by Berg, Patti
When she thought she couldn’t move another yard, Max dropped her hand and slipped in front of her, keeping the same slow, even pace even though he was jogging backward. “Had enough?”
The salt water lapped about her ankles and calves when she stopped moving. “I had enough twenty minutes ago, thank you,” she said, then walked onto the beach and collapsed in the sand, hugging her knees close to her chest. “How’s your frame of mind now?”
“Better.” He dropped down on the beach beside her. “How about yours?”
“I was perfectly fine before we came out here, even though I’d only had two hours of sleep.” She rested her cheek on top her knees and smiled at him. “I hope you don’t always conduct business this way.”
“Rarely.”
“Then why are we here when there’s so much to do before Betsy’s wedding?”
His eyes trailed up and down her body again, a most uncomfortable—yet delightful—feeling for a woman who knew this exciting and virile man was all wrong for her.
“Because I find you sexier than hell.”
No one had ever found her sexier than anything. “Thank you,” she said, “but honestly, Max, what does that have to do with you dragging me down to the beach to jog?”
“I wanted to get you away from that monstrosity you live in.”
“You don’t like it?”
“Hate it.”
“Why?”
“It’s too big, too impersonal.” He scooped up a handful of sand and let it sift through his fingers and over her toes, the frown on his face making it appear as though he were agonizing over what to say next. “It reminds me that you used to be married to Chip Chasen.”
“Why does that bother you so much?”
“Because you deserve better.”
His sentiment touched her, but she had her doubts. “Do I?” She lay back in the sand and stared at the clouds floating across the sky. “I’ve made a mess of every relationship I’ve ever had.”
Max stretched out next to her, lying on his side, his head balanced on his knuckles as he watched the play of emotions on her face. Her vulnerability surprised him. With so much going for her, when she could have the world, she seemed unsure of herself, telling him she’d been unsuccessful at too many things, that she’d failed at one relationship after another.
“You’re too hard on yourself,” he said.
“Am I? Two marriages? Two divorces? And then, of course, there was that escapade in England with Peter Leighton.”
“You mean when you shoved him into a lake?”
“It was a pond covered with lily pads and infested with croaking frogs.”
Her quick defense of herself made him smile. “I suppose that means you didn’t hit him with a croquet mallet, either.”
Her pretty green eyes narrowed as she flashed a frown in his direction. “I thought you didn’t read the tabloids or society column.”
“It’s hard to miss the headlines when you’re standing in line at the grocery store.”
“Well, if you must know, it wasn’t one croquet mallet, it was a complete set, and I didn’t hit him, he stumbled over the rack in his rush to get out of the pond and away from the frogs. That’s how Peter broke his arm, but since he’s a darling of the polo circuit and since he couldn’t play for a while, I was labeled the Wicked Witch of the West.”
“So why did you push him in the ... pond?”
“I didn’t like the pre-wedding present he gave me.”
“What?” he asked, unable to keep the grin from his face as she pursed her pretty lips. “A set of whips and chains?”
“I’m not into bondage, thank you, but a week’s trip to a fat farm was just as crude!”
It would have been easy to tease her, but she’d probably heard enough jokes about Peter’s cruel gift. Instead, he found himself studying her body, every curvy inch. “Peter was a fool.”
“Thank you, but if truth be told, I’m the fool for picking all the wrong men, something I’m not about to do again.”
She was close, so close, and he wanted to kiss her. Instead, he caressed her cheek, letting his thumb graze over her lips. “Are you sure?”
A moment’s doubt crossed her face. They were all wrong for each other. He knew it, but couldn’t push away the desire he felt; she knew it, too, and didn’t have any qualms about pushing away from his touch. “Positive.” She sat again, wrapping her arms around her knees. “Besides, I’ve got my hands full just trying to make a success of my business.”
“But you don’t need the money?”
“Goodness, no. My grandmother left me a trust that would make your head spin and I’ve got a financial adviser who’s a whiz.”
