The Rented Bride

By Tarah Scott and KyAnn Waters

Billionaire Trent Weston dominates in the boardroom, but when it comes to the bedroom he's discovered it's dangerous to trust a woman. Now, with his grandfather's health failing, Trent is determined to make the older man's last days special…even if that means marriage.

Event planner Cassie Adams is determined to make her mark. However, the Weston party isn't going as she'd hoped. One disaster after another is going to get her fired. So imagine her surprise when Trent Weston proposes marriage. Only he doesn't want forever. He just wants to rent her.

• Language: English
• Publisher: scarsdalepublishing
• Release date: Apr 7, 2021
• ISBN: 9781393209720

Tarah Scott

Award winning author Tarah Scott cut her teeth on books such as The Bobbsey Twins (yes, she is dating herself!) Nancy Drew, and Aesop's Fables. Authors such as Georgette Heyer, Zane Grey, and Mark Twain filled her teenage years. Her favorite book is a Tale of Two Cities, with Gone With the Wind as a close second. Favorite modern authors are Stephen King, Ann Rice, Amanda Quick, and Johanna Lindsey. Born in New Mexico, Tarah grew up in the Southwest. Twenty years ago, she relocated to Westchester County, New York, where she and her daughter reside in a lakeside community. When not working, writing, or reading--who are we kidding? She's always working, writing, or reading. Oh! There is her daughter. They do manage to spend a lot of time together.

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The Rented Bride

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Tarah Scott & KyAnn Waters

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EASTPOINT

The Rented Bride:

Copyright © 2016 by Tarah Scott & KyAnn Waters

All rights reserved

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the author, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

Cover Design: R. Jackson Designs

Contents

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

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Abducted

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Chapter One

Ribbons of powder blue and cotton candy pink streamed across Colorado’s morning sky. Cassie Adams watched dawn break through the window of the limousine that sped away from the Vail airport. Spring flowers waved in between patches of pristine snow across the wooded mountainside in reds, blues and yellows so tangible she felt she could brush her fingertips across its living canvas. Cassie had no idea there would be snow in April. She’d grown up in southern Florida and, except for trips to the Caribbean, had never left the state.

For the thousandth time, she wanted to pinch herself. Had it been only a day since she’d answered the telephone and listened to Meg Nelson ask if she could coordinate a birthday party hosted by Trent Weston in honor of his grandfather?

Daley Enterprises’ biggest competition, Gallagher Event Planning, had committed an unpardonable offence. Cassie settled back against the limousine’s leather upholstery and imagined Teri Gallagher’s face, her red lips forming an O, not from the thrill of orgasmic pleasure, but from being caught in the storeroom straddling the head chef, her pressed, black pencil skirt pushed up to her waist as he marinated his prime piece of meat in her...literally.

Cassie smiled. Mr. Weston employed one of the finest chefs in North America. He wasn’t about to replace Ace Raines. But Teri’s little sexual faux pas landed Cassie the opportunity she’d prayed for. She could almost taste success.

James Weston himself had followed up with a call to Cassie’s partner at Daley Enterprises, Maryanne Daley, and Maryanne had placed a crew on the road an hour later. Cassie’s crew. Then Cassie jumped on a plane this morning. She would arrive before her crew, assess the situation, and begin preparations.

Cassie’s stomach hummed as if a live wire had set up housekeeping. This party was the break she and Maryanne needed to put them on the party-planning map. And the break she needed to put a dent in the money she owed Maryanne as a new partner.

The limousine slowed for a tight curve in the road and her breath caught at sight of the sun rising over the summit of the mountains.

Is it always this beautiful, Henry?

The driver met her gaze in the rearview mirror and smiled. Every blessed day.

Henry had met her at arrivals and immediately charmed her with a smile that lit his eyes. She guessed him too young to be her father, but he treated her fatherly, which added to his appeal. She’d experienced too many situations where someone on the job got too friendly.

