Chapter 10

When Emma entered her office on Monday morning, a new stack of files was already waiting on her desk. Linda seemed to have been there for at least an hour and three cups of coffee. She was crackling with energy, bouncing next to Emma's chair as she listed the calls she had already made this morning.

"… and then at twelve you have the first meeting with the happy couple. Very recently engaged, very happy, filthy rich. Is there anything better for a party planner?"

Emma raised her eyebrows and opened the new file. To be quite honest, she felt that weddings were overrated. Sure, they brought in the best money, but once she had her own event company, she would pass on that kind of party. No more being screamed at by a bride, no more fear of being suffocated by a wave of tulle, in case the band didn't get her favorite song right – that was her private dream.

Women who were about to commit to sleeping with one guy for the rest of their lives were a lot more stressed than others. Not that Emma would hold it against them.

"There's no mention in here of where I'm supposed to meet her, is there?"

The file had only stated that the bride's name was Nadia, and she was around fifty.

"Oh, right." Linda took a Post-It from Emma's desk and wrote something on it. "It's the Four Seasons, so I'm guessing they're going to have the reception right there. Lunch will be on the company, of course."

Good to know. Emma had always been curious what lobster tasted like.

"Okay, great, and do we have any feedback about the charity gala yet?"

Linda's eyes widened. "Feedback? Did anything go wrong?"

Emma looked confused. "No, I simply mean criticism or suggestions for improvement … feedback."

Linda started to laugh. "Oh, I keep forgetting that the Germans have this hypercorrect approach to things. We normally don't get any immediate feedback. We read the gossip columns and check what the press writes about our event. If the tenor is positive, everyone is happy."

Good God. Maybe Emma should really start reading those magazines. Apparently they could tell you everything, from getting rich to the latest fashion trend, and even whether it was right moment to have children.

"Okay … do we happen to have one of the magazines that might have written about the event?"

"Of course." Linda nodded eagerly. "We have subscriptions to all of them. Give me a minute." She was out the door and returned a few minutes later, a stack of gossip magazines in her arms. "Here you go."

"Thank you." Emma didn't want to know how many trees had to be felled for this amount of paper.

"You're welcome." Linda beamed at her. "I've already marked the pages that have something to say about the gala. I thought that would make it easier for you. Call me if you need anything else." And with that she was gone again, leaving Emma with more magazines than she'd bought in her entire life.

The Post-Its were really helpful though.

It took Emma about ten minutes to get an idea of how the gala had been received.

Apparently really well.

The food was praised, the amount of money that had been collected for donation was touted, and the guest list was labeled "well-selected."

Emma knew that technically, she hadn't added much to the success of the event, but she still felt a measure of pride. She had overseen the evening after all.

She had reached the second but last mag of the pile, from which a certain baseball player looked back at her.

Luke Carter changes women like his jerseys.

Interesting comparison. And she had been one of them.

She opened the page that was indicated after the headline. Luke in his tuxedo in front of one of the bowling lanes. The picture had to be from Saturday night. She'd never known how fast these publications worked.

He wasn't alone in the picture. He had an accessory on his arm: a fake blonde with an obvious lip job, fake teeth and – who would have thought – silicone boobs.

Luke Carter confirmed every stereotype you could harbor about a sports star. Come to think of it, Emma should simply be glad they had used a condom! Who knew what extravagant venereal disease she might have contracted from him?

The one thing she could say in his defense was that he didn't look too happy in this particular picture.

***

"I look outright scared! Don't you see that? The corners of my mouth are turned down, way down! I'm frowning … I was afraid she'd wrestle me to the floor if I tried to pull my arm away. And now I'm supposed to justify myself over this? Readers will see how much I disliked her!"

Luke stabbed his finger into his photographed face, so hard that his fingertip hurt.

"You're right," Wes replied tiredly, "readers with a Ph.D. in psychology or maybe picture analysis will realize that immediately. So why would I be worried?"

"Your sarcasm is not helpful," Luke growled as he sank into the comfy leather armchair.

"Maybe it's not, but the fact that she's in your top ten worst taste list isn't either."

Luke groaned. He felt he was being treated unfairly. Unfortunately he couldn't say it, since it was a feeling for a ten-year-old, when he was denied a second helping of dessert. He'd been innocence incarnate on Saturday. He hadn't seen Brittany sneak up on him, until it was too late and the flurry of camera flashes had caught her hanging on his arm.