“Then why do you do it?”
“Because it’s new and different and I want to earn my way—not just have everything handed to me. I’ve never had a job before, never had people rely on me, and it feels good. Not only that, but I charge a small fortune for my services, all of which goes into a fund my sister-in-law established for the homeless. My brother’s administering the whole thing and doubles every dollar I make.”
“Sounds like a nice guy.”
“He hasn’t always been the benevolent type, but that changed when he met Sam—that’s my sister-in-law—and found out she lived in a Volkswagen.” Lauren laughed. “You can’t imagine my mother’s angst over Jack marrying a homeless person, and then when she found out that Sam had suggested I plan weddings, poor Mother was beside herself with embarrassment.”
“She doesn’t approve?”
“No, but I’ve tried not to let it bother me. I know I’m good at what I do, and it makes me happy. Of course, having the caterer die isn’t something I want to go through too often.”
“I don’t plan on dying.”
“I appreciate that.” She smiled. “Goodness, I’ve gone on and on about myself, as if I’m not the least interested in you, which I am—”
“What interests you?” he asked, taking hold of her arm, pulling her down beside him again.
Her heart beat heavily. A slow burn spread through her body, from the tips of her fingers and toes to her heart, her stomach, and lower still. They were far too close and she was far too interested in him. She knew full well if she let this go any further she was going to add one more complication to her life. Her friends would never approve of him. Her mother would have a fit. But there was something about him that kept drawing her closer.
“I’d like to know more about your children and why you became a chef.” She also wanted to know if his lips tasted as good as they looked, how her breasts would feel crushed against his chest.
He brushed a strand of hair away from her face, and the slow burn turned to an inferno, one she needed to control.
“The best thing that ever happened to me was bringing Jamie and Ryan into my life,” he said. “I could talk about them for days on end, but I don’t want to bore you.”
“I wouldn’t be bored.”
“Wouldn’t you?” he asked, dragging his knuckles across her cheek, her chin.
“No. Your life is so different from mine and I want to know more. I look at you and see someone tough, someone unsettled, yet you’ve got foster kids and a beautiful home. I see a man who looks like a hard-edged renegade, yet you’re a chef. You completely baffle me.”
“I’m a biker because I like the feel of power between my legs, I’m a foster father because I like kids, I’ve got a nice home because I want my children to have the things I didn’t have, and I’m a chef because my foster dad was a chef.”
“You didn’t become a chef just because of him, did you?”
He shook his head. “Philippe—my foster dad—was the only man to ever stick by me, even when I got in trouble. He never yelled, never struck out at me, and even though I originally thought cooking was something for sissies, I was determined to be good at it, because I wanted to pay Philippe back for what he’d given me. In the end I realized I enjoyed spending time in the kitchen and creating m
eals that people remembered. I still enjoy what I do—all of it.”
“You’re a very lucky man.”
“I think so.”
She rolled onto her back again and stared at the sky. She was afraid of her emotions but they were hard to ignore, especially when Max Wilde was such a good man.
“What are you thinking about?” he asked, slipping his fingers into her hair, tilting her head toward him with an ever so soft touch.
She couldn’t tell him the truth, that she envied his life, that she liked far too much about him. Instead she turned the subject back to business.
“I was just wondering what kind of desserts you’re preparing for Saturday?”
“You don’t really want to talk business, do you?” he asked, his thumb skimming over her lower lip.
“Not really,” she admitted. What she wanted was to draw his thumb into her mouth, to taste the salt on his skin, and roll into his heated embrace. “But right now I’ve got to concentrate on Betsy’s wedding.”
“All right,” he said, his thumb lingering at her lips, his fingertips lightly teasing her cheek. “We’ll have mango tarts for starters. White and dark chocolate baskets filled with lemon cream and chocolate Grand Marnier.”
“Sounds heavenly,” she said, succumbing much too easily to the tingle of his fingers grazing down her neck. “And what about the tuxes for your friends? Is that going to be a problem?”
