Born to Be Wild (21 page)

The mansion seemed big and lonely. Lauren almost wished she’d gone to Rio with her mother. She’d even considered flying to Aspen, or heading to Milan or Paris, where she could immerse herself in shopping and socializing, but none of those ideas interested her anymore.

Crying had seemed like a good idea after her mother had gone. For nearly half an hour she’d cried over losing Max, cried because he’d hurt her feelings, cried because she’d let a man trample all over her emotions. Unfortunately she didn’t feel
the least bit better when the crying jag was over. Instead, she had another headache and puffy eyes, and she was in no mood to garden this time of night.

Instead, she headed into the kitchen, dragged the Hershey’s syrup from the back of the refrigerator
, where Mrs. Fisk usually hid it, squeezed a healthy portion into a glass, and added a tiny bit of milk. Chocolate could cure anything!

Curling up in her big wicker chair in the conservatory, she opened the latest issue of
Vogue
and thumbed through the pages while sipping chocolate milk. Maybe she’d feel better if she made a few more changes in her life. Perhaps she should throw caution to the wind and dump her pastel suits and dresses for something bold. She’d loved Jean Paul Gaultier’s collection last year, especially his tropical selection. Maybe she should buy a new wardrobe and head to Tahiti. But the thought of lying around on the beach all day sounded too ho-hum. She’d done that far too often in her life.

She folded over the edge of one of the pages, marking a sequin and fringe number, something she imagined a woman like Jazz would wear to work. Was that the kind of look Max enjoyed? she wondered. Maybe he’d like tight black leather or something see-through. She could change her entire look, become a daring vamp, and really give Max a reason to be jealous.

Wouldn’t that make the tongues of Palm Beach wag! Of course, enough gossip would be flying around town tomorrow, because Holly Ruther
ford had heard her argument with Max, and Holly wasn’t above telling tales.

Well, let the tongues wag. She was tired of being the polite, do-what’s-expected socialite Lauren Remington. She wanted to be the rash and carefree Lauren Remington who didn’t cry for half an hour after she’d been dumped by a man.

Tossing the magazine onto the table, she headed for the stairs and raced up to her bedroom, where she could be anything she wanted to be, because no one would ever know. Nearly two years ago she’d bought something totally outrageous, an outfit Peter had despised. “It’s too flamboyant,” he’d told her. “Too tight for your figure.” So she’d shoved it aside and forgot all about it—until now.

She stood before the bank of closets, trying to remember where she’d hidden the
black leather bomber jacket and matching mini-skirt. Not in the wardrobe with her evening wear, not in the one where she kept her shoes. More than likely it was with the athletic gear she seldom needed.

Pushing open the sliding door, she stepped into the closet, sorting through ski jackets, jogging suits, and the ridiculous riding-to-the-hounds outfits Chip had insisted she buy right after their marriage. There, between a fringed buckskin jacket her brother had sent her a few years ago for Christmas and the tie-dyed beach cover-up she’d worn at sixteen hoping to get some attention from her mother, was the
soft and supple black leather.

She pulled it from the closet and laid it out on her bed. It was perfect for knocking on a biker’s front door, which she wouldn’t do ever again, or for breaking out of her traditional, monotonous fashions.

She turned on her MP3 player, and Pink’s voice brightened her world, as she searched for a sexy black bra, just the right thong, and the pair of seamed black stockings she’d ordered online. If she was going to make a change, she planned to go all the way. Fortunately she had a few lingerie drawers filled with all the naughty items she’d had the guts to buy but never to wear.

Suddenly she remembered a pair of black patent Manolo Blahnik stilettos that were completely and utterly wicked!

As she danced around the room, singing “Blow Me One Last Kiss,” she stripped down to nothing, then slid into the thong, knowing immediately why she’d never worn a pair before. Several times she tugged at the straps and the tiny strip of silk in the front, deciding a thong might take some getting used to. Of course, there was no time like the present to give it a try.

The bra was totally sinful, sheer black lace that barely covered a pair of breasts that Peter had once suggested she have reduced. She laughed out loud, enjoying the sound of her own voice ringing through the room
right along with Pink’s. Peter had been jealous in a way Max could never be jealous—she was pretty darn positive of that! Poor Peter, he’d hated the fact that she was more than amply endowed on top, while he’d been decidedly lacking down below.

Enough thinking about Peter, or men in general. This was her night, her moment to have fun.

She slipped into the stockings, smoothing the seams, so they raced perfectly straight up the backs of her legs, loving the feel of the silk against her skin. She stepped into the soft leather skirt, then slid on the matching bomber jacket, zipping it up so just the tiniest bit of black lace bra showed beneath.

Her hair came next. A little gel, a little spray, and suddenly it was slicked back from her face. She pushed several platinum bangles onto her wrists, some dangly diamonds into her ears, applied darker eye makeup, heavier blush, and scarlet lipstick, then stepped into her heels and stood in front of the full-length mirror.

She liked what she saw. Wicked. Erotic.

Maybe not quite wicked and erotic enough!

She slid the zipper down a few inches on the jacket, letting more of the bra—not to mention her breasts—show.

“That’s perfect.”

Her head snapped around. Max leaned against the doorjamb, an incredible vision in faded jeans, a T-shirt, and a leather jacket. In spite of his drop-dead-gorgeous looks and the fact that her heart was racing, she didn’t feel the least bit cordial.

“What are you doing here?”

“I forgot my briefcase.”

Her gaze took a quick tour of the room. “It’s not up here.”

“I’m well aware of what’s up here.”

