Page 50 of Never Marry the Best Man (Whatever It Takes #4)

Find Nessa

Find Archie

Check everything I already checked

Check it again

Ranney

As she stepped out of the elevator on the main floor, Ranney tugged gently on the skirt of her tasteful but extremely neutral dress. Knowing that Tom would be here, it hadn’t been easy to fight the temptation to go out and buy a knockout new outfit, but she had managed to control herself.

So here she was, wearing what amounted to a Wedding Protectors uniform: a navy blue sheath with enough man-made fiber in the fabric to make bending, stretching, twisting–even running, if necessary–possible.

It was a perfectly nice dress with a pretty scalloped hem detail, but nothing that would draw a second glance.

She could pass for an invited guest, just not one with any particular sense of style.

Normally, she wouldn’t give her requisite work clothes a second thought; today it was killing her, and the hardest part was admitting it to herself.

A woman was emerging from the other elevator at the same time, and she was a perfect illustration of Ranney’s point.

She was maybe ten years older than Ranney, but that was just a guess; her skin revealed nothing about her age.

Nor did that dead giveaway, her upper arms. Perfectly toned, her arms and calves showed the slightest golden tan–more of a healthy, outdoor glow than the result of a self-tanning product.

Her hair was that certain shade of light blonde that might have white streaks running through it, but you couldn’t quite tell.

It was what she was wearing that gave Ranney a pang of envy, though.

Her tan silk dress was printed with abstract white flowers, the bodice fitting closely but the skirt flaring out from the waist. She wore a black straw hat with a brim, carried a small black clutch, and her heels were black sandals with narrow straps.

A faint whiff of Calèche surrounded her.

Ranney’s motion caught the woman’s eye and she glanced over, registering Ranney briefly before her gaze moved on.

Grinding her teeth a little, Ranney reflected that this was exactly what she was supposed to be, invisible, unmemorable.

She crossed the lobby to a console table, inserted her earpiece, and began tapping the screen of her iPad.

Standard pre-event procedure, the routine actions both calmed her nerves and raised her adrenaline.

“I beg your pardon.”

The woman in the beautiful dress spoke with a British accent; she must be from the groom’s side. Ranney smiled her professional smile. “Yes?”

“Do you–are you the wedding planner?” She gestured to Ranney’s technology.

“I’m with Wedding Protectors. Not the planner, but I am working the event. Can I help you?”

“I’m looking for a certain wedding guest, a friend of my son’s, but I don’t have a last name and I’m not completely sure of her first name. But I’d very much like to find her. Is that something you could help with? Do you have a list?”

“Ah, no, I’m sorry, I don’t.” Ranney’s courteous smile hardened slightly.

This person in no way looked like a security threat but the question set off alarm bells in her head.

There was no way she was sharing the guest list–which she had just been opening on her tablet when the woman approached her.

One of the first things Archie taught them all was to be wary of anyone asking for the guest list.

Not plausible! If she’s looking for her son’s friend, why not just ask him for the name? Does she even have a son, or is that just a cover story? She couldn’t have a weapon in that tiny bag, but she could have a camera–paparazzi? Where is Archie? I need to alert him!

Ranney was deeply rattled by her encounter with Tom, and now this. Charlie and Ani's wedding would not be full of mishaps like his bachelor party. Ranney was determined.

“Tell you what–if you wait right here for just a second, I’ll try to call someone who has the information you’re looking for. Can you do that?”

“Oh, yes, thank you! There’s plenty of time before the wedding starts, but of course you know that. I’m very grateful.”

“It’s no trouble at all. Just give me a minute.”

Stepping a few feet away, she was relieved when she heard Archie’s voice in her ear.

“Archie, it’s Ranney. I have a guest–an unconfirmed guest–requesting access to the guest list. Says she’s looking for a friend of her son’s but doesn’t have a name,” she murmured.

“Where are you?”

“Lobby, by the elevators.”

“On my way. Keep her there.”

“Will do.”

Looking up, she saw that the woman was waiting patiently in the same place, nothing nervous or shifty in her demeanor.

She was a little bit old for paparazzi, who generally need to be able to run, climb, or crawl to get their photos.

But she could be a decoy, passing the information to a partner.

There was a lot of money to be made for a shot of a royal, or rock-star royalty.

And looks can be deceiving; this woman could be a former Olympic sprinter for all Ranney knew.

The important thing was not to take any chances.

Returning to the woman’s side, she tried to think of a conversational gambit to stall for time.

“Someone’s coming over who might be able to answer your question. Is this your first visit to Austin?”

“Yes, it is. I was in Argentina for a month and then in Palm Beach–the polo circuit–but after this I’ll be going back to England. Unless I decide to visit my son in Boston.”

“Boston?” At Ranney’s look of interest, the woman’s tone became confiding.

“Yes, he moved there recently. I was against it, it sounded rather risky to me, but he’s young and adventurous. Also, I think he had dated every possible woman in London. And much of Europe, for that matter.” Her laugh was half rueful and half proud.