Party details outlined in the email from Mr. Weston’s personal assistant Meg intruded upon her musings. Gallagher Event Planning knew their business. That’s why they were Daley’s biggest competition. Three hundred close friends and associates were attending the party.

Gallagher had booked a twelve-piece orchestra. The cocktail-style party required twenty-five wait staff—and that staff disappeared when Mr. Weston fired Gallagher. Ten of the staff would be replaced by the crew Maryanne had sent by van. The other fifteen would be recruited by a regional staffing company.

The limousine slowed and a road came into view on the right. Henry turned. Nestled among thick firs on the mountainside Cassie glimpsed a—

Is that a castle? she blurted. 

Henry’s eyes flicked to hers in the rearview mirror. Yes, ma’am.

She straightened from the seat back, her gaze on the mammoth structure. A castle? I didn’t know there were castles in Colorado. She counted three, four—five—six turrets, the highest to the rear right had to be five stories high. Is it a resort? she asked.

No, Ms. Adams. That’s Brettonwood, the Weston estate.

Cassie met Henry’s gaze in the mirror. Mr. Weston’s? She collapsed against the seat and exhaled, By all that is unholy.

Henry laughed. Takes your breath away, doesn’t it?

That’s an understatement. It’s huge—city huge.

It does feel that way sometimes, he said.

It looks so old, she murmured.

It is. Mr. Weston’s grandfather brought the castle over from Scotland stone by stone.

He had the castle moved here from Scotland? she said.

Oh yes.

Cassie couldn’t tear her eyes from the huge compound as they wound their way up the mountain. A stone wall she estimated to be about six feet tall surrounded the compound. She couldn’t believe it. A castle from Scotland.

There are several castles in Colorado, but none with the history of Brettonwood, Henry said.

She eyes to meet his in the mirror. Don’t tell me Mr. Weston owns those, as well.

He laughed. No.

As they climbed, the snow that gleamed within the shade of the trees grew in size. By the time Henry turned from the main road onto a private road leading to the castle, the scattered patches had turned into large swaths of snow. A tremble rippled through Cassie’s stomach. Lord, she hadn’t experienced jitters since her eighth grade winter dance. 

She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Relax, she ordered. You can do this. You know your stuff. You’ve handled parties larger than this one. Just because this particular party is hosted by rich playboy Trent Weston makes no difference. You won’t  see the man. Men of his stature and wealth don’t dally with the help. 

The limousine crested a hill and an open wrought iron gate came into view on the right. A moment later, they crossed a short stone bridge, passed through the gate, and started a wide swing around a circular driveway.

Henry slowed the car. All the Weston history lives in Brettonwood. Sometimes I can imagine I’m driving a carriage rather than a limo.

It’s beautiful. She leaned closer to the window.

No matter the season, Brettonwood has a magic of her own. Mr. Weston senior says the spirit of the Guardians of Scotland live within her walls.

Her forehead pinched as a thought sent a shiver down her spine. The castle isn’t haunted, is it?

He chuckled and Cassie kept her gaze on the castle.

Fir trees bordered the drive. At the front of the building a turret located to the right of a slanted Tudor-style roof lifted three stories high. A massive oak door stood beneath the Tudor roof and three large archways were located to the left of the door. Cassie expected Henry to stop at the door. Instead, he drove through the third archway and they entered an inner court. A six-car garage sat directly ahead. A large snow-dusted fountain filled the center of the courtyard.

Cassie recalled yesterday’s conversation with Maryanne. If you pull this off, it’ll be the event of the year. A week from now, Cassie, we’ll be the most sought after event planners in the country. From Miami to LA to New York. We’ll have more clients then we’ll be able to accommodate and they’ll all try to outspend each other.

Maryanne was right. Working for a man of Trent Weston’s stature would put them on the map—guaranteed.

Henry brought the limousine to a stop and Cassie studied another turret that jutted up from somewhere in the rear of the castle.

