Born to Be Wild Page 3

  “Andrew has wonderful taste. You couldn’t ask for a finer husband.”

  “No... I suppose I couldn’t.” Lauren heard the hint of tension in her mother’s voice and the reluctance of her words.

  “Is everything all right, Mother?”

  “Of course, darling. Now, please, don’t forget what I said. Give up this foolish wedding planning business as soon as Betsy’s wedding is over. And whatever you do, make sure nothing goes wrong on Saturday.”

  Lauren heard a kiss blown across thousands of miles—from London to Palm Beach—and then the dial tone. “I won’t give up, Mother,” she said out loud, before hanging up the phone, more determined than ever to succeed.

  She looked up when Charles came into the room, his timing perfect, as always. “Mr. Wilde has arrived.”

  Lauren looked at her watch. One-forty-five, exactly. At least she didn’t have to worry about Mr. Wilde’s punctuality.

  “You’ll find him in the library,” Charles added, and cleared his throat. “Would you like me to accompany you?”

  She appreciated his concern, but sometimes Charles could be a bit overprotective. Her brother Jack was the same way, rarely realizing that she was an adult and more than capable of taking care of herself. “Thanks, Charles,” she said, as she headed for the library, “but I’m sure I can handle Mr. Wilde on my own.”

  “Very well, Miss Remington.”

  The first thing that caught Lauren’s eye when she entered the library was a jacket tossed haphazardly over the back of a gilt-edged chair, its black leather a definite contrast to the chair’s delicate floral fabric. A battered black leather briefcase sat beside it on the floor.

  Mr. Wilde, however, was not in the room. The French doors leading to a patio overlooking the Atlantic Ocean were open, and a light breeze rippled the drapes. She moved toward the doors, stopping in her tracks when she saw the man outside. His hands rested on the balustrade, bracing his body as he looked toward the surf.

  Oh, dear! She could understand why Charles had wanted to keep her company.

  Mr. Wilde’s hair was, well... wild, and black, and the wind whipped through each collar-length wave. With him leaning against the railing, his white T-shirt stretching smoothly across wide shoulders and a muscular back, she couldn’t help but stare at his entire form, especially the rich bronze biceps that flexed beneath his sleeves.

  He wore faded blue jeans that weren’t quite tight enough to show off the strength of his legs, but she could easily imagine the power beneath the denim. She allowed her gaze to leisurely travel down the length of his Levi’s, to the black leather of his boots—those distinctive heavy ones that bad boys on motorcycles wore.

  She gave some thought to running for Charles, but Mr. Wilde turned around, and the moment she was hit by the intense glare of his dark brown eyes—eyes that looked vaguely familiar—all thoughts of running disappeared.

  It had been an awfully long time since a man had set her senses on fire, and she couldn’t remember the mere gaze from a man ever making her so hot that she needed to fan herself. What had come over her was anyone’s guess, because a man like Max Wilde should not be stirring up anything more for her than delicious canapés.

  Getting a hold on her libidinous emotions, Lauren marched across the patio to shake his hand. “Good afternoon. I’m Lauren Remington.”

  “Max Wilde,” he said, his voice a deep, rich, and engaging—okay, erotic!—baritone that vibrated through her body. His handshake was strong and businesslike, although his callused palm felt much more virile than the smooth hands she usually shook. And his face. Goodness, he did not look like a businessman at all! His nose had a slight bend, as if it had been broken in one too many fights. A scar slashed across his right cheekbone. A hint of a smile appeared beneath his neatly trimmed mustache and goatee, and it didn’t require close inspection to see the gold rings in his ears.

  Mother would have banished the man immediately. Lauren, however, found him intriguing and rather... feral. But where had she seen him before? Men like Max Wilde frequented biker bars and, more than likely, strip joints. Naturally she’d been to neither. She didn’t hang around tattoo parlors, either, but Mr. Wilde obviously did. It was impossible to miss the colorful design emblazoned on his right bicep, or the fact that what looked like the tail fin of a fish swished when his muscle flexed.

