Planning for Love (13 page)

“Ivy, you shouldn’t beat yourself up. There isn’t an uninteresting bone in your body.” Ben ran a quick, reassuring hand down her arm from shoulder to elbow. Immediately regretted it once he registered the silkiness of her skin.
Pull it together, Westcott
, he ordered.
She’s as off limits, and as volatile, as a munitions factory
. “Worrying about it will only stiffen you up, make you come across as unnatural. Which then
would
be a problem.”

“Interesting advice. Did you know that the more you tell someone not to think of a topic, the more they’re unable to do anything but think about it? I’ll probably morph into a female version of the Tin Man any second now.”

“If I remember right, the Tin Man didn’t have a heart. You couldn’t pull that off on your worst day.” He hefted the camera back into position and resumed filming. With any luck, it could act as an invisible forcefield between them. Kind of like in
Star Trek
. Talk about a great movie franchise. If he thought about sexy green female aliens, he might be able to resist the temptation to give Ivy a reassuring hug.

“Thank you. I think.”

An odd, easy peace descended. Maybe they could work together, after all. As long as Ben remembered not to touch her. Or remember the way she’d looked in the shower, with soap suds sliding over the slope of her creamy breast. Or never, ever looked at her. Might make filming dicey, but at least he’d keep his sanity and his libido in check.

Ivy’s stomach growled. With a rueful laugh, she pressed a hand against the pouf of her blue skirt. The one that made her look like a very cute extra in a Doris Day film. Ben had always been a sucker for those old comedies. They reduced this whole big, complicated world to a small place, with black and white issues. Doris Day was always goofy and pretty, and Cary Grant or Gordon MacRae could always solve her simple problem. Happiness attained in ninety minutes or less. Talk about the power of film. Whereas for the last handful of years, everything Ben filmed only served to complicate the world, or document the worst of the human condition.

“I’m starving, in case you couldn’t tell,” she said.

Grateful to have his train of thought interrupted, Ben patted his own belly. “I passed starving about an hour ago. Didn’t have much breakfast, so I’m running on fumes.”

“That’s what I call a critical strategic error. Weddings aren’t for the weak. At the beginning of each season I let a novice wedding consultant shadow me at a wedding. I like to choose a really huge, elaborate affair. Once they walk in my shoes for ten hours, it’s easy to tell if they have the endurance needed for this profession. Want to know the three secrets to surviving a big wedding?”

“Uh, yeah. Our viewers will eat it up. Always good to get tips from a pro.”

“First of all, you need two pairs of shoes. Cushy, comfortable sneakers to run around in during setup, and fancy flats once people show up. Anything with a heel more than half an inch is a rookie mistake. And let me tell you, that is a mistake no one repeats.”

Ben looked down at his shiny dress loafers. Couldn’t begin to imagine the torture women inflicted on themselves with pointy shoes balanced on a three-inch heel the width of a nail. “I’m kind of stuck with what I’m wearing. What else?”

“Sit whenever possible. Grab a pew for the ceremony, perch on anything with a seat during cocktails. The few minutes of relief will make all the difference.”

“So why aren’t we sitting right now?”

“No extra chairs here at the Aquarium. Everything is trucked in on an exact count. We’re stuck on our feet until after dinner. Once they start dancing, I plan to make a mad dash to a bench in the Amazon Rising exhibit. I’ll still be able to monitor the event, but I won’t want to chop my feet off at the ankles.”

“I filmed a few tables set up in that exhibit. Scary, wild stuff. Won’t sitting in front of anacondas and piranhas freak you out?”

Letting her head thunk against the column, Ivy closed her eyes. “It will now. Thanks a lot.”

“Hey, I go where you go, remember? The thought of a twenty-foot snake slithering around behind me, even behind glass, doesn’t sit right.”

“I thought all boys were fascinated by reptiles.”

