Born to Be Wild (16 page)

“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 meals 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 hop
ing 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 she 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 s
he hadn’t been too vicious—yet—with Max.

“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.