Born to Be Wild (14 page)

“You.”

Obviously he was still asleep because he could swear she’d said she wanted him, even though he looked like hell. He rubbed his left eye, just to make sure he wasn’t imagining her. No, Lauren Remington stood on his doorstep looking like heaven. Most women would be in pajamas at three a.m. Some would be naked and in the arms of a lover. But Miss Palm Beach had a green sweater tied about her shoulders, and beneath it she wore a short, silky green dress that showed off her knockout legs. His gaze dipped to her
shoes, and he wasn’t surprised to see mile-high green spikes.

Her toes were bare, and so were her sleek long legs, and as his eyes drifted up her body he wondered what else she wasn’t wearing beneath the dress. Maybe he shouldn’t be thinking that way at this time of the morning, but no one had ever accused him of
being anything less than a man—no matter what time of day it was.

Slowly his gaze settled on her eyes, pretty green eyes that were giving him the same kind of once-over he’d been giving her.

“Nice pajamas,” she said in a tone that was downright sexy.

She had to have rocks in her head if she found his wrinkled white T-shirt and black boxers decorated with flying red hearts
nice.
“I don’t wear pajamas.” God, he sounded like a petulant fool.

“All right then,” she said with that same sweet smile on her lips, “nice shorts.”

“Jamie and Ryan gave them to me for Valentine’s Day.”

“Was Barbie a gift, too?”

“One of many I’ve given my daughter,” he grumbled, and tossed the topless doll across the room, where she made a perfect landing on the couch.

“So,” he said, aiming a murderous glare at Lauren, “are you going to tell me why you’re here?”

The laughter in her eyes turned to a hesitant smile. “I need you.”

If she didn’t stop making comments like that, she was going to be in trouble.

“Why?”

Drawing her hand from behind her back, she presented him with a crystal plate bearing a pile of burnt offerings. “Would you like some mini quiche?”

“Is that what that is?”

She nodded. “They’re from Costco.”

He laughed as he surveyed her culinary handiwork, then folded his arms across his chest and casually leaned against the doorjamb, settling in for what he expected to be a pleasant bit of Lauren-esque chatter.

“What happened?”

“I’m not a caterer.” She smiled weakly, probably hoping that he’d refute her statement. But he couldn’t lie.

“That’s obvious.”

“You don’t have to be so blunt.”

“And you didn’t have to come knocking on my door at three-thirty.”

“But I did, because I have no one else to turn to. Everything’s a disaster. I burned the quiche. I nearly burned down my house and I had to call the fire department. I know I’m restating what you already know, but I’m not a cook and I’m very much in need of help.
Your
help. I’m sorry for everything I said today. I was self-centered, judgmental, and before you have a chance to add your favorite choice of words, yes, I suppose I might have come off sounding like a snob. But I’m not. Not really.”

She held the plate out to him, and attempting to appear gracious, he took it from her hands.

“I need you, Max.” she said softly. “Betsy Endicott’s one of my dearest friends. She’s in love, Dickie’s in love, and I want everything to be perfect for them.” She drew in a very deep sigh and let it out slowly. “I need you to help
me,
too. I’ve failed too many times in my life and... and I don’t want to fail again.” Tears beaded at the corners of her eyes, and her lips trembled. “
Please.”

Lauren Remington a failure? Hell, she might be a chatterbox, she might not have done well in physics, and more than likely she didn’t know one end of a spatula from the other, but she had more spunk than anyone he’d ever met. Her gumption was one of the things he’d admired most about her.

And, hell, he couldn’t remember a time when he’d so desperately wanted to kiss a pair of soft, puckery lips, when he’d wanted to wrap an arm around a woman, drag her close, and hold her body hard against him. But not now. Before they launched that kind of relationship, they had some big issues to resolve.

“All right, I’ll help you.”

“In spite of everything?”

“Yeah, but we’ve got to straighten out a few things first, like what’s going on between the two of us.”

“I was thinking exactly the same thing before I burned the quiche. You’ve been irritated with me for heaven knows what reason and I’m dying to know why. Of course, it’s terribly late and I’m sure Jamie and Ryan are asleep, and it would be
simply awful to accidentally wake them up if you got upset with me again.”

“We’re not going to wake Jamie and Ryan because we’re not going to talk right now.”

“Good. I haven’t been to bed yet and you can’t believe how tired I am. Maybe you could drop by tomorrow afternoon.”

“I’ll be there at seven in the morning,” he stated, absently sweeping a strand of her soft, wind-blown hair behind her ear. “I’ll bring the contract, we can fine-tune the menu—”

“
Seven!
I rarely get up that early.”

“And I rarely get up this late.” He kept his laughter under control and stepped away from the doorway. “Good night, Lauren.”

Her hand shot out, pressing against the door before he could close it. “Couldn’t we make it nine instead of seven?”

“
Seven
,” he repeated, refusing to change his mind.

“But—”

“Good night, Lauren.”

He closed the door and locked it.

There was silence on the other side, and then he heard the distinct sound of Lauren’s heels clicking on the brick walk. He heard her car door open, then close again. Any second now he’d hear the engine, but he was wrong. The click of heels came toward the house, followed by a soft knock.

