She circled the table again, nodded.

“Looks great.”

“Oh.” She took a step back. “I didn’t know you were here. Or going to be here.”

“It was the only way I could figure out how to have a Saturday night date with you.”

“That’s nice.”

He brushed his thumb over her cheek.

“Do I have icing on my face?”

“No. It’s just your face. How many flowers on that?”

“About fifty.”

He glanced around at the arrangements. “It looks like you and Em matched petal for petal.”

“We worked at it. Well, so far everything’s going smooth, so I might be able to—”

“Code Red!” Emma shouted in her earbud.

“Crap. Where?”

“Great Hall. We need everybody.”

“I’m on my way. Code Red,” she told Del as she rushed for the stairs. “My own fault. I said everything was going smooth. I know better than to say that.”

“What’s the problem?”

“I don’t know yet.” She hit the second-floor landing from one wing as Parker charged in from the other.

“SMOB and MOB altercation. Mac and Carter have the bride occupied and unaware.”

Laurel whipped the clip out of her hair, shoved it in her suit jacket pocket. “I thought we had detente there.”

“Apparently that’s over. Del, good you’re here. We might need you.”

As they approached, the sound of shouting pumped out of the Great Hall. And something crashed. Then someone screamed.

“You might need the cops,” Del commented.

They burst in to see Emma, her hair tumbling from its pins, trying desperately to separate the two snarling, elegantly dressed women. The bride’s stepmother’s hair and face dripped with the champagne tossed from the flute still in the mother of the bride’s hand.

“You bitch! You’re going down!”

Shoving, flailing arms sent Emma skidding on her heels then onto her ass as the women flew at each other.

Game, and with a hot beam in her eye, Emma scrambled up as Parker and Laurel sprang forward. Grabbing the closest body, Laurel hauled while curses spewed like grapeshot.

“Cut it out! Stop it now!” Laurel dodged a fist, then blocked an elbow with her forearm. The force of the contact sang straight up to her shoulder. “I said stop! For God’s sake, it’s your daughter’s wedding.”

“It’s my daughter’s wedding,” the woman Parker and Emma struggled to control shouted. “My daughter. Mine! Not this home-wrecking bimbo bitch’s.”

“Bimbo? Bimbo? You tight-assed lunatic, it’s your last face-lift I’m going to wreck.”

Emma solved the mother of the bride problem by sitting on her while Laurel grappled with her opponent.

As Del risked his skin by stepping between the two women, Laurel spotted reinforcements coming. Jack, and oddly Malcolm Kavanaugh, rushed into the melee.

Kneeling on the floor, Parker spoke quietly and steadily to the MOB whose temper was already giving way to wild tears. Laurel put her mouth close to the stepmother’s ear. “This isn’t solving anything, and if you care about Sarah, you’ll put it away, you’ll suck it up for the day. Are you listening? If you want to fight, you’ll do it another time, another place.”

“I didn’t do anything, and she threw champagne in my face. Look at my hair, my makeup. My dress.”

“We’ll take care of it.” She glanced at Parker, got a nod. “Del, I need you to bring a couple glasses of champagne up to my room, then you can take—I’m sorry, I’ve forgotten your name.”

“I’m Bibi,” the SMOB said in something close to a wail. “It’s all ruined. Everything’s ruined.”

“No, we’ll fix it. Del, you can take Bibi’s dress down to Mrs. G. She’ll fix it up. Come on with me, Bibi. We’re going to take care of everything.”

As she steered Bibi away, Parker repeated the routine on the MOB. “Emma’s going to take you somewhere to freshen up. I’ll be there in just a few minutes.”

“Don’t tell Sarah,” the MOB sobbed. “I don’t want to upset her.”

“Of course not. Go on with Emma. Don’t want to upset her,” Parker muttered when the woman was out of earshot.

“Hell of a party so far,” Mal commented.

Parker tugged down her suit jacket, smoothed her skirt. “What are you doing here?”

“Just dropped by to collect my winnings.”

“I don’t have time for that now.” She dismissed him by turning to one of the subs. “Make sure all the glass is cleaned up, and any spilled champagne. If anything else is broken or damaged, tell one of Emma’s team so they can deal with it. Jack, track down the FOB, will you? I’ll need to speak with him in my office. Immediately.”

“Sure. Sorry it took me so long. I was outside when I got the alert.”

“I moonlighted as a bouncer in L.A.,” Mal told her. “In case you want anybody tossed.”

“Funny, and not completely out of the question. FOB, Jack, thanks. Mac,” she said into her headpiece as she hurried away.

“She sure moves.” Mal watched her zip across the room and out the door.

“You haven’t seen anything yet,” Jack said. “Let’s go find the FOB.”

“Jack? What the hell is an FOB?”

IN HER ROOM LAUREL EXAMINED THE APRICOT SILK DRESS SHE’D ordered Bibi to strip off. She could hear both the shower and the sobs through the bathroom door.

A few spots, a torn seam—could’ve been worse, she decided. Mrs. G would deal with it. And according to the emergency plan for just such situations, she knew Parker would have a hair and makeup team en route very shortly.

Her mission, and she had no choice but to accept it, was to keep Bibi calm, help put her back together, listen to her whine, bitch, and/or complain. And to get her to promise—with a blood oath if necessary—to behave herself through the rest of the event.

Smoothing her own disordered hair, she answered the knock on the door.

“Two glasses, as ordered.” Del eased in to set them on a table, and glanced toward the bathroom. “How’s it going?”

“Well, she’s down from sobs to whimpers. Here’s the dress. It’s not too bad. Parker would’ve given Mrs. G a heads-up, so she’ll be ready for it.”