by Berg, Patti
“I’m Max Wilde,” he said, then added, “the caterer.”
Oh, dear. He could have said anything but that.
Celeste scrutinized his body, offering him a close-lipped smile before turning back to Lauren. Mother obviously didn’t approve of Max Wilde, but thankfully she wouldn’t voice her opinion here. Opinions were always reserved for behind closed doors.
“Will you be staying awhile?” Lauren asked, hoping her mother would stay longer than her usual breeze-in, breeze-out trips.
“A little while,” she said. “I’m here for Betsy’s wedding. She’s such a dear girl, and what a catch she’s made in Dickie Stribling. Bunny tells me they’re in love.” Celeste laughed lightly. “Such a shame that that rarely lasts.”
It wouldn’t do much good to argue with her mother, so Lauren let the comment slide. “I was just saying goodbye to Mr. Wilde. Will you excuse us a moment?”
“Of course, darling. I’ll ask Charles to serve us tea in the library, and you can join me as soon as Mr. Wilde departs.” She smiled indulgently. “I’m sure that won’t be long.”
“It was nice meeting you,” Max said.
“You, too, Mr. Wilde.”
Celeste breezed past them, a picture of perfection in a persimmon-colored suit and a jaunty off-white hat with persimmon-colored rosebuds dripping over the brim. The only thing Lauren had in common with her mother was a mile-long pedigree and a love of beautiful clothes. Her visits were few and far between, and Lauren couldn’t help but wonder what had precipitated this one.
For the moment, she put thoughts of her mother aside and walked with Max to his motorcycle. He swung his leg over the bike, and caught Lauren’s attention when he started the engine. “She doesn’t like me.”
Lauren laughed. “It’s not that, it’s just that, well—” Lauren sighed. “All right, she probably doesn’t like you, but it’s nothing personal. It’s just that ... well... it’s because you’re a caterer.”
“And she’s a snob.”
“I’m afraid it’s one of those nasty genes that runs through the female side of my family.”
“Then I take it she’s not going to like seeing you and me dancing together on Saturday.”
“She’ll be furious.” And Lauren knew she’d never hear the end of it.
“I suppose I should let you out of that part of our contract.”
“Would you?” she asked, wanting to dance with Max, but not at Betsy’s wedding.
One of his brows rose. “I thought you didn’t go back on your word.”
“I don’t, but you don’t know how miserable my mother can make your life and mine.”
“I’m not worried about your mother,” he said, revving the engine. “I fully intend to dance with you on Saturday.” He drew his thumb across her lips, sending a thrill through her entire body. “And when the wedding’s over, I’m going to want a lot more than a dance.”
Her body continued to quiver as he shot out of the driveway. Max was driving her... wild. But she couldn’t possibly give him more than just one dance.
Or could she?
Goodness, Max Wilde had an uncanny way of leaving her thoroughly confused.
Running up the steps, she brushed the last remaining traces of sand from her arms and legs, and went straight to the library to face her mother.
Celeste looked up from her paper when Lauren stepped into the room. “What, pray tell, possessed you to hire a caterer like that?”
“You know that Henri died,” Lauren said, taking a seat across from her mother and pouring herself a cup of tea. “I tried everywhere to find another chef—someone that I knew—but I couldn’t, not at the last minute. Fortunately Max came to the rescue.”
“Chip tells me that Mr. Wilde specializes in barbecued ribs.”
“He does much more than that.”
“I’m sure he does. He may have a gorgeous body, Lauren, but he’s not in our league. What will Betsy think? What about Bunny, and Dickie’s parents, for God’s sake? Wasn’t it enough of a disgrace for your brother to marry that Samantha Jones without you getting involved with a man with earrings and a tattoo?”
“Jack’s lucky to have a wonderful woman like Sam. As for Max, I’m not involved with him. He’s an excellent chef. That’s why I hired him.”
“I certainly hope so.” Celeste turned the page of her newspaper and took a sip of tea.
