But he’d barely reached the buffet when the woman he immediately recognized as the maid of honor approached him.
“Hey there, matey.”
Shit. He had not gotten a good vibe off this chick. She’d been staring at him through the whole ceremony like she was planning on a little maid of honor/best man hookup tonight. Or in her case, more of a tie-up than a hookup. God, he hoped she didn’t have hooks.
He grimaced, but then forced the look into a stiff smile. The willowy woman strode up to him, the twinkly lights decorating the courtyard glinting off her black PVC, fetish bodysuit. This woman, while still tall in her stilettos, wasn’t as Amazonian as Zelda, although there was something just as unnerving about her. Then again, she, too, had a whip as an accessory. Not a cat-o’-nine-tails, just a mere riding crop, but Drake knew that would really sting, especially on bare flesh.
“How are you … ?” he said stiffly, drawing a complete blank on her name.
“Obsidian,” she answered.
How the hell had he forgotten that?
“I’m much better now that I’ve found you.” She smiled, glossy red lips curling back over small, sharp-looking teeth.
He shifted away from her. Why was it that he really did find the dommes far more creepy than the undead? Maybe because the undead posed no threat to him … chicks with implements of torture … that was another story. Pain was so not his thing.
He hesitated, not sure what to say, which gave her the opportunity to make her move. She stepped closer and ran her crop down the length of his arm.
“Have you ever been dominated, pirate?”
Something that felt akin to panic tightened Drake’s chest, and he immediately cast a frantic look around, searching for any escape he could find. As if answering his silent entreaty, the sexy caterer rushed out of the kitchen, carrying a tray of something that looked like bleeding skewered hearts.
“Sorry,” he said with a quick raise of his hand to Obsidian to halt her line of questioning, not to mention to get the riding crop away from him. Then he reached out to the curvy caterer, catching her free arm.
“Cupcake,” he said sweetly. “You are working so hard. Surely you have time to steal a moment with your beloved seaman.”
And before he thought better of it, he kissed the shapely stranger.
*
THIS WEDDING WAS in the bag. Josie Lynn Thibodaux felt confident about that. Creating a successful catering company was at least 75 percent word of mouth, and she needed this bride and groom to have nothing but complimentary things to say about her food, her service, and her staff. Okay, staff was a generous word. Her staff was herself and two college kids who she could only afford to pay minimum wage at the moment.
All the more reason why she needed to hustle.
So being grabbed by one of the wedding guests and kissed was not part of the professionalism she was hoping desperately to portray. Not to mention, the surprise lip-lock caused her to lose her balance on the tray of sashimi tuna sculpted in the shape of hearts and skewered with stalks of rosemary and topped with a roasted red pepper and sundried tomato puree—one of the gothic-themed appetizers she was particularly proud of.
She registered the metal tray clattering to the ground, but she was still too shocked to pull away. The lips moving over hers seemed to hold her immobile and she was powerless to break away.
But finally good sense kicked in, and she shoved at the man holding her. She looked up into a pair of intense, dark eyes and was lost again. Wow, he was good-looking. Like ridiculously good-looking.
Once more, common sense took effect when she noticed several of the guests staring in her direction. All the dazed desire clouding her thoughts disappeared, replaced by much more distinct irritation.
“What are you doing?” she demanded.
The man, who she now saw was dressed as a pirate—damn, this is an odd wedding even by New Orleans standards—smiled. A roguish smile that suited his attire.
“I’m sorry to catch you off guard, cupcake,” he cajoled. “But I couldn’t resist a quick moment with my lady.”
Then he jerked his head slightly and his dark eyes shifted in the same direction.
Josie Lynn frowned. Was there something actually wrong with this guy? Maybe he wasn’t quite right. Some of her anger subsided.
Then he did it again, a little more adamantly this time, and she realized he was silently gesturing to the tall, latex-clad woman next to him. So the kiss had been for this chick’s benefit. Although from the sour frown on the woman’s heavily made-up face, benefit might not be the right word. She looked pissed. And she had a crop.
