Born to Be Wild

by Berg, Patti

  “Ribs.”

  “Oh.” He couldn’t mistake the despair in her voice.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked. “Don’t you like ribs?”

  “I love ribs. But that’s not what I had in mind for this wedding.”

  “What did you have in mind?”

  “Something a little more formal. Do you do anything exotic, like poached quail eggs?”

  Max laughed at her question. He’d prepared quail eggs at the culinary academy and for too many uppity society shindigs when he worked with his foster dad. They were dainty and tasteless, a far cry from the spicy, finger-licking and mouth-watering fare he preferred. “Quail eggs were Henri’s specialty,” he said. “Mine’s ribs.”

  “Oh, dear.”

  He leaned against the counter, thinking he could spend a good hour or two listening to this woman. He liked the little-girl sound in the way she said, “Oh, dear,” the way she sighed deeply into the phone. Unfortunately, he didn’t have an hour or two to converse with a stranger. He didn’t have any time on Saturday, either, which meant he couldn’t possibly help the lady with the sultry voice. “I’m sorry, ma’am, but I’m booked this weekend.”

  “I understand that, but as I mentioned, this is an emergency. I’ve nearly two hundred guests coming. I hadn’t wanted to serve ribs but... well... She sighed again. “Are they good?”

  The lady—if she was a lady—sounded awfully picky for a woman in need.

  “They’re the best in Florida. But like I mentioned, I’m busy on Saturday.”

  “I’ll pay twice your normal amount.”

  “That sounds enticing, but I can’t be in two places at the same time.”

  He heard her fingernails again, this time drumming on something other than the phone. A table maybe. A desk. Something expensive, considering her offer.

  “Three times your normal amount.”

  “The money sounds good, but—”

  “Four times, and that’s my final offer.” She was silent again, giving Max time to think it over. “Please.”

  He hated it when a woman said please. “Let me think about it, okay? Maybe there’s a way I can swing both. I’ll call you back in a couple of hours.”

  “I can’t wait a couple of hours. I need an answer now. I’ll even pay you up front if you’re worried about the money.”

  “You don’t even know what my ribs taste like.”

  “Look, Mr. Wilde, as long as your food is edible, I’ll hire you. Of course, it would be nice to have something not quite as messy as ribs, something a little more elegant, but right now, I’ll take anything. If you need references, I can give you a hundred different people to call. I always pay on time. Call my bank. Just tell them you’re catering a wedding for Lauren Remington.”

  Lauren Remington? The Lauren Remington, the object of a foolish kid’s affection? The woman whose dress he’d accidentally doused with a glass of champagne when he’d been a waiter at the rehearsal dinner before her first wedding? The woman who’d laughed at the incident, then followed him outside, where she’d kissed him and made him think that a tough, wrong-side-of-the-tracks guy like him could have a chance with a rich and beautiful socialite?

  He rubbed his arm, where a tattoo served as a constant reminder of his folly, and laughed to himself. So, she was getting married... again. That shouldn’t surprise him, not for someone as fickle as Lauren Remington.

  “Did you hear me, Mr. Wilde? This really is urgent.”

  “I heard you,” he said, annoyed that the woman who’d once bruised his ego had popped back into his life, and damn if she didn’t have to do it right before another one of her weddings.

  “Who’s the lucky guy?” he asked, wondering what poor sucker had fallen for her this time around.

  “You mean the groom?”

  He laughed, as if there was more than one lucky guy in her life. “Yes, the groom.”

  “Dickie Stribling. Do you know him?”

  A vision of Dickie Stribling hit Max between the eyes. “I know him.” He’d waited on Mr. Stribling once or twice. He’d served half the people in Palm Beach, Florida, when he was younger, back in the days when everyone who was anyone hired his foster father’s high-class French catering business.

  Dickie Stribling wasn’t a bad sort, if you could stomach the kind of guy who dressed in white shoes and pants, a navy blazer, and a gold-braided captain’s hat. Dickie Stribling was rich beyond imagining, too, just the kind of man someone like Lauren Remington would go for.

