by Berg, Patti
His words hurt, but she couldn’t give up under pressure. “We could still have a business relationship.”
He shook his head, and she felt as if her entire world was going to crumble in on her.
“All right,” she declared, “we can use your waiters.”
“Too late. I’m going to concentrate all my efforts on Mr. Fabiano’s birthday party.”
He revved the engine.
She felt tears welling up behind her eyes, but held them back. “You’re my last hope, Max. If you desert me, what will I do about Saturday?”
He laughed. “To be perfectly honest, I don’t care about Betsy Endicott’s highfalutin wedding. But—”
“But what?” she interrupted, feeling her lips begin to tremble.
“I’m not going to leave you high and dry.”
A little bit of her hope was restored. “You’re not?”
“No.” He grinned. “There’s a Costco in West Palm Beach. They’ve got frozen quiche and shrimp trays that aren’t too bad. Why don’t you give them a try?”
“But—”
“I don’t have time for any more buts, Lauren.”
“Please.”
“Saying please worked the first time, but not anymore.” All too soon the motorcycle thundered down the drive and onto the street, drowning out Lauren’s last attempt to keep Max around.
She stared straight ahead until the roar of Max’s engine died away, her mind muddled with all the horrid scenarios that this latest calamity could bring about. And then she thought of Betsy’s happiness, and she threw back her shoulders.
If Max thought he’d won, if he thought he’d extinguished all her optimism that Betsy’s wedding would be a success, he had another think coming. Palm Beach would experience the best wedding ever this coming Saturday, and when it was all over, Lauren planned to tell Max all about her victory—in spite of him!
Five
A streak of white shot past Max’s eyes, dragging his attention from the paperwork spread before him on the bar. The balled up pair of socks skidded across the tile counter and came to an abrupt halt when it hit the cookie jar.
“Stop throwing things at me!” Jamie cried out between bursts of laughter.
“They’re your socks,” Ryan yelled back. “Can’t you wear them more than once before throwing them in the dirty clothes?”
Max grabbed the remote control, aimed it at the CD player, and turned the volume up on “Purple Haze,” but Jimi Hendrix couldn’t compete with the playful bickering between Jamie and Ryan. They spent nearly fifteen minutes every night arguing over who would do the dinner dishes and who would toss a load of clothes in the wash, and more often than not they tried to drag Max into the argument. But he stayed out of it, having realized long ago that the kids were bright enough to work out this ongoing problem on their own.
When the last resounding guitar chord vibrated through the room, Ryan retreated to the laundry, Jamie sulked toward the kitchen sink, and Max went back to work, poring over myriad dessert and entrée recipes as he fine-tuned a new catering menu for Born To Be Wild.
It was a good thing he and Lauren Remington had parted company this afternoon, he thought, as he scribbled a few minor changes to his recipe for Easy Ridin’ Mud Pie. He kept his life simple and his work to a minimum, preferring to give Jamie and Ryan the bulk of his attention. The last thing he needed was a rich, spoiled, snobbish socialite, one who chewed men up and spit them out, imposing on his time.
Of course, she didn’t need a man like him, either, not when he wanted her one minute and despised her the next. God, he’d come on to her right here in this kitchen, and not long after he’d been rude, abrupt, and downright mean. He’d known damn well how she’d react to having Bear, Gabe, and Jazz working as waiters.
He hadn’t had any choice in whom he hired, because getting qualified help for a society affair—especially on short notice—wasn’t an easy task. But he could have broken the news about whom he planned to hire sooner, explained to her that they’d all worked for his foster dad when they were younger and knew the ropes. But, no, he’d wanted to tease her, wanted her to suffer just the smallest bit for her elitist attitude, and the whole thing had backfired. If he’d caught Jamie or Ryan treating someone—anyone—that way, he’d have their hides.
But it maddened him to think how much he wanted her, when she wasn’t the kind of woman he thought she should be.
Hell, now he sounded like a snob, looking down at someone he barely knew, someone he judged over an incident that he’d blown all out of proportion, and condemned from what he’d read in the papers.