“Boys like to play with garter snakes and frogs. I’m a grown man.” He paused, noticing her fast, triple blink. Did it mean Ivy shared his problem with flashbacks to their night together? If there was any justice in the world, she did. Why should he have to suffer alone? After all, if it wasn’t for her stupid nosedive into meaningful commitment-land, they could be looking forward to scratching their respective sex itches tonight. Well, nothing cured blue-balled horniness like thinking about man-eating snakes.

“I’ve seen those things in the wild. Without any protective glass between us. Trust me when I say the experience would give most people a healthy dose of caution, if not downright fear.”

Ivy’s hands fisted around the bright blue of her skirt, making a rasping noise. “You saw an anaconda? Up close and in person?”

“Yep. Waaay too close for my taste. I’m in no hurry to get a second look.” Ever. When he’d almost stepped on what he thought to be a tree branch, his guide Nestor grabbed him by the collar and dragged him backward off his feet. Next thing he knew, the massive, mottled branch began to move sinuously, with a speed that scared the spit out of Ben. As wide as a man, it looked big enough to swallow him in one gulp. Along with Nestor and the other three people in his production crew. It took weeks before the nightmares about the giant snake subsided. Damned if he’d let a wedding, of all things, dredge them up again.

“God, Ben. It sounds terrifying. What on earth were you doing traipsing through an anaconda’s habitat?”

Another memory he didn’t want to relive. “Taking an after-dinner stroll.”

She shook her head, shimmying her sleek bob against her jaw. “Nobody in their right mind strolls within five miles of an anaconda. You probably weren’t supposed to be there. Admit it, you were lost, weren’t you? Men hate to admit when they’re lost.”

Lost? Sure. Because when blindly running for their lives through the jungle from a crazed gang of drug runners, it can be hard to follow a path. “It’s not as if the damn thing had
No Trespassing
signs posted around its feeding ground. Now can we please move on?”

“See what happens when you don’t eat? You get testy. Next time we do a midday wedding, please be sure to have a big breakfast. Remind Ollie, too. That’s another one of my survival secrets.”

He hated that she was right. Hated that he knew better. Hated that a little thing like imminent starvation coupled with near constant arousal in Ivy’s presence took him off his game. Ben checked the shot again. Not because Ivy had moved even an inch, but because it gave him a reason to hide behind the camera. And a way to legitimately stare at her, drinking in her face. The way the dim blue lighting cast a waterlike halo behind her head and deepened her changeable eyes to a mermaid green. Made a man think about finding the nearest pool and diving in. Tangling her long legs with his, slip-sliding together while he kissed droplets off her neck. Damn, but she distracted him easily. Better get this over with and get Ollie to cover for him. Fast.

“What’s your final secret to surviving a wedding?” Ben asked.

“Hydration. Super easy to get caught up and not drink anything from the minute you greet the bride until the reception’s halfway over. Always carry a bottle of water, and grab it on the fly whenever possible.” Ivy shook an emphatic finger. “Dehydration saps your stamina.”

“Words to live by.”

“My go-to is tonic water. The bubbles cut your thirst quickly. Tasty, too.”

A bitter shudder roiled across his taste buds. “Sure. Once you top it off with a hefty splash of gin. Big wedge of lime. Stick a beach chair under my ass and color me happy.”

“Nope, no drinking on the job.” Ivy pointed across the room at the bar. “Go on, give the straight stuff a try tonight. Satisfaction guaranteed.”

“Really? What sort of satisfaction will you deliver if I don’t like it?” Damn it. From the moment Ben had taken this gig, he swore up and down not to flirt with Ivy. Not to let her get under his skin with her star-bright smile and whip-smart wit. Now here he was, day one, tossing a sexually loaded grenade into the conversation. Into the relationship minefield that was Ivy Rhodes. Idiot!

Two front teeth that would make an orthodontist weep with joy toyed with her bottom lip. Second time he’d seen her do it tonight, and again, he couldn’t tear his eyes away from the sight. It should be his teeth nipping at her. God, why did someone so sexually perfect for him come with an entire wagon train of relationship expectations? Might as well give a jewel thief the keys to the Tower of London, drive him to it, park, and then wait to see what happened.