Maybe this party was beyond her scope. Maryanne should be here instead of her. Cassie glanced at her purse and envisioned her cell phone tucked away in the side pocket. Should she give Maryanne a call? She would be awake, probably deep in paperwork to keep herself from obsessing over this party.

Did Maryanne realize just how rich Mr. Weston really was? The owner of this house was richer than Richie Rich and Bruce Wayne put together.

Henry left the car and rounded the hood to her door. She gripped her purse like a lifeline. Forget everything except the job, she ordered herself. It doesn’t matter that their client was rich enough to buy a small country. She wouldn’t be dealing directly with Trent Weston. His personal assistant, Meg Nelson, planned to meet with Cassie the moment she arrived.

Cassie smiled at Henry as she swung her feet out of the car, stood and craned her head to look at the fourth floor. This was a real castle.

It’s really not as big as it looks, Miss Adams, Henry said.

The entry door opened and a sixty-something woman stepped through the large doorway. Cassie watched her approach, following the cut of a stone walkway. Cassie met her gaze. I’ve got this.

The place is mammoth, Henry, Cassie said. It’s not nice to lie to a lady.

He barely stifled a laugh as the woman reached them. May I introduce Mrs. Doris O’Brien, he said. Mrs. O’Brien, this is Cassie Adams.

Mrs. O’Brien extended her right hand. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Ms. Adams. I oversee Brettonwood for Mr. Weston.

Cassie accepted the hand and was pleased by her firm grip.

Mrs. O’Brien’s eyes shifted past Cassie. Henry, would you bring Ms. Adams’ bags in, please?

Oh, that won’t be necessary, Cassie said. I’ve made arrangements to stay at the Vail Lodge.

Mrs. O’Brien smiled. Those reservations have been cancelled. You’ll be staying with us. The bags, please, Henry. Oh, and Annie has something special for you. She was very emphatic that you stop by first chance you get.

Yes, ma’am, he replied with a grin.

Staying here? Cassie said. Mrs. O’Brien, that’s very kind, but I couldn’t impose.

The housekeeper started away and Cassie was forced to walk alongside or remain standing beside the limo.

Put your mind at ease, Ms. Adams, we have spare bedrooms. This time, a hint of amusement laced Mrs. O’Brien’s voice.

Cassie flushed warm with embarrassment. Of course, I didn’t mean to imply— They reached the door and Cassie followed her into a massive foyer. Mrs. O’Brien—

The housekeeper cut her off. Would you like to freshen up before you meet with Meg?

Cassie shook her head. No, thank you. I would prefer to meet Ms. Nelson as soon as possible.

Mrs. O’Brien nodded. Meg is in her office. I can take you there straightaway. She started forward and Cassie nearly had to trot to keep up. Henry will put your bags in your room, the housekeeper continued. You’ll be staying in The Gray Room.

The Gray Room? She supposed all the rooms had names, like the White House’s Red Room, Blue Room and Green Room.

Have you had breakfast? Mrs. O’Brien asked.

Just coffee, she replied.

I’ll have eggs benedict sent to Meg’s office.

Please don’t go to any trouble. I’m not really hungry, Cassie said.

It’s no trouble, Mrs. O’Brien said. We have a full-time chef and staff. They understand that we have guests who need to be fed throughout the day.

I’m sure they do, Cassie hurried alongside her. But I never eat before noon. Just coffee.

I’ll have coffee sent over, then.

All right, Cassie said. Truth was, she could use coffee, lots of coffee.

They reached an open door and Mrs. O’Brien entered the room. A young, tall blonde sat behind a table desk filled with neat stacks of paper. Two twenty-four-inch flat screen monitors sat on another table desk that spanned her left side, and yet another table desk that spanned her right side held books and more stacks of paper.

She looked up as they entered.

Meg, this is Ms. Adams.

Meg stood and circled her desk, right hand extended. How nice to meet you, Ms. Adams.

Cassie accepted the hand and gave a firm shake. Please, she said, call me Cassie.

Meg beamed. Then you must call me Meg.