Lauren lifted her own cup to her mouth and watched her mother. In her mid-fifties, she was beautiful, aided by only a small amount of plastic surgery. Celeste would never admit it, of course, but she worried about growing old. Lauren remembered tagging after her mother whenever she was home—which wasn’t often—and seeing her mother looking in a mirror and fretting over the fact that she was getting lines at the corners of her eyes, that her skin wasn’t as supple as it once had been.
Lauren had thought her mother was the most beautiful woman on earth, and sometimes had wished that her mother had had a few wrinkles and less suppleness. She’d wanted a mom who’d read her to sleep at night, who’d be a chaperone at one of her cotillions, or who’d take her to the zoo. She’d wanted parents who loved each other, who lived together. But when she knew she couldn’t have any of those things, she snatched any spare second and what little attention she could get.
Celeste, unfortunately, gave the biggest percentage of her attention to her husbands. There’d been five of them, and it seemed as if she’d finally found the love of her life. Lord Ashford doted on her and they rarely left each other’s side.
So why the sudden visit?
“How’s Andrew?” Lauren asked.
“Fine, darling.”
Lauren watched her mother’s hand shake as she lifted the teacup to her mouth. Something was wrong, but in characteristic fashion, Celeste tried to hide what was upsetting her. Reaching out, Lauren touched her mother’s arm. Lauren expected her to flinch, but she didn’t. Instead, Celeste’s eyes flickered from Lauren’s fingers to her eyes, and she smiled softly. “Is something troubling you, Lauren?”
“No, Mother, but I’m worried that something’s bothering you. Tell me. Please.”
Celeste concentrated on the newspaper, silent for the longest time. Finally, she said, “Andrew spends far too much time working, and that leaves very little time for me.” She laughed lightly, as if her worries were of no importance. “I wanted to go to Cannes and he wanted to stay in London. I suggested that we go to Rio for Easter, but he’d rather spend the holiday at our place in the country. He says it would be far easier to work there than in Rio.”
Her eyes rose to meet Lauren’s. “It’s nothing that I haven’t been through before, darling, so don’t worry about it.”
“But I am worried, Mother. Andrew loves you.”
Celeste shrugged her dainty shoulders, then turned a page of her paper. “Did you see this?” she asked, her voice ringing with displeasure as she pointed to the photo of a bride and groom. “I can’t believe that Erica Brantford would wear such a revealing gown on her wedding day. I hope you’ve discussed propriety with Betsy.”
“Bunny took care of that detail.”
“Yes, Bunny’s quite good at that.”
Lauren added a spoon of sugar to her tea and stirred it, watching her Mother’s gaze dart to the sugar bowl, then back to her paper. Surprisingly, she didn’t comment on Lauren’s sweet tooth.
“Does Andrew know you’re here?” Lauren asked.
“I told him I was coming. Whether he heard, whether he cares, is another subject. But, please, Lauren, I’d rather discuss something else.”
Their heart-to-heart talk had been short, but it was the longest, most personal one they’d had in years. “I’m glad you’re here, Mother.”
Celeste looked up from her paper and smiled. “Did I tell you that I saw Peter in London last week? We met for lunch.”
“I hope you had a lovely time.”
“How could I not? Peter’s a wonderful man. For the life of me, darling, I can’t understand
why you called off your engagement, or why you pushed him in that lake.”
“I didn’t love him. He wanted a pencil-thin, picture-perfect wife. I can never be that. And I wanted children, which wasn’t in his game plan. That’s why I ended our engagement.”
“Yes, yes, I understand your reasons, but pushing him in that lake was a little heavy-handed, darling. That broken arm he got in the mishap could have ruined his career.”
“He could have ruined my life.”
“But he still loves you.”
“Peter doesn’t know the meaning of the word love.”
She’d told her mother many times that she didn’t want or need another rich husband, that all she wanted was someone to love, someone more interested in home and family than in money. Sadly, her mother didn’t believe it was possible to have all of those things combined.
Lauren pushed out of her chair and kissed her mother lightly on the cheek. “I’ve got a busy day today, but why don’t I make reservations at Bice for dinner tonight?”
