The C.E.O.'s Unplanned Proposal

by Karen Toller Whittenburg

  His smile was reflective, wistful, and admiring. “No,” he said. “I would never even try.”

  She nodded, glad they agreed.

  He nodded, too, then reached into his coat pocket, pulled out a small stack of photographs and handed it to her. “My grandsons,” he said with no small degree of pride. “Adam, Bryce and Peter.”

  Ilsa looked at the wallet-size photos one by one, then spread them in a row across the table beside her chair and examined them thoroughly again. Each handsome face was stamped with the same Braddock heritage—strong jaw, straight nose, regal brow—still evident in Archer’s aging features and in her own still vivid memory of James’s face. The three young men were clearly brothers, although individually quite different. Ilsa had seen their pictures in the society pages and on the cover of the tabloids, of course. The Braddock brothers were favorites of the paparazzi. Their history was the stuff of scandal, and although Ilsa knew only bits and pieces of it, herself, the public knew even less and was hungry for more. It was a testament to Archer and his wife that they had kept the world outside the gates of Braddock Hall, their ancestral home, and raised their three grandsons away from the public eye. But Ilsa could see, even from the two-dimensional photos, that James’s sons possessed that indefinable quality that would make them as irresistible to women as Braddock men had been rumored to be for a couple of centuries.

  “Very handsome young men,” she said, glancing up from the pictures. “Do they have…seeking hearts?”

  “Not so anyone could tell,” he answered tersely.

  Those few words were enough to give her some valuable insight. “But you’re their grandfather and you pay attention.”

  Their eyes met, his still a vivid green, hers a deep and perceptive gray. “Yes,” he said. “It’s no secret that James has made a hash of finding true love and a game out of marriage and divorce. Janey and I always hoped our grandsons would seek out a relationship similar to our own, one worthy of a lifetime commitment, but not one of them shows a single sign of being capable of recognizing love when it does come along.” He pointed out each picture as he named off the brothers. “That’s Peter. He’s the youngest. He’s dazzled by long-legged debutantes. The blue-eyed charmer there in the middle is Bryce. He’s our Robin Hood, robbing tomorrow’s joys for today’s pleasure. He prefers young women with big, toothy smiles and more bosom than brains. The oldest is Adam, who is all business all the time. He’s fascinated by any woman who carries a briefcase larger than his.”

  “Intriguing.” Ilsa continued to study the pictures for a moment. “I’m surprised some enterprising mothers haven’t solved your matchmaking problems for you long before now.”

  “Oh, they’ve tried, believe me. But my grandsons are nearly as slippery as they are suave. It would be a mistake to let them know you and I have even discussed their…future.”

  “I am nothing if not discreet, Archer, and I consider myself a facilitator of romance, not an instigator. I initiate a meeting, allow the possibilities to present themselves, then step back and see what happens. Any intervention after that point involves a light touch and great deal of diplomacy.”

  “I take that to mean, you don’t offer a money-back guarantee.”

  “No, but I do have a rather astounding rate of success. If you prefer, your grandsons won’t ever know I’ve been involved in their match. On the other hand, that secrecy requires considerably more effort for the two of us. You’ll be my only contact and my best resource for information. Are you sure you won’t mind being involved in a somewhat clandestine alliance with me?”

  His chuckle came again, rough and charming. “I may be an old man, but I’m not dead yet. My only regret is that Janey isn’t here to enjoy this little intrigue along with us.”

  “I suspect she has a full-time job being your guardian angel.”

  His wrinkled smile turned wistful. “You’re right about that.” He paused, then nodded, clearly ready to close the deal. “So are you up to the challenge of finding the right women for my grandsons?”

  “I’m open to the possibilities, yes.” She met his eyes with a wry smile. “I may never have had three tougher cases, but your grandsons do have a certain cachet to recommend them. The Braddock name will mean something to the young women I introduce to them.”

  Archer took a final sip of the coffee, then set his cup and saucer on the table beside his chair and reached for his cane. “It’s what the Braddock name means to my grandsons that will cause you the biggest headaches, I’m afraid. But let’s not set out on our adventure by worrying about the problems ahead. Let’s focus instead on the beginning of a promising new enterprise and the possibility that I might live long enough to see my first great-grandchild.”

