Ella’s heart stuttered in her chest. Is he going to kiss me again?

She answered the question herself. “I’m not going to wait to find out.”

“Excuse me?” Chase said.

“Never mind.” She laughed. And then, since the man stood within easy reach, she grabbed the lapels of his suit coat and hauled him closer for a kiss.

He blinked in surprise when her lips met his, but then his hands clamped onto her waist and she felt his fingers dig into her flesh through the suit’s gabardine as he pulled her closer. That, as much as the low groan that emanated from the back of his throat, told her he was as turned on as she was.

Ella closed her eyes and gave herself over to the moment.

Dear Reader

I am sometimes asked if I base my characters—especially my heroines—on myself. While little pieces of my personality can undoubtedly be found in most of my heroines, in Ella Sanborn’s case she is definitely a figment of my imagination. Which, I have to say, is what made her a blast to write.

Oh, to be that free-spirited and fun! I am much more conservative in both dress and personality.

And, while I am certainly not a pessimist by nature, Ella is so optimistic and resilient that I can only hope I would be the same when faced with similar circumstances.

I admire people who, rather than remaining on the mat, get up and keep fighting after life knocks them flat.

My hero, Chase, is a fighter, too. Although he and Ella, of course, approach problems very differently. He is much more analytical and serious, whereas she laughs in the face of adversity.

I hope you enjoy Ella and Chase’s story as much as I enjoyed writing it. Drop me a line with your comments. You can find me on Twitter, Facebook or through my website, www.jackiebraun.com. I look forward to hearing from you.

Happy reading!

Jackie Braun

After the Party

Jackie Braun

www.millsandboon.co.uk

JACKIE BRAUN is the author of more than two dozen romance novels. She is a three-time RITA® Award finalist, a four-time National Readers’ Choice Awards finalist, the winner of a Rising Star Award in traditional romantic fiction and was nominated for Series Storyteller of the Year by RT Book Reviews in 2008. She lives in Michigan with her husband and two sons, and can be reached through her website at www.jackiebraun.com

This and other titles by Jackie Braun are available in eBook format from www.millsandboon.co.uk

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Contents

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Excerpt

PROLOGUE

“I see a handsome man in your future.”

Ella Sanborn fought the urge to roll her eyes at the older woman reading her palm. Ella could be naive at times. She was too trusting for her own good, or so she had been told on more than one occasion. And she was superstitious, hence today’s visit to a fortune-teller. But she wasn’t a complete fool. She was pretty sure Madame Maroushka told every young, unattached woman who darkened her door the very same thing.

But finding a man wasn’t what had brought Ella here. She leaned over the table and studied the lines that crisscrossed her opened hand, wishing she could make sense of them herself.

“What about a job? Do you see anything on there about a job? Preferably one with decent hours, paid holidays and medical benefits.”

Madame Maroushka’s scarf-wrapped head jerked up. In her heavily accented English, she asked, “You are single, no?”

“Yes.”

“But you are not interested in a man?”

“I’m not.” She said it resolutely, thinking of her ex-boyfriend, Bradley Farmington.

He’d been as loyal as a prostitute, dumping her right after her father’s legal troubles began. So much for true love. After the insider-trading charges leveled against Oscar were dropped, Bradley had sent her a note of apology. He felt bad about the way he’d handled things and claimed that he’d never really believed her father was guilty of anything. He’d been overly worried about his pending membership into an elite Manhattan social club. Ella forgave Bradley for bailing on her. She figured he’d done her a favor. He’d shown his true colors. A lot of her so-called friends had.

But Ella hadn’t dated anyone seriously since.

“He is very good-looking, this one,” the older woman crooned.

Ella shook her head. “I have more pressing problems than my social life right now.”

“But he is rich.” Madame Maroushka’s wily smile revealed a gold front tooth. Hmm, Ella thought, the fortune-telling business must pay pretty well, which reminded her...

“I’d rather have a job.”

“Land a wealthy husband, my dear girl, and you would not have to work ever again.”

“Yeah. So I’ve heard,” Ella replied dryly, thinking of her former stepmother’s snarky advice.

Camilla Sanborn would know a thing or two about landing wealthy husbands. She’d married Ella’s father at the height of his success and then left him to marry another billionaire when Oscar’s fortunes changed. No, thank you, Ella thought. She would pay her own bills, starting with those that were past due, just as soon as she had a job.

She nodded toward her palm again and asked Madame Maroushka, “Are you getting any vibes about the sales position at La Chanteuse on Thirty-Third?”

She’d submitted her résumé more than a week ago and, even though the manager had said the post needed to be filled immediately, Ella had heard nothing. Working in retail wasn’t where she saw herself employed indefinitely, but in the interim, she would take what she could get. Besides, one of the perks of working at the ladies apparel store was a 20 percent discount on merchandise, and there was a leather handbag that was calling Ella’s name.

It was hell being a fashionista on a thrift-store budget.

“My gift does not work that way. It tells me what it tells me while I study your palm. I see a man,” the woman insisted a second time. “He is tall—”

“Dark and handsome,” Ella finished impatiently.

“Hey, you want me to continue or you gonna read your own palm?”

Ella blinked in surprise. Just that quickly, the woman’s accent had relocated from East Europe to North Jersey.

“Uh, sorry. Go on.”

“Very well.” With her accent now back in the Baltic, Madame Maroushka continued. “He is lonely, this man. And not dark, at least not how you meant. I see fair hair and light eyes. He is searching for...someone.”

In spite of the pressing nature of her visit, Ella couldn’t help but be intrigued. “But is he single?”

Jersey made another appearance in Madame Maroushka’s speech. “Whaddaya think? I just said the guy was lonely and searching.”

“Yes, but the two conditions are not mutually exclusive,” Ella felt the need to point out. “Last month, I went on a date with a guy who claimed to be lonely and looking for love. He also happened to be married.”

A detail he’d failed to mention until his wife showed up at the restaurant where they were dining, wielding a set of knitting needles and threatening to pluck out Ella’s eyes.

The corners of the palm reader’s mouth turned down in consideration before she nodded. “Okay. Point taken. But this one is single.” She traced a finger over one of the creases on Ella’s palm again.

“So, is this handsome stranger looking to hire a woman?” Ella asked.