It was unfair. He hadn't even had a second beer, had left before midnight, and donated five thousand dollars. They should be praising him, not put him on the chopping block again!

"What am I supposed to do? Take a chastity vow? Even if I did, the press would write that I was in therapy, trying to fight my sex addiction."

Wes tilted his head back. "You know, a therapy isn't–"

"Wesley, maybe you shouldn't forget that you're on my payroll."

"Oh, right." He sighed and rose from his chair. "Why don't you try a different tack: Find someone normal. Someone nice. A girl women can identify with. You know, an average, normal …"

"… down-to-earth, genuine German girl?", Luke finished his sentence for him, while the corners of his mouth started curving upward.

"I'm not particular about her nationality."

But Luke was, for he happened to know someone who fit the bill squarely.

***

The Four Seasons was imposing, and larger than she'd expected, even though Emma had already mentally adjusted her German ideas about the size of things.

She all but expected to find a sign on the door that said: Reserved for the rich and beautiful.

But instead she was welcomed by a concierge in a red uniform – more gaudy by far than anything a Carnival dancer in Cologne would wear – and led into the "Grand Ballroom."

The room did more than live up to its name. Emma suspected that the only reason they hadn't named it the "Gigantic Ballroom" was that it might have sounded a tad too swanky.

Tables were stacked on both sides of the warehouse-sized expanse, and the parquet floor the color of creamy honey seemed designed for dancing.

"Miss Alberto is expecting you," the concierge said in a high-toned manner, bowed curtly, and left the room.

Life would be boring as hell if every man had his manners.

Emma focused and was glad that she'd googled her client's name before coming here. Five women had been inspecting the ballroom and were now coming towards her. She guessed them to be in their late forties and early fifties, and they looked more fabulous than any actress or stripper she'd seen so far. Not that she'd seen a lot. Apparently Miss Alberto had brought her girl squad as backup, and Emma suddenly wished she'd put on a coat and skirt, together with her heels from Saturday, instead of her usual jeans and blouse.

"Hello, you must be Emma."

The tall, Latin beauty held out her hand. She could easily wear the lines in her face as a fashion statement, and she was even more intimidating in person than she had seemed on her fan page.

Thank God Emma was a professional. Otherwise she probably would have tried to hide her somewhat battered fingernails in the sleeve of her blouse, because they looked terrible next to the freshly manicured ones of the older woman.

"Yes, I am. I'm very pleased to meet you, Miss Alberto. I see you brought some support, to help you with the details maybe?" She studied the other ladies with raised eyebrows.

"Oh. No, they're actually ready to leave, but my fiancé is supposed to be here any minute."

Her smile was genuine, Emma had to concede. She should stop assuming that all wealthy people thought they were a cut above the rest. Her attitude could easily get her in trouble if she had to work with them.

"Ah, so you're one of the less conventional brides, who grants the man who's going to wait for her at the altar a voice in the matter?"

Nadia Alberto laughed, and the additional lines that were brought out by that suited her well. Her friends were smiling as well. "There you go, Nadia, didn't I tell you?" a blonde woman said, before kissing her friend on the cheek. "It's unusual to give your man a say in any of this. I'll see you soon, honey."

A surge of kisses and well-wishes later, all women had left the room, and Emma and her client sat down at a square table that was topped by a beautiful flower bouquet centerpiece.

Even this bouquet looked more expensive than anything Emma had ever bought. Including her little Ford Ka at home.

"You really chose a wonderful room, Miss Alberto," Emma stated, while she started pulling wedding magazines from her briefcase and fanning them out on the table.

That was always her first step. Sounding out her client's taste and preferences, and then building from there, responding to their wishes.

"Oh, please call me Nadia. Though you have an interesting way of pronouncing my last name. Your R is a lot harsher than the American R, but it doesn't roll of the tongue like a Spanish R."

Emma laughed. "I'm from Germany. We're rather proud of our R's, I'm afraid."

"My father's originally from Spain, so I know what you're talking about."

"Right, so we're both Europeans who ended up in the land of the free and the home of the brave." Which seemed to be the only common ground between them. "Shall we start planning your dream wedding then?"