I’m having coffee sent up, Meg, Mrs. O’Brien said.

Thank you, Meg said, and the housekeeper left.

Please, sit. Meg indicated a padded leather chair opposite her desk.

Cassie sat down and, from the corner of her eye, noticed two stacks of paper on the right side of the desk that related to catering and an orchestra.

It looks like you’re swamped, Cassie said.

Meg laughed. My office looks this way most of the time.

Cassie grimaced. I thought I had it bad.

Shall we start at the beginning? Meg asked.

Cassie smiled. You read my mind.

***

Trent watched from his third-story office window as slim legs swung out of the limo. The event planner stood to a full five-foot-four height, dressed in a black business skirt, white blouse and black jacket. He noticed the shoes. Black patent leather flats. The woman was attractive, but practical. Perfect—and just in time. This was more than a birthday party. Possibly—probably—his grandfather’s final birthday party.

Mrs. O’ Brien appeared in the courtyard and took Ms. Adams up the walkway and into the house. Trent shifted his gaze to the snow-dusted valley beyond his property. The towering Rocky Mountains represented the way he lived his life: Strong, solid, unbending in the wind. Long after he was gone, he wanted the legacy his grandfather had built to carry on. It was time to settle down. Time to get as serious about his personal life as he’d been about expanding the Weston empire.

His gut churned. Had he known time with his grandfather was so limited, he would’ve thought about the future, a wife, a family, long before now. James Weston was old school, and carrying on the family legacy was vital. Seventy-four tomorrow, he wasn’t young, but neither was he old enough to have reached the end of his life.

Trent slipped his hand into his jeans’ pocket and curled his fingers around the velvet box he’d been carrying all day.

Sir? Mrs. O’Brien said behind him.

He turned. She stood in the doorway.

Ms. Adams has arrived. I’ve sent her bags to The Gray Room.

Wherever you think best, he said. So long as the woman did her job. He wouldn’t tolerate another Gallagher fiasco. And he didn’t want her underfoot.

Would you like to meet her? Mrs. O’Brien asked.

Later, maybe. I’m not dressed to meet anyone. But his old jeans and t-shirt were an excuse to keep to himself. This party was much more than a birthday party, even more than a life celebration for his grandfather. Trent had always considered himself too consumed with business to be a family man. That was going to change tonight. He only hoped it wasn’t too late.

Feeling better than he had in days, Trent pulled the velvet box from his pocket and placed it in the top drawer of his desk. While the house underwent the crazy chaos of party planning, he was going to get some work done. Once tomorrow’s festivities began, he would be taking substantial time away from Weston, Inc.

Chapter Two

With the party scheduled for seven thirty tomorrow evening, Cassie wasted no time in diving in. After an hour of reviewing invoices, Meg insisted Cassie change from her more professional attire to jeans and a t-shirt. Six o’clock tomorrow was soon enough to worry about dressing properly. Today was about getting down and dirty. Once she’d been shown her room, Cassie changed, then headed back to Meg’s office. She quickly found herself lost in a maze of hallways and rooms. Twice, she stopped to press a palm to the stone or to stroke a tapestry. She felt as if she’d gone back in time hundreds of years. She could spend a month in this place and probably still not learn every nook and cranny.

Cassie grimaced. If she wasn’t careful, that’s what was going to happen. Where the heck was she? She turned a corner and blew out a breath. She recognized the small table with a vase of roses up ahead. She hurried forward. If she took the next left—Cassie took the hallway to the left and nearly cried out upon recognizing Meg’s office two doors down.

She spent the next three hours reviewing invoices and the menu created by Gallagher Events.

Trent asked for seafood. I specifically remember him requesting lobster. Meg flipped through invoices then spun to face her computer. She typed a few keystrokes, then studied the monitor. But I’m not seeing that Teri placed an order with anyone. She spun to face Cassie. Can you handle getting lobster? Ace is expected to oversee the cooking, but he understands you’re handling the arrangements.