When Madame Maroushka’s eyebrows shot up, Ella squeaked, “Not for that! I’m talking about a legitimate job. I can cook reasonably well, and I know how to scrub a toilet.”

She’d had both a housekeeper and a cook while growing up, but she’d learned as an adult. Neither skill would put her fashion merchandising degree to any better use than the sales gig at La Chanteuse, but Ella couldn’t afford to be picky.

“I do not believe he seeks either a housekeeper or a cook,” the fortune-teller said with a shake of her head. “I see the two of you at a social gathering.”

“Like a party?”

“I believe so. He is wearing a tailored dark suit and the two of you are drinking champagne poured from a bottle with a fancy black label.”

Ooh. It must be some shindig if the host had sprung for Dom Perignon. Momentarily sidetracked, Ella scrutinized her palm.

“Am I wearing the fuchsia cocktail dress with the ruched waist that I got on sale last month?” The tag was still attached to the sleeve and she’d been debating returning it. She really couldn’t afford the designer original, even if she’d gotten it for a steal. But if she had someplace to wear it— “No. Never mind.” She shook her head for emphasis. “I’m not going to be attending any parties. I don’t need to improve my social life. What I need is a job. Better yet, I need a career.”

A sales job in retail was definitely the bottom rung of the ladder when it came to a career in the fashion world, but her well-connected ex-stepmother knew a lot of people in the industry. People whose ears she’d bent with vicious gossip and outright lies. No one wanted to hire Ella if it meant crossing Camilla. Whatever. Ella wasn’t averse to working her way up as long as she was working.

Madame Maroushka frowned, causing the drawn-on mole just above her mouth to dip into one of the lines that feathered out from her lips. “This...this is most unusual.”

“What?”

“I see the party as your career.”

“What? Do you mean I’m like a party planner or something?”

“Could be,” the older woman allowed.

“I like parties. I’ve been to enough of them.” Both the fancy variety in her previous life as the daughter of a high-powered Wall Street wheeler-dealer and the casual, keg-of-beer kind since her father’s fall from grace. She nibbled her lower lip, an idea hatching. “How much do you think people get paid for planning them?”

Madame Maroushka shrugged. She was back in Jersey when she said, “Beats me. It probably depends on the kind of people you plan the parties for and the kind of parties they want you to plan. Know what I mean?”

In other words, the deeper their pockets, the more they would be willing to pay. That made sense.

“I know a lot of people with deep pockets,” Ella murmured half to herself. Until her father filed bankruptcy, she’d even called some of them her friends.

Madame Maroushka glanced at her watch, her tone brisk and all business when she said, “Time’s up. Thanks for coming. Here.” She handed Ella a coupon.

“What’s this for?”

“The printing place two blocks up on the opposite side of the street. My nephew owns it. He is handsome and single,” she said with a smile. When Ella just stared at her, Madame Maroushka said flatly, “He’s running a special on business cards. You get five hundred for the price of four with this coupon. If you want to be a party planner, you’ll need cards and lots of them.”

Why not? Ella thought. What did she have to lose? She paid Madame Maroushka and headed to the print shop where she blew the last of her meager savings on business cards and promotional fliers, which she then spent the following two days distributing all over Manhattan.

Two weeks later, her efforts appeared to have paid off. She had a meeting with a client, and a very deep-pocketed one, too. There was only one downside to the job and it was a doozy. The party she was being asked to plan was a wake.

ONE

Chase Trumbull’s mood was in the toilet when he strode through the main doors of the New York skyscraper that housed Trumbull Toys’ corporate offices. It was a gloriously sunny Friday in June, just four hours shy of quitting time for those who punched a clock, with the weekend weather forecast calling for clear skies and highs in the eighties. But it felt like a cold and cloudy Monday given the rumors that were circulating and the grim financial news he’d just received.

Even so, he wasn’t blind, much less dead. So, in spite of his foul mood, his steps slowed and his gaze detoured south to take in the view.

As backsides went, the one on the woman who’d stopped midstride in front of him was one of the finest he’d seen in a long time. It was firm, nicely curved and packaged in a narrow zebra-print skirt that clung to its contours like a glove to the proverbial hand. The legs that extended from the skirt’s meager hemline were the perfect complement to a first-class ass. And the shoes—black with red soles that ended in daggerlike four-inch heels... Well, it was all he could do to hold back his groan. And that was before she bent over to retrieve something from the lobby floor.

Of course, this was neither the time nor the place to indulge base instincts, even if a toned butt, killer legs, animal-print miniskirt and stilettos ticked all of the boxes on his libido’s wish list. He concentrated on the company’s projected second-quarter profits. Those certainly were dismal enough to banish the triple-X fantasy that had started to play in his mind like the featured film at a bachelor party.

As it was, the sizable slump in sales from the previous four quarters had the board of directors on edge and stockholders beginning to defect. The finger was being pointed in a direction Chase didn’t want to look. And then there were those damned rumors.

The woman straightened, turned slightly and, catching sight of him, smiled apologetically, leaving asymmetrical divots in her cheeks. One dent was midway between her mouth and ear. The other, just to the side of her lips.

“I’m sorry. I hope I wasn’t in your way.”

“Not at all,” he lied politely. Another oddity in her features registered and good manners deserted him. He blurted out, “Only one of your eyes is blue.”

“The other is brown. It makes it a little tricky when I have to fill out any official forms.”

“I’m sure.” He realized he was staring, and asked, “Did you lose something just now?”

“Actually, I found something.” She smiled again and held out her hand. A single copper coin decorated its palm.

“That’s a penny.”

“A lucky penny,” she corrected. “It’s an omen.” When he frowned, she said, “You know, a sign. A good one in this case. I’m here about a job.”

The first layer of fantasy peeled away. Chase was too practical to put stock in omens. As for luck, he was of the firm belief that people made their own. His uncle was a case in point. Elliot Trumbull was the founder and creative genius behind a multibillion-dollar business that he’d launched four decades earlier with toys that remained beloved and collected the world over. Vision, passion, hard work—those were the ingredients for success. Not luck, even if Chase could admit that Elliot had run into a spate of the bad variety lately.

“And you think finding a penny on the floor in this lobby is going to help you with that?”

The woman shrugged. “It can’t hurt. Right?”

Well, she had him there.