Again he opened the door a crack.

His leather jacket dangled from Lauren’s outstretched hand.

“You left this at my place yesterday.”

“Thanks.” He took the coat and closed the door.

Once more the knock came. Somehow he got his grin under control before he opened the door.

“What now?” he asked.

“Do you like your coffee black,” she asked with a smile, “or do you prefer cream and sugar?”

“I don’t drink coffee in the morning. I jog, so we might as well do it together.”

Her mouth widened in shock. “But—”

“We can discuss Betsy’s wedding in the morning. On the beach.
While
we’re jogging.”

“But—”

Closing the door on her protest, he bolted it and waited for another knock, for another argument. Instead, he heard Lauren’s heels, her car door, and a purring engine.

He went to the front window, parted the drapes a few inches, and watched Lauren’s red Mercedes sports car back out of the drive, then zip up the street. Even though she was gone from sight, he could picture her smile, the way she conveyed happiness, guilt, and desperation simply through the tilt of her lips.

Nice lips. Lips he’d wanted to kiss.

What on earth had come over him? The last woman on earth he should want to kiss was Miss Palm Beach. She was a handful. She was out of his league. Worse yet, she’d been married a couple of times. They had nothing in common and— he looked at the remains of charred quiche on the plate he held—she couldn’t even cook!

He chuckled as he realized how much Lauren Remington needed him.

And sobered when something deep inside told him that he might need her, too.

L
auren looked incredible climbing from the depths of the pink marble pool, with her golden-brown hair slicked back from her face and the morning sunlight glistening off the water that had beaded on her lightly tanned skin. Max’s gaze followed the rivulets meandering over her thighs, knees, and calves to form a puddle at her feet, nice feet, which he wouldn’t mind massaging late at night as he worked his way up her legs, kneading each extraordinary speck of her body.

When she swept a fluffy white towel from a lounge chair and pressed it to her face, he studied the impressively high cut of her bright yellow swimsuit and imagined the look and feel of the soft, shapely form beneath. Lauren Remington wasn’t model material, all bones and hard edges,
like some of the women he’d known. No, she came packaged like a goddess, with luscious curves that made him ache.

A mere dance with this woman would never be enough.

He stepped from the shadows of the doorway where, for the past five minutes, he’d contemplated the woman who’d dragged him from bed in the middle of the night, a woman whose image, whose smile, whose tears and confession of being a failure had kept him awake long after.

She saw him finally, their eyes met, and a slow, enchanting smile touched her lips. “Good morning,” she said, fastening a sheer piece of brightly flowered fabric about her waist. Her hips swayed provocatively as she sauntered across the patio, a slow-motion picture of perfection.

If she wanted to mesmerize him, she was doing a damn fine job.

If she thought she could sway him from his intentions, however, she was sorely mistaken.

“Ready to go jogging?” he asked.

As if she hadn’t heard his question, she sat in one of two white wicker chairs resting beside a glass-topped table, crossed her longer-than-long legs, and smiled. “You slammed the door so quickly last night—”

“This morning,” he corrected. “
Early
this morning.”

“All right. You slammed the door so
early
this morning that I never had the chance to tell you that I don’t like to jog. What I do like to do is swim, which is far more civilized. And when I’m
through swimming, I like to have breakfast, beginning with freshly squeezed orange juice.” She filled two crystal glasses and held one toward him. “Would you care to join me?”

He’d rather join her in something more
stimulating,
but he nodded slowly and headed for the table. The juice looked good. Lauren looked better—tempting, as a matter of fact. Far too tempting. He had a hell of a lot of nervous energy to burn off, tension that had been piling up since her phone call yesterday morning. She might not want to jog, but he did, and once he set his mind on doing something, he didn’t let anything get in his way.

Lauren thought for sure her composure would desert her as Max strolled across the patio, looking at her body as if he wanted to lap the water off every inch of her skin. She couldn’t remember any man ever looking at her that way. They normally found her money more enticing than her body.

Tugging her tropical print sarong over her knees to give him fewer places to stare, she took a deep breath and tried to control the rapid beat of her heart. Goodness, she certainly hoped Max Wilde couldn’t see the pulse beneath her breasts, even though that’s where he kept aiming his eyes!

“I’ve asked Charles to serve us fruit and muffins,” she said, playing the part of the good hostess. It was much too early to entertain, but she’d do anything to keep from jogging on the beach. “It’s a lovely morning for talking and...
and for straightening out all of those things that caused us so much trouble yesterday. Or, if that’s too awkward at this time of morning, we could talk about the menu, your fee... whatever you’d like.”

The slightest grin tilted one side of his mouth. “All right.”

There was something very odd in the tone of his voice. It gave her the distinct impression that he didn’t want to talk business, or about their continual bickering, that he had more adventurous pursuits in mind. Still, she asked, “What should we discuss first? The wine? What caviar I prefer? The fact that you’re a man of too few words, especially early in the morning?”

His silence, the heat in his eyes as he tugged off his T-shirt and bared the most glorious set of pecs she’d ever laid eyes on, put her heart back in uncontrollable motion. Not a good condition for a woman trying
not
to fall under this man’s spell.