Born to Be Wild

by Berg, Patti

  “And once upon a time I was a waiter. Obviously you weren’t such a snob back then, because you contemplated running away with me.”

  “I’m not a snob, and, as I’ve mentioned before, my comment about running away with you was my slight mistake in judgment, one you obviously haven’t moved away from.”

  “But I have, and now I want you to dance with me on Saturday.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Caterers are hard to come by at the last moment.”

  “Is that a threat?”

  “What do you think?”

  “That you’re all bluster.”

  When, he wondered, had sparring with a woman become such fun? “All right, so I have no intention of letting you down on Saturday, but that doesn’t negate the fact that I want to dance with you. Consider it payment for me working doubly hard to ensure that your needs are taken care of.”

  He could see her jaw tightening. “You drive a hard bargain.”

  “Is that a yes?”

  “What choice do I have?”

  “None that I can see.”

  Without thinking, he smoothed a speck of barbecue sauce from her lower lip, shocked by the sparks that ricocheted through his body. If one small touch could affect him that way, what would dancing up close and personal do to him?

  Had she felt the same shock? he wondered, as her eyes locked on his, looking surprised by his caress, maybe a little frightened. He didn’t want to have feelings for her, not when he knew how the people of her world reacted to people from his, not when he knew too much about her past.

  But it was impossible not to want her.

  “Maybe we should substitute dancing for some other condition,” she suggested.

  Max shook his head. He’d rather give up condition number one.

  “But people are going to talk,” she said softly. “They’re going to wonder why I’m dancing with you.”

  “And that bothers you?”

  “I don’t like gossip, especially when it’s aimed at me.”

  “Then tell everyone the truth.”

  “What, that you forced me to dance with you?”

  He moved even closer. Their eyes, their noses, their mouths were just inches apart. “If that’s the truth.”

  She didn’t move. In fact, it seemed as if she’d ceased to breathe as she stared into his face and, more than likely, tried to figure out the real reason why she’d agreed to dance with him. Hell, maybe Miss Palm Beach wanted him, too.

  As if she couldn’t look at him another moment, she pushed away from the counter and strolled across the kitchen, her high heels clicking on the tiles. She stopped in the center of the sun room where he grew his herbs and stared toward the flower-filled backyard. “I’m going to dance with you for one reason and one reason only— because I want you to cater Betsy’s wedding.” She faced him again, her arms folded assertively over her breasts. “If you have some crazy notion that I’ve agreed to dance with you because you’re charming, think again. You’ve been difficult and demanding, something I wouldn’t have stood for with any other employee—but as you reminded me earlier, I’m desperate. If you had been charming, I might have asked you to dance.”

  “And suffer the gossip?” he asked, moving toward her.

  “I didn’t say I’d ask you to dance at Betsy’s wedding.”

  “Then where?” He stopped directly in front of her, meeting the tall, voluptuous beauty almost eye to eye. “Someplace private?” He grinned. “Someplace where we could be alone?”

  “It doesn’t matter, does it? We’re going to dance at Betsy’s wedding, I’m going to be the talk of the town, and you’re going to have your revenge.”

  He curled a strand of hair behind her ear. “Is that what you think this is all about?”

  “There couldn’t possibly be any other reason.” She looked startled by his touch. “You know, I really think we should change the subject.”

  “To what? Whether we’re going to dance slow or fast?”

  “Of course not. I’m here to discuss business, things like the menu, the cost, how many servers you’re going to have, what kind of tuxedos they’ll be wearing.”

  “Servers?”

  “Yes, you know, the men who carry around silver platters laden with champagne and delicious food.” Her eyes narrowed. “You do have waiters in your employ, don’t you?”

  “Of course I do, but—” He let out a frustrated breath, wondering how that detail had escaped his usual precise planning. “They’re working at Mr. Fabiano’s birthday party.”

  She threw up her hands and stalked back into the kitchen. “What kind of caterer are you, that you didn’t think about the importance of waiters for Betsy Endicott’s wedding?”

