms. Hawthorne.” He bowed his head slightly and opened the door for Courtney.

She kept her smile pasted on until they were past her front windows, then spun on her not-too-high heels and crossed to her computer. If he had his own dot-com e-mail address, he must have a Web site. She opened a new Internet window and entered the address. The high-speed cable connection paused for a moment; then an error message popped up on the screen: WARNING! YOU DO NOT HAVE PERMISSION TO ACCESS THIS PAGE. She tried refreshing the page, but the same warning came up. So she did a Google search for his name. Lots of genealogy sites with George Laurences listed, but nothing that seemed to point toward the man who’d just shattered her girlish hopes and dreams of the past several days.

She slumped forward until her forehead touched the screen. “God, why are You doing this to me? Why did he have to turn out to be some kind of eccentric millionaire who’s into much younger women? Why couldn’t he have turned out to be a nice, simple British guy who likes old movies and Dean Martin?”

* * *

“I don’t think this plan is going to work.” George turned down the volume of the Rat Pack & Friends satellite radio station and adjusted the hands-free earpiece of his mobile phone.

“What happened?” Digital static crackled through Forbes Guidry’s voice.

“She thinks I’m some sort of debaucher of young women.”

“What?”

George had to smile at the astonishment in Forbes’s voice. “She didn’t say it in so many words, but I could tell from her expression when she first realized why we were there.”

“From Anne’s expression? She’s usually so good at hiding what she’s thinking, even from those of us who know her best.”

“I think Ms. Hawthorne is suspicious of the nature of my relationship with Miss Landry. And with every right to be so. Why would a man forty-one years old be marrying a girl half his age— less than half his age?” Especially a man like me at whom no woman would ever look twice? George shook off the negative thought and turned the leased Mercedes Roadster convertible into the driveway that should lead to his employer’s nineteenth-century home.

“Anne’s pretty open-minded. I mean, she does have high morals, but when she takes on clients, she doesn’t let things like age differences in the couple interfere with her job.”

Enormous oak trees lined the narrow road, creating a canopy overhead that allowed no sunlight through. George removed his sunglasses and slowed the car. After five nights in a hotel, he hoped all the plumbing repairs were indeed completed. He didn’t want to wake up in the middle of the night with water dripping on his head, as Forbes told him the leak had been over the basement service quarters.

Anne might be open-minded, but he’d seen the look of pure astonishment in her eyes for a split second before she’d slipped into her professional persona. “Look, mate, she’s your cousin, and you know her better than I do. I just don’t want to see anyone get hurt because of this.”

The tree-shaded drive rounded a corner to reveal a magnificent mansion, just like the kind used in movies about the American Civil War. “Love a duck,” George breathed, stopping the car to drink in the view.

“I beg your pardon?” Humor laced Forbes’s baritone voice.

“Oh, sorry. I’ve just seen the house.”

“Pretty amazing, isn’t it?”

“I’ll say.” Red brick with a white-pillared porch dominating the front, the manse loomed ever larger as he drove closer.

“Listen, you focus on getting settled in and don’t worry about Anne. If she has a problem with you or the situation, believe me, you’ll know about it. With Anne, you don’t have to guess.”

George bade the lawyer farewell, ended the call, and followed the paved carriageway to the separate garage building in the back. The land sloped down toward a large pond, exposing the basement level of the house. Mrs. Agee, the housekeeper, had moved in yesterday, but when George tried the main service entrance, it was locked. He punched in the security code Forbes had given him on the panel beside the door and entered.

“Hello?” His voice echoed through the shadowy interior of a cavernous kitchen fitted out with enormous commercial-grade appliances set in redwood cabinetry with gray granite countertops.

“Someone there?” A woman’s voice came from a hall to his right, and bright lights blazed, momentarily blinding George.

“Mrs. Agee?”

An African-American woman entered the kitchen—tall, softly built, her gray hair kept back from her angelic face with a flowery scarf. “I’ve been expectin’ you for a couple of hours now.” She crossed the room, right hand extended. “I’m Keturah Agee, but you can just call me Mama Ketty.”

Now he was almost certain he’d stepped out of real life and onto a movie set. He shook her hand. “George Laurence.”

“Let’s get you settled in, baby, and then we can discuss business matters.”

He followed her through the stone-arch doorway into a hall with gleaming wood floors. The corridor extended the same short distance to the left and right of the doorway.

“I’ve taken up residence in the suite on the left.” She pulled a key out of the pocket of her khaki pants.

The antique brass key was heavy in his hand. “Is locking the doors necessary inside the house?”

“It will be if there’s ever a party here and this lower level is swarming with caterers and day-hires.” She looked at the gold pendant watch hanging from a long chain around her neck. “It’s nearly three. Can I make you some tea?”

Teatime really wasn’t until four. “I’d love some.”

She smiled, showing a full set of straight, white teeth and dimples in both cheeks. “I’ll put the water on while you get yourself settled in.”

By the time he’d gotten his two suitcases and hanging bag out of the car, the teakettle whistled, drowning out Mama Ketty’s humming. She winked at him as he wheeled the luggage through the kitchen. He paused at the door to his room, hoping it was large enough that he wouldn’t be tripping over the end of the bed, as in his room in the New York town house.

The door swung open on silent hinges. The dark wood flooring continued into a long but very narrow room. Well, if he was going to have to stay in the tiny space, at least it had a large window overlooking the back lawn and the pond. He opened the door to his left, expecting an equally small bath, and entered a second, much larger room.

In relief, he sank onto the queen-size bed that sat on a plain metal frame under another large window. Dark wainscoting gave way at waist height to walls painted hunter green. Two more doors revealed a walk-in closet and a large private bath.