Together, they started for the bank of elevators, where nearly a dozen people outfitted in conservative business attire waited. They greeted Chase with nods and murmured “Good afternoon,” before parting like the Red Sea. When the doors of the first elevator slid open, not one of them boarded it.

Chase was used to this. When Elliot had brought Chase back to New York from the company’s California office eighteen months earlier, he’d come with the express purpose of turning around Trumbull Toys’ flagging bottom line. Unlike his uncle, who was officially at the helm and remained the creative force, or Owen, Elliot’s son, who was known to flirt outrageously with female workers, Chase believed in running a tight ship. As a result, employees feared him. When possible, they went out of their way to avoid him. The young woman, however, stepped inside the elevator without a moment’s hesitation. Then she caught the doors before they could close.

“Isn’t anyone else coming?”

She directed the question to the crowd at large. Several of them flushed. A few of them stammered incoherently. An intern from the marketing department looked as if he might faint.

“They’ll catch the next car,” Chase replied on their behalf.

“Oh. Okay.” She released the doors and they shut.

Chase punched the buttons for floors two and seventeen. Human Resources was located on two. Top management offices, including his, were on seventeen. When the bell dinged and the doors opened one floor up, however, the woman made no attempt to leave.

“This is two,” he prompted. “Aren’t you getting off here?”

She blinked at him, one brown eye and one blue clouded with confusion. “No. I thought you were.”

“Why would I be getting off here?”

“Well, you’re the one who pressed the button,” she reminded him.

“The human resources department is on this floor.” He pointed down the corridor. “It’s the third office on the left. That’s where all job applicants check in to fill out paperwork before being sent on to department heads for their interviews.”

“There must be some mistake.”

“It’s all right.” He held the doors to keep them from closing. “You probably just misunderstood.”

“No, what I mean is, I’m not here for an interview. I’ve already got the job. I’m meeting with my client on the seventeenth floor.”

That was when it hit him. No...no...no.

Chase realized he’d muttered his objection aloud when she said, “Excuse me?”

He released the doors and they closed, sealing him inside the elevator with a woman who was every man’s fantasy and, now that he knew her identity, Chase’s worst nightmare.

Tone grim, he said, “You’re the party planner.”

“Guilty as charged. I’m Ella Sanborn.” She sobered slightly. “Don’t tell me you’re Mr. Trumbull. Er, I mean you sounded...different on the phone.”

He could only imagine.

“One of three. I’m Chase. You’re here to see Elliot. He’s my uncle.”

“I am so sorry to hear he’s dying.”

Jaw clenched, he replied, “My uncle is not dying.”

Her brow wrinkled. “But when he called, he said he wanted me to plan a wake. An Irish one. For him.”

Chase rubbed the back of his neck just above his shoulders where a tight knot was already starting to form. “My uncle isn’t Irish, either.”

“I don’t understand.”

“A common occurrence,” Chase remarked.

His uncle’s quirkiness left a lot of people scratching their heads. Lately, he also had become unpredictable and absentminded to the point that some members of the board of directors were questioning his mental fitness and ability to continue as the head of the publicly traded company. Rumor had it that they were close to having the votes to do it. Chase didn’t want to think what the board members who were still on the fence were going to think if his uncle went through with this wake.

Too late Chase realized that Ella thought his comment was directed at her.

“I can be a little naive at times, but I’m not an idiot.”

“I didn’t mean to—”

“Oh, my God. It’s all a joke, isn’t it?”

Chase frowned. In the span of a few seconds he’d gone from being contrite to being confused. “What?”

“The job, the supposed interview. Somehow Bernadette found out about my new business venture, and she put you up to this.”

The elevator stopped on the fifteenth floor. Three men from the product development department were waiting to board. With one glance from Chase they scuttled away like crabs at low tide.

When the elevator was under way again, he asked, “Who is Bernadette?”

“She’s my stepsister. Ex-stepsister, actually. Her mom and my dad are divorced now.” Ella paused to add a dramatic, “Thank God!” Then, “But that hasn’t stopped her from trying to make my life miserable.”

“Well, this is no joke. My uncle is serious about wanting an Irish wake.”

“Even though he’s not Irish and he’s not dying.”

“He has his reasons.” Ones Chase didn’t quite understand and couldn’t agree with. “My uncle can be... He’s often...” At a loss for how to describe the man who had raised him from the age of ten on, Chase finished awkwardly, “He’s just like that.”

Especially lately.

“Like what?” Ella asked.

Chase clamped his lips closed. He didn’t want to believe the rumors circulating about his uncle’s deteriorating mental capacity. He certainly wouldn’t help spread them.

Greeted with his silence, Ella said, “That’s okay. I’d rather meet him and make up my own mind anyway.”

Unfortunately, Chase had a pretty good idea of the opinion Ella Sanborn would form once she did.

* * *

The elevator dinged, heralding their arrival on the much vaunted seventeenth floor of the Trumbull Toys empire. Several years ago, Ella had seen a television special on Elliot Trumbull and his place of business. It had made toy stores seem drab and restrained by comparison. But when the doors opened, the sight that greeted her left her not only disappointed but baffled.

“Is something wrong?” Chase said.

“This is the fabled Trumbull Toy Company?” she asked before she could think better of it.

Chase frowned. “What were you expecting?”

Well, she hadn’t been expecting beige walls and a nondescript sitting area. Where was the life-size Randy the Robot that she’d seen in the TV special? And the basketball hoops? The foosball table and minitrampoline?

She laughed weakly. “I guess I was expecting toys.”

“Those are gone. I found they were too distracting and sent the wrong message to employees. This is a place of business.”

Yes, and that business was toys. But she decided not to press the point.

Two women and a man sat at a horseshoe-shaped reception desk talking into headsets as they tapped away on keyboards. All three were dressed as conservatively as Chase in the muted colors Ella associated with storm clouds. Admittedly, she liked bright hues and fun prints, hence her zebra skirt and the poppy-red blouse. Still...

As a unit, they glanced in Chase’s direction, but just like the group in the lobby, and the men who’d tried to board the elevator several floors later, not one of them maintained eye contact for very long. Ella’s gaze slid to Chase. She could see why. In his dark suit, perfectly knotted tie and polished wingtips, Chase Trumbull cut an imposing figure. She shouldn’t have found him approachable much less attractive. But she did. Oh, yeah, she did, all right.