But the other woman was no longer listening. Instead she seemed to have entered her own private version of a romantic movie. Her eyes had glazed over, her mouth was drawn into a pout, and her hand was over her heart – she looked like the epitome of a woman in love.

Emma's eyes followed her gaze and had to concede that the man who was approaching them now was really attractive, despite his age. Had he been thirty years younger, he might have been her dream guy.

"I suspect that this is your fiancé then? Because if he isn't, he must be your secret lover."

Nadia giggled and rose from her seat. "This is my Paul."

Emma rose and heaved a mental sigh. The world was like a game of Monopoly. The ones who already had everything were getting even more, while those who weren't as lucky would never be able to afford the Boardwalk.

"Hello, dream girl." Paul had reached his fiancée, and greeted her with a tender kiss. First on the cheek, then on the lips.

Emma would have given anything to have such a man call her his dream girl. Nadia's eyes were practically sparkling with joy, but she was well-mannered enough to turn to Emma and introduce her. "This is Emma Sander, our wedding planner, and this is my fiancé Paul Carter."

Emma blinked a few times. The last name wasn't exactly rare, but considering the man's good looks … She swallowed and shook his hand. "Carter? Any relation to Luke Carter?"

Mr. Carter raised a skeptical eyebrow.

"Why? Are you really a reporter on the lookout for new stories about my son?"

Emma laughed. "No, I can assure you I'm not."

She could tell him a few stories though.

"But you know him?"

"Who? Mr. Wichtig? … Uh, I mean …" She blushed. Think first, open your mouth later.

"I mean, Luke? Well, I've met him, yes."

The corners of his mouth twitched. "Mr. Wichtig? My German is really bad, but I know what that means. Very fitting indeed."

Emma's cheeks were flaming hot now. "I'm really sorry; I shouldn't have–"

"What does it mean, wichtig?" Nadia interrupted them, looking back and forth between her fiancé and her wedding planner.

"It simply means that our Emma here is one of the few women who noticed that my son tends to overestimate his own importance."

Nadia laughed. "Oh, I knew I would like you, Emma."

The older woman linked arms with her and led her back to her chair. "The local high society could really use more women like you, who simply speak their mind. A lot of people need a reality check. But let's talk about table decoration now, to start somewhere."

Emma had spent the rest of the week preparing the auction that would take place tonight, Friday night.

She had met with Michelle, the woman from the buffet table last weekend, and discussed the proceedings, as well as the number of female candidates up for auction. She had spent the morning convincing the decorator that she did not want the room turned into a Barbie Dream House. Since the goal of the night was to get the men to bid lots of money in the auction, Emma didn't think that a cloyingly feminine décor was a good idea.

After she had finally managed to get across that she wanted a prosaic color scheme of browns and creams, with neither stuffed toys nor pink hearts hanging from the ceiling, the room was finally starting to look the way she had pictured it in her mind.

"That looks wonderful," Michelle sighed. She had entered by a side door and was now sitting down next to Emma, who sat in the front row, about to go through the planned evening once again.

It was actually very simple and straightforward: A horde of men would sit around and bid on a second horde of bottled blondes. The highest bidder won a date with the respective woman, and the money all went to a good cause, a children's charity.

It was basically a dating or matchmaking event for rich people with a Mother Teresa streak. But Emma was smart enough not to say that aloud.

"I'm really glad you spared the men the need to grab their nuts, just to make sure they're really men."

Emma gave her a puzzled look. "Excuse me?"

Michelle laughed out loud. "I'm glad you didn't drown the room in pink hearts."

Emma grinned back at her. "I'm sorry. For a moment there I doubted that a woman of good breeding was even allowed to think a thing like that."

Michelle waved a dismissive hand. "Good breeding? My family isn't wealthy at all. My mother is a seamstress and my daddy a firefighter. I've slept my way up – with that guy over there."

She nodded to her right, where a tall, dark-haired man with skin like hot cocoa was talking to a blonde youngster, who had to be either the bar keeper or a very young famous person.

"In the literal sense?" Emma asked, genuinely curious.

"Well." Michelle's smile widened as she nodded her head ambiguously. "There's also a little bit of love thrown in the mix somewhere on the way."

"Ah," Emma said, letting her shoulders slump in mock disappointment. "Boring, but that's okay … Is there a reason he's looking rather unhappy right now?"

