Born to Be Wild Page 15

  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 Rutherford 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 happene
d 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.”

  His gaze lingered on her lips, then her breasts. His knuckles skimmed lightly over her skin until he grasped the catch on the jacket’s zipper. She ceased to breathe. Her fingers trembled at her sides and her mouth quivered, part apprehension, part need, wondering if he planned to take what he wanted, hoping he wouldn’t just walk away.

  Slowly he drew the zipper up till the lacy black bra disappeared from view. Then he wove his fingers through hers and tugged her toward the door.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Taking you out on the town.”

  She’d never known a man whose moods changed so drastically and so rapidly. “Isn’t this all rather sudden?”

  “I like spur-of-the-moment things.”

  “But I’m not dressed to go anywhere.”

  He spun her around and looked her up and down. Flames nearly leaped from his eyes as he peeled the zipper back down an inch. “You’ll blend in perfectly where I’m going to take you.”

  “Please don’t tell me we’re going to go visit Jazz on one of her favorite street corners.”

  “Nope, somewhere even better.”

  “Couldn’t you at least give me a hint?” she asked, her stilettos slipping and sliding on the marble floor as she tried to keep up with his rapid pace.

  In spite of his hurry, she couldn’t miss the grin tilting his lips when he swung his leg over his motorcycle. “You really want to know?” he asked.

  She climbed on behind him, trying to tug her skirt down, but when that didn’t work, she snuggled up close, latched onto his waist, and whispered “Yes,” against his ear.

  “My real hangout.”

  He gunned the engine and blazed out of the driveway.

  All sorts of sordid visions flashed through Lauren’s mind, and she couldn’t help but wonder what kind of mess she’d gotten herself into this time.

  Eleven

  Tattoo Annie’s Saloon sat on a lonely stretch of road on the outskirts of West Palm Beach, where the roar of several dozen motorcycle engines and the hoots and hollers of leather-clad bikers wouldn’t bring out the cops late on a Saturday night. Hell, Tattoo Annie’s wasn’t the kind of place that would bring Max out, either. His usual hangout was the pool in his backyard or sitting in front of the television losing one video game after another to his kids.

  But he wanted to see Lauren with her hair down. Tattoo Annie’s was the perfect place for that.

  Bear had told him he’d be here tonight, showing the Scout off to a bunch of guys he went to the Sturgis Rally with every year, so he knew there’d be at least one familiar face in the crowd. Bear hadn’t exaggerated by using the term showing off, either. The big guy and Max’s prized ’29 Indian were the center of attention inside Tattoo Annie’s. The classic bike, with Bear sitting like a king on the leather seat Max had hand-rubbed again and again to make it soft, sat in the middle of the peanut shell-covered dance floor with at least two dozen gawkers listening to him tell how he came to be in possession of the thing. His story was a bald-faced lie about winning it and a whole lot more in a game of strip poker with a chick from Miami.

  “That’s not the truth,” Lauren said, outraged by the tale.

  “Bear likes to embellish his stories. Sort of like a fisherman talking about the size of his prize catch,” Max said, pulling her away from that crowd, which only flowed into another. With an arm grasped tightly about her waist, he headed for the bar, trying to talk over the clamor. “No one ever believes the tale, but they listen to every detail, making sure they get the facts straight so they can one-up the guy the next time around.”

  “I see. Sort of like if I told you I’d spent a week sunning on the sand in Monte Carlo, you’d follow up by saying that you spent a week by the palace pool, and that th
e prince of Monaco served you his special lemonade?”

  “That was last year.” Max grinned and drew her even closer. “I’m thinking of inviting the prince to stay with me this time around.”

  Lauren smiled, the red and yellow neon lights twinkling in her already sparkling eyes. “I’m sure you’d be terribly bored. The prince is a lovely man, so are his children,” she said, “but, honestly Max, Monte Carlo and the palace can’t compare with Tattoo Annie’s.”

  “You really like it, huh?”

  “It’s... different. Do you come here often?”

  “Once or twice a year, maybe less.”

  “But I thought you said this is your hangout.”

  “If I’d taken you to the place I normally hang out, we’d be saddled with two kids for the rest of the evening.”

  “You’re not telling me you’re a homebody, are you?”

  “If you’d asked me that a few years ago I would have laughed. Now, I figure it’s not such a bad thing to be.”

  He ordered a couple of draft beers when they were able to push their way through to the bar, then led her to a just emptying booth.

  Taking a swallow of beer, he watched Lauren over the top of the frosty mug, thinking he’d never seen anyone so pretty. The room was warm with the press of people and pulsing neon lights, and he was taken completely by surprise when she fanned her face with one hand and touched her icy mug to her chest, as if that would cool her down. Neither action seemed like something Miss Palm Beach would do, but neither did going to a biker bar.

  What other surprises lay in store? he wondered. Every moment with Lauren he seemed to find out something new, something that made him care for her and want her even more.

  She took a sip of beer and licked a speck of foam from her upper lip after setting the mug back on the table. “It’s been a long time since I’ve had a beer,” she said, “it’s been even longer since I’ve been in a place like this.”

  “I thought this would have been a first for you.”

  “It’s a second. I was in finishing school the first time.”