  “Dickie’s such a lovely man and this wedding means the world to him,” the woman continued. “So, will you please consider catering for me this Saturday? If not for me, then for Dickie.”

  Dickie’s a gullible dope, Max thought. The woman sounded fond of him, not in love, which didn’t seem like much of a basis for marriage, and now she wanted Max to make the day special! Considering the way Miss Palm Beach had humiliated him all those years ago and the fact that she’d probably humiliate Dickie somewhere down the road, he should have said no without any hesitation, but he plowed his fingers through his hair and said, “Hold on. Let me look at my schedule.”

  He knew full well he didn’t have time to cater some fancy Palm Beach affair, especially a wedding for the oft-married Lauren Remington, but she’d said “Please” more than once, and she sounded desperate. Her breeding made her believe she could have anything she wanted, and damn if his upbringing didn’t make it nearly impossible for him to turn down someone in need.

  She wasn’t exactly a charity case, but what the hell!

  “All right,” he said, hoping this wasn’t a big mistake, that some asinine desire to see her again wasn’t screwing with his brain, “it looks like I can work your wedding into my schedule.”

  “Oh, thank goodness. How soon can you come over so we can discuss the menu?”

  Max looked at his watch. “How about one-forty-five?”

  She was silent a moment, and he thought for sure he heard a sniffle on the other end of the phone before hearing her soft, sultry voice again. “That would be wonderful, Mr. Wilde. Thank you.”

  He hung up the phone and stared into the pot of hot and spicy barbecue sauce. It was as different from poached quail eggs as he was from Lauren Remington. He realized that now, but he hadn’t given their differences much thought the first time he’d seen her.

  His job that night was to serve champagne, to keep an eye on every crystal glass and to make sure they were never empty. But he’d forgotten all about the champagne when he caught a glimpse of the bride-to-be. The golden highlights in her light brown hair glistened in the candlelight, her smile glowed, and he’d thought she was the most incredibly beautiful creature he’d ever laid eyes on. Why she’d wanted to marry the man at her side made no sense to him. Chip Chasen was brash and arrogant and swilled one glass of champagne after another as he talked incessantly about his success at the track, comparing those wins to the conquest of his gorgeous bride.

  Max had wanted to put a fist into the man’s pretty face. But heading across the room, he found that the closer he got to Lauren, the less he thought about Chip. Stopping behind her chair, he tilted the bottle of Dom Perignon toward her glass and let his gaze roam over her shoulders, across her creamy skin and voluptuous cleavage. The champagne had just started to flow from the bottle when she turned her heavenly green eyes toward him. He was mesmerized, and he sure as hell wasn’t paying attention to what he was doing as the bubbling wine spilled, and continued to spill, over the rim, right down the front of her fancy green dress.

  Chip had yelled at him for his clumsiness, and Lauren had laughed in an effort to silence her husband-to-be. Max had apologized profusely, then made a bee-line out of the mansion, not stopping until he felt a gentle hand on his arm.

  “Thank you,” Lauren had said, her eyes suddenly warm and full of concern.

  “What are you thanking me for?” he’d bit out in anger and embarrassment.

  “For calming my nerves,” she’d said softl
y. “For giving me a good reason to laugh.” Her dress was soggy and she should have been enraged, but he saw only a hint of fear in her eyes, not fury.

  “Sorry about your dress,” he’d said, apologizing once again.

  “It doesn’t matter.” She stared at him for a moment, silent, still. He’d felt awkward standing there with his fingers itching to touch her, his mouth wanting to kiss her. If she’d been any other girl he would have done just that, but she was the Lauren Remington and he was just Max Wilde.

  She’d tilted her head and looked over her shoulder at the open door leading into the mansion. Slowly, she’d looked back at him, the nervousness still evident in her eyes, and asked, “Where are you going?”

  “As far away from here as I can get.”

  “I wish I could go with you,” she’d blurted out. “I wish—” She’d smiled weakly, kissed him hastily on the cheek, then turned around and ran, disappearing once more behind the marble walls that separated their worlds.

  All night long he’d thought about her words, her trepidation. He’d spent an entire evening working up the courage to rescue her from the marriage she’d seemed to dread, and then he’d shown up at her mansion the next morning, just in time to see her walking down the steps, a picture of perfection in shimmering white.