Cassie nodded. You bet.

Good, she said on a sigh. I have the number for the supplier we usually use.

That would be Cassie’s first call. Followed by the floral designer, the orchestra, party supply for table clothes and linen. Vail was a small, elite community with limited resources. But Denver was close enough to accommodate even the most obscure request.

An hour later, Cassie had spoken to Mr. Calhoun at Calhoun Seafood who promised her lobsters by early afternoon. Cassie also confirmed with the orchestra, then went a step further and hired a bagpiper to play during the cake cutting and birthday song.

The morning trickled away and the afternoon progressed when she made her way back to the kitchen. Ace, the sous chef, and three other chefs chopped, mixed and cooked in preparation for tomorrow as delivery men carted in supplies and food. Finally, the seafood arrived.

While the Calhoun Seafood deliveryman waited, Cassie grabbed a small paring knife from the chef’s station and slit open the first of the dozen boxes of fresh frozen lobster tails he’d brought. She set the knife on the chef’s station, yanked the first flap free of the remaining tape, then the second flap, and stared down at the lobster tails. She picked one up and didn’t have to turn it over to know they weren’t the Maine lobster tails she’d ordered.

She looked at the deliveryman. These aren’t what I ordered.

He shrugged. I’m just the delivery man.

He was right. Do Calhoun deliverymen put the fish they deliver in the walk-in? she asked.

I’ll put it anywhere you like, he said.

She pointed right, to the walk-in refrigerator toward the back of the kitchen. Back there, the sea bass, please.

He approached the boxes of sea bass set in two stacks of five, picked up two boxes and walked past her. Cassie watched his progress for a few seconds. He could easily have carried three or four of the boxes instead of two.

She dug into her back jeans’ pocket for her phone, then caught sight of another man standing in the delivery entrance doorway. A rip in his jeans revealed steely muscle above the right knee and his white tennis shoes looked as if they were hand-me -downs from Methuselah. But the working man’s clothes didn’t distract from the hint of stubble on his jaw, which gave him a slightly dangerous look, and the intense dark eyes that focused on her. The man was gorgeous. She thought of Terri Gallagher and grimaced inwardly. Brettonwood was clearly a place filled with temptation.

Cassie tapped the phone screen and hit speed dial number twelve for Calhoun Seafood. Bless Meg for putting all the vendors on her cell. The phone rang and she shifted the mouthpiece away from her mouth and said to the deliveryman, Could you please help get this fish into the walk-in?

He lifted a brow and pointed at himself. Me?

The receptionist’s voice at Calhoun came over the line. Calhoun Seafood.

You, Cassie mouthed to the guy, then said into the phone, May I speak with Mr. Calhoun, please?

Mr. Calhoun is in a meeting, the girl said. Can I take a message?

Cassie began pacing, the frozen lobster tail still in hand. Please tell him this is Cassandra Adams.

I’m sorry, Miss Adams, but Mr. Calhoun is unavailable. Can I take a message and have him return your call? 

She reached the edge of the nearest stainless steel work station and set the lobster on the table. He assured me he would be available for me at any time. I’m handling the party for Mr. Weston.

As I said, he’s in a meeting, the receptionist said.

Get him on the phone because, if I have to, I’ll drive the hundred miles into Denver to dump these lobster tails on his desk. If you think I’m upset now, wait until I have to waste half a day because you wouldn’t put my phone call through.

Hold on, the receptionist replied in a crisp voice, and Cassie turned as soft music began playing on the line.

The deliveryman stood at the boxes of lobster tails and was bending to grab the open box.

Not those, Cassie said.

He twisted and looked at her over his shoulder.

She pointed at the eight remaining boxes of seabass to the right of the lobsters. Those.

That brow arched again, but Cassie didn’t have time to respond. Mr. Calhoun’s voice came over the line, Miss. Adams, what can I do for you?

What you can do, Mr. Calhoun, is explain why I didn’t get the Maine lobster tails I ordered.

"What do