  “It’s a mermaid,” he offered, when her eyes lingered on the undulating green and gold figure.

  “How... interesting.” Her fingers itched to push his T-shirt sleeve out of the way so she could see the entire tattoo, so she could touch an inch or two of his hard, masculine bronze skin, but somehow she managed to refrain. After all, this was a business meeting, and tattoos, not to mention sexy men, were not on the agenda.

  Gathering her wits about her and turning her gaze back to his far too intense brown eyes, she smiled politely. “So, Mr. Wilde—”

  “Max.”

  They were not going to get very far if he continually addressed her in short, terse phrases, especially ones delivered in that all-too-familiar voice that nearly rendered her speechless.

  “Is something troubling you?” he asked.

  She could tell him he looked familiar, but it would seem terribly rude of her not to remember why, so she chose not to comment on that at all. Instead, she decided she’d be better off getting down to business. “Actually, I was wondering if you’d brought some menus for me to look at?”

  “Yeah.” A tinge of annoyance sounded in his voice, as if he’d wanted to discuss something other than business. “I’ve got menus, photos, references.”

  She would have responded, would have said something along the lines of “Lovely,” but he didn’t give her the chance to speak, he merely stalked past her. His stride was long, his boots clunked heavily on the marble floor, and a casual observer might have thought he was angry. Goodness knows why!

  Turning on her high heels, she followed him into the library and couldn’t help but notice that everything in the room was delicate—except Max Wilde. He was overpowering. Breathtaking, actually. A tall, handsome, and untamed version of Marlon Brando in his younger days, and if she wasn’t careful he might notice just how much in awe she was of him. And if there was one good thing she’d learned from her mother, it was to not let people who work for you get the upper hand.

  She surreptitiously took a deep, calming breath while watching him open his briefcase. His shirt sleeve moved up another inch. The muscle in his bicep flexed, and the green and gold scales covering the mermaid’s tail seemed to shimmer in the light from the chandelier. Did the creature have blond hair? she wondered. Could the nymph be a brunette or redhead? Was she wearing a skimpy bra, or was she topless?

  A portfolio thudded on the desktop, yanking her attention away from the tattoo, but not from the man who whipped the Louis XVI chair around as if it weighed only a few ounces, then straddled it.

  She swallowed hard as her eyes focused on his legs, on the worn spot on the inner thigh of his jeans, on his well-defined pecs stretching the cotton of his shirt. She was far too young for hot flashes but she could feel heat creeping up her chest.

  Oh, dear! What had she gotten herself into?

  “So” she managed to croak out, “where do we begin?”

  His gaze dipped to her chest, which had to be crimson by now, to the fingers of her right hand which were twisting the diamond bracelet on her left wrist. This was the first time in her life a man had ever made her nervous, and when a slight grin touched his face, she ruefully realized he knew just how neurotic she was.

  Without taking his gaze off her, he flipped open the leather-bound book filled with colorful pictures of tables laden with food. “Are you planning a sit-down dinner or buffet?”

  Finally! They were going to discuss business. “Hors d’oeuvres,” she said, putting on her best businesswoman pose. “It’s a mid-afternoon wedding and I’d like the appetizers to be on the lighter side.”

  “How about a vegetabl
e platter with ranch dressing?”

  “No, I don’t think that will do at all.”

  “How about fried zucchini and mini barbecued ribs.”

  “I was thinking something a little more... elegant.”

  Max chuckled as he flipped through the pages in his book. Was he teasing? trying to make her even more uncomfortable, or were all his menu choices ... common?

  “I imagine chicken wings and ham pinwheels are a no, too?” he asked, his eyes sparkling as if he found the entire thing humorous.

  “Out. Definitely out,” she said, trying hard to stay calm when she was thrown so totally off balance by this man. “The cake is decorated with white orchids, the flowers are being shipped in from Hawaii to give the inside and outside of my home a tropical look, and the wedding gown was handmade by Monique Lhuiller.” He looked like he was going to laugh, but she wasn’t finding this at all funny. It was time to get serious and take the upper hand. “I’m sorry, Mr. Wilde—”

  “Max.”