“Whatever it takes to put a smile on your face,” she promised with a saucy wink.

“I can think of seven things without even trying. You’ve even got clothes on in five of them.”

A pilot light of answering heat flared brightly behind her mermaid eyes, then shuttered so fast he almost thought he’d imagined it. So much for good intentions. The filter between his dick and his mouth kept short circuiting around Ivy.

“Ben, you seem to be good at your job, and you’re excellent with the clients. But you need to drop the suggestive comments. Immediately.”

She wasn’t saying anything he didn’t already know. “I’m sorry. Truly. No rebuttal.”

“Good.”

Might as well go for broke. How much more pissed could she get? “Look, there’s all this weird tension between us. I know you can feel it, too.”

A curt nod, coupled with a tiny jerk of one shoulder. Well, at least she hadn’t bitten his head off. Or walked away. “Obviously the middle of a wedding isn’t the time or place to delve into it,” he said.

“You think?”

“Why don’t you come out for a drink with me when we finish? If we don’t smooth things out, this will be a painful two-month stint for both of us. I bet if we talk through it, we can reach a level playing field.” Cliché alert. Like he’d tried to distill an entire season of
Oprah
into three sentences. This is why guys didn’t talk about their feelings. Because they sucked at it.

“Welllll…” Ivy drew the word out, probably making a pros and cons list in her head. She seemed the type who’d make a list before deciding which parking spot to take. A little push should do it.

“I’m staying at the Cavendish again. Five-minute taxi ride, tops. We can have a drink in the bar.”

The light in her eyes flared again, then disappeared behind a cold, heavy-lidded squint. “No. No way, no how. I know where drinks at the Cavendish can lead. I’m not sleeping with you again. It’s more likely that the Cubs will win the World Series. Or that Lake Michigan will freeze solid in the middle of July. You’re a player, Ben Westcott, and I refuse to be played.”

Ivy lifted her chin and flounced away, skirts frothing around her. Every twitch of her hips spoke of her righteous wrath. If she was a cat, her fur would be standing on end. In other words, that couldn’t have gone worse if Ben had whipped out a condom and suggested a quickie on the dance floor before the garter toss. On the other hand a real player wouldn’t have screwed things up quite so royally. Small comfort. And he bet his chances of getting dinner anytime soon evaporated the moment she walked off. So much for episode one of
Planning for Love.

Chapter Nine

Marriage is a great institution, but I’m not ready for an institution.

—Mae West

Powering through a full circuit of weight machines didn’t put a dent in Ben’s frustration. Half an hour in the pool shriveled everything
except
his still white hot lust. Maybe he could sweat out his problems on the treadmill. He hated the machine—always made him feel like a hamster—but desperate times called for desperate measures. Some might say living in a hotel had its drawbacks (although he couldn’t think of any—Ben saw no downside in room service, maid service and travel-sized free shampoo) but no one could dispute the huge plus of access to the extensive gym facilities at the Cavendish with no monthly fee.

He hopped on next to a guy with his face buried in a towel. Fine by him. Ben couldn’t stand gym chatters. Idiots who spent more time posing with their mouths flapping than pumping iron. On the other hand, he liked the energy of having people around him. To push yourself to the limit, it helped to be able to nod at someone in a similar amount of pain and exhaustion.

Focused on working the whole day with Ivy out of his system, Ben blew right past jog and run to a full out sprint in minute one. The machine shook as his shoes thudded in a frenzied pace. Arms pumping, sweat dripped down his forehead at minute three. Five minutes in, he wheezed like an asthmatic. Veins he didn’t know existed threatened to throb right out of his thighs.

“You alright, mate?”