She blamed the attraction she felt on his cowlick. She was a sucker for cowlicks, and his was a beaut. That little whirl of sandy hair just to the left of his part simply refused to go along with the rest of his fastidiously styled locks. It reminded Ella a bit of herself. She wasn’t one to go along with the crowd, either.

All sorts of superstitions were attached to cowlicks. Some people saw them as the mark of the devil. Others insisted they were a sign of good luck. Ella’s best friend, Sandra Chesterfield, meanwhile, claimed that men with cowlicks were exceptional lovers. She’d read an article to that effect on the internet. If that was true, a man with one displayed so prominently at his hairline must be...

Ella fanned herself.

“Hot?” Chase asked.

Yes, and that made two of them. But she smiled and said, “I’m fine. Cool as a cucumber.”

His brows furrowed momentarily. Then, to the woman seated on the left of the reception desk, he said, “This is Ella Sanborn. She’s here to see Elliot.”

“Yes. He’s expecting her.”

“My uncle’s office is the third door on the left.”

The door in question was closed. Ella asked, “Should I knock?”

“Just once and then go right in. If you wait for him to answer, you might wind up standing there all day.”

It seemed rude to barge in, even if she was expected. “You’re sure he’s not busy?”

Chase consulted his watch. “Oh, he’s busy. It’s nearly race time.”

“What?”

“You’ll see.” One side of his mouth rose. It wasn’t quite a smile, but it was the closest she’d seen him come so far. It softened his features and left her a bit dazzled. It also made her wonder what Chase Trumbull would look like with a full-out grin plastered on his face and amusement lighting his eyes.

“Good luck. Of course you don’t need it,” he said solemnly. At her puzzled expression, he added, “You found that penny in the lobby.”

“I did.” Ella replied with an equal amount of seriousness, even though she was pretty sure that he was teasing her.

He disappeared into the first office, whose door bore a brass plate etched with Chase Danforth Trumball III, Chief Financial Officer.

She sucked in a breath and proceeded to the third door, passing one with a brass plate marked Owen Scott Trumbull, Chief Operating Officer. The nameplate on the third door wasn’t brass. It was bright red, and its white carnival-esque script read, Elliot Trumbull, Purveyor of All Things Fun. In spite of her nerves, she found herself grinning. After she knocked and the door opened, that grin changed into delighted laughter.

Now this was more like it.

It wasn’t an office. It was every young boy’s fantasy, complete with a race track that snaked under, over and around the spacious room’s eclectic furnishings.

“You’re just in time,” said a man teetering on the top rung of a ladder that overlooked the track.

Even though he was older now, she recognized him from the television program. Elliot Trumbull in the flesh. And he was indeed the purveyor of all things fun.

No stuffy business attire for him. He was dressed in a professional racecar driver’s jumpsuit, complete with half a dozen endorsement patches sewn on the sleeves and chest. In one hand, he held a flag; in the other, a bright orange starter pistol. As Ella stood transfixed, he fired the gun into the air—the bullet a blank, she assumed, since it didn’t take out any ceiling tiles—and declared the race under way. On the track, three vehicles about the size of her palm whirred into action.

“They’re sound activated by the pistol,” he told her. “After that, a computer takes over and ultimately decides the race. Care to place a bet on the winning car?”

“Ten bucks on number seventy-seven,” she replied, without stopping to wonder if she had enough money in her purse to cover her wager.

“Why that one?” he wanted to know.

“Because blue’s my favorite color and seven is my lucky number.”

“Sound reasons to pick it then,” he agreed without a trace of his nephew’s mockery in his tone. “I always go with red for the same reason. You must be Ella.”

After climbing down from the ladder, Elliot picked his way over the track to her. She placed his age at late sixties and his weight at one-eighty with most of it centered at his waist. He had a shaggy mustache and a mop of salt-and-pepper hair that gave him a decidedly Einstein vibe.

“I’m pleased to meet you, Mr. Trumbull.”

She would have shaken his hand, but he took the one she extended and kissed the back of it instead. Make that Einstein meets Sir Galahad.

“Call me Elliot. We don’t stand on formality around here.” His bushy brows pulled together in a frown and he muttered, “At least I don’t. I run a toy company, for the time being, at least. That should be fun, don’t you think?”

“I do,” she agreed.

“Good. At least someone does. Would you like something to drink?” Instead of offering the usual coffee or tea, he said, “My secretary makes the best strawberry malts this side of the Mississippi. Probably the best on either side, come to think of it.”

Ella’s mouth watered at the offer, but she shook her head. “No, thanks.”

“All right. Then, have a seat and we’ll get started.”

The room didn’t have a proper sitting area. Instead, it boasted two white chairs that resembled hollowed-out eggs on clear plastic stands, and a cushioned porch swing that hung from the ceiling on a pair of thick chains. It creaked when Ella sat down and set it into motion.

“Comfortable?”

“Very. My grandmother has a swing like this at her house in New Jersey.”

Elliot beamed. “My grandmother had one, too. I loved that swing. Did some of my best thinking on it as a boy. That’s why I have one here. What do you think of my office?”

She glanced around and couldn’t hold back her smile. “It’s a lot fun.”

“Exactly. Let me ask you something, Ella. Do you think toys are only for children?”

She shook her head. “Aren’t we all children at heart?”

“Not all of us,” Elliot said. Then, “Ah, speak of the devil.”

She glanced over to find Chase looming in the doorway. His expression was one hundred and eighty degrees the opposite of his uncle’s inviting grin. He looked positively grim.

“Sorry to interrupt. I just wanted to remind you that before this afternoon’s meeting with the board of directors we need to go over some reports.”

“Meetings and reports,” Elliot muttered before hooking his thumb in Chase’s direction and adding in a not-so-confidential whisper, “All work and no play, that one. I guess some good genes skip a generation.”

She bit back a smile. It was impossible not to find the older man charming, even if his humor came at his nephew’s expense.

Chase remained stoic. “It’s important. When do you think you’ll be finished here?”

“Oh, it will be a while yet.” Instead of pointing out that they had barely gotten beyond introductions, Elliot said, “The cars are only on their third lap.” Then he whistled softly. “Look at your blue car, Ella. It’s pulled ahead of the silver, but my red one is still in the lead.”