A sensible man would come right out and ask her why she’d married and divorced twice, why she’d dumped her last fiancé. He assumed it had to do with her being fickle, but maybe it was something else. He couldn’t imagine anyone marrying—or staying married to—a man like Chip.
And he had read some fairly dismal stories about the indiscretions of her second husband, Leland Lancaster, right up until the time he died. But he’d also read stories about Lauren’s escapades, things like naked jaunts on the beach in Rio and flirtations with married men.
As much as he wanted to put her out of his mind, she stayed there, begging him to give her another chance, to get to know her better before he judged her too harshly.
Would it hurt to call her in the morning? Would it be too much trouble to cater her blasted society shindig? Not really, especially when he thought about her softness, the sweet scent of her perfume, and the way she tried her damnedest to make things work. Hell, he wanted to see her again. There was a good chance Miss Palm Beach would crush him like all the other men in her life, but when had he ever turned his back on danger?
A deafening clang forced him to look up from the blur of papers in front of him. Jamie held a soapy copper-bottomed skillet in one hand and an aluminum saucepan in the other, and a mischievous grin brightened her freckled face. “I knew that would get your attention.”
“A simple ‘Hey, Max,’ would have worked just as easily.” He put down his pen, closed his notebook, and folded his forearms on the bar, giving Jamie his complete attention. “Okay, I’m all ears.”
“Who was that lady you were with today?”
“Lauren Remington.”
“She’s not a new girlfriend, is she?”
Not at the moment, Max thought. Even though he planned to call her tomorrow, even though he planned to apologize, they had a lot to work out if they were going to have a personal relationship. Hell, she might even hang up on him after today’s brutish display.
“There’s a possibility I might cater a wedding for her.”
Jamie bit her lip and Max knew there was more she wanted to ask, but instead she rinsed the pots and angled them in the drainer on the counter. She rested her elbows on the edge of the sink and scrubbed a spatula. Her eyes slowly drifted up from her chore. “Are you going to see her again no matter what?”
“I don’t know.”
“Does that mean ‘I doubt it’ or ‘Yeah, I think so’?”
Max laughed. “It’s more like ‘I don’t know,’ but I’ll keep you posted if the status changes.”
“I hope it’s ‘I doubt it’,” Jamie said, slapping the washcloth into the water. At eleven, she considered herself the woman of the house, and she didn’t want anyone intruding on her territory.
Of course, there hadn’t been many women in Max’s life, especially during the last five years. Before his foster father got sick, he’d been in Hollywood and other parts of the country, working and looking for his sister and brother.
After his dad’s death, he’d been too busy handling his affairs to have affairs. Philippe had left everything he owned—his home, his entire estate—to Max.
He’d also left a catering business that was nearly bankrupt, but Max had turned A Shot of Class into Born To Be Wild, changing the concept from gourmet to luaus, barbecues, and specialty sixties-era parties complete with restored cars, motorcycles, and loud musi
c. He’d built Born To Be Wild to the point where he and his staff could work two and three jobs a day, seven days a week, if he wanted to, and he had in the beginning.
But there were other things he’d wanted to do, like make Philippe’s dream of opening a place where kids—underprivileged or underloved— could hang out. Max owed his life, everything he’d become to Philippe, so he’d poured all his energy, all his time into Born To Be Wild until he had the money to open the Hole in the Wall. The Hole was still his pride and joy, but when Jamie and Ryan came into his life two years ago, his entire focus changed. Thankfully his friends had stepped in and took over the day-to-day operation of the Hole.
There hadn’t been time for a steady woman in his life. Of course, if he continually treated women the way he’d treated Miss Palm Beach, no one would ever want him.
The kitchen phone rang and Max grabbed it, aiming the remote control at the CD player again to turn down the volume.
“Born To Be Wild,” he answered, and for one brief moment hoped that Lauren Remington was on the other end, because he wanted to work out their differences.
