Born to Be Wild (7 page)

All too soon the motorcycle slowed when Max turned onto a street lined with small, older homes in varying degrees of disrepair. The purple stucco
house with screaming yellow trim was fairly interesting, as were the loud sounds pulsing from one of the many vehicles in the driveway, on the lawn, and lining the curbs. The house next door had wrought-iron bars on the doors and windows plus a high chain-link fence surrounding the entire yard. And then there was the vicious-looking dog running back and forth, barking up a storm.

She had the distinct impression that she wasn’t in the best part of town.

“Excuse me, Max,” she hollered through the helmet, tapping him on the shoulder as she leaned close. “Are you sure it’s safe for us to be here?”

He merely tilted his head toward her, grinned, and waved to a bunch of guys heading the opposite direction in a low-riding, beat-up black Cadillac.

Perhaps she should close her eyes again, she thought, but Max took another turn without slowing down, and she forgot her worry when the giddy exhilaration tumbled through her stomach.

No sooner had they turned the corner than they entered a completely different world, where sprawling houses sat far back from the palm-lined lane. Their expansive lawns were neatly trimmed, with banana trees, ferns, and bird-of-paradise rimming each home.

Max waved at an old gentleman standing in one front yard watering his plants and, good heavens! he was doing it in the nude. Perhaps this wasn’t the best of neighborhoods after all.

Her shocked but curious stare stayed fastened on the naked man until Max turned into the next driveway and came to a stop alongside what appeared to be the largest house on the block. The brick front had been painted white, the trim a dark forest green, and the sun glinted off the windows. Where the other homes had subdued, well-maintained landscaping, this yard was lush and wild. The banana trees, the ferns, and the bird-of-paradise seemed taller and fuller than any she’d ever seen. Pink, lavender, yellow, and white frangipani blossomed everywhere, and the garden was fragrant with the sweet scent of gardenia.

She’d never expected Max Wilde to live in a veritable Garden of Eden. Then again, she looked at the rings in his ears, the mustache and goatee, and the thick black wavy hair that nearly brushed the collar of his T-shirt, and couldn’t picture him living anywhere but in an untamed jungle.

What different worlds they came from.

Max planted both boots on the pavement and steadied the bike as she scrambled off—far too fast. Her legs quivered, and she had the horrid feeling they were going to give out beneath her. But then she felt a pair of big, supportive hands clutch her arms.

“Next time you ride,” Max said, grinning lightly, “try to relax.”

That was impossible, especially now, with him touching her. “I was completely relaxed,” she fibbed.

“You forget how close we were. I could feel every tense muscle in your body.”

She hadn’t forgotten how close they were. She’d felt the heat of his skin, the seams of his jeans against her thighs, his leather belt rubbing back and forth, up and down against her stomach, not to mention the hard planes of his back colliding with her breasts. Those were the things that had made her tense once she’d gotten over her fear of riding. Those were things best kept to herself. “Maybe I was a bit tense, but I didn’t want to fall.”

His fingers grazed over her arms, her shoulders, and his knuckles brushed lightly along her neck. Maybe he
had
put that long-ago incident out of his mind. Then, again, maybe he was teasing her, paying her back for what he had mistakenly thought she’d done to him. Either way, his touch made her feel dreadfully hot, made her wonder—with too much anticipation—what he planned to do next.

Releasing the chin strap, he slipped the helmet off her head. A hint of warmth softened his intense brown eyes. “In spite of what you might think, I wouldn’t have let you fall.”

All too quickly he let her go, and she thought she would crumble—a ridiculous thing to feel, especially with a man who didn’t particularly like her.

She smoothed her silk top and pants, fluffed her hair, and pulled her wits together, repeating to herself again and again, “This is business, nothing more.”

“You have a nice home,” she said, following Max to the door and trying to sound calm, col
lected, and in control, as she took in the sights of his backyard grotto, where a free-form, boulder-rimmed swimming pool sat amidst a tangle of brightly flowering bougainvillea, plumeria, and fern. “It’s a far cry from the neighborhood around the corner, although I must admit, you’ve got a very interesting gentleman living next door.”