Grateful for an excuse to quit the self torture, Ben slammed his palm against the red stop button. “Not really.” He suspended himself by his arms while the treadmill wound down, on the very strong chance his leg muscles were now the consistency of overcooked angel hair pasta.

“It’s Ben, isn’t it?”

“That’s right.” Unable to see past the river of sweat stinging tears from his eyes, Ben registered the British accent and took a guess. “You’re the hotel manager? Gib?”

“That I am. As manager, I have to inform you that our guests prefer not to have their stays interrupted by the wail of ambulance sirens. You, sir, appear to be moments away from a heart attack. Bad for all our guests, bad PR for the hotel and very bad for you. Why don’t you step off the treadmill and let me get you some water?”

“Great idea.” As long as his ankle bones didn’t disintegrate as soon as he put pressure back on them. Keeping a death grip on the machine, he gingerly lowered himself to a sitting position. At least now if he fell, he wouldn’t have far to go. Sitting helped. The weird black dots in front of his eyes disappeared. Encouraged, he rested his forehead against his knees. It only slightly diminished the possibility of throwing up and/or passing out.

“You’re not a runner, are you?”

Ben heard the rubbery suction of a refrigerator door opening. Wondered if he’d look like a total wuss if he asked Gib for a straw to use in his much anticipated water. No way could he straighten up enough to take a slug from the bottle. “Not even a little. I swim, I hike, and when I get the chance, I bike. No running, though. I hate it. I hate the idea of it. Hate the way it turns my knees to custard and how it makes all the oxygen in the room disappear.”

“Then why, if you don’t mind me asking a personal question, were you just running as if pursued by an angry mob out for blood?”

“Nice imagery.”

“Thank you.” Gib handed over an icy bottle. “I wanted to spin something about an enraged, shotgun-wielding father and a recently defiled virgin, but I didn’t want to cast any aspersions.”

“Well, you British are famous for your restraint.” Summoning his last shard of manly dignity, Ben forced himself to sit up. He propped an elbow on the cross brace and took his first glug of water. Decided a few, life-affirming sips later that he might actually be able to pull it together and not pass out. “I lift weights, but my go-to exercise is tai chi.”

“The ancient Asian thing? Isn’t it a hybrid of stretching and martial arts?”

“Exactly. Fits well into my traveling lifestyle. You actually get to stand in one spot for most of it. Pretty much the antithesis of running.”

“So why put yourself through an unsupervised cardiac stress test here on my watch?”

“I guess I thought I could outrun my problem. Try, anyway. My brain is kind of stuck in a groove right now, like a record player needle.”

“Ah, you’re dating yourself.”

“Hey, vinyl is classic. We wouldn’t have rock and roll without it. And what good would life be without Elvis Presley?”

“I’m more of a Kinks fan, myself.”

“I’ve got a collection of about a hundred records stored in my sister’s hall closet. She gripes every time she moves about hauling around my obsolete shit, but I can’t let go.” Great. Now, on top of feeling like dog puke, he’d remembered being about three months overdue on his monthly call to Belinda. She’d spend half the call guilting him into feeling lower than dirt, and the other half bitching about their perennially absentee parents. Putting a reminder on his calendar for the call usually coincided with a few fingers of scotch. Recovery from the call itself required an entire bottle.

“Tai chi is a great stress reliever, but you should try to add in a cardiovascular routine. Slowly,” Gib hastened to add, “and try not to cram a lifetime’s worth of running into five minutes. Next time I might not be here to save you.”

“Duly noted. Although it’d be easier to avoid my problem entirely by avoiding women for the rest of my life.”

“You’ve got woman trouble? No wonder you look so miserable. I’ve got just the thing to set you to rights.”

“I doubt it.” Even in his blue Under Armour shirt and matching workout shorts, Gib looked very capable. After all, you didn’t get to manage a world famous hotel like the Cavendish without some pretty powerful brains under the jarring note of his ratty sweat band. Still, Ben doubted the man could make a few phone calls and make Ivy understand the situation. Or give him his old life back—which would then build the foundation for his currently non-existent future. Pity party, table for one.