“Really. And what is your son’s name? I’m from Boston–it’s a small city, perhaps I’ve met him.”

“Oh, I don’t think so. He’s in his thirties.”

“Or my daughter might know him,” Ranney pursued, her voice tight. “They’re probably about the same age.”

Hmmm. Boston. British accent. Playboy son.

Archie insisted they listen to a podcast episode from DarkNet Diaries recently, about "penetration testers," which sounded enough like a porn term for Nessa to dissolve into giggles.

But penetration testers are social engineering hackers, professionals who break into situations to improve security.

This woman seemed so charming, disarming, pleasant and cultured.

She could easily be a professional confidence trickster trying to gain unauthorized access or information as part of a team of paparazzi.

To sell pictures to the tabloids.

Perhaps she was a reporter trying to bypass security to get access to the guest list. Her accent was a little too perfect, and she was too smooth and confident.

Something about her made Ranney pause, training kicking in.

The woman's gaze stiffened. "What was your name again? You said you work for the planners? You're asking a lot of -- "

“Hello.” Archie interrupted from behind her. “I understand you’re looking for someone. Maybe I can help you. Shall we sit down over there?” He whispered a thank you to Ranney as he guided the woman away, one hand on her elbow.

“But who–”

It was too late. Archie had swept the woman off and out of the public area. Ranney stood rooted in place, clenching her teeth in frustration as Nessa appeared.

“Mom?”

“WHAT?”

“Is something wrong? I’m not late. Is there a problem already?”

“Just the usual. Someone impersonating a guest and looking for information. But we headed her off. Archie’s got her.”

“Oh, well, good. Let’s go take a look at the ceremony area. Guests will start arriving in an hour, maybe sooner.”

For the next ten minutes, Ranney and Nessa combed over the minutiae and, finding everything in order, headed toward the bar. Not to drink: to check liquor supply.

As they re-crossed the stone terrace, Ranney’s phone rang. Team communications would come in through her earbuds, so her first, startled thought was that it must be Mame calling. But when she pulled the phone out of her bag, she immediately saw that the caller was Tom.

Tempted to decline the call to avoid awkwardness, she also longed to hear his voice, so...

“Hello?”

He cleared his throat and said in a low, tight voice. “It appears that you have arrested my mother.”

“Arrested? Me? ”

“Perhaps detained is a better word.”

British accent. Son in Boston. Thirties.

Playboy.

Oh, no. No, no, no.

“So she is your mother.”

“You knew about this?”

“She approached me and asked to see the guest list to find a friend of her son's, so I called security. Wedding Protectors are well-versed in managing professional manipulators who crash weddings to get pics to sell to tabloids. She set off alarm bells with her question. We had a chat while we waited. Apparently she was looking for a female friend of yours.”

“She was looking for you! ”

"ME? Why me?"

"Because I told her about you."

"Told her what? That we're married?"

"Ah, no, but -- "

And there it was. No. No, he hadn't told his mother about Ranney. No, he really was done and this farce was over.

No. Just... no.

Ranney flipped her emotions into practical gear. “She was looking for anyone who might have the list of attendees. She’s with Archie now, so she’s in good hands. He’ll get it straightened out."

"Good. But Ranney, can we please -- "

"I understand you’ve already run through every available woman in England and Europe.

Your mother tells me that’s why you had to move to another continent.

Vegas must have been another notch on your belt, Tom.

Congratulations. Idaho was your victory lap.

The pink SUV gesture was quite the love bomb. ”

Nessa was staring at her, openly appalled.

Ranney hadn’t raised her voice at all. Her tone was businesslike and calm, and she hadn’t altered her pace.

It was that very calmness that made her sound slightly unhinged when you registered what she was saying.

Ending the call abruptly, she powered off and dropped the phone back in her bag.

“What’s the matter?” she asked, looking at her daughter.

“What’s the matter with me? Seriously? Was that Tom?”

“Yes. It seems that the person who wanted the guest list is his mother, not a photographer. But better safe than sorry.”

“And the part about him having to move because there were no women left to date..?”

“I’m sure she was exaggerating. There must be a few he hasn’t run across.”

“I knew it,” Nessa muttered.

“Knew what?” Ranney asked coldly.

“I told you there was something weird about him! Everything about that story was fishy–you meet him in some random shop and all of a sudden he turns up on your flight? And then he has a very convenient ‘work crisis’”–she made the quotes with her fingers–”and you have to get married in Las Vegas to rescue him? And he’s young enough to be your–”

“DON’T say it! Do not say it again, Nessa.”

“I don’t have to say it, it’s totally obvious. I think you should talk to a lawyer right away. You need to call Uncle Evan. Annul the wedding, Undo it all. Oh, Mom, I'm so sorry.”

“No need for sorries. I can't handle them, Nessie. Right now, we need to do our job. I will call Evan tomorrow. It can’t get any worse than it already is.”

“Never say that! If there is one thing I have learned in this job, Mom, it’s that it can ALWAYS get worse.”