Born to Be Wild (15 page)

He tossed his shirt over the back of a chair. His muscles flexed. His mermaid tattoo swished, and a quiver of absolute delight rippled through her insides. “Let’s discuss jogging.”

That comment brought her emotions skidding under control. “Why don’t we talk about current events instead.” She took a sip of orange juice and watched his movements over the rim of her glass, while trying her best to turn the subject away from exercise. “Have you seen the paper this morning? It’s full of talk about the yacht Dickie’s hired for the honeymoon.”

“I’ve
told you I don’t read the society pages.” he said, finally sitting across from her. He took a long drink of orange juice, giving her a chance to study the corded muscles in his neck, the way his Adam’s apple rose and fell when he swallowed, his extraordinary chest, and the V-shaped mat of dark hair that spread over his darkly bronzed skin, before disappearing to mysterious territory under his belt.

Oh, dear, she’d never seen such a beautiful man.

“What
do
you read?” she asked, the question inane, but the only one that popped into her mind as he stripped out of his boots and socks.

“The sports pages, mostly.” He stood and methodically unlatched his buckle as she watched his slow, seductive movements, and the orange juice she’d been trying to swallow stuck in her throat. “There was an article on jogging this morning.” He popped the top button on his jeans. “Studies indicate it’s good for your state of mind.”

“Is that so?” she choked out, her gaze fixed dead center between his hips as he unlatched the second button and then the third.

“Yeah.”

Her eyes flickered from the front of his Levi’s to his heated eyes. “My state of mind’s perfectly fine,” she lied.

“I wish I could say the same.” He dropped his jeans and stood before her, his magnificent body decked out in nothing more than a pair of baggy gray running shorts.

Even though her eyes were focused on his
muscular legs, she forced her mind to stay on the conversation. “Something troubling you?” she asked.

“Nothing that a nice long jog won’t take care of.”

“Jogging leaves me feeling wilted,” she responded. “That’s why I swim. It’s much more refreshing, it’s easier on the joints, and I can do it in the privacy of my own backyard.”

Obviously he hadn’t heard a word she’d said, because he pried the glass of orange juice from her fingers and pulled her out of her chair. “We’d better go before it gets too warm.”

“It’s already too warm,” she stammered, as he tugged her across the patio. “And really, Max, I look dreadful in perspiration.”

“I’ll be the judge of that.” His laughter wrapped around her as he picked up speed. Her feet hit the cool grass and then the sun-soaked sand, and all too soon they were running toward the water.

Oh, dear! She’d wanted to avoid jogging at all costs. She couldn’t think of anything more humiliating than having Max see her breasts bounce or her legs and posterior jiggle. But he didn’t seem to care, he just pulled her with him into the gentle surf, never once letting go of her hand as she huffed and puffed at his side.

“I hired another waiter,” he said, his breathing calm, totally under control, as if they were having a simple business conversation across a table.

“Good. A seasoned professional, I hope.”

“One of the kids from the Hole.”

She gasped for air, finding the will to stay calm. “And this kid from the Hole? He’s experienced?”

“Yeah.”

Thank goodness!
She didn’t want to appear snobbish any longer, but she did so want to have at least one waiter who knew what he was doing. “Has he worked very many Palm Beach parties?”

“Not a one.”

“But you said he has experience.”

Max grinned. “He’s great at rebuilding engines.”

This was not good news. “Please don’t tell me you’re talking about the kid in greasy overalls? I think Bear called him Jed.”

“That’s the one.”

“But he looks like a hoodlum.”

Max laughed, dragging her knee deep into the water. “He looks better when he’s cleaned up. And don’t worry, he doesn’t have a record.”

“Has he been in trouble?” she asked, slogging through the surf, each movement of her legs getting increasingly difficult.

“He’s got a dad who beats him, and he’s got an eye for classic cars. Put the two together and they could easily spell trouble.”

She couldn’t imagine anyone beating their child, no matter what they’d done. She might not have had the most attentive parents, but they’d never laid a hand on her. Suddenly she wondered why Max was so involved with these children.

“Did you have a dad who beat you?” she asked.

“Yeah, but that’s history and not something I talk about.” In spite of the anguish that must have
been ripping through him, he grinned. “Life’s tough. Sometimes you get through it, sometimes you don’t. Jed’s going to make it, he just needs some nurturing.”

He tugged her out of the surf and her waterlogged sarong clung to her legs. She gasped for breath and wished Max would stop jogging, but he didn’t seem the least bit bothered by the strenuous exercise.

“I’m sorry if I’ve made rash judgments about your friends,” she said, panting again. “I know it’s not much of an excuse, but until yesterday, I’d never been around bikers. I’ve heard some dreadful stories.”

“Drinking? Carousing?”

“That and a whole lot more.”

“I take it no one in Palm Beach drinks or carouses?”

She gave that question a moment’s thought, then laughed. “We just put it in more genteel terms.”

“Yeah, I figured that was the case.”

His hand felt terribly warm and unbelievably masculine as it tightened around hers. The only thing that didn’t feel nice was the ache in her legs and the tightness in her chest when she tried to breathe.

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.”