  That did it. “I’m the caterer who’s going to save your butt.”

  She spun around. “I’d like to know how you’re going to do that when you don’t have any waiters?”

  “Improvise,” he declared.

  “Improvise! Are you mad? This is Betsy Endicott’s wedding. You can’t just grab people off a street corner, put them in a tux, and call them waiters.”

  “I can do better than that.” He stormed across the room, grabbed her hand, and tugged her toward the kitchen door. “Come on, I know where I can find the waiters we need.”

  “You mean like a union hall, or something?” she asked, her high heels clicking rapidly behind him as he headed for his motorcycle.

  “Or something.” He chuckled, knowing full well that she wasn’t going to like what he had in mind.

  Four

  Not even the grim alleyway Max zoomed through or the roar of the motorcycle’s engine echoing against the warehouse walls could take Lauren’s mind off the man she had her arms wrapped around.

  He was rugged and dangerous and he turned her on as no other man had. Maybe because he didn’t back down to her, didn’t cater to her. She’d been told how to act, how to talk, how to walk and dress by many people in her life. Max, on the other hand, was making her do things that went against the grain of everything she’d ever known.

  And so far, she hadn’t died. In fact, she was having an awfully good time—of course, she couldn’t tell him that.

  But she could sense there was something eating away at Max, something that made him waiver between despising her and enjoying her company. Whatever it was, it went much deeper than the incident between them years before.

  Her sister-in-law Sam could probably pinpoint it in a moment. Sam was the wisest woman Lauren had ever known, a resourceful woman who’d lived on the streets, not to mention in her car, and had even masqueraded as Lauren’s brother’s fiancée to earn enough money to pay off a loan shark.

  Lauren wished she had the same gumption. Wished she had just half of Sam’s street smarts so she could figure out what was annoying Max. That shouldn’t matter, of course, since he was only an employee, but it mattered more than she thought possible.

  Max skillfully whipped the motorcycle around a Dumpster, and she let her thoughts roam from Max’s aggravation to their upcoming dance. She had the nicest feeling that his movements on the dance floor would be slow and sensual, the sexy kind of dancing she’d dreamed of doing at sixteen, when she’d been forced to dance with boys like Frederick Hart and Mitchell Burke, who gracefully, placidly, and—oh yes—very boringly waltzed her around at one cotillion after another.

  She seriously doubted that Max did the fox trot or would hold her lightly as Chip had done. Oh, no. A man like Max would probably place both his hands firmly on her bottom and hold her tightly against his hips, and then he’d move in the most carnal ways.

  A wise woman would wipe that image from her mind, but she was feeling daring, not wise, and discreetly let her fingers roam over Max’s hard, flat abs, watching the flex of muscle in his shoulders and arms. Sitting so close, she was becoming quite familiar with the contour of his upper body, with the form and fit of his T-shirt, and realized just how much she looked forward to their dance, to having her bre
asts press against his chest rather than his back, to look into his intense brown eyes rather than at his wild black hair.

  Her fingers stilled when Max turned down a darkened alleyway littered with old newspapers and empty bottles. Suddenly she realized how ridiculous her thoughts had become. Once again she remembered that she and Max had a business arrangement, that he wore a goatee and hoop earrings, while she wore designer chic. Not that there was anything wrong with his look. Definitely not. It was new, different, and thoroughly... sensual, but his look served as a very visible reminder that their lifestyles were a million miles apart.

  Max came to a sudden stop next to a circle of deserted motorcycles, cut the engine, and pulled off his helmet. His black wavy hair caught in the afternoon breeze whispering through the alley. It was wild and unruly and he was bold and brash and—oh, dear!—she really had to fight this strange attraction she felt for him.

  Leaving this lonely alley seemed like a good place to start. “Is there some reason you’re stopping here?” she asked, staying put on the back of the motorcycle even after Max swung his right leg over the gas tank and slid off the bike.

  “You wanted waiters, right?”