“Come see me when you’re done in here.” Chase nodded politely in her direction.

When he turned to leave, however, Elliot said, “I’d like you to stay, Chase. I value your opinion.”

“You already know how I feel about the party, Uncle.”

“Wake, you mean.”

“You’re not dying.”

“Oh, but I am. Professionally speaking anyway.” To Ella, he said matter-of-factly, “My board of directors thinks I’ve lost my marbles. That’s ironic, don’t you think, given that I make toys for a living?”

“I...I...” At a loss for words, she glanced at Chase.

His cheeks were flushed a deep shade of red. “No one is saying that,” he ground out.

“To my face,” Elliot conceded. “But we both know what is being said behind my back.”

“When I find out who started the rumors we’ll sue them for slander,” Chase declared.

“I will be out of a job by then. Owen is only too happy to take my place. He’s my son,” Elliot informed Ella. “He has the head for this business, but not the heart. That apparently skipped a generation, too.”

“Ah.” She nodded, not knowing what else to do.

To Chase, Elliot said, “The writing is on the wall. Don’t think I don’t know it. I may be slowing down, becoming a little forgetful, but I’m not stupid.”

The older man sounded weary, resigned.

In contrast, Chase’s tone was infused with urgency. “That’s why we need to talk, put together a plan of action before this afternoon’s meeting.”

“All right,” Elliot conceded with a sigh. “But after I speak with Ella. Stay, Chase. Please.”

Chase was too tall to sit comfortably in either of the egg-shaped chairs, so he joined Ella on the swing. His feet remained firmly planted on the floor, bringing the swing to a halt. It was time to get down to business.

Calm. Collected. Confident. She chanted the three words in her head as she exhaled slowly and pulled a small notepad from her purse. She’d jotted down several questions she figured a party planner would ask.

In her most professional voice, she said, “Let’s start with the basics. When do you want to have your wake?”

“Memorial Day would have been fitting, but it’s passed.” He sighed. “What about the weekend before the Fourth of July? We could have fireworks at night.”

Ella might not have planned any parties, but three weeks to prepare seemed doable. Until she asked, “How many guests will there be?”

“Six, maybe seven hundred.”

Her mouth went slack. A party for sixty would have left her panicked. How on earth was she going to pull off a party for six or seven hundred? And in less than a month?

“Uncle Elliot, be reasonable.”

“I am being reasonable. If I’m going out, I’m going out with a bang. What do you say, Ella?”

“Well, the, um, timeline is a little tight for a gathering of that size.”

“You’re right.”

She relaxed until Elliot said, “Let’s push it to August. My Isabella died in August. August twenty-seventh.” His expression dimmed. In a bewildered voice, he asked, “Can it really be three years?”

“I’m sorry,” Ella told him.

“I couldn’t have started my company without her. She was my rock.”

The race cars whizzed past on the span of track that wound under Elliot’s desk. Just that quickly, his attention was diverted. He clapped his hands together, eyes once again bright, and crowed, “My red car is still in the lead! Have your ten dollars handy, Ella. There are only three laps left.” Afterward, he scratched his head. “Now, where were we?”

“The guest list,” she prompted, still feeling dazed.

“Right. Definitely seven hundred. In addition to friends and family, I have a lot of acquaintances in business and the community at large who will want to pay their respects.” He snorted before adding, “And my competitors will want to come and dance on my grave. The media, too.”

“Media?” Chase asked, sounding alarmed.

“That’s right. I plan to invite reporters from several news sources, both tabloid and mainstream. You can’t keep those vultures out anyway. I might as well open the doors and the bar to them. That way, they won’t be circling in helicopters overhead.”

“Isn’t that the truth?” she replied, thinking of her father’s treatment by some so-called journalists. She glanced up to find Chase studying her. Clearing her throat, she asked Elliot, “Do you have a location in mind, then?”

“My house. Estate, I guess is more accurate. It’s in the Hamptons. We could set up tents. The grounds are quite expansive.” He chuckled. “I just happened to think, the name of my estate is The Big Top. What about Three Ring Circus for the theme?”

“I thought the theme was Irish wake,” Chase and Ella said at the same time.

“Right, right.” Elliot nodded. “What if it’s both? What do you think, Ella?”

She nibbled her lower lip to give herself a moment to think. A circus-themed wake for a man who wasn’t dying? For the first time since seeing Elliot’s call, she wondered if perhaps Madame Maroushka had gotten her palm confused with someone else’s.

“Well?” Elliot prodded.

“While there is nothing wrong with a party that has two distinct themes, marrying them can become, um, tricky. That’s especially true when they are so, um, so...different,” she finished, hoping to sound authoritative even if she was making things up as she went along.

“But it can be done?” Elliot asked hopefully.

Uh-oh.

“It can be. But it would take a lot of planning. Months, say, to do it right. Are you willing to wait that long?”

“No.” He sighed.

Ella nearly did, too.

“I suppose that answers that question,” Chase said. He looked as relieved as Ella felt. Then he asked, “May I make a suggestion, Uncle?”

“By all means.”

“If you are determined to have a party, why don’t you go with the circus theme and save the wake idea for another time?”

Elliot scratched his head. “I don’t know. I really want to have a wake. Ella?”

She’d already done some research on wakes. Besides, she had a clown phobia, and was pretty sure any big top-type bash the size Elliot wanted would have to include at least a few of the painted-faced performers.

“The circus theme is overdone.”

“What?” Chase asked at the same time Elliot said, “I should have known.”

“An Irish wake will be very, um, cutting edge.”

Chase gaped at her as if she’d grown a second head. “Really?”

“Really. This is the first one I’ve ever planned,” she added truthfully.

“She should know, Chase,” Elliot said. “She’s the expert.”

Ella worked up a smile that she hoped didn’t reveal her newbie-ness.

“Look, Uncle Elliot, you claimed you want my opinion, so I’m offering it. Throwing a party right now—”

“A wake,” Elliot corrected.

“That only makes it a bigger mistake. Calling it that will feed the rumor mill.”

Elliot shook his head, his expression patient, but still resigned. “I appreciate your input, my boy. Really, I do. But if I am going to be turned out of the company I started, I will do it on my own terms.”

“But a wake?”