“I don’t think so.” His palm swirled slowly over her chest. She could feel the tip of one of his fingers tracing the top edge of her bathing suit, the sensation making her tremble inside.
“Bear’s got an Armani. Gabe’s borrowing one from a friend. The tuxes might not match, but—”
Lauren bolted upright. “What do you mean they might not match?”
He rolled onto his back and folded his arms under his head, laughing as if the situation were funny. “Have you ever tried finding half a dozen matching tuxedos at the last minute?”
“No, but—”
“It doesn’t matter if they’re not alike, Lauren. No one’s going to notice, because no one’s going to be paying the least bit of attention to the waiters.”
“I’ll notice. Bunny Endicott will notice.”
He gripped her shoulders and pulled her down on top his chest. She could feel the heat of his eyes, the warmth of his skin as her body stretched over him.
“Bunny Endicott’s also going to notice Bear’s earrings,” he told her, “not to mention Gabe’s ponytail and probably one or two of Jazz’s tattoos.”
“Well, there’s not much I can do about those things,” she said, pushing away from his chest even though she’d rather lay on top of him indefinitely, “but I can do something about the tuxedos.”
She scrambled to her feet and half walked, half ran up the beach.
“The wedding’s two days away,” Max stated, jogging at her side. “You can’t get tuxedos now.”
“You’d be surprised what I can do in a matter of days.”
“I don’t think I’d be surprised at all.”
She smiled at his compliment, and kept on running. The mismatched tuxedos had been the perfect reason to bolt out of his arms and away from the odd assortment of feelings she had for him— feelings that could much too easily make her forget Betsy’s wedding, if it wasn’t far too important to remember.
She raced into her observatory when they reached the mansion, grabbed the phone book, and flipped through the pages searching for formal wear. From the corner of her eye she watched Max put on his jeans and his boots, admiring the way his muscles stretched and bunched when he pulled on his T-shirt and tucked it under the waistband of his pants.
For someone who loved her men in Armani, she was rapidly acquiring a taste for Levi’s and Jockey, and no one had ever worn those brands better than Max Wilde.
She picked up the phone and punched in the number for Antonio’s for Men the moment Max walked into the room.
“May I speak with Mr. Antonio, please,” she said into the phone, smiling at Max when he rested his hip against her desk. “This is Lauren Remington, Jack Remington’s sister,” she said in her sweetest, most sincere voice. “Yes, yes, it has been a long time, but I haven’t forgotten you and neither has Jack... Yes, he’s doing fine, and so is Sam. She’s pregnant, you know. With twins... She speaks fondly of you, too.”
Lauren rolled her eyes, remembering that Mr. Antonio had fired Sam for falling asleep on the job. She despised the man, even though his inconsiderate actions had thrown Jack and Sam together.
“I’m hoping you can do me a favor,” she cooed. “A very dear friend of mine, Max Wilde, is in desperate need of a tuxedo for Saturday.”
“Not me,” Max whispered, and Lauren placed a silencing finger over his lips—lips that felt terribly soft and warm.
“Mr. Wilde and several of his friends will be helping out at a charity event I’m hosting this weekend and, goodness, the tuxes they ordered were lost in shipping. I do realize it’s the last minute, but I know you’re the most respected men’s haberdasher in Palm Beach, and I was hoping you could find it in the goodness of your heart to work a little overtime in order to accommodate their needs.
“That’s wonderful, Mr. Antonio. And you did say you’d donate the tuxes, didn’t you? After all, it is to a very worthy cause—the homeless— which I’m sure you recall is very near and dear to my sister-in-law’s heart.
“Yes, I’ll tell Mr. Wilde you’ll be happy to help him out, and I’ll be sure to pass on your best wishes to Sam and Jack. Thank you, Mr. Antonio.”
“You’re a con artist,” Max said, grinning when she hung up the phone.