“Mr. Hansen’s ninety-three,” he said, not bothering to look at her as he unlocked the door. “He lost his wife last year, his only son the year before that, and now he’s slowly losing touch with reality.”

Max said the words so matter-of-factly that if she hadn’t been listening closely, she might have thought it was no big deal. But she could hear a trace of sadness in his voice, which seemed out of character for a motorcycle-riding brute who liked to torture women.

“Can anything be done to help him?” she asked. “Medicine? Therapy?”

“His doctors say no. In fact, they think he should be in a nursing home.” Max chuckled, an unexpected sound that touched her heart. “Mr. Hansen won’t have anything to do with being shut away. He loves his garden and his neighbors, and we take turns watching out for him. The neighborhood wouldn’t be the same if he went away.”

Max looked like a man who thrived on having fun, living hard, fast, and dangerous. He definitely didn’t look like the caregiver type, but she was rapidly finding out that Max didn’t fit any mold. He was the exact opposite of the men she
was used to, who, more than likely, wouldn’t watch out for a ninety-three-year-old neighbor.

Max wasn’t at all what one would expect at first glance, and
she wondered what other secrets hid behind his rough façade.

He held open the back door and she stepped into a laundry room piled sky-high with dirty gym clothes, jeans, underwear, towels, and sheets. This was what she expected from Max Wilde!

“Excuse the mess,” he tossed over his shoulder, and kept on walking. As she stepped around laundry baskets and the occasional dirty sock, she thought how desperately he needed a housekeeper, or... a wife.

Of course, maybe he had a wife, a pretty, petite blond who worked as a receptionist in a dentist’s office. Someone who looked good in tight black leather, someone who didn’t worry about the laundry because she had a sexy, wild husband who preferred that she join him in more athletic adventures—indoors and out.

For some odd reason, that thought annoyed her.

From the chaos of the laundry they stepped into the orderliness of the kitchen, an impressive room of gleaming stainless steel, white walls, a terra cotta tile floor, and framed posters of souped-up choppers and hot rods. Pots and pans hung in clusters from the ceiling, as did wire baskets overflowing with tomatoes, apples, and bananas. On one wall was a massive stove, several oversized refrigerators littered with magnets
and notes, a bank of ovens, homey touches like a red and black motorcycle cookie jar on the counter, and at the far end a sunroom blooming with plants.

“My cook would probably abandon me if she saw this kitchen,” Lauren said, taking a seat on the barstool Max pulled out for her. “She convinced me to put in a third oven a few years ago, and not a week goes by that she doesn’t come home with some new kind of gadget. I don’t know one from another, of course, but Mrs. Fisk is absolutely wonderful in my kitchen, so I don’t think I’ll tell her about yours.”

Max liked the way she chattered. Hell, he liked far too much about her, just as he had ten years ago, and that was a big mistake. Earlier today he’d told Jed that if you touch something hot you’re gonna get burned. Practice what you preach! he told himself.

But he liked the soft and feminine sound of her voice, a like that didn’t come anywhere close to resembling the lust he felt for her soft and feminine body. Tall, womanly, and gorgeous, she had generous curves that had felt damn good snuggled up against him as they’d ridden through the streets of her neighborhood and his. He’d even taken a few wrong turns so he could stretch out the exhilaration he’d felt with her arms wrapped tightly around his stomach, her breasts pressed against his back.

She was one hell of a woman, and maybe he’d been a little rude, stomping around like a man
with a chip on his shoulder. There was just something about rich, snooty women that rubbed him the wrong way, even if this rich, snooty woman was incredibly charming.