  She looked at the motorcycles around her, at the Dumpsters lining one wall, at the huge, graffiti-covered warehouses that surrounded them, and she laughed. “I suppose they’re lined up on shelves inside, and you just walk down an aisle and pick out the ones you want.”

  He grinned. “Something like that.”

  He was teasing, of course. She knew full well that he couldn’t find qualified waiters in a storage building on the outskirts of West Palm Beach. “Really, Max, where are we?”

  “The Hole in the Wall.”

  The Hole in the Wall, she repeated to herself, then frowned. “This isn’t a biker bar, is it?”

  “A hangout,” he corrected, as if his choice of words would give her a cozy feeling about the place. “I spend a lot of time here.”

  “That doesn’t surprise me, but what are we doing here?”

  “Taking care of business, just like I said. Are you going to stay out here or go inside?”

  She had no way of knowing what kind of business he could have in an old, dilapidated warehouse, but she’d heard stories about bikers and what they did in their free time, things like drinking and carousing, not to mention having their way with women. She couldn’t imagine Max mixed up in anything so disreputable, but that didn’t mean the people he hung out with weren’t a bit on the shady side.

  “Well, what are you going to do?” he asked, combing his fingers through his hair, only to have it fall right back into its natural state of disarray.

  She slipped off her helmet and looked at the big black door and the huge, racy motorcycles, with lightning bolts, fanged serpents, and fire-breathing dragons painted on their gas tanks. Thoughts of the men who rode them, and the knowledge that they’d be inside, helped to quickly make up her mind. “I believe I’ll stay here, thank you.”

  Max shook his head as he walked to the door. “Suit yourself.”

  Even though Max had put down the kickstand, she settled the tiptoes of her silver spikes on the ground and hoped the bike wouldn’t topple over. She was five-feet-ten-and-three-quarter-inches tall, she was packing a few too many pounds on her frame—or so her ex-fiancé had told her—but she still felt small on the massive Harley.

  She slid from her perch to the scooped out part of the leather seat, where Max always sat, and put her hands on the grips. Suddenly she didn’t feel so little. Riding along as a passenger she had no control, was totally at the mercy of the man at the helm. But sitting in the driver’s seat was exciting, empowering.

  “Feels good, doesn’t it?”

  The sound of Max’s voice drew her gaze toward the door. She’d gotten so carried away by the thrill of the bike between her legs that she hadn’t noticed he was still in the alley, that he’d been watching her movements. “A girl could get used to this.”

  A slow grin touched his lips. “Then keep it warm for me while I’m inside. I won’t be long.”

  He opened the door and she heard a blast of music—a heavy guitar and the heavier beat of drums—before the weighty metal door slammed with a deep clank behind him, leaving her all alone.

  The sense of power left her when she realized the only thing keeping her company was the sunlight bouncing off the chrome of half a dozen motorcycles. It was quiet now, lonely, and it seemed as if the walls were closing in on her.

  Being alone was nothing new. She’d been alone many times as a child, when her mother would run off unexpectedly, leaving her behind for months at a time, with only Charles and her nanny for company. But she’d been on familiar ground then.

  Right now she was out of her element, too far from the places where she felt at home. She should be shopping with friends and ducking into Café L’Europe for linguine and shrimp, a glass of wine, and good conversation, while a pianist played lightly in the background.

  Instead she sat on a motorcycle outside a biker hangout, where God knows what was going on inside.

  She looked at her watch. Four-thirty-two. If Max didn’t come outside by four-forty, she was going in after him. She drummed her fingers on the gas tank, right next to the painted mermaid. The green and gold scales on her tail shimmered in the sunlight. Her light brown hair flowed about her as if she were swimming far below the ocean’s surface, and delicate strands wisped over her chest like shredded silk, revealing hints of her firm, voluptuous breasts.

  What was Max’s fascination with mermaids? she wondered. How did he get interested in motorcycles, or becoming a chef?

  Why did he have long hair? Why did he wear a beard and earrings?