  Ilsa smiled, very glad to know this was the first of many meetings to come with Archer Braddock. “I’ll be in touch in a day or two with a list of information I’ll need. The research can take as long as three or four months, but things generally move rather quickly once it’s completed. I feel it’s very important to be thorough.” She rose and resisted the impulse to help him up.

  He pushed himself out of the chair with only a slight stiffness of movement and shifted his center of balance with the cane. “I have the utmost confidence in you, my dear, but if I may make a small suggestion…begin with Adam. He’s the oldest, but I’m also rather worried that he’s missed so much in his life. He needs to fall in love with something other than Braddock Industries and he needs to do it very soon.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.” They walked together, slowly but most companionably, to the door and across the foyer. Robert awaited them in the entryway, standing ready with Archer’s coat and scarf. “My staff is even more discreet than I am myself,” Ilsa said. “So you can feel comfortable if you ever need to leave a message with them.”

  Archer slid his arms into the sleeves of his coat and wrapped the gray scarf around his neck. “Feel free to leave messages for me, too,” he said with a wink. “It won’t bother me a bit if everyone in my household believes I’m having an illicit affair in my old age.” He laughed and looked quizzically at Robert.

  “Today is not a good day to be without one’s umbrella, sir,” Robert said, holding out a black umbrella. “I took the liberty of procuring one for you.”

  Archer accepted it with an appreciative smile. “Discreet, efficient and exceptionally thoughtful. Thank you, Robert.” He turned again to Ilsa. “And thank you, my dear, for a delightful afternoon. I’m looking forward to your call.”

  Robert prepared to open the door, but Archer paused, holding off the action. “If this works out as we hope, then perhaps you’ll consider taking James on as a client.”

  Ilsa laughed, despite the way her stomach knotted just at the thought. “As I believe we established, Archer, I can’t work miracles.”

  “Ah, well, I think that remains to be seen.” And with a tip of his hat, he stepped through the doorway, opened his umbrella, and walked into the drizzly Providence afternoon.

  Chapter One

  Normally, Adam Braddock steered clear of The Torrid Tomato. The restaurant had found its niche market among the trendy young professionals who spilled from the offices of downtown Providence between the hours of twelve and two, seeking food, fun and a temporary release from stress. Menu items catered to the healthfully eclectic palate, the atmosphere always bordered on boisterous, and over the course of the noon hour, the crowd gravitated toward a high-strung pitch of pandemonium. In Adam’s view, the restaurant had just two things going for it on this day in early May: proximity to his office and a noise level that encouraged speedy conclusions to any business, personal or private, being conducted over lunch. As he had no idea why his grandfather had suggested today’s meeting with a heretofore unknown old friend of the family, Adam wanted to devote as little time as necessary to it. Hence, his request to meet Mrs. Fairchild at The Torrid Tomato.

  She had yet to arrive, and he glanced at the gold Bulgari watch on his wrist, checking the
time—ten minutes to twelve—already impatient to be back in the office. The Wallace deal was percolating nicely and he expected a phone call early this afternoon formally accepting the buyout offer. He had a two o’clock appointment with John Selden, the chief operating officer of Braddock Construction, and a three-thirty scheduled with Vic Luttrell, the corresponding executive for Braddock Architectural Designs. At four-forty, he would go over tomorrow’s schedule with his administrative assistant, Lara Richmond, and at five-thirty, he would play handball at the club with Allen Mason, Braddock Industries’ chief corporate attorney. Tonight he was having dinner with the top two executives of Nation’s Insurance Group regarding the possible relocation of their corporate offices to the new Braddock Properties office complex in Boston. All in all, a fairly light day, although he could have skipped lunch entirely and never missed it. But when his grandfather made a request, which he so seldom did anymore, Adam was hard-pressed to find any decent reason to refuse.

