Born to Be Wild (8 page)

“How soon will I get to try some of your creations?”

“You’ve already tried one.”

“The sauce is wonderful, but you brought me here so I could sample some of the foods you’ll be serving at Betsy Endicott’s wedding. I really would like to try something more... cultured.”

Spoiled, that’s what Lauren Remington was. Rich, spoiled, and used to getting her way—but not with him. He braced his hands on the countertop and stared into her pretty green eyes. “The way I see it, someone as desperate as you should be a little more trusting. In fact, you should be happy with anything I choose to serve.”

She folded her arms on the counter and leaned forward. When her eyes were leveled at his, she smiled sweetly. “If you’re trying to frighten me, you’re doing a lousy job. I’ve already got you figured out.”

“You don’t know the first thing about me.”

“You may look big and bad on that motorcycle of yours, but I think you’re a pushover. The way you talked about Mr. Hansen told me that you’re a sucker for someone in need. Well, I may be rich, Mr. Wilde, but right now I’m pretty darn needy. I don’t care how much it costs me, I don’t care what I have to do, but one way or another you’re going to fix something resembling Caribbean brochettes—not hot and spicy ribs—for Betsy’s wedding on Saturday.”

He couldn’t help but grin as a thought came to mind. “All right, Miss Remington, you’ll get your Caribbean brochettes, but I’ve got a couple of conditions.”

Her eyes narrowed. “I’m sure that
one
condition would be enough. But, all right, what torture do you intend to impose upon me now?”

“First, that you trust me to provide the best food you’ve ever tasted, without trying it first.”

“But—”

“That’s condition one,” he stated emphatically, interrupting her protest.

“I don’t see why you can’t whip up something for me to try.”

“Because I don’t just
whip
something up! I
create,
and right now I don’t have time to create because I had to spend too much time teaching you the right and wrong way to lean on a motorcycle.”

“Yes, that’s true, but you
are
the one who insisted I ride with you—to save time, as I recall.”

“A slight mistake in judgment,” he said, al
though there’d been no mistake in how good her body had felt against his. “However,” he continued, realizing Lauren’s education was flying right out the door and she was taking the upper hand, “I don’t make mistakes where food is concerned—and that goes for ribs as well as fine cuisine. So, are you going to accept condition number one, or do we call off the whole deal?”

He could see her gritting her teeth. “Fine,” she stated flatly, “but I’m not used to doing business on trust alone.”

“There’s always a first time for everything.” He moved a little closer, liking the scent of her perfume, liking her eyes, the curve of her blue-blooded nose. “Now, for condition two. I want you to dance with me at Betsy’s wedding reception.”

Her already frowning eyes narrowed even more, as if she were sizing him up, wondering what he was up to. “I’m afraid dancing with you is out of the question,” she finally answered. “You’re the caterer.”

“And once upon a time I was a waiter. Obviously you weren’t such a snob back then, because you contemplated running away with me.”

“I’m not a snob, and, as I’ve mentioned before, my comment about running away with you was
my
slight mistake in judgment, one you obviously haven’t moved away from.”

“But I have, and now I want you to dance with me on Saturday.”

“I can’t.”

“Caterers are hard to come by at the last moment.”

“Is that a threat?”

“What do you think?”

“That you’re all bluster.”

When, he wondered, had sparring with a woman become such fun? “All right, so I have no intention of letting you down on Saturday, but that doesn’t negate the fact that I want to dance with you. Consider it payment for me working doubly hard to ensure that your needs are taken care of.”

He could see her jaw tightening. “You drive a hard bargain.”

“Is that a yes?”

“What choice do I have?”

“None that I can see.”

Without thinking, he smoothed a speck of barbecue sauce from her lower lip, shocked by the sparks that ricocheted through his body. If one small touch could affect him that way, what would dancing up close and personal do to him?

Had she felt the same shock? he wondered, as her eyes locked on his, looking surprised by his caress, maybe a little frightened.
He didn’t want to have feelings for her, not when he knew how the people of her world reacted to people from his, not when he knew too much about her past.

But it was impossible not to want her.

“Maybe we should substitute dancing for some other condition,” she suggested.

Max shook his head. He’d rather give up condition number one.

“But people are going to talk,” she said softly. “They’re going to wonder why I’m dancing with you.”

“And that bothers you?”

“I don’t like gossip, especially when it’s aimed at me.”

“Then tell everyone the truth.”

“What, that you forced me to dance with you?”

He moved even closer. Their eyes, their noses, their mouths were just inches apart. “If that’s the truth.”

She didn’t move. In fact, it seemed as if she’d ceased to breathe as she stared into his face and, more than likely, tried to figure out the real reason why she’d agreed to dance with him. Hell, maybe Miss Palm Beach wanted him, too.

As if she couldn’t look at him another moment, she pushed away from the counter and strolled across the kitchen, her high heels clicking on the tiles. She stopped in the center of the
sun room where he grew his herbs and stared toward the flower-filled backyard. “I’m going to dance with you for one reason and one reason only— because I want you to cater Betsy’s wedding.” She faced him again, her arms folded assertively over her breasts. “If you have some crazy notion that I’ve agreed to dance with you because you’re charming, think again. You’ve been difficult and demanding, something I wouldn’t have stood for with any other employee—but as you reminded
me earlier, I’m desperate. If you
had
been charming, I might have asked
you
to dance.”