Michelle's eyes followed her gaze and she made a face. "Yeah. He doesn't want to be here. No fun for him if he's not allowed to bid on any of the women. But since I launched this event, my fiancé has to be present, and sit at my side tonight. He's the man who wants to continue to sleep with me after all."

Michelle's fiancé was staring at them with a frown on his face, his eyes pleading with her.

"What does he want now?" Emma knit her brows.

"My okay. He yearns to start drinking so he'll be wasted when the auction is in full swing."

Emma gave the woman an approving pat on the shoulder. She liked Michelle more with every passing minute. "You trained him well."

"I know. Trained him with sex."

They both giggled. It was probably true.

Emma put down her notepad. They were prepared; nothing could go wrong. They had earned a brief pause. "Where did you meet him?"

"Oh, I might not look the part, but I'm a passionate baseball fan."

Emma was getting the feeling that that was something all Americans would say about themselves. Maybe it was part of their patriotism: You had to follow either baseball or football – otherwise you'd be stripped of your citizenship.

"Two years ago, I snuck into a charity gala – one like Saturday's bowling bash. I wanted to pick up a player. But I ended up with Wes, who's not an athlete at all."

Her eyes glowed, so Emma was sure she didn't regret that result. "He's a sports agent and he accompanied a client. When one of the bouncers wanted to throw me out, he came to my aid and asked whether the man really didn't recognize me – the supermodel from England."

"Charming," Emma smiled. If anyone had advertised her as a supermodel, she'd have been partial to him, too, she guessed. The only difference was that Michelle actually looked the part. One glance at her, and the bouncer would have laughed his ass off and kicked her out.

"That's a cute story."

"Sure, if you leave out the fact that I was nothing but a wannabe groupie."

A groupie.

Thinking that she wasn't that different from the younger version of Michelle, Emma groaned and rubbed a hand across her face.

The other woman gave her a puzzled look. "What's wrong? Have I lost your respect?"

Emma shook her head and sighed. She debated coming up with a pretext, but then decided against it. She liked Michelle, and she hated lying. It wasn't a difficult decision to make.

"No, not at all. I simply had to face the fact that I'm not as far above that groupie status as I'd like to be."

"Oh, really? I knew that you're not the boring kind. Tell me everything. Did you stalk any celebrities?"

She shook her head. "No, but I slept with one."

Michelle's jaw dropped, but before she could voice a reply, Emma was already backpedaling.

"I had no idea he was famous! He's a nobody in Germany. How was I supposed to know that over here, his face is printed on cornflakes boxes?"

"Cornflakes boxes? So is he an athlete? Who is it? Tell me, or I swear I'll die of curiosity!"

"Maybe you don't even know him …"

Emma knew that that was a futile hope, for Michelle had told her she was a passionate lover of baseball. "Does the name Luke Carter ring any bells?"

Michelle's eyes widened until they were as large as donuts. "No. Get out of here!"

Emma felt herself blush. "Well … yes. Yes."

"Luke? But you're not his type at all."

Emma raised her eyebrows.

"No, don't get me wrong," Michelle hastened to add. "He just doesn't have any … class, normally. That was what I meant."

Emma recalled the picture in the gossip magazine. A blonde, big-breasted Barbie. She might actually be labeled ‘classy,' compared to that woman, yes. She was satisfied with that.

"Yeah, it was more of an accident anyway."

Michelle gave her a skeptical look. "An accident? Does anyone sleep with a man like Luke by accident?!"

Probably not. It had happened by accident, and on purpose at the same time. "I don't know. It's been a while. It was over a year ago, when he was visiting in Germany …"

"Ah, so what happens in Germany stays in Germany?!" Michelle dismissed it with a grin.

"More like: What happens in Germany comes back to haunt you when you least expect it," Emma murmured, more to herself than to Michelle.

"You could have done much worse, come on," Michelle pointed out cheerfully. "Luke is really a nice guy. An arrogant idiot, obviously, but otherwise really nice and tame. My theory is that he simply has a surplus of energy, which he expends on a number of innocent women."

She frowned and stared off into space. "Well, most of them probably not that innocent either …"

Emma laughed. "You're speaking of him like you know him."

Michelle snapped back into the here and now. "Oh, I do. He's a friend of mine."

Great. What were the odds?