“It’s lovely of you to ask, but I’ve already made plans with Gerald Harcourt.”
“Tomorrow, then?”
“Pamela and Jim Carrington invited me to spend the day sailing. But don’t worry, darling, I’ll be around on Saturday to help with Betsy’s wedding. Just to make sure that nothing goes wrong and that neither of us is embarrassed.”
As happy as she was to have her mother’s company, she did not want Celeste, Lady Ashford, at Betsy’s wedding. If her mother had been embarrassed over Holly’s wedding cake sailing into the pool, imagine her mortification when she saw the waiters at Betsy Endicott’s wedding—not to mention her daughter dancing with a tattooed, earring-wearing biker.
Nine
Saturday dawned with a bevy of dark gray storm clouds rolling in from the ocean, an ominous sight, something Lauren had prayed wouldn’t happen on the day of Betsy Endicott’s wedding. But she didn’t have time to worry about the weather. Instead, she’d turned her attention and all her time to the flower arrangements Mr. Friedrichs and his crew scattered about the house, the patios, and gardens.
She supervised the chair setup, the table arrangements inside and out, and the construction of the orchestra dais, and tried not to focus on the occasional glimpses she caught of Max and his friends, bringing in food, trays, hundreds of dishes, stacks of linen, plus boxes of crystal and silver.
It was Charles’s job to supervise the kitchen. Lauren couldn’t handle that task along with everything else. Besides, every time Max flashed across her path she felt an odd flutter in her heart. There was no telling what condition she’d be in if they got too close.
When two o’clock rolled around, the threatening clouds had scurried away, leaving mere puffs of white in the bright blue sky. The light sweet scent of ginger wafted through the mansion, as did the soft tinkling tones of a harp. And under an arbor of white orchids, Betsy and Dickie repeated their vows, words they’d written for each other that were full of passion about their hopes, plans, and dreams for their lifetime together.
Betsy’s eyes were misty when she turned around, and Dickie’s beamed with happiness when he clutched his new wife’s hand and led her up the aisle amid applause and hundreds of fluttering butterflies, released the moment the newlyweds kissed.
Lauren went through the receiving line first, hugging her friends and wishing them all the joy in the world before she hustled outside to make sure everything was impeccable.
The fifteen-piece orchestra was tuned up and the harmonious sounds of violins floated through the air. The ice carving glimmered in the afternoon sun, with beads of water dripping onto the pink and white orchids that encircled it. An odd assortment of tuxedo-wearing waiters stood at attention, trays ready for the guests when they flowed out of the ballroom. Gabe and Jazz seemed perfectly at ease and completely in control of the situation. Ryan fidgeted, Jamie chomped on a wad of gum and blew a pink bubble that popped over her lips, and Jed, well, Lauren had to admit the skinny young mechanic looked rather dashing in his brand-new Armani tux.
Lauren’s gaze trailed across the patio, hoping to see Max, but settling on Bear instead. It was hard to miss the giant of a man. Sun glistened on the diamond studs in his ears and almost bounced off his shiny bald pate. He flashed a picture-perfect gleaming white smile, and Lauren felt a growing warmth for Max’s friends.
She’d had nightmares about today being a disaster, yet right this moment, everything seemed absolutely perfect.
Finally her eyes settled on Max, looking strong and masculine and devilishly handsome in a white dinner jacket. They hadn’t talked since he’d left the house Thursday morning, although she’d made a couple of attempts. Last night she’d picked up the phone to call him. She’d done the same thing the night before, and both times hung up the moment he answered. She had no good reason to call. She didn’t want to appear worried about his catering preparations and she didn’t want to seem lonely or desperate for his company—although she was.
Goodness, she was falling for Max Wilde, another man who was all wrong for her, and it was happening much too quickly.
He looked up from whatever it was he was doing behind a dessert table and looked directly at her, as if he’d known she was watching. When he smiled, when the tiny lines at the corners of his eyes crinkled, her heart fluttered a little faster.