  “I’m sure you’re wonderful at barbecues, Max, and the next time I have one, you’ll be the first caterer I’ll call. But I was hoping you could prepare something special for Betsy Endicott.”

  “Who’s Betsy Endicott?”

  Goodness, the man was maddening. “I’m guessing you don’t read the society pages.”

  “Never. So, tell me, who’s Betsy Endicott?”

  “The bride.”

  He frowned. “I thought you were the bride.”

  “Me? Why would I want to marry Dickie Stribling?”

  “Why did you want to marry Chip Chasen?”

  Obviously he read something if he knew that she’d once been married to Chip, but the fact that he was literate, that he knew at least part of her background, didn’t give him reason to be so rude.

  “Why I married Chip is none of your business. As for Betsy Endicott, she’s an old and dear friend, I’m planning her wedding, and it has to be perfect.”

  Once again he stared at her. “You’re right, who you marry or don’t marry isn’t my business. What you serve at Betsy Endicott’s wedding is, so I suggest something along the lines of bleu cheese en croute, pink gulf shrimp, and Caribbean brochettes.”

  The way he easily ticked off each delectable tidbit surprised her. “You’ve prepared Caribbean brochettes before?”

  “I’m a chef, Miss Remington. I don’t hang my diplomas on the wall and I don’t brag about my accomplishments. Instead, I let the food I prepare speak for me, and I haven’t had any complaints.”

  He shoved out of the chair and Lauren followed him outside to the patio. He leaned on the balustrade again. She’d never appreciated abrupt individuals, but he did have a distinct way of laying out his credentials—all of them, including his backside, which was rather impressive, too.

  “You’ll need two ice sculptures,” he said, staring across the lawn as if he didn’t see her standing beside him. “I’ve got a guy who can carve a perfect orchid.”

  “His name isn’t Fritz, is it?”

  He hit her with that brown-eyed frown again. “No. Why?”

  “He did an ice carving for a party I had a couple of years ago. He was drunk and mistakenly added—in great detail—a man’s private parts to the sculpture of two lovers.”

  A hint of a smile touched his lips—finally. “That must have livened up the party.”

  “I never had the chance to find out, but I did learn before the evening began that I’m very good with an ice pick.”

  That made him laugh, a nice laugh that softened his blunt demeanor, but it lasted only a moment before he got back to business.

  “I’ll set up your dessert tables with an array of pastries, petit fours, cakes, and tarts. I could make them all with a tropical flavor, to stay with your decorating theme, but I think it would be best to throw in some Viennese desserts to satisfy the guests who crave chocolate and whipped cream.”

  “Henri was going to—”

  “I’m not Henri,” he reminded her much too abruptly.

  “No, you’re definitely not Henri,” she admitted, “but you’re proving to be nearly as difficult.” She watched his eyebrow raise a notch, but he didn’t disagree. “All I was going to say is, I never cared for Henri’s light-on-the-sugar-cream-and-chocolate desserts, and I prefer your suggestion. Now, what about the canapés?” she asked, not giving him a chance to gloat over the fact that she liked his style much more than Henri’s.

  “Stuffed mushrooms with spiced beef are always a hit. We can serve pink gulf shrimp, petit Wellingtons—you know, your basic upper crust hors d’oeuvres.”

  Max Wilde could talk a good story. Still, she had to ask, “What about references?”

  “I thought you were desperate.”

  Of course she was desperate, but she wasn’t foolhardy! Max Wilde might have stunning biceps and a mesmerizing pair of dark brown eyes, but those impressive credentials didn’t mean he could cook.

  “You’re a businessman,” she stated, smiling politely. “Surely you understand the importance of checking references before you hire someone, even when you’re sure they’re perfect for the job.”

  He stared at her as if he were sizing her up, as if she were the one needing references. Then, without another word, he marched back into the library. The man had an unnerving habit of bolting from place to place, but she stayed right on his heels, stopping only when he ripped a sheet of paper from his briefcase and thrust it in front of her. “References.”