“Hello, Max.” The deep male voice definitely didn’t belong to Lauren—it belonged to the investigator he’d hired to find Charlotte and Zack—and his disappointment surprised him. “How ya doing?”
“Fine. Any news?” Max hated the silence at the other end of the phone. The last time Harry had been this quiet, he’d called to tell Max that after six months of looking, he’d found some information on Max’s brother—and the news hadn’t been good.
“I might have found Charlotte,” Harry said, “but don’t get your hopes up.”
“You killed any hope I had of finding Zack when you told me he died in a car fire. I still have hopes of seeing Charlotte again, so whatever you do, don’t tell me she’s dead, too.”
“All I’m trying to tell you is that I found a woman named Charlotte Wilde. She may or may not be your sister.”
“Where is she?”
“Phoenix. I’m heading there on Tuesday to check her out.”
“Have you talked to her?”
Silence again, until Harry’s sigh reverberated against Max’s ear. “I talked to the woman she lives with.”
He hated the way Harry beat around the bush. “And?”
“She’s... she’s slow. Mentally challenged.”
“That’s impossible. She was perfectly fine the last time I saw her.”
“She was four when you saw her last, and from what I’ve been able to find out, you can’t always detect someone’s mental capabilities that early. But like I said, she may not be your sister.”
Max hadn’t seen his baby sister or his younger brother in twenty years, not since their mother had dumped Max on one of her old boyfriends and disappeared with Zack and Charlotte—who she’d eventually abandoned somewhere in California. He wanted to find Charlotte desperately, but he hadn’t bargained for this.
“Tell me about her,” he said, running a hand through his hair in frustration. “What does she look like? How old is she?”
“She’s twenty-four. Black hair. Brown eyes.”
The scant description was correct, but that didn’t mean much. “What else do you know about her?” Did she still like to dance and sing? he wondered. Was she still pretty?
“I don’t know a thing. The woman she lives with was evasive. That’s why I’m heading to Phoenix. I can’t tell you anything more until I see her and try to talk to her. And like I said, this may or may not be your Charlotte Wilde. It wouldn’t be the first time I thought I’d found someone, only to learn that I was way off base.”
“I want to find my sister. I want to see her,” Max stated. “I don’t care what shape she’s in. If the woman in Phoenix is my sister, I want to know about it—even if you think I shouldn’t be told.”
“Don’t worry, Max. I’ll call you Tuesday night, no matter how bad the news might be.”
Max pressed his fingers to his temples after he hung up the phone. He’d spent a lot of years looking for his family and found only his mother, a woman who didn’t want to see him, a woman who had started a new life years before and didn’t want him to be a part of it. It was just as well, because he had no interest in her, either. All he’d wanted from Loretta Wilde was information about his brother and sister, but she’d blocked them from her mind as easily as she’d shut out Max.
“Are you okay?” Jamie asked, her small, soapy fingers lightly touching his hand.
Nodding, Max slid off the barstool and headed for the sink. He bent down, eye level with his little girl, and touched her face. “Have I ever told you how glad I am to have you and Ryan?”
“A time or two.” She bit her lower lip again, and he couldn’t miss the worried frown in her eyes. “Will you still want us when you find your sister?”
Max laughed. “I’ll always want you.”
“But you haven’t adopted us.”
He stood, lifting Jamie and setting her on the edge of the counter. He put his hands in the warm, soapy dishwasher, taking over the chore she hated. “You have a father,” he reminded her.
“He’s in jail. I don’t even remember him.”
“Well, he remembers you, and he doesn’t want to give you up.”
“Ryan thinks you should talk to our dad. He thinks you could talk him into giving us up.”
“What do you think?”
“That you’re the only dad I’ve ever really known.”
He dried off his hands and rested a hip on the counter next to her. “Does being adopted mean that much to you?”
Jamie nodded, and slipped her small hand into his much bigger one.
“For what it’s worth, it means a lot to me, too.” Ryan had come into the kitchen and leaned against the refrigerator. “Sometimes I think you don’t want to adopt us.”