  A bubbling brook of throaty laughter flowed somewhere behind him, sparkling and effervescent, a lovely sound rising above the frantic noon-hour gaiety. For all its genuine warmth, Adam judged it as a blatant bid for attention from someone, a look-at-me summons to the whole restaurant, and he firmly declined to turn around. All he wanted was a noisy atmosphere, a sort of homogeneous cacophony, nothing overtly distracting…certainly, not the siren’s song of amusement that echoed out again as if the laugher couldn’t keep it inside. There was something mesmerizing in the lilting tones, something intriguing in the laughter and, despite wanting to ignore the sound altogether, the third time he heard her laugh, he twisted in his chair and craned his neck to see who she might be.

  “Adam?”

  He whipped back around, chagrined to be caught rubbernecking. “Mrs. Fairchild.” He rose with a smile to greet the tall, attractive woman who had spoken, and moved to pull out a chair for her, assessing her age—mid-to early-fifties—her appearance—understated elegance—and the platinum and pearl necklace—genuine, not costume—at her throat, in an appreciative blink. “I’m so pleased you could join me.”

  “The pleasure is mine.” She smiled, extending her hand for a quick clasp of his. The warmth of her greeting held as she took her seat, lifted the folded napkin, and dropped it delicately onto her lap. “Your grandfather speaks so highly of you and your two brothers, I feel I’ve been remiss in not making more of an effort to get acquainted.” She paused, measuring him in a graceful glance. “You are very like James.”

  “You know my father?”

  She nodded. “We were in school together at Exeter and again for a couple of years at Harvard. Well, truthfully, he was two years ahead of me and doubtless never knew I existed. He was always quite charming, though, even during those somewhat awkward adolescent years.”

  That rang with authenticity. While Adam could never imagine his father as an adolescent, awkward or otherwise, charm was James’s calling card, his stock in trade. But Adam was positive his father would have noticed Ilsa Fairchild, no matter what age he might have been at the time. She was very attractive and James Braddock had always had an eye for the ladies. “He would be flattered you remember him, I’m sure.”

  Ilsa’s smile was soft with contradiction. “I’m very taken with this restaurant,” she said, neatly shifting the subject. “The atmosphere is always so…energizing. Don’t you find it’s impossible not to enjoy your meal while surrounded by such joie de vivre?”

  Adam had thought it not only possible, but a foregone conclusion. “You’ve been here before?”

  “Several times, although The Torrid Tomato is a fairly recent discovery for me. The first I knew of the restaurant was three months ago, back in February.” She looked around, obviously not a bit intimidated by the noise. “But since then, I’ve developed a rather alarming craving for the artichoke dip. I’ve been too embarrassed to inquire, but do you suppose they’d sell it by the quart with the reservation of not disclosing the purchaser’s name?”

  “I’ll ask our waiter, if he ever shows up.”

  Ilsa raised an eyebrow, but didn’t otherwise acknowledge his slight show of impatience. “Archer tells me you were barely twenty-five when you became the CEO of Braddock Industries. You must have been the youngest chief executive on record.”

  “Eight years ago, I was touted as something of a Boy Wonder, but that had more to do with our PR department than any real truth. With all the new technology companies that abound these days and the number of whiz-kids who start their own companies while in college or even high school, I’m practically a dinosaur.”

  Ilsa laughed, a pleasant sound that was nearly swallowed up by the din surrounding them. “I can’t imagine there are many men of any age who could boast of your accomplishments.”

  Adam was unimpressed with his own accomplishments. It was the next challenge, the obstacles ahead he found worthy of discussion. “You shouldn’t believe everything you hear from my grandfather, Mrs. Fairchild. He’s nothing if not biased.”

  “The facts do seem to support his claims,” she said with a gently argumentative smile. “Graduating from Harvard at nineteen—with honors and an MBA—starting out on construction sites so you’d have a comprehensive knowledge of the company and its employees, turning an already successful, commercial construction company into a multibillion dollar conglomerate…. I’d say, your grandfather has every reason to be proud of what you’ve accomplished.”

  There wasn’t much Adam could—or wanted—to say to that. “You sound like a well-informed shareholder, Mrs. Fairchild.”

  “And you sound rather modest.”

  He wasn’t modest. He just didn’t see anything particularly noteworthy in what he’d done at Braddock Industries. He’d simply updated the good business practices that had guided the family fortunes for over two centuries. “I’m pleased you like what you’ve learned about the company,” he said.