Josie Lynn took a step away from her, slipping on some of the slimy sashimi.
The pirate reached out and caught her elbow to steady her, but she jerked out of his hold.
Okay, now Josie Lynn was truly pissed, too. She so did not need to be a part of this guy’s drama. He could use someone else to make the plastic-encased woman jealous, or scare her away, or whatever he was doing. She didn’t care. She did, however, very much care that she was now standing in the middle of over a hundred dollars’ worth of sushi-grade yellowfin.
She started to open her mouth to tell him so, but caught herself. If he were just some random drunken jerk, she probably would have socked him in the gut and given him a very sharp, very pointed piece of her mind. But this wasn’t just some drunken jerk; this was a guest at the wedding.
Assaulting one of the guests, physically or verbally, was not going to get her the stellar reviews she needed from the bride and groom. Presumably they liked this guy, since they’d asked him to be a part of their special day, and complaints from him could be the kiss of death for this job, literally. So, even though she wanted to gag on her own smile, she forced a wide, charming one toward the pirate-turned-kissing-bandit.
“You know I love our moments, too, but not while I’m working, sugar plum,” she cooed, mocking the ridiculous endearment he’d used, then dropped a pointed look at the mess around her. “It makes me clumsy.”
She couldn’t quite keep the annoyance out of her voice, even as she continued to smile.
“I am sorry about that, cupcake,” the pirate said, his dark, intense eyes twinkling with amusement. He was enjoying this.
God, she hated men.
He started to crouch down to clean up the mess, but Josie Lynn placed a hand on his arm; she noted the feeling of his bicep, bulging lean and hard, under his puffy shirt.
“No, honey bear, I’ll get it,” she said, annoyance clear in the tightness of her words, but this time directed more toward herself than at him. How could she be thinking about his damn muscles when profit was scattered all over the floor and stuck to the bottoms of her shoes? She might have blown this whole gig.
No, he might have blown it. Damn men.
But he stopped and stood, towering over her.
She dropped her hand from his arm, flexing her fingers as she did so, as if that would banish the memory of his lean strength and how much she’d liked the feeling of him. It didn’t work, but she gathered herself enough to wave over Eric, one of the college kids that worked for her.
“Get a broom and dustpan,” she told him, her no-nonsense demeanor somewhat returned. “And a mop.”
Eric nodded, but didn’t rush off quite as quickly as she would have liked. Making minimum wage only earned minimum speed.
So, even though she wanted to get away from this man as soon as possible, she had to wait, not wanting to leave the mess unattended. All she needed was someone slipping on raw fish or getting puree on their fetishwear.
She shot a glance to the woman in the shiny PVC catsuit … of course, the puree would wipe right off of that.
“I can wait here until he returns,” the pirate said, and this time when Josie Lynn met his gaze, she saw what looked like flashes of remorse in his dark eyes. That wasn’t much compensation, however.
But rather than respond to him, she remained rooted in the middle of the mess and s
canned the courtyard for the bride and groom. As long as they still appeared happy, she should be okay. No harm, no foul. Aside from being out the pricey cost of the tuna. She could hardly charge them for an appetizer no one got to eat.
“I am really sorry, cupcake,” the pirate said from closer beside her, his husky voice no longer dripping with the syrupy-sweet quality he’d used earlier.
Josie Lynn stopped her search of the crowd and raised an eyebrow at him, not quite believing his apology. Men like this only said they were sorry when it furthered their cause. She’d seen it a dozen times … the last time less than three weeks ago.
Damn, men were bastards. Especially the good-looking ones like this guy. With deep, intense stares and roguish smiles. And who kissed a woman until she was senseless. And who probably made love to a woman as if she were the only one in the world who’d ever mattered to him.