  Marching up the drive, he’d thrust a fistful of orchids toward her. “It’s not too late to run away with me.”

  The color seemed to drain from her face as her gaze trailed from the orchids, to the curious people gathering around her, to his eyes. A hesitant smile touched her lips. “Why would I want to run away? I’m getting married today... and... and I’ve never been happier.”

  “But—” The massive hand of a bodyguard or one of her other minions clamped down on his shoulder and dragged him away from Lauren as she lifted the hem of her gown and climbed into the limo.

  He’d made a fool of himself, and she’d punched a hole in his self-esteem. She’d probably made fools of a lot of men. Fortunately he’d gotten over that day a long time ago—or at least he thought he had. Thinking about it now made him remember the humiliation he’d felt with so many laughing eyes staring at him as her limousine drove away.

  He didn’t want to like the woman whose name and picture he’d seen plastered on the front of the tabloids too many times to count, but in spite of the blow to his ego, he couldn’t forget the anxiety that had been in her eyes that night. And he’d definitely heard the desperation in her voice over the phone today.

  He cursed the sense of chivalry that had made him want to help her again. He also cursed the ridiculous urge he had to see her, because he had the uncanny feeling that Miss Palm Beach was going to cause him endless amounts of grief.

  Two

  Lauren stood in the center of the living room studying the all-white arrangement of anthurium, ginger, and Dendrobium orchids sitting on top of the pink and white marble mantel. “It’s perfect. Exactly what I want,” she told Mr. Friedrichs.

  “Are you positive you don’t want a splash of color? A little pink to match your furniture’s upholstery? A speck of yellow or purple?”

  “Oh, no,” Lauren said, walking across the room to look at the flowers from another angle. “I’m going with an all-white theme for Betsy Endicott’s wedding.” Lady Ashford, her mother, would never approve—naturally—of an all-white theme, but her mother wasn’t around. Mr. Friedrichs didn’t approve of all-white, either, but going with the same old mixed-color bouquets seemed terribly boring.

  “Very well,” Mr. Friedrichs said, flipping open his calendar and studying his notes. “I’ll be here early Saturday morning to personally supervise the arrangement of all the flowers.”

  “The interior designer will be here as well,” Lauren said. “She has yards and yards of white satin ribbon and lace for the chairs—”

  “Ms. Templeton and I have already coordinated our efforts. Naturally, it will be much easier with both the wedding and reception held here in your home. We won’t have the logistical difficulties that can sometimes occur when we divide our efforts between a church and a reception room.” Mr. Friedrichs moved one of the anthurium stems about a quarter of an inch in the vase. “You can trust me implicitly, Miss Remington. Betsy Endicott’s wedding will be perfect.”

  He might be a tad stiff, Lauren thought, but she’d never hire anyone but Friedrichs of Palm Beach to do the flowers. He was persnickety, but his tastes were impeccable and his work habits decisive and prompt. Nothing could ever go wrong using someone like Mr. Friedrichs.

  Of course, she’d also felt that way about Henri.

  She quickly gave Mr. Friedrichs the once-over. Thank goodness—for his sake and hers—he didn’t look like heart-attack material. Not only that, but she imagined a thorough and precise man like Mr. Friedrichs would have an operating procedure for his employees to follow should he suddenly expire. He was not a man to leave anything to chance.

  She looked at her watch. One-fifteen. Max Wilde should be arriving within half an hour... she hoped. If he was late for their appointment, she’d worry from now until Saturday that the food for the reception would be a bust.

  As she walked Mr. Friedrichs to the door, he offered more assurances that there wouldn’t be a single wilted flower in sight, but it wasn’t wilted flowers that worried her. Wilted lettuce and barbecue sauce were uppermost on her mind.

  “Excuse me, Miss Remington.”

  “Yes, Charles,” she said, closing the door as Mr. Friedrichs climbed into his Mercedes.

  “Lady Ashford is on the phone.”

  “Oh, dear.”

  “Would you like me to tell her you’re out?”

