Free The Devil's in the Details by Kimberly Raye Page A

fingers around the slips of paper, stuffed them into my pocket, and forced myself to relax. Conspiracy or not, it didn’t matter. It didn’t change my game plan. It was all about keeping my focus, watching my back, and planning the wedding of my career.
    Tamping down on the niggling doubt that told me it wasn’t going to be that easy, I tried to focus on the all-important fact that, as of this moment, I was alive and breathing and neck-deep in wedding nirvana. “I like to start the day off on a positive note,” I said to Burke. “Hit me with the good stuff first.”
    “You’ve got two new brides coming in later today. High profile. Three hundred plus guests for each. Impressive budgets.”
    Okay, so maybe my immortal life didn’t suck quite that much. I perked up and the smile turned genuine. “That’s awesome.”
    “Don’t get too excited. You’ll have to take the plunge into the depths of misery first.
She’s
here”—his voice dropped into the hushed register reserved for the biggest bridezilla in the BayouCity—“and she’s kicking ass and taking names. She even made Andrew cry.”
    As if on cue, a sobbing Andrew appeared in the doorway that led to the adjoining kitchen. “I offered her the usual latte and/or espresso,” he said in between sniffles, “and she told me to take a flying leap.” Andrew, waving his gay-pride banner in a pink polo shirt, white linen shorts, and boat shoes, bit back another sob and cut a path straight to the doughnut box.
    “Don’t do it,” Burke warned as his brother flipped open the lid and grabbed with both hands. “No woman is worth ruining a six-pack and some serious guns, bro.” He flexed for emphasis.
    “I don’t care.” Andrew devoured half a glazed from one hand, another doughnut poised and ready in hand number two. “I’m upset.” He gulped. “And I need a pick-me-up.”
    I knew the feeling.
    I debated wrestling the box out of his hands, but I suspected he needed the sugar more than I did. Besides, I’d already had two, and I was armed and ready with the usual roll of Life Savers tucked into my pocket.
    “I’ll talk with her, and whatever it is, we’ll work it out.”
    “This is Delaney,” Burke reminded me. “
Houston Elite
magazine’s Most Likely to Pitch a Fit and Pop an Aneurysm in Public.”
    “I thought she was voted Wealthiest Oil Brat.”
    “Same thing.”
    “Where is she?”
    He pointed to the closed door that led to the one and only bedroom, aka my private office. “I didn’t want to get any blood on the lobby couches. Especially since we’re still paying for them.”
    “Your faith in my negotiating skills is overwhelming.” I popped a cherry-flavored Life Savers into my mouth and fought down the sudden urge to turn and run the other way. I wanted normal, andnothing could be more matter-of-fact than yet another catastrophe à la Delaney Farris.
    Delaney had hired me three years ago to plan a huge, extravagant affair befitting the daughter of one of Houston’s top oilmen. But three changes of venue, four different bands, and six wedding dresses later, she still hadn’t managed to get everything perfect enough to walk down the aisle.
    We were in the home stretch, however. The big day (rescheduled a record five times) was only three weeks away, which meant that whatever problem had brought her to my office before eight a.m. on a Monday morning had to be taken care of.
    And fast.
    Grabbing the doorknob, I pasted on a huge smile and walked into the room to find the tall, leggy blonde seated on a small settee, the latest issue of
Houston Brides
open on her lap.
    She wore a white poet’s blouse and a pair of Seven for All Mankind jeans stuffed into brown leather boots with three inch-heals. A six-carat emerald-cut diamond ring lined with side baguettes caught the morning sunlight streaming through the windows and temporarily blinded me.
    I blinked and held up a hand as I made my way to my desk. “How’s my favorite bride doing