  “Hi!” The bright voice bobbed ahead of the slight brunette who dropped into a bouncy squat beside their table. She propped her arms on the table and, with barely a glance at Adam, turned a wide, generous welcome to his companion. “You’re usually not here on Tuesdays, Mrs. If. Did you take my advice and get yourself a hot date?” Her eyes were pure blue-bonnet blue, lit with the light of mischief, and Adam felt a jolt of awareness the instant they cut to him. “Hmm,” she said, making him feel naked, somehow, under her quicksilver assessment. “A younger man. I approve.”

  Adam didn’t approve at all, but Ilsa merely laughed. “This is Adam Braddock, Katie. A family friend.”

  Her eyes cut to his again without a glimmer of recognition. “Hi,” she repeated, her attention returning instantly to Ilsa. “Guess what? I took your advice.”

  Ilsa’s eyebrows went up in pleasant surprise. “Really? How did that work out?”

  The waitress straightened with a bounce, as if she had springs on her feet, lifted her hands above her head and did a dainty pirouette…neatly sidestepping a collision with a waiter who had plates of food balanced from fingertip to shoulder. “Oops,” she said, with an unrepentant lift of one shoulder and a flash of smile. “Didn’t mean to scare you, Charlie.”

  The waiter frowned. So did Adam. “Would it be possible to get something to drink?” he asked.

  “These are tight quarters, but you get the idea,” Katie said to Ilsa.

  “All that from one lesson?”

  “Two.”

  “I’m impressed. You may become a ballerina, after all.”

  “One pirouette after two lessons doesn’t exactly qualify me as the teacher’s pet.”

  Ilsa appeared delighted with the exchange and oblivious to the fact that this was a restaurant and this pixie was supposed to be their waitress.

  Adam cleared his throat and pitched his voice above the conversational roar in the room…on the generous assumption that the waitress hadn’t heard his original request. “I’d like to order now, if that’s all right with you.”

  She looked at him, a wisp
of dark hair curling like a wayward ribbon across her cheek, her blue eyes questioning the impatience in his tone. “Well, sure,” she said. “But don’t you want to peruse the menu first?”

  “I’ve perused,” he said, thinking there would be serious consequences—and rightly so—if the manager caught her pirouetting and carrying on lengthy conversations with customers instead of getting their orders. “I’ll have the chicken reuben sandwich, no chips, and we’ll start with the artichoke dip appetizer.” He smiled encouragingly at Ilsa. “What would you like, Mrs. Fairchild?”

  She looked thoughtfully from him to the waitress. “I’m going to need a couple of minutes to decide,” she said.

  “Sure thing,” Katie pronounced brightly. “Take your time. I’ll find John.” Her smile flipped to Adam. Cheeky little thing. He’d have fired her on the spot. “He’s your waiter. My tables are over there.” She tossed her head to indicate the section behind them. “Bye, Mrs. If. Enjoy your…dip.”

  She sashayed away, the bounce evident in her light steps, a saucy swing to her hips, a dash of sass in the sway of her long, frizzy ponytail. Halfway through the maze of tables and people, she paused to exchange words with a tall, blond guy—the elusive John, perhaps—and then she laughed, the melodic waterfall of sound drifting back to Adam like the call of the wild.

  “She always waits on me when I come in,” Ilsa said.

  “Not today, apparently.” Adam realized with a start that he’d been staring after the waitress and brought his gaze firmly back under control. Waitstaff should be unobtrusive, efficient without encroaching, friendly, but never personal. The little elf failed on all accounts. “I take it, she’s an aspiring dancer?”

  Ilsa laughed. “She said she was disenchanted with kickboxing and I suggested ballet as an alternative discipline. I’m actually quite astonished she took a class.”

  “Two classes,” Adam corrected and wondered why he remembered such trivia since the little brunette was now out of sight and nearly forgotten. He seldom, if ever, paid that much attention to the wait-staff in a restaurant like this one. They were, after all, constantly changing and all too often, more intrusive than helpful. He determinedly put her from his mind. “Tell me about yourself, Mrs. Fairchild. My grandfather says you have a small business. A public relations firm, I believe, called…IF Enterprises?”