Elliot looked every year of his age when he replied, “It’s fitting. What is forced retirement but another form of death for someone like me?”

The whir of the race cars broke the stretch of silence that followed. Elliot’s sober expression brightened when the little vehicles shot into view.

“Ella! Look! Your fortunes have changed. I think you’re going to win the race!”

He hurried over to the ladder, arriving at the top step just in time to wave the checkered flag. As he’d predicted, the blue car marked with number seventy-seven was the first to cross the finish line.

“Congratulations, young lady!” To Chase, he said, “Pay her for me, will you, my boy? Our wager was for ten dollars.”

Chase stood to retrieve his wallet from the rear pocket of his pants. He pulled two fives from his billfold and handed them to her. Afterward, he didn’t return to his seat. He paced to the window, where he stood, arms crossed, back to the room, a quiet yet imposing presence whose mood she could not quite gauge. He wasn’t angry. That much she could tell. Frustrated? Perhaps. But something else was going on.

She did her best to ignore him for the next twenty-five minutes as she culled as much information as she could from Elliot. The task wasn’t easy. The man was full of suggestions for his wake, but he kept going off on tangents. One moment, he was talking about beverages and the next he was relating a story about a fly-fishing excursion in the Rockies, the only common thread between the two being grape soda.

As they wrapped up, they made plans to meet again the following week, by which time Ella promised to have a mock invitation ready for Elliot’s approval, and some menu suggestions.

What did one serve at an Irish wake? Surely the fact that Elliot was so offbeat gave her license to be creative.

“You haven’t discussed the budget,” Chase said, turning back from the window. They were the first words he’d uttered in nearly half an hour.

“Ella can spend whatever she needs to spend. Money is no object,” Elliot replied on a shrug.

A muscle ticked in Chase’s jaw and he shoved a hand through his hair. Every strand fell back into place, except for those caught up in the cowlick. They staged a rebellion and remained erect. Sandra’s claim about men and cowlicks had Ella sucking in a breath.

Chase’s gaze met hers. She swore the air crackled with electricity, almost as if he could read her mind.

“Well?” he challenged.

Her mind went blank except for X-rated thoughts. “Wh-what?”

“How much do you think you’ll spend?”

Money. Right. She would have been relieved, except that she had no clue as to the cost.

“I promise to show restraint,” she replied with what she hoped was a reassuring smile.

He looked far from reassured. “And what about your fee? What do you charge for your services?”

Her fee? In truth, Ella hadn’t thought that far ahead. “I, um, I charge a percentage.”

“Of what?”

“Of the overall cost,” she told him without stopping to wonder if that sounded reasonable.

“What about a contract? Did you bring one with you?”

“Good heavens, Chase. Stop badgering the young woman.” To Ella, Elliot said, “It’s the lawyer in him, I’m afraid. In addition to his business degree, he has a law degree, too.”

That made him handsome, imposing and apparently too educated for a sense of adventure.

“He has a point,” she told Elliot. “We probably should have something in writing.”

“Why? Did you know I sold my first toy to a store on Thirty-Fourth with a mere handshake?”

“Randy the Robot,” Ella supplied with a smile.

Not surprisingly, Chase was frowning. “That was more than four decades ago. We live in different times, Uncle.”

“Which is too damned bad, if you ask me,” Elliot replied. “I’m a good judge of character. I trust Ella.”

“Thank you for that, Elliot,” she began. “I appreciate your vote of confidence, really, but—“

“Oh, all right,” the older man broke in. “If it will make you both feel better, I’ll put it in writing.”

Chase relaxed visibly at the news. That was until Elliot reached behind him on the desk, tore off a square from the boxed calendar set and scribbled something on its back. He handed the paper to Ella.

It read: I, Elliot Trumbull, being of sound mind and body, promise to pay the delightful Ella Sanborn whatever the heck she decides to charge me for one Irish wake.

His signature was scrawled below it.

It was all she could do not to burst out laughing.

“May I see that?” Chase asked.

She gave him the paper and wasn’t surprised when he let out a soft curse.

After she and Elliot wrapped up their meeting, Chase accompanied her to the elevator.

“I guess you were right,” he said as he pushed the down button.

“About what?”

“That penny you found in the lobby. It really was lucky.” She might have smiled had he not added, “See that you don’t abuse my uncle’s trust.”

Incensed and offended, she muttered the first thing that came to mind. “What a waste of a good cowlick.”

“Excuse me?”

“Never mind.”

When the elevator doors closed a moment later, however, she had the satisfaction of seeing Chase try to pat down his hair.

TWO

Chase headed for the decanter of aged scotch the moment he arrived home. It was after eight o’clock and he had yet to eat dinner, but that didn’t stop him from pouring two fingers and then downing them in a single gulp.

The fiery liquid scorched his throat, but did little to chase away the bitter taste in his mouth.

Damn the five members of the board of directors who were being so spineless!

Damn the investors for their lack of faith!

Damn his cousin for being so disloyal!

And damn his uncle for...for...

Chase set the glass on the counter and ran the back of his hand across his mouth.

None of this was his uncle’s fault—even if Elliot seemed to have thrown in the towel.

A wake, dammit. One to which the media would be invited. To Chase’s dismay, what he found himself focusing on was the very attractive woman hired to plan it.

He ran a finger idly around the rim of his empty glass as he recalled Ella Sanborn’s intriguing face, pinup curves and mile-long legs. When his mind threatened to slip into fantasy mode, he forced himself back to the present. Ella was sexy and gorgeous and quirky enough to keep a man guessing what she would say next. But was she competent to handle such a huge job?

She’d fallen into the gravy, he thought, recalling the “contract” Elliot had signed. It was dealings such as this that put the more conservative members of Trumbull’s board of directors on edge. Handshakes and hastily scrawled “contracts” were not how Fortune 500 companies were supposed to do business.

His phone rang as he contemplated pouring himself a second drink. A glance at the caller ID had him considering letting it go to voice mail, but there was no sense prolonging the inevitable.

“What do you want, Owen?” he said in lieu of a greeting.

“Chase. We’re cousins. We grew up the under the same roof. Do I really need a reason to call you?”

They might have grown up together, but they had never been close.

“You only remember that we’re related when you want something,” Chase replied. “So what is it?”

He heard an exaggerated sigh and then, “I’d hoped to speak to you in person after the board meeting.”