  Charles knew her feelings all too well, bless his heart, but she hadn’t talked with her mother in well over a week, and even though their conversations were usually one-sided, she loved her mother dearly and enjoyed hearing her voice.

  She retreated to her conservatory, a homey place brimming with orchids, palms, and ferns. This was the place where she’d hoped to read to her children, where she’d planned to rock them to sleep at night. Much to her dismay, the only things she’d nurtured in this room were the tropical plants she loved.

  Thoughts of children and family had been on her mind a lot in the past few months, ever since she’d received the wonderful news that her sister-in-law Samantha was going to have twins. Her brother Jack had waited a long time to get married, and when he did, he went completely against convention and married someone Mother claimed was totally wrong for him. But Jack had never been happier.

  Lauren wished she’d gone against convention a few times. She definitely wished she’d ignored her mother’s dictates. If she had, maybe she’d be married to the most wonderful man in the world by now. Maybe she’d have a house full of children to love. She laughed to herself. Celeste, Lady Ashford, was not completely to blame for Lauren’s poor choices in men, even though she’d shoved Chip, Leland, and even Peter in front of her daughter’s eyes. No, Lauren knew she had to take responsibility for her own actions—the disastrous ones of the past and anything that happened in the future.

  Making her mother understand that she wanted to take charge of her own life, however, had not been and never would be an easy task.

  Sitting in her favorite, flared-back white wicker chair, she lifted the phone. “Hello, Mother.”

  “Hello, darling. I’ve just gotten off the telephone with Bunny Endicott and she tells me that Chef Henri passed away. It’s absolutely dreadful, and she’s worried sick that something will go wrong at Betsy’s wedding.”

  “Everything’s—”

  “Yes, yes, I’m sure everything’s fine, darling, but you can’t possibly expect any of us to forget what happened at Holly Rutherford’s wedding.”

  Lauren cringed at the memory. “That was an accident.”

  “It was a fiasco, Lauren. You can’t believe my embarrassment when the legs collapsed on that table and the wedding cake slid into the swimming pool. I still have nightmares about that moment
, and every one of those horrid dreams is played out in slow motion.”

  “The tables aren’t going to collapse at Betsy’s wedding,” Lauren said emphatically, and absently crossed her fingers, hoping her plans for Betsy’s wedding wouldn’t fall apart, as they had for Holly Rutherford. “The cake isn’t going to go into the swimming pool because the table won’t be set anywhere close to the pool. And you’re forgetting, Mother, that I’m the one who was responsible for everything, not you.”

  “You are my daughter—everything you do is a reflection on me. It always has been, it always will be. I certainly hope when Betsy’s wedding is over that you’ll call off this crazy whim of yours to be a wedding planner.”

  “It’s not a whim, Mother. It’s a career. And one that I enjoy.”

  “Perhaps, but we can’t always do what we enjoy. You should do what you do best, darling.”

  “And what is that?”

  There was a moment of silence, as if Lady Ashford was striving to think of something her daughter did well. Lauren could offer a whole string of suggestions, such as pour tea, smile, and dress to perfection, but she needed more meaningful endeavors in her life.

  “Gerald Harcourt is flying in for Betsy’s wedding,” Celeste said, abruptly changing the subject to men, one of Celeste’s favorite topics. “He asks about you whenever I see him.”

  “He’s just being polite.”

  “It’s much more than that. He’s been single for nearly a year now, and you’ve been divorced from Leland for, what is it, darling, six years?”

  “Eight.”

  “Eight years of loneliness, except, of course, when you and Peter were together.”

  “I’m perfectly happy on my own.”

  Her mother laughed. “You can’t fool me. I know you better than anyone.”

  If only that were true, Lauren thought, but her mother knew little about her, because she’d never been around long enough to learn what made her daughter tick.

  “Well, darling, I really must go. Your stepfather and I are going to a reception for the prime minister this evening. I picked up a lovely Balenciaga gown in Paris early this week. If you were close by, I’d borrow that antique ruby necklace of yours, which would look absolutely divine with the new gown. Andrew, of course, feels a string of diamonds is sufficient, but what do men know?”