“It’s not that I don’t want to, it’s just that I hadn’t given it much thought.”
“Why?” Jamie asked. “Didn’t you want Philippe to adopt you?”
He tried to remember if he’d ever had any feelings one way or another about being adopted. Philippe Bernard had been a far better father than Max’s real dad had been, and that was enough for Max.
“We never discussed it,” Max said. “He was always there for me and I knew he loved me— even though he never said it in so many words. That seemed enough at the time.” He smiled at Ryan and Jamie. “You know that I love you, don’t you?”
Jamie nodded, but Ryan shrugged and stared at the floor. Displays of emotion weren’t that easy for him, not at fourteen. “Yeah... I suppose.”
Max had been fifteen when Philippe took him in. He’d been a tough kid who hadn’t needed or wanted anyone. He saw a lot of himself in Ryan. Jamie, however, was quiet, sensitive, and still a little girl—his little girl.
Two years ago when he’d brought Ryan home, he’d just turned twelve. He was angry at Max, angry at the world, and did little more than sit in a corner and glare. Max had managed to get nine-year-old Jamie a couple of months later, and the very first night she’d crawled into his lap. She’d looked at him with her sweet, baby-blue eyes—eyes filled with tears—and said she hoped he wouldn’t get rid of her or Ryan too soon, because she was tired of moving from one foster home to another, tired of being separated from her brother, tired of learning new rules everywhere she went.
Max knew that feeling all too well.
That memory, and his need to comfort her, made him wrap his arm around Jamie and hold her close. Two years ago when Max had asked about the possibility of adoption, he was told that Ryan and Jamie’s dad refused to give them up, that he swore he’d get out of prison eventually and take care of his kids.
But their dad had never contacted them. He hadn’t made any attempt to cooperate with the system and was denied parole the last time around. Max had come to the conclusion the guy would be in jail for the rest of his life.
But what if he did get out? What if he took Jamie and Ryan away? What if he violated par
ole again? And what if he got drunk and this time the kids were in the car with him rather than their mother and a couple of friends? What if he had another head-on collision and Jamie and Ryan were his newest victims?
The thought tortured him, made him realize what a special gift he’d been given when Jamie and Ryan came into his life.
He pressed a kiss to Jamie’s forehead. “I’ll call an adoption attorney tomorrow.”
He felt Jamie’s arms tighten around him, while Ryan stared at the floor. Slowly Ryan raised his head and Max couldn’t miss the moisture welling up in the corners of the boy’s eyes. The words “I love you” were on the tip of Ryan’s tongue, but they remained unspoken. Sometimes words weren’t necessary—he knew that from his own relationship with Philippe.
Max reached out and pulled Ryan against him, feeling a strong tug at his heart a moment before an uncharacteristic tear slid down his cheek.
Tomorrow he’d take steps to make sure he never lost Jamie and Ryan—to make sure that they never lost him. Because he knew all too well the pain of losing the ones he loved.
Six
Sneaking down to the kitchen wasn’t a habit of Lauren’s, especially at midnight, but she couldn’t get the boxes of mini quiche she and Charles had purchased at Costco off her mind. She had no idea if frozen mini quiche would taste delicious or if it would taste like cardboard. The same torturous thoughts had also gone through her mind for the past three hours about the pre-sliced chocolate cheesecake, not to mention the platters of shrimp and something called tortilla roll-ups scheduled to be picked up from the deli bright and early Saturday morning. What would Betsy and Bunny Endicott think if they got wind that Lauren had purchased the reception delicacies at a price club?
How would they react when they learned that Lauren had chosen not to have waiters at the fancy affair, that instead the guests would have to walk from table to table if they wanted something to eat or drink?
This was all Max Wilde’s fault, of course. How dare he insinuate—no, he hadn’t insinuated, he’d blatantly accused her of being a snob. Then he’d walked—no, he’d stormed—away from the most lucrative, glamorous job of his life!