“That wasn’t a meeting. It was a frigging blood-letting. How could you do that to your own father?” Chase’s temper flared anew just thinking about it and his tone turned sharp. “You all but hung him out to dry.”

“No. I was honest with the board when I was asked my opinion of his mental state. When are you going to admit that my dad needs to retire? If he goes now, he goes out on a high note and the company can be saved.”

“For God’s sake. It’s his company!” More than that, Trumbull Toys was Elliot’s life. Chase expected Owen, of all people, to understand that.

“It was his company. Now it belongs to the shareholders.” Owen took delight in adding, “You were the one who convinced him to take Trumbull Toys public.”

A move that had made good sense six years earlier, but one Chase regretted now.

“Then they need to be made to see reason.”

“What they’re seeing are the most recent sales projections. My father...has lost his edge.”

“He hasn’t lost anything.”

“We both know that’s not true,” Owen replied with a hint of sadness in his tone. “He lives in his own little world half the time.”

“It’s called being a creative genius. It’s what makes him so good at coming up with new toys.”

“And so lousy at being a father,” Owen shot back.

“Is that what this is about? Family grievances?”

“I wish!”

“Do you?”

“Look, his memory, his judgment, both have gotten worse since my mother died. When are you going to admit that, Chase? You may not think so, but I’m looking out for the future of Trumbull Toys. Dad needs to step down.”

“He needs...he needs a little help.”

“On that much we agree. Meanwhile, he’s not up to leading the company.”

“He built it from nothing. Without his vision and creativity, there would be no company. How can you side with the stockholders and those board members who believe he should be ousted?”

Chase hated to consider it, but he couldn’t help wondering if Owen might be responsible for the dementia rumors that were only succeeding in making a bad situation worse.

“It’s not personal. It’s business. And it’s a fact, Chase, that Trumbull Toys is no longer setting market trends. We’re following them.”

“I tell you, there’s a leak. Someone inside the company is selling us out to our competitors before our new toys are officially launched.”

It was one of the reasons Chase had tightened up the loose, anything-goes atmosphere that his uncle had allowed to flourish. Chase knew he was viewed as a tyrant as a result. Even his uncle complained that the new policies went too far and took all of the fun out of the office. But Chase wasn’t sure what else to do. He owed it to Elliot to try everything possible to protect the legacy the older man had built.

“There’s no friggin’ leak!” Owen countered, his tone surprisingly adamant.

“How do you explain the fact that Kellerman’s managed to come out with its remote-controlled dinosaurs just two weeks before we did?” Chase replied.

Kellerman’s was their biggest rival in the industry. At one time, its founder, Roy Kellerman, not only had worked at Trumbull, he’d been one of Elliot’s closest friends. They’d parted ways decades earlier after a falling-out that, from what Chase gathered, had been more personal than professional, as it involved his Aunt Isabella. Her funeral marked the first time the two men had spoken since becoming business rivals. Elliot claimed they’d buried the hatchet. If that were true, Chase was pretty sure it had been buried in Elliot’s back, because not long after that Trumbull’s business woes had begun.

Owen replied, “They did their research. They knew that’s what boys in the five-to ten-year-old demographic wanted.”

“They stole our idea!” Chase insisted.

Two remote-controlled dinosaurs, one named Chomp-a-saurus Rex and the other called Chomp-action T. rex, was more than a coincidence or savvy market research.

“There’s no evidence of that. Look, Chase, I love my father, too, but he hasn’t been the same since Mom died. He’s slipping. This wake nonsense is just one more example. He’s no longer fit to lead.”

Chase ignored the weariness in his cousin’s tone. It was easy to do since Owen seemed so damned eager to slide into the top spot, despite the fact that Elliot had made it plain he wanted Chase to be his successor.

Even with Elliot out of the way, Owen would need the board’s backing to take the helm. More and more, it appeared he had it.

Elliot’s wake could very well be the final nail in his professional coffin. In Chase’s mind, it didn’t bode well that it was being planned by a woman who believed in lucky pennies.

* * *

The following Tuesday, Ella splurged on a taxi to get to her appointment with Elliot. Since she was taking a cab rather than hoofing around Manhattan, she decided to wear her favorite pair of high heels. They were black patent leather with silver detailing on the vamp. They added four inches to her height. Unfortunately, if she wore them for too long, they also left her hobbling. But, damn, they looked great paired with the hot pink skinny jeans and printed peplum top that she’d gotten for a steal at a sample sale in the Garment District.

The door to Chase’s office was closed and the man in question was nowhere to be seen when Ella arrived on the seventeenth floor. She told herself she was relieved, since he made her so nervous. But she called herself a liar when the door to the office next to his opened and he stepped out. Her pulse took off like the miniature race cars in Elliot’s office.

He turned then, and she blinked in confusion at the stranger who stared back at her. The man was the same height and build as Chase. His coloring was similar, too. But his features were sharper, his nose slightly longer. No cowlick mocked his tidy hair.

“Well, hello.” Piercing blue eyes lit with interest when he smiled.

“Hi. You must be Owen Trumbull.”

“That’s right. And you must be Ella Sanborn.”

His smile was friendly, if flirtatious. He shook her hand, holding it a little longer than was necessary. Owen certainly had none of his cousin’s reserve.

“Yes.”

“My father tells me you’re going to throw quite a party for him.”

“Yes. I’m here to go over some of the plans.”

Owen smiled again. “Mind if I sit in?”

“That’s up to Elliot.”

Chase’s presence the other day had made Ella nervous, since it was clear he didn’t approve of the wake and, for that matter, didn’t trust Ella not to take advantage of Elliot. Still, she found herself glancing toward his door.

“He’s out,” Owen told her. “Won’t be back for a while.”

Just as well, she thought, refusing to be disappointed.

The racetrack was quiet when she and Owen entered Elliot’s office. The older man was seated behind his desk rather than on top of it, and a sheaf of papers was scattered over the blotter. He was clad in appropriate, if boring, work attire. Conservative suit. Starched white shirt. His only bow to fun was the tiny hot air balloons that speckled his bowtie.

His eyes lit up when he spied her and a smile wreathed his face, pulling his jowls firm. “Ella! If you aren’t a sight for sore eyes.”

“Hello, Elliot. I hope I’m not disturbing you. We did say nine o’clock?”