“I dislike the man intensely,” Lauren announced, jotting the address and phone number for Antonio’s on a piece of lacy pink stationery. “Someday when you have the time, I’ll tell you how horrid he was to my sister-in-law, how he deserves every misfortune that falls upon his head.”
Max laughed. “Those tuxes are going to cost him an arm and a leg. I should pay something.”
“Then donate a portion of what I’m paying you to Sam’s charity.”
“All right.”
The fact that he didn’t hesitate a moment didn’t take her at all by surprise. Max Wilde, in spite of his untamed ways, was a terribly generous man, and she found herself losing a little more of her heart to him because of it.
Opening his briefcase, Max pulled out two sets of contracts. “We never discussed money or anything else.”
“I’m sure you’re giving me a fair price.”
“I’ve put more in the contract than just the price and the menu. I’ve also included one condition—our dance on Saturday.”
“Why?”
“I want to make sure you don’t back out.”
“I told you I’d dance with you and I don’t go back on my word.”
“Good,” he said, laying the contracts out on the desktop. He pulled a pen from his briefcase and she thought he was going to line through the clause boldly marked “Dancing,” but he scratched through the itemized list of charges instead.
“What are you doing?” Lauren asked.
“I can talk my friends into working for free and you can donate the catering fee.”
“But that’s a lot of money.”
A slow grin touched his mouth. “You’re not the only one who’s made wise investments. Trust me, Lauren. I’m far from being broke, and the only thing I want from you on Saturday is that dance. That’s why I’m not taking that clause out of the contract.”
“You’re a very difficult man,” she said. Difficult, as a matter of fact, but extremely seductive.
He moved close to her, his heated gaze making her body burn.
“I know what I want.
She swallowed hard and forced a smile as she took the pen from his hand. A jolt of electricity zapped through her when their fingers touched, leaving her weak and wanting more. Signing the contract took all her concentration. Her hand shook, her heart pounded, and all s
he could think of was Max’s embrace.
It was a wild thought. A crazy thought, and if he didn’t get out of here fast, she might turn on the music and dance with him here and now. But she had far too many things to do for Betsy’s wedding, and she really needed to push thoughts of Max Wilde from her mind or she’d accomplish nothing.
She handed the contracts back to Max. “I’ll have the money transferred to the charity account today,” she said. “Will you need to come by for any reason between now and Saturday?”
He shook his head as he peeled apart the contract, leaving one copy on top the desk for Lauren and stuffing the second copy into his briefcase. “If I need anything, I’ll call, but it’s going to be chaos around my place for the next couple of days.”
She hoped her disappointment didn’t show as she headed for the front door to show Max out. The thought of not seeing him for a day and a half left her feeling lonely.
Opening the front door, she almost gasped when she saw her mother walking up the steps.
“Lauren! Darling!”
Lauren’s first inclination was to throw her arms around her mother, but in a time-honored tradition, she kept a fair amount of space between them.
Celeste turned her cheek, as she’d always done, and Lauren briefly touched her mother’s cool, looking-younger-than-ever skin. “What a surprise to see you,” Lauren said, thrilled she was here, wishing she’d come five minutes later, so Max would already be gone. That was a horrible thing to think, but she knew her mother far too well, and dreaded her reaction to Max.
“I hadn’t planned on coming, darling, but Chip called yesterday afternoon and told me there was a new man in your life.” Celeste’s gaze raked over Max. “Naturally I had to meet him.”
Celeste’s reaction was calm, cool, and calculating, just as Lauren feared.
“Good morning,” she said, holding a delicate hand toward Max. “I’m Celeste Ashford. Lady Ashford.”
Max grasped Celeste’s hand, shaking it firmly. Celeste preferred a more discriminating handshake, but she would never show her disapproval. She was graced with beauty, brains, and decorum, although she could dissect a person’s appearance and mannerisms in a matter of seconds and rip them to shreds with just one glance. Fortunately she hadn’t been too vicious—yet—with Max.