  He seemed irritated, something she’d seen far too often in creative types, but she didn’t have time to be bothered by his little snit. Taking the list from his hands, she scanned it quickly, troubled that she didn’t see even one familiar name. She’d hoped he’d worked for someone she knew, even a minor acquaintance who could make her feel more comfortable about hiring a big brute— even a sexy one—to cater Betsy’s wedding.

  “Is there a problem?” he asked.

  “Of course not. But, I’d like to call a few of these people.”

  He lifted the receiver from the phone on the desk and held it out for her to take. “Better do it now. Saturday’s not that far away. If you plan to hire me, I’ve got a lot of work to do.”

  It seemed awkward making the phone calls in front of him, but she dialed the first number, carrying the cordless phone across the room, hoping for some semblance of privacy.

  Luann Tugmore gave Max a glowing recommendation. Best ribs she’d ever tried. As an aside, she mentioned that Max looked awfully good when she and her girlfriends invited him to stay for a swim after their sorority party. From the dreamy way the woman talked, Lauren couldn’t help but wonder if Luann Tugmore had tasted more than Max’s barbecued ribs.

  Jennie and Dirk Chelsea had hired Max to prepare a real Hawaiian luau. Naturally he’d outdone himself, fixing genuine poi, serving the tenderest and best tasting pork they’d ever had, not to mention the fact that he’d helped Jennie procure fresh plumeria leis for half the cost she’d been quoted by several florists in town. The happy lady couldn’t recommend Max highly enough.

  It seemed to Lauren that Max had a way with women—but she wasn’t about to let him have his way with her. The endorsements were all for barbecues, and she felt the need to taste his other wares before giving him the job, no matter how needy she was.

  “Great references,” she admitted, no longer unnerved by his eyes, definitely not shaken by the way he leaned casually against the wall, watching her every move. “However—”

  “There’s not enough time for howevers,” he interrupted, heading for the desk and shoving his portfolio into his briefcase. “I told you on the phone that I already had another party this Saturday. I’ve told you what I’m willing to do for you. If you want my help, we can draw up a contract—at my regular prices, even though you offered me more—and I’ll provide you with the best food you and your society friends have ever eaten.”

  The man was decidedly impatient. And maybe she was too picky.

  �
��I’m sure you’re quite capable,” she said, “but—”

  “If you need a day or two, or even a few hours to think about it, you’re out of luck.”

  He grabbed his briefcase and headed for the library doors.

  “Would you stop and be quiet for just one moment,” she blurted out, but he didn’t slow down. “All I wanted to say is that I’d like to taste some of your food before I sign on the dotted line.”

  “Fine. Let’s go.”

  “Where?” she asked, running to catch up with him.

  “My place.” He came to a stop when he reached the sleek black motorcycle sitting in the middle of her circular drive.

  “But—”

  “No buts, Lauren.” He grinned as he swung his leg over the seat—revealing, to her dismay, that worn spot on his jeans—and gripped the handlebars. “Hop on.”

  She stared at the machine, at the shiny chrome, at the shimmering, long-haired mermaid painted on the gas tank. She looked at Max’s wild, wavy black hair; his all-too-masculine mustache and goatee; at the powerful muscles in his arms and his flat, undoubtedly hard stomach; and realized just how easy it would be for a not-too-worldly-wise-woman to fall under this man’s spell.

  She, however, was a seasoned veteran of the war with men, and she fully intended to keep her distance. “I couldn’t possibly get on your motorcycle, Mr. Wilde—”

  “Max.” He patted the back of the seat. “I’m in a hurry, and like I said—”

  “Yes, I know, you have a lot of work to do,” she stated. “As a matter of fact, I do, too. So why don’t you head back to your place, grab a few canapés, and bring them here so I can give them a try?”

  “Why don’t you just go with me and save us both a lot of time.”

  She didn’t want to go with him. She definitely didn’t want to get on the back of the motorcycle. But she did want to sample his hors d’oeuvres, and she knew full well that she needed a caterer desperately and that this brusque, presumptuous biker was the only chef she could find.