Gib squatted in front of him and rubbed his hands together. “Tonight is poker night.”

“On a Sunday? Interesting break with tradition.”

“Hey, it’s the wedding business equivalent of Friday night. We work all weekend, so Sunday night is our best chance to let loose. Thought we’d have to cancel tonight. One of our regular chaps is down with food poisoning. You’d be doing us a favor if you took his place. I can promise you an obscenely immense spread of chips and pizza.”

It sounded too good to be true. Then Ben remembered he was in the city where Al Capone gunned down a racketeer, where gambling raids occurred with regularity throughout the last century. A city where dirty money flowed like water. Better to ask a stupid question now, defenseless and sprawled on the floor. Gib certainly couldn’t think any less of him. “Are you guys high rollers? Is there a low-down hustler hiding behind that stiff English upper lip?”

“Hardly. No trust fund idlers in our group. We all work in the wedding industry. A baker, a DJ, a photographer. For the most part self-employed, which translates to low antes. Merely a chance to shoot the breeze. And no shop talk. I promise you, nothing cancels out the annoyance of women like the clink of poker chips.”

True. In fact, the night sounded like just what the doctor ordered. “Throw in a beer and I’m all yours.”

“There’s the rub. Carl—the unlucky recipient of food poisoning? It was his turn to supply the beer. If you take his seat at the table, you also assume his responsibilities.”

Hauling himself to his feet, Ben let out a long, low whistle. “I am being hustled.”

“Maybe just a bit.” Gib laughed, and Ben couldn’t help but join in.

“Fair enough.” It was worth the price of a couple of six packs
not
to think about Ivy for the rest of the night.

* * *

“Come in. I’ve been dying to meet you. I’m Milo, the office manager at Aisle Bound. You have simply got to be Bennett.” Before Ben could react, a skinny blond man enfolded him in a hug.

“Uh, hi.” Ben pushed his way out of the hug immediately. He wasn’t a hugger. Especially not with guys. Especially not with guys he’d never met before. With an elaborate sweep of his arm, Milo ushered him into Gib’s townhouse. A quick scan as he crossed the threshold revealed green velvet drapes, green-and-white-striped wallpaper, and a couch big enough to hold the starting line of the Chicago Bears. Comfortable and flamboyant at the same time. Maybe he’d read Gibson wrong, and he played for the other team. Pretty obvious that the hugger did. Not that it mattered at all to Ben. Not when his eyes were magnetically drawn straight to a five-foot-long sub sandwich bisecting the dining room table like a human sacrifice.

“Well? How did your first official event with Ivy go? Did you capture her brilliance and poise?”

“I didn’t expect to see anyone from Aisle Bound here.” Not a great way to kick off his not-thinking-about-Ivy night.

“Why not? Did Gib forget to tell you he’s got a roommate? Moi?” Milo twirled like a ballerina.

That certainly explained the velvet draperies. And why Milo wore a matching green velvet smoking jacket that would do Hugh Hefner proud. “He didn’t mention it.”

“How naughty of him.”

Huh uh.
Naughty
didn’t come close to the word Ben wanted to use. “The wedding went great.”

“Details, if you please.”

Ben shrugged. “No bloodshed and it ended on time. That makes it a winner in my book.”

“Milo, ease off a bit. Remember the rule: no shop talk on poker night.” Gib handed Ben a tumbler. “Jack and Coke to tide you over until the beer chills a bit?”

“Perfect.”

Three loud, laughing men spilled through the front door. While two were in jeans, the shortest man with a crooked nose that spoke of a long history of breaks sported a full tuxedo.

“Miguel, how many times have I told you: poker is semi-formal. We only go black tie for craps and roulette.” Milo pulled off the bow tie with a quick yank.

“Very funny. I came straight from a gig. Trust me, I’m itching to get out of this penguin suit.” He barreled up the stairs with a quick wave in the general direction of Gib and Ben.