But was she as charming as she seemed? Was she really sorry for leading on a naive kid ten years ago? Or was her apology simply a ruse to make sure he didn’t back out on catering Betsy Endicott’s uppity wedding? He’d had a mother who’d used her beauty as well as lies to get what she wanted, a mother who’d hopped from one man’s bed to another and eventually abandoned her kids. He’d never once believed that all women were like that, but he could easily believe it of Lauren Remington, given her tendency to turn up in the tabloids and her history of marriage and divorce.

Maybe it was high time someone taught Lauren Remington a lesson or two about men. She needed to learn that she couldn’t flash her pretty smile—or offer someone an armload of money— and get whatever she wanted. She needed him, and he was going to make her work hard for every speck of his help.

Turning his back on the pretty woman who was still chattering about her cook, and her butler, and her kitchen in that pink marble monstrosity where she lived, Max opened one of the refrigerator doors and rummaged around for a bowl of barbecue sauce. While he was looking, a smile touched his face. As much as he hated to admit it, educating Lauren was bound to be an
education for him, too, one he had the sneaking suspicion he was going to enjoy—far too much.

“I had to draw the line at calling Zippo’s,” she was saying as he poured the sauce into a pan and put it on the stove to heat. “I mean, really, can you see a delicatessen catering Betsy Endicott’s wedding?”

“No,” he stated, considering the fact that Zippo’s had been closed down by the health department a few months back.

“And then there was Bad Bubba’s Barbecue.” Her smile brightened. “I liked the sound of their name, but, pardon me for saying this, I was a little hesitant about hiring a company that specializes in barbecues.”

“I
specialize in barbecues.”

“I didn’t know that at the time, which is probably a good thing because if I had I wouldn’t have called you. And if I hadn’t called you, you’d still be stewing over what happened ten years ago.”

“Think you’re that unforgettable, do you?” he asked, stirring the sauce, cautiously testing its temperature with his fingertip.

“Well... no... but I would like to say once more that I
am
sorry and I hope we can move on.”

He flicked off the fire as he stared into her eyes. “I’ve moved on.”

She took a deep breath and he couldn’t miss the rise and fall of her breasts under her sheer silk top. “I’m so glad to hear that, because I had the distinct feeling you planned to make my life miserable from now until Saturday.”

Holding back his grin was difficult, but some
how he managed. “I wouldn’t think of it.” He pulled a teaspoon from one of the drawers, and asked, “Ever had ribs?”

“Mrs. Fisk makes them occasionally, and they’re a
lways on the menu at my brother’s ranch in Wyoming. Of course Crosby, that’s my brother’s cook, doesn’t have much of a flair for cooking. He’s been at the ranch since the thirties, when my great-grandfather hired him to drive the chuck wagon on cattle drives. From what I hear he was a lousy cook back then and he hasn’t improved with age, but he’s the dearest old man.”

“Like Mr. Hansen?” he asked, offering her a spoonful of the tangy sauce.

“I don’t recall Crosby ever walking around naked,” she said, taking the spoon, “but, just like your Mr. Hansen, the ranch wouldn’t be the same without him.”

Max watched the leisurely way she drew the spoon to her mouth, the way she slowly, gracefully placed it between her lips. His imagination ran wild, picturing her tongue swirling around the spoon, licking away the sauce. Slow. Real slow. His heart thundered in his chest until she finally withdrew the spotless spoon and smiled.

“Delicious.” She licked her lips in the same slow way she’d licked the spoon, and he was beginning to wonder who was going to educate who. “Is this one of your special barbecue sauces?” she asked, dipping the spoon into the pan for more.

“Hot and spicy,” he said. Hot and spicy—a hell of a lot like the woman sitting across from him.

“I’ve never tasted anything quite like it. Did you dream it up on your own?”

He nodded, once again watching her draw the spoon between her full luscious lips. God, the woman was going to drive him mad.

“You don’t do
all
the cooking for Born To Be Wild, do you?”

“Depends. Occasionally I hire other chefs, and I’ve got a part-time staff that help with parties. This place will be a madhouse Friday and Saturday, with people running every which way washing fruits and vegetables, carving meats, preparing hors d’oeuvres.”