He strolled toward her, a vision of absolute power, a man in control of everything around him—including her. Except for the earrings and goatee he wore, he could easily pass as a guest, and deep inside, she wished that were the case. No one would question why she was smiling at him, why she was forcing herself to breathe calmly as the distance between them narrowed, and later, no one would wonder why she chose to dance with such a handsome partner. She’d tried convincing herself that the thoughts of her friends and family didn’t matter, but she’d always needed their acceptance.
Letting a man like Max Wilde into her world was going to cause all sorts of trouble, but not having him around seemed a far worse prospect.
“Good afternoon,” he said, linking an arm through hers and leading her across the lawn, past tables laden with orchids, bird-of-paradise, and frangipani, not to mention silver trays covered with colorfully displayed delicacies.
“I haven’t had a chance to sample the food, but it looks delicious,” she said, attempting to make small talk about tasty things, which made her long for a kiss.
“It’s delicious.”
“Are you always so sure of yourself?”
“For the most part.”
He plucked a heavenly looking creation from the table. “Try this.”
Lauren took a quick peek to make sure no one was looking, and bit into the flaky puff of pastry he held to her mouth. “Mmmm, it’s wonderful.”
“Caribbean brochette, with the recipe altered slightly to make it special for Betsy’s wedding.”
“You didn’t have to go to so much trouble.”
His thumb swept slowly across her lower lip. Their eyes met and—oh, dear—his were far more intense than ever before. “I rarely do the same thing twice,” he said slowly. “I want each experience to be a little different, spicier, sweeter, sometimes hotter.”
She struggled to smile. “Henri was a wonderful caterer, but I’m sure I wouldn’t have gotten the same quality of service from him.”
A grin tilted his lips. “I guarantee you wouldn’t.”
She didn’t have to ask what he was insinuating. Without a doubt, he was talking about something that had nothing whatsoever to do with food preparation and, goodness, she liked the sway of conversation.
He grabbed a glass of champagne from Gabe’s passing tray and led her to a secluded spot behind a towering palm. “You look like you could use some of this.”
Champagne was dangerous because she got silly if she drank too much. Of course, Max Wilde was dangerous, too, probably a lot more hazardous than the champagne. “Are you playing the devoted servant or my friend?”
“Does it matter?”
“I’d be lying if I said it didn’t. I’d also be lying if I told you that I don’t want to dance with you, or that I don’t care what my mother thinks.” She sighed deeply “You’ve totally confused my entire life.”
“What’s so confusing?”
She plucked the champagne from his fingers and took a sip. “My feelings for you.”
He backed her against the palm. Bracing one hand against the trunk, he leaned so close to her that she could feel the warmth of his breath against her lips. “You have some?”
“Of course I do, and they make no sense at all. First off, we don’t have anything in common, but I enjoy talking to you.” He pressed a soft warm kiss to her brow, and her toes tingled. “Second, you’re not at all like the men I’ve always found attractive, yet I find you terribly sexy.”
His lips touched the tip of her nose and she felt her legs weakening as his mouth moved to within a fraction of an inch of hers. “Then you’ll give me more than the one dance that’s in our contract?”
The heat of his eyes mesmerized her. The deepness of his voice and the slow way he spoke rendered her speechless, but she didn’t need words to give him an answer. She closed her eyes and leaned toward his lips—
“Excuse me, Miss Remington.” Charles’s distinctive throat clearing brought the almost-kiss to an abrupt halt.
Lauren’s eyes popped open and all she saw was Max’s grin. Charles, always terribly proper, was nowhere to be seen, but she knew he was close. Peeking around the palm, Lauren smiled at the gentleman who was a picture of propriety. “What is it, Charles?”
“I wanted to advise Mr. Wilde that the young boy who’s serving the guests—”
“Ryan?” Max asked. “What’s he done?”
“Nothing more than admire the... necklaces on several of our female guests.”
“Christ!”
Lauren touched Max’s arm, wondering why he was suddenly so agitated. “There’s nothing wrong with Ryan looking at the jewelry.”