“And suffer the gossip?” he asked, moving toward her.

“I didn’t say I’d ask you to dance at Betsy’s wedding.”

“Then where?” He stopped directly in front of her, meeting the tall, voluptuous beauty almost eye to eye. “Someplace private?” He grinned. “Someplace where we could be alone?”

“It doesn’t matter, does it? We’re going to dance at Betsy’s wedding, I’m going to be the talk of the town, and you’re going to have your revenge.”

He curled a strand of hair behind her ear. “Is that what you think this is all about?”

“There couldn’t possibly be any other reason.” She looked startled by his touch. “You know, I really think we should change the subject.”

“To what? Whether we’re going to dance slow or fast?”

“Of course not. I’m here to discuss business, things like the menu, the cost, how many servers you’re going to have, what kind of tuxedos they’ll be wearing.”

“Servers?”

“Yes, you know, the men who carry around silver platters laden with champagne and delicious food.” Her eyes narrowed. “You do have waiters in your employ, don’t you?”

“Of course I do, but—” He let out a frustrated breath, wondering how that detail had escaped
his usual precise planning. “They’re working at Mr. Fabiano’s birthday party.”

She threw up her hands and stalked
back into the kitchen. “What kind of caterer are you, that you didn’t think about the importance of waiters for Betsy Endicott’s wedding?”

That did it.
“I’m the caterer who’s going to save your butt.”

She spun around. “I’d like to know how you’re going to do that when you don’t have any waiters?”

“Improvise,” he declared.

“
Improvise!
Are you mad? This is Betsy Endicott’s wedding. You can’t just grab people off a street corner, put them in a tux, and call them waiters.”

“I can do better than that.” He stormed across the room, grabbed her hand, and tugged
her toward the kitchen door. “Come on, I know where I can find the waiters we need.”

“You mean like a union hall, or something?” she asked, her high heels clicking rapidly behind him as he headed for his motorcycle.

“Or something.” He chuckled, knowing full well that she wasn’t going to like what he had in mind.

Not even the grim alleyway Max zoomed through or the roar of the motorcycle’s engine echoing against the warehouse walls could take Lauren’s mind off the man she had her arms wrapped around.

He was rugged and dangerous and he turned her on as no other man had. Maybe because he didn’t back down to her, didn’t cater to her.
She’d been told how to act, how to talk, how to walk and dress by many people in her life. Max, on the other hand, was making her do things that went against the grain of everything she’d ever known.

And so far, she hadn’t died. In fact, she was having an awfully good time—of course, she couldn’t tell him that.

But she could sense there was something eating away at Max, something that made him waiver between despising her and enjoying her company. Whatever it was, it went much deeper than the incident between them years before.

Her sister-in-law Sam could probably pinpoint it in a moment. Sam was the wisest woman Lauren had ever known, a resourceful woman who’d lived on the streets, not to mention in her car, and had even masqueraded as Lauren’s brother’s fiancée to earn enough money to pay off a loan shark.

Lauren wished she had the same gumption. Wished she had just half of Sam’s street smarts so she could figure out what was annoying Max. That shouldn’t matter, of course, since he was only an employee, but it mattered more than she thought possible.

Max skillfully whipped the motorcycle around a Dumpster, and she let her thoughts roam from Max’s aggravation to their upcoming dance. She had the nicest feeling that his movements on the dance floor would be slow and sensual, the sexy kind of dancing she’d dreamed of doing at sixteen, when she’d been forced to dance with boys like Frederick Hart and Mitchell Burke, who gracefully, placidly, and—oh yes—very boringly waltzed her around at one cotillion after another.

She seriously doubted that Max did the fox trot or would hold her lightly as Chip had done. Oh, no. A man like Max would probably place both his hands firmly on her bottom and hold her
tightly against his hips, and then he’d move in the most carnal ways.

A wise woman would wipe that image from her mind, but she was feeling daring, not wise, and discreetly let her fingers roam over Max’s hard, flat abs, watching the flex of muscle in his shoulders and arms. Sitting so close, she was becoming quite familiar with the contour of his upper body, with the form and fit of his T-shirt, and realized just how much she looked forward to their dance, to having her breasts press against his chest rather than his back, to look into his intense brown eyes rather than at his wild black hair.

Her fingers stilled when Max turned down a darkened alleyway littered with old newspapers and empty bottles. Suddenly she realized how ridiculous her thoughts had become. Once again she remembered that she and Max had a business arrangement, that he wore a goatee and hoop earrings, while she wore designer chic. Not that there was anything wrong with his look. Definitely not. It was new, different, and thoroughly... sensual, but his look served as a very visible reminder that their lifestyles were a million miles apart.

Max came to a sudden stop next to a circle of deserted motorcycles, cut the engine, and pulled off his helmet. His black wavy hair caught in the afternoon breeze whispering through the alley. It was wild and unruly and he was bold and brash and—oh, dear!—she really had to fight this strange attraction she felt for him.

Leaving this lonely alley seemed like a good place to start. “Is there some reason you’re stopping here?” she asked, staying put on the back of the motorcycle even after Max swung his right leg over the gas tank and slid off the bike.