"He's one of Wesley's clients, the one I mentioned when I told you how I met Wes. I suspect he will be here tonight." There was a sudden twinkle in her eyes. "Do you want to have another night with him? I bet Luke could really use a genuine, smart person like you for a change."

"Oh no!" Emma protested immediately. "He's actually not really my type at all."

"He's every woman's type, granted she doesn't fancy bald, fat, and short."

"… but it was basically just a tequila accident."

"In vino veritas, as they say. In wine, there is truth."

"And I don't want to do it again."

At least her head did not. Her body however …

Michelle had opened her mouth to reply, but her phone interrupted her with its shrill ringing. She raised her index finger as if to indicate that this conversation wasn't over yet, before taking the call.

"Hello? … oh, hey, Tina. Are you getting dressed? … what do you mean, chickenpox?"

The feeling that her perfect plan for the auction was getting derailed crept up on Emma.

"Yeah, of course I understand. Get well quickly, okay? Bye."

Michelle hung up and sighed heavily. "One candidate just canceled on me," she announced, her voice slightly panicked. "The auction's going to start in twenty minutes; in ten minutes the guests will arrive. How are we supposed to find a solution this quickly?"

"Don't panic," Emma said, gesturing with her hand in what she hoped was a soothing manner. She was born for situations like this. She never panicked, but kept a level head when the pressure piled up. "We simply need a replacement." She rose from her chair. "I'll go backstage and find someone there …"

"All you have here are people in charge of sound or light. We need them at their posts."

"I'm sure there will be someone who isn't busy with anything. Let me check and … Michelle?"

The woman before her was suddenly looking at her with a calculating gaze and a smile that made her palms start to sweat.

"You're single, aren't you, Emma?"

Emma blanched. "Well, am I single? I …"

"You don't have a boyfriend back in Germany, do you?"

"Well, no, but I …"

"Alright then, problem solved, disaster averted." Michelle clapped her hands and jumped up. "You'll be the replacement, simple as that."

Emma looked down at herself. She was wearing her usual jeans and a t-shirt. After all, her plan had been to spend the evening backstage, not onstage.

"Michelle, nobody's going to make a bid for me. I look like the wife of Bob the Builder."

"Bullshit." Michelle rolled her eyes. "Come on, I'm sure we'll find a dress for you. We just need to hurry up."

***

Luke wasn't sure which he hated more: Auctions that required the attendees to wear a suit, or gatherings that forced him to behave properly and make polite small talk. He detested both, and since this event combined both of them, it took some effort not to turn on his heel when he arrived.

Several people greeted him in passing, but he couldn't claim to be able to remember the names of more than twenty percent of them.

"Wow, you're following my instructions? What did they put in your tea today?" His agent patted his shoulder and pointed at a half-empty table in the center of the room.

"That's ours. Michelle says we'll have the best view from there."

"I wouldn't mind somebody spiking my tea right now. A little vodka would be nice," Luke murmured unhappily as he followed his friend.

As soon as they'd settled in their chairs, the light was dimmed. Wesley's fiancée stepped out on the stage in a floor-length green dress, and Luke suspected that all the men in the room were wondering right now whether they could place a bid on her, too.

"Dude, you really don't deserve her," Luke murmured as Wes grinned, while Michelle started to introduce the charity they would donate their auction money to.

"Oh, I know that. But she always overlooks that fact generously."

"Lucky bastard."

"Jealous? Are you suddenly overcome by the desire for a wife, some kids, and a golden retriever?"

Luke leaned back in his chair and folded his hands on the table. "Oh yes, I'm going to start looking for a wife as soon as I'm done going to church, confessing my sins, and flying to Hawaii to flee the winter."

"Forget Hawaii. When you're done with confessing your sins, you'll be an old man and afraid that the cabin pressure will kill you."

Luke snorted. "Oh yeah, but your vest is spotlessly clean."

"I'm about to marry an angel, so I'll be forgiven – oh, and here comes the first woman who'll go home unhappy that I didn't bid on her."

A tall brunette with a chest that would have put Dolly Parton to shame stepped out on the stage.

"Hey, Luke, what about her? Totally your type," Wes chuckled.

"She's not," Luke growled back.

"US Weekly says that she is."

Michelle brought down the gavel, and the first woman went to an old man who looked slightly moronic, but waved his walking stick happily enough.