Dear, freaking God, what was she doing? Imagining how this man made love? She needed to get a grip. A very serious grip.
Fortunately, her employee finally moseyed up—with only a broom and dustpan, but it was a start. And she could get away from this jerk.
But she couldn’t resist having the last word.
“No worries, sugar pie,” she said to the pirate, her voice taking on all the sickening sweetness his had lost.
Then, on an impulse, she sank her fingers into the cascade of ruffles on his chest and dragged his lips down to hers. She kissed him hard and thoroughly.
“Enjoy the rest of the party, sweet cheeks,” she cooed, before turning to head back to the kitchen, not needing to make direct eye contact with her employee to know he was sporting a bemused expression.
She didn’t slow her departure even as she slipped slightly on a chunk of tuna still stuck to her shoe.
Of course by the time she reached the kitchen, she wasn’t feeling so self-righteous. Why the hell had she done that? Really? After the mental lamenting about needing to be nothing but professional? Why would she potentially cause another round of raised eyebrows? And what if rubber-bound Barbie with her crop and black lipstick trotted over to the bride and groom and told them their caterer was busy playing kissy-face with the wedding pirate?
“And this, Josie Lynn, is why you are destined to be the Queen of Bad Decisions,” she muttered to herself. She needed to use the damn brain God gave her.
And not for evil.
She pulled in a deep breath and tried to focus on the chaotic kitchen. She couldn’t take back her behavior—or his, but she could finish this wedding with a bang. And that didn’t mean banging a pirate.
Even though she could imagine it. His body had felt really nice against hers. And surprisingly, he sort of smelled like the sea, fresh and manly and a little salty.
She felt her body react, nipples hardening, moisture gathering between her thighs.
Enough! She shook her head. “So, the Queen.”
“Huh?”
Josie Lynn turned to her other employee, a slender, pretty blonde who was sadly reinforcing all dumb blonde jokes. Apparently minimum wage got her minimum speed with Eric and minimum intelligence with Ashley. And as soon as she noticed what Ashley was doing, all thoughts of kissing pirates and poor decisions vanished.
“Ashley! What are you doing?”
The blonde made a startled squeak and dropped the food syringe she was holding.
“I—I’m filling the éclairs with cream.”
“No,” Josie Lynn said slowly, “you are filling the éclairs with a crawfish and crab cheese sauce.”
She snatched up a pastry bag filled with vanilla bean and Grand Marnier crème and shoved it toward Ashley. “This is the right filling.”
Ashley gave her a pained look, but Josie Lynn barely acknowledged it, instantly counting the number of desserts ruined beyond repair.
Only a dozen. Thank God.
“I’m so sorry, Josie.”
“No worries,” Josie Lynn said, realizing that response was becoming the mantra of the night. “Just do the rest with this filling.” She pushed the metal bowl filled with more crème toward her employee. “Please.”
“Of course,” Ashley said. “I’m so—”
Josie Lynn raised a hand to stop her apology. “No worries, just finish the rest and I’ll finish the minicrepes.”
Which are filled with the crawfish-and-crab cheese sauce, she finished silently. And sarcastically.
“You can pull this off,” she said quietly to herself, determined to make this her new mantra of the night. “You can pull this off.”
Chapter Three
THE WEDDING CRASHERS
J OHNNY looked at the crappy punch on the table and said to Wyatt, “Seriously? This is a dry wedding? Who the hell has a dry wedding in New Orleans?”
“A dominatrix, apparently.” Wyatt glanced around the courtyard before lifting up his pants leg. He had a flask strapped to his calf. “But I was prepared.”
“You should have told me.”
“You should have read your invitation. It said it right on there they weren’t serving booze.”