“We did.” With that he pushed the papers into a pile to one side and propped his reading glasses on top of his head. “I’m eager to see what you’ve come up with.”

“And I’m eager to hear what you think.”

She pulled a folder from the oversize handbag that was doing double duty as a briefcase, and passed it to him. Rather than opening it, however, Elliot transferred his gaze to his son.

“Is there something you wanted, Owen?”

“Not particularly.”

“Then you may go.”

The request was made with a surprising amount of authority from a man who otherwise came across as easygoing.

“What? I can’t stick around? Offer my advice on your little party?”

Nothing about the gathering Elliot had in mind could be classified as little. But what Ella found interesting, perhaps even telling, was that Elliot didn’t correct his son and use the word wake, even though he had been quite explicit on that point with Chase.

“You don’t care about this party, Owen.”

“Neither does Chase, but when you met with Ella last week, he was here. You told me so yourself.”

Although Owen’s tone was matter-of-fact, his reply struck Ella as petulant, childish. Some form of sticky family dynamic was at work here. Exactly what it was, she wasn’t sure. But if the drama of her stepmother and stepsister had taught Ella anything, it was that she didn’t want to be in the middle of it.

“Maybe I should come back,” she murmured.

Elliot apparently didn’t hear her. His gaze still on Owen, he said, “Chase might not approve of the party, but at least he cares.”

“Right. Saint Chase. For a moment I forgot who I was talking about.” Owen made a mocking bow in her direction. “It was nice to meet you, Ella.”

The door closed behind him with a thud. Elliot stared at it, frowning. When he glanced back at Ella, he seemed perplexed.

“Why are you here again?”

“Your party,” she said slowly.

Elliot continued to frown. About the time she became uncomfortable, he grinned and his expression turned impish.

“Wake, you mean. Let’s call it what it is.”

* * *

Muffled laughter, both masculine and feminine, greeted Chase when he stepped off the elevator.

The sounds emanated from his uncle’s office. Elliot’s laugh brought a smile to Chase’s lips. No one—whether child or adult—was proof against the man’s booming guffaw. The feminine laugh, however, had a different effect on Chase since he had a pretty good idea to whom it belonged.

Ella Sanborn.

She’d been on his mind a lot the past few days. She’d starred in one very explicit dream over the weekend, although that wasn’t the reason he’d nearly called her. He needed to speak to her about a matter that had nothing to do with thigh-high black silk stockings and a lace-edged push-up bra.

With the board’s official vote looming, the party his uncle had her planning had the potential to blow up in all of their faces. In the meantime, Ella was privy to some information that Chase would prefer she didn’t share with anyone...especially the media.

As he approached his uncle’s door, it opened and both occupants stepped out.

“I can’t wait to see the changes to the invitation,” his uncle said before turning to his secretary. “Marlene, did you finish that guest list I asked you to compile?”

“Yes.” The ever-efficient secretary pulled out a large envelope and handed it to him. “Here is a hard copy, and I’ve already sent the file to Ms. Sanborn’s email address.”

“Excellent. Thank you. Reward yourself with some chocolate drops.”

Candy-coated chocolate drops were a staple at the Trumbull Toys headquarters, and Elliot was liberal in doling them out for jobs well done. Marlene, however, remained sober-faced. Chase knew his presence, rather than any concerns over her diet, was the reason. He was a wet blanket, his appearance in a room all that was necessary to dampen the occupants’ enjoyment.

His gaze skimmed Ella then. She looked fresh, lovely...fun. Not exactly professional in those sexy high heels, but definitely approachable. She turned then and caught sight of him. Her smile was reserved but nonetheless lethal, and caused a knot to form in his stomach.

“Hello, Chase.”

When his tongue threatened to tie into a knot similar to the one in his gut, he frowned.

“Is something wrong?” she asked.

“No.”

“Excuse me a moment,” Elliot said to Ella. “Apparently my signature is needed on some papers. I told Marlene she could forge it, but she’s a stickler for rules.”

Thank God, Chase thought, and his frown deepened.

“Do you ever smile?”

Ella’s question caught him off guard. “What?”

“I just realized that in the short time I’ve known you, I haven’t seen you smile. Not once.”

“And you find that odd?”

“Well, yes. I do find that odd. I doubt an hour goes by that I don’t smile or bust out laughing.”

“Because laughter is the best medicine?”

Mismatched eyes narrowed. “You’re mocking me, but yes. Laughter is the best medicine, and it beats the alternative, which is crying.”

“So, I should be grinning like a loon and laughing all the time lest I start bawling like a baby?”

“No, but you work at a toy company. You should be...happy!”

“Wow. Now you’ve determined that I’m unhappy. Are you always so quick with your judgments?”

“No.” She frowned. “At least, I try not to be.”

“But you’ve made an exception in my case.”

“Ooh. I’ve stepped in it good, haven’t I?”

“Yes.” He waited for her apology.

But Ella said with maddening directness, “Am I wrong? Are you happy?”

Who asked such bold questions? Certainly no one else in his uncle’s employ.

“Some of us take our responsibilities seriously. We have to,” he added, thinking of his uncle’s flighty temperament and just how much was at stake. That brought Chase back to his concerns. Some unscrupulous journalists would pay Ella handsomely for insider tidbits about Elliot. God help them if one already had. “Which reminds me, I’d like to have a word with you in private.”

“Right now?”

“If you and my uncle are finished, yes.”

“Ella and I are done,” Elliot replied, coming around the reception desk. “But I thought that you and I had plans.” He scratched his head. “Or did I get that wrong? Don’t tell me I wore this damned monkey suit and canceled my morning walk in the park for nothing.” He smiled at Ella. “I walk rain or shine. It’s good for circulation. Owen bought me a treadmill for Christmas so I wouldn’t have to leave the building to go for a walk, but you can’t feed the pigeons on a treadmill.”

“You’re right, Uncle. We do have plans.” Chase had scheduled a brunch meeting with Sumner Thurgood, one of the few board members who at least seemed hesitant to throw Elliot under the bus. He turned to Ella. “I guess our talk will have to wait.”

“I’ll look forward to it.” Her wry smile made it clear that she was lying.

Momentarily lost in those teasing, mismatched eyes, he replied honestly, “So will I.”

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