“Miguel’s a reformed boxer turned DJ,” Milo explained. “After spending so many years wearing only shorts to work, he still chafes about dressing up for events. I’ve tried to teach him to appreciate the finer points of style, but it doesn’t seem to sink in at all.”

“Give it up already, it’s a losing battle. But you’ve got enough panache for all of us.” A lanky man in an Aquaman tee shook Ben’s hand. “Hi, I’m Lewis. Gib texted us that you’d take Carl’s place. As long as you brought the beer, you’re welcome here.”

“It’s in the fridge.” Ben returned the shake. Lewis had his priorities straight. And he held a sack in one arm brimming with bags of potato chips. The night was looking up.

“Good man.”

The last of the trio deposited a large white bakery box on the dining room table. “Sam Lyons,” he said as he turned, hand outstretched for introductions. When his eyes met Ben’s, he paused. His other hand rose to brush a wave of dark hair off his forehead in surprise.

“You’re Bennett Westcott.”

Here we go, Ben thought. His anonymity in Chicago had lasted all of nine hours. “Yup,” he said curtly, hoping his unfriendly tone would head off the inevitable questions.

“Do you know who this is?” Sam asked his friends.

“I’m gonna go with…Bennett Westcott?” said Lewis. He dropped onto the sofa and propped one foot on the coffee table, despite Milo’s violent hiss of disapproval.

“Are you famous, Ben? Do we have a celebrity in our midst?” Gib asked.

No reason not to answer. If Sam recognized him, it was pointless to try and hide the facts. “More like infamous.” Ben took a long, bracing gulp, taking comfort in the distraction of the searing hit at the back of his throat. Too edgy to sit down, he paced the length of the room.

“Wow, I’m sorry. You took me by surprise. Should’ve kept my big mouth shut.” Sam clapped him on the shoulder. “I’m guessing you don’t want to relive the whole thing, do you?”

“Nah. Why should I mind going over the excruciating details of the biggest mistake of my life?” Nothing like getting an emotional root canal to start off a night of cards.

“This is Bennett Westcott,” Sam repeated. “Doesn’t the name ring a bell?”

“Not really sure.” Gib cocked his head. “Why don’t you say it a few dozen more times, see if anything shakes loose?”

“I just can’t believe you don’t recognize him. The man’s face was plastered all over the news for like a week straight. How do you not recognize him?”

Miguel loped down the stairs. “Recognize who?” Without using even one hand for leverage, he leapt over the back of the sofa and landed next to Lewis. Impressive move.

“Bennett Westcott.” Sam slowly over-enunciated the name.

“For Christ’s sake, if you promise to stop saying my name I’ll tell the story.” Ben drained his glass. “I used to be a documentary journalist. My team traveled all over the world doing exposes. The last one I worked on, we shadowed a presidential candidate. Unprecedented access. Hell of a long shot, because we didn’t know if our guy would survive the first primary, let alone go all the way.”

“Oh. My. God. You’re the guy who dropped the camera!” squealed Milo. He hopped from one foot to the other as if crossing a bed of hot coals. “During the assassination attempt on President Calhoun in Alaska. You were on the dais, right behind him. Twenty other news cameras caught the whole thing on tape. The first shot rang out, you panned the camera toward the crowd. Then you dropped it and ducked for cover. Missed Calhoun shaking off the Secret Service, grabbing his rifle and tagging the shooter himself. Most people say that day won him the election. It gave him a new slogan for the last six weeks of the race.
A man strong enough to protect himself can protect the whole country
.”

Ben looked at the guys. All wore some variation of slack-jawed astonishment on their faces. Nothing he hadn’t seen a hundred or so times in the past two years. “Yes. That is the official story. I’m the lily-livered coward. The scaredy cat who ignored the biggest story of the decade unfolding in front of him and curled up in a ball on the floor. Film at eleven.” He bent into a mocking half-bow.