  Why was she thinking about him—again—and why on earth was he taking so long?

  She twisted the rearview mirror to check her makeup, dug into her silver clutch, found her lipstick, and applied it sparingly. Last but certainly not least, she fluffed some life into her hair. Frederico, her stylist, would have a fit if he saw the damage the helmet had done to her coif.

  “I’m as ready as I’ll ever be,” she whispered to herself as she climbed cautiously off the bike and smoothed the wrinkles in her silk trousers, but her words were drowned out by the roar of an engine echoing through the alley. Her eyes darted once more to the rearview mirror and caught sight of a red machine racing toward her, closer, closer, until it rumbled to a stop at her side. A muscle-bound man with a Fu Manchu stared at her, and she in turn gaped at his wide, hairless chest and the black leather vest that did little to hide his skin.

  When he climbed off the motorcycle he towered over her, an impressive feat for most anybody, especially when she was wearing heels. He continued to stare as he removed his helmet, revealing a red bandana tied about his head and glittering diamond studs in his ears.

  He folded burly arms over his brawny chest and smiled, flashing a set of amazingly straight, pearly-white teeth. “You must be a friend of Max’s.”

  “An acquaintance,” she answered, smiling weakly.

  He stuck out his hand. Instantly, Lauren looked at his fingernails, wondering how much grease was beneath them, but they were clean, his cuticles trimmed, each nail rounded and white as if he’d just had a manicure. “I’m Vince Domingo,” he said, “but my friends call me Bear.”

  Lauren hesitantly lifted her hand, and he clutched it in a viselike grip. “It’s nice to meet you ... Bear. I’m Lauren Remington,” she said, trying to sound cordial in spite of her anxiety. “Do you hang out here, too?”

  “Every chance I get, which isn’t often enough.” He pulled the bandana off his head—a totally bald head—and stuffed it into his helmet. “It’s cooler inside than out here,” he said, wiping a bead of perspiration from his temple. “Why don’t you come in with me and have a drink. Meet some of the guys.”

  Maybe she didn’t want to go inside after all.

  “I told Max I’d wait out here, but thank you for the offer.” She anxiously checked her w
atch. “He’ll be out any moment now.”

  Bear’s laugh rumbled through the alleyway, almost as loudly as his motorcycle’s engine. “It’s obvious you don’t know Max all that well. If he gets caught up in a game or something, he won’t be out for hours.”

  “A game?” So that’s the business Max had to take care of. “I didn’t realize there was gambling inside.”

  A wide grin spread across Bear’s face. “Why don’t I show you what’s inside.” He gripped her upper arm and ushered her toward the door. Part of her wanted to pull back, to tell him she had no intention of going inside, but she had the feeling no one ever said no to Bear.

  How could she possibly have gotten herself into such a mess, when all she’d wanted to do was hire a caterer for Betsy Endicott’s wedding? This entire day had gone all wrong. Now she was heading into a den of iniquity, and she seriously doubted that Max would come to her rescue, because he was probably enmeshed in a poker game, having a high old time with his gang.

  Bear opened the door to the Hole in the Wall, and the heavy bass of the music vibrated straight through Lauren’s body. Her legs were shaking when she touched her right foot down on the concrete floor, the same place her eyes were aimed, because she was afraid of what she might see if she looked around. She took a quick sniff of the air to see how badly it reeked of stale cigarettes, and noticed only the faint hint of sweat. Slowly her eyes drifted upward. At the far right end of the warehouse, at least a dozen kids were shooting hoops and dribbling balls. At the other end were vending machines filled with sodas, coffee, and snacks. And far across the room was a cluster of tables, where kids bent over opened schoolbooks.

  Where were the men rolling dice? Where was the cock fight? Where were the brazen biker mamas with teased, bleached blond hair?

  Why hadn’t Max told her this was a hangout for kids? And why on earth had he let her think the worst?

  “Not much gambling going on right now,” Bear said, his bright white teeth gleaming through his wide-mouthed grin.