“I barely glanced at it.” Johnny wasn’t fond of paperwork. Or details. He wondered where Lizette was off cursing him at the moment. So he had beaten her to the apartment that morning. His apartment. Which contained his stuff, he might add. And so he had broken off the locks her goofy henchman had installed and liberated his drum kit. They were his drums and he had gotten them off of Keith Moon back in the sixties. They were sentimental, not to mention the most expensive thing he owned by far, including his car, and he was not about to let Dieter take a crap on them or whatever he was planning to do in there. In his apartment. Where he paid the rent. And did he mention it was his apartment? He was not going to feel guilty that he might just be making life slightly more difficult for her. She was the one making his life difficult.
Especially when she did things like walk over grates and have her skirt blow up where he could see her slim, milky legs.
“So Stella told me about the VA being up your ass,” Wyatt said, retrieving his flask.
“Yeah. I ditched out on a meeting with her tonight. I figured if she’s going to be taking her sweet time clearing this misunderstanding up, I can take my sweet time giving her answers.” Johnny wasn’t sure why he was having such a strong reaction to Lizette, but he suspected it had to do with the challenge she presented: so buttoned up, yet so feminine. That might explain the weird reason that he had dreamed about her all day while he had slept, and why he’d woken up with a giant erection and the vision of Lizette wearing librarian glasses while riding him like a mechanical bull dancing in front of his eyes.
It had made him edgy, and now he had every reason to believe this wedding reception was going to suck. At least the exchanging of the vows had been short and to the point, though he could have done without seeing Saxon crawl down the makeshift aisle.
“That may be slightly counterproductive, but I can understand your frustration.” Wyatt unscrewed his flask and eyeballed the punch. “Do you think whiskey would taste good in that shit?”
Johnny eyed it. “Is that sherbet floating in there? That stuff is gross. It’s like swallowing a lump of phlegm.”
“Saxon loves the stuff.”
“Saxon is a moron.” Johnny normally loved that quality about him. It made life with him around highly entertaining. But at the moment, he would have preferred an open bar with top-shelf liquor. Or even cheap liquor. “Can I just have a sip of that straight? Please? I’ll give you five bucks.”
“You don’t have five bucks. The VA froze your assets, remember?”
Like he could forget. “Thanks for reminding me.”
But Wyatt took pity on him and handed him the flask. He took a nip off it, glancing around the reception. It was an odd assortment of vampires and mortals, the bride a vision in white leather, her crop whizzing through the air at random intervals and smacking the wall, causing Saxon to giggle. Saxon himself looked like a middle-school girl at her first dance, w
earing skinny jeans, Converse, and a tuxedo T-shirt, his long blond hair crimped.
He looked happy.
Zelda looked happy.
Cort and Katie looked happy.
Wyatt and Stella were happy.
Johnny was happy they were all so goddamn happy.
Yet he couldn’t help but feel less than happy for himself.
He was, for lack of a better word, lonely. Which wasn’t an emotion he ever really felt. He was a social guy, and he surrounded himself with people. Friends, women, his sister. He was the guy who sat in the bar talking to the bartender, bouncers, and shot girls for hours, long after his shift playing drums for the night was over. So it was very unusual for him to feel like this. Maybe it was just all this coupling up and settling down that was going on around him. At least he still had Drake as his token single friend. They would have to start hanging out more while everyone else was at home getting laid.
Huh. That was not the least bit reassuring of a thought. Sex with a hot woman or trolling around with Drake. He would have run for the street and married the first woman in sight if those were really the only options, but unfortunately, marriage was a long time, and Johnny had generally found himself allergic to commitment. Which didn’t really make sense, because it wasn’t like he craved change. He hadn’t moved in five years, had lived in New Orleans for thirty, still enjoyed his sister’s company, and wore a pair of jeans he liked until they disintegrated. Even all his one-night stands over the years had turned into friends-with-benefits relationships. He’d never once had a true, never-see-her-again hookup.
So why had he always been so reluctant to commit? He had no idea. He had faked his own death to avoid a more serious turn in his relationship with Bambi. He’d never even lived with a girlfriend. The very idea seemed really … intimate.
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