That was a seductive come-on line if she’d ever heard one, and she’d heard more than enough in
her life—none of which sounded as appealing as his. Still, he’d made her cry, made her eyes get all puffy, and given her a headache. She wasn’t about to be civil... yet.

“Do you mind telling me how you got into my house?”

“I knocked. I even rang the doorbell, but no one answered.”

“That doesn’t explain how you got inside. Did you crawl through a window or something?”

“I opened the kitchen door and let myself in. You should lock the doors when you’re home alone.”

“Yes, I should. You never know what kind of loathsome character might walk right in.”

He grinned, walked across the room, and sat down in a pink and white striped chair. The contrast between the chair’s ruffles and Max’s attire was shocking. She’d always loved that chair and where it was placed in the room. Suddenly she wanted to replace it with black leather.

He extended his legs, crossing his ankles, looking far too relaxed, as if he’d been invited to stay. His hot brown eyes raked over her body—every inch of her—and then a slow, deeply satisfied smile touched his lips. “This new look suits you.”

“Thank you.” She owed him that much courtesy, considering his compliment. Then she hit him with a scowl. “How long were you standing in my doorway?”

“Not long enough.”

“How much did you see?”

“Not enough.”

His answers weren’t the least bit helpful. She wanted his assurance that he hadn’t seen her fiddling with the thong to find a comfortable position for the straps, that he hadn’t seen her bending over and shaking her breasts until they fit perfectly into the skimpy black bra.

She wanted him to tell her what he was doing in her room when hours before he’d seemed to detest her. Since she knew he wouldn’t come right out and tell her on his own, she simply glared at him and said, “Would you mind telling me why you came up here, when you know perfectly well your briefcase has never traveled past the first floor?”

“It wasn’t just the briefcase I came for.”

“No?”

“I came because you owe me a dance.”

“I tried to dance with you at Betsy’s wedding reception, but you walked away from me. Do you expect me to forget that? Am I supposed to forget the argument we had earlier? Pretend it never happened?”

“That’s the idea.”

“I don’t forget that easily.”

“I don’t, either. But this time’s different,” he said, his voice low, sincere, making her believe he might have a soft place for her in his cold, hard heart. He sat up, no longer relaxed. “This time I care too much to let what happened keep us apart.”

“It’s not the argument we had that’s the problem, and you know it,” Lauren said, bound and determined to air out their grievances. “I’ve been
married twice. I almost got married a third time.” She took a deep breath, wishing her life had been different. “That’s my past, Max. It’s not something I’m proud of, but it’s something I can’t change.”

He got up from the chair and came toward her, cupping her arms, his eyes hot as he stared into hers. “Divorce goes against everything I believe in, and I’d be a liar if I said your past doesn’t scare the hell out of me. But right now, the thought of not having you in my future scares the hell out of me, too.”

“Please don’t say anything more,” she said, stunned at the feelings going through her, a mixture of wanting him and not wanting him. “You’ve already given me puffy eyes twice today, and I don’t want to go through that again.”

“Okay, I promise, not another word,” he said, dragging her hard against his chest. She didn’t know who was breathing harder, him or her, but she forgot all about breathing the moment his mouth captured hers.

Opening up to him was the simplest thing she’d ever done. Feeling his tongue against her lips, gliding lightly over her teeth, then melding with her own tongue made her dizzy with desire and need. And she’d never desired or needed a man as much as Max. He was nothing like the men she’d ever known, nothing like the men she’d ever wanted.

She hadn’t really known what her heart desired. Until now.

Warm hands slipped beneath her jacket and pressed against the small of her back, drawing
her closer, as the rapturous beat of the music around them turned soft and mellow.

Their bodies began to move together, slow and easy, perfectly in sync. The room spun around her, and she was lost in his passion, in the taste and feel of his kiss, in the tingle of his fingers trailing
along the curve of her spine.

She’d never been held so close while dancing, never had a man hold her hips so tightly against him that she could feel every hard contour, every slow, seductive movement.

And she’d never experienced such lustful cravings. Never wanted to be with a man so badly. She wanted to touch him, wanted to trail her fingers over every speck of his magnificent physique. She wanted to make love to him—and that frightened her.

Don’t rush into something
,
she told herself, even while she was falling under the spell of his kiss.
And whatever you do, don’t let him rush you.

All too suddenly she felt his fingers on the zipper of her jacket, could hear the nylon teeth sliding down, down, down.

She pushed away, drawing in a deep breath as she walked to one of the tall bedroom windows and looked out at the moonlit ocean.

Strong hands rested on her shoulders and drew her back against his chest. “What’s wrong?” he whispered into her ear.

“This is going too fast for me.”

He nibbled her earlobe. “I thought the pace was perfect.”

Against her better judgment, against all that
was sane, she tilted her head slightly so he could have easier access to her sensitive skin. “I would have, thought it was too slow for you,” she said, sighing as his lips teased her jaw, the corner of her mouth.

“All right,” he said, turning her around and backing her against the window. He braced a hand on either side of her head, and leaned close. “I want to make love to you. Right here. Right now.”

She wanted exactly the same thing, but this was all too soon. “I can’t.”

“Why?” he asked,
his kisses whispering down her throat, kisses that made her want so much more. “You like this, don’t you?”

“Of course I do,” she panted. “You don’t know how much of me wants to rush into something with you, but I’ve rushed too many times before. I’ve had too many disastrous relationships, and
this one has all the earmarks of another.”

“Relationships don’t come with a guarantee.” He stared into her eyes, as if he wanted to read her mind. “I can’t swear to you that you won’t get hurt, any more than you can promise me the same thing.”

“Please understand, Max. I need more time. We need to know each other better before we’ll know if it’s right, before we can even think about guarantees or promises.”