"Speaking of US Weekly …" Wes lowered his voice. "Are you still following your new crazy plan?"

Luke turned his gaze away from the stage and grinned at his agent. "Yep. She organizes this thing, so I'm going to talk to her afterwards."

"But how do you intend to get her to agree to your arrangement. Last Saturday, she didn't actually seem delighted with your character …"

Luke turned his gaze back to the stage with ostentation.

How the hell had Wes noticed that?

"I'll think of something, don't worry. I'll simply …"

His jaw dropped when he saw the woman who had stepped out on the stage.

"… Our next candidate has spontaneously agreed to fill the place of Tina Merrick, who's unfortunately fallen sick … give an extra loud hand for Emma Sander."

Damn him, she looked hot!

Though once again, she was covering more than she revealed, the tight-fitting, figure-hugging dress didn't leave much to the imagination. A grin spread across Luke's face. "I'll simply buy her."

***

Emma felt uncomfortable and awkward. Even more awkward than the time her mother had made her take part in the dance theater at her school; and her twelve-year-old self had been forced to kick up her legs in a ladybug costume.

She looked silly. In a sky-blue dress that was far too tight and possessed a scandalous plunge in the back, and that made sure she wouldn't be able to drink or eat anything tonight, for fear of each extra ounce showing immediately.

And yet here she was, in the spotlight, which meant she had a hard time discerning any faces in the crowd around the tables. She took a small step forward. Was it too much to ask that at least she wanted to know who would be bidding for her?

"Do I hear an initial bid for this lovely event planner?"

The concept was moronic! Men bidding money for the chance to go out with a woman!

"Five hundred, from the gentleman at table six. Do I hear more?"

Five hundred?

Someone was willing to pay five hundred dollars, just to go out with her? Emma squinted to get a better look at the man who had placed the first bid. He was her age, blonde, and now he winked at her.

He didn't look bad at all. Though if she had a choice, she'd rather have the five hundred in cash.

"Six hundred … seven hundred …"

"One thousand!" another voice yelled.

"One thousand," Michelle repeated and looked at the man who had upped the ante. "One thousand dollars from Mr. Carter."

Emma opened her mouth in outrage, and registered at the same time that Michelle grinned at her.

She narrowed her eyes and scanned the room beyond the limelight … and really, there he was: Her personal nightmare was sitting in the center of the room, casually holding up his bidding sign.

"Will anyone offer more?"

Please, please, please …

The initial bidder at table six lifted his sign. "One thousand one hundred."

Thank God.

"One thousand five hundred," Luke outbid him immediately.

The blonde man shot back: "One thousand seven hundred."

Emma's heartbeat ceased racing. One thousand seven hundred dollars. Luke wouldn't …

"Jesus motherloving Christ." He rose from his chair, so everyone could see him. "I'm filthy rich! I have a lot more money than you do, Simon. So can we please finish this ridiculous show-off already? Two thousand five hundred!"

The blonde man made an aggrieved face, but he lowered his arm.

"Alright," Michelle grinned, "sold for the highest amount so far, to Luke Carter …"

"Objection," Emma blurted and raised her hand as if she were in class.

Michelle blinked and gave her a perplexed look. "Uh … Emma, we're not in court here. You can't raise an objection."

Emma wasn't convinced. "What if I don't want to go out with him?"

Michelle stepped back from the podium. "Emma, do you really want to deny Children's Chance the amount of money he just offered?" And then she lowered her voice even further. "And have you looked at him lately? You even know what he looks like naked, so how can you harbor any doubts?"

Emma's problem was precisely that she couldn't forget what he looked like naked! That only added to her panic.

"At least he's not an old fart," Michelle murmured with a wink, before returning to the podium and yelling: "Sold to Luke Carter for two thousand five hundred dollars!"

Emma's heart sank, because she was scared shitless. Clenching her teeth, she went down the three steps that led from the stage, her legs shaking as she headed for Luke's table, while an assistant was carrying his check to Michelle.

"Come on, Don Juan," Emma murmured when she'd reached him. She tugged at the sleeve of his suit coat. "Let's get it over with."

"I love it when my date is this enthusiastic."

Emma glared at him. "Well, your other dates probably see the money going into their personal accounts, not that of Children's Chance." And with that, she headed for the door.