Born to Be Wild (35 page)

“Your mother’s right,” Max said, shoving his fingers through his hair. “Stick with me and you’ll lose everything you’ve ever known. Then you’ll end up resenting me, and I don’t want that.”

Oh, God, she didn’t want to hear those words—not from Max.

“She’s wrong.”

He shook his head. “No, she’s not. Your business is falling apart because of me.”

“People were laughing at my foray into the business world long before I met you.”

“Yeah, but having me cater Betsy’s wedding just added fuel to their fire.”

“Do you think I care?”

“I
know
you care,” he said, gripping her arms. “That’s what you do, Lauren. You care about everything and you’re constantly worried about what people think. There’s nothing wrong with that. Hell, more people should be like you, but if you and I stick together, you’ll wonder every moment what people are saying, what they’re thinking, and you’ll be miserable.”

“So what are you going to do, Max? Walk away from me?”

“I don’t see much choice. I love you, but—”

She laughed cynically. “You don’t love me, Max. If you did, you’d stick by me and we’d ride this thing out together.”

His fingers tightened and she could see the anguish in his eyes. “I do love you, that’s why I’m going to walk out on you.”

“That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.”

“Not to me. Do you think I care if people laugh behind my back? Do you think I care that your mother despises me? As for accusations about my friends being thieves, I’ve lived with that kind of crap all my life, and most of the time it bounces off of me. But, damn it, Lauren, I love you so much that I’d get hurt every time someone laughed at you, every time you argued with your mother, or lost a friend or your self-respect, because I know how important those things are to you.”

Tears spilled from her eyes. “I don’t want to lose you.”

“I don’t want to lose you, either. But we both
knew at the start that this would never work, that your world and mine were far too different.”

Lauren pulled away from him, wiping endless tears from her cheeks. “I never would have pegged you as a quitter. God, Max, I was married to men who didn’t care enough about our relationship to make it work. I fell in love with you because you weren’t at all like those men. I thought you’d fight for me, that you’d love me no matter what. But I was wrong.”

“I do love you, Lauren, but the last thing I want to do is hurt you.”

She laughed and let the tears go right ahead and fall down her face. “Well, guess what, Max,” she said, defeatedly walking up the steps to her big, lonely home. “You’ve hurt me far worse than anyone else ever has.”

S
leep, a box of Godivas, and a bottle of Dom Perignon helped Lauren make it through the first day. The second day she lay in bed trying to get over the blinding headache induced by too much champagne and chocolate.

Going shopping would have been a much easier way to run away from her troubles, but she couldn’t possibly have gone out in public with swollen eyes and a constantly tearstained face. Besides, she hadn’t wanted to leave home for fear of missing Max’s call—the one that hadn’t yet come.

How could he love her, not want to hurt her, and still walk away? Did he know how miserable she was? Did he care?

Of course not! No one seemed to care, and she was beginning to feel terribly sorry for herself.

Reaching across a bed piled high with pillows and magazines, all of which had brought her no comfort at all, she grabbed for a tissue, knocking over the half-full bottle of aspirin that, so far, hadn’t helped her headache.

She blew her nose, then tossed the tissue at the trash can beside her bed, missing, just as she’d done at least fifty times before.

When the knock sounded at her door, she tightened the ties on her black silk robe and sniffed. “Come in.”

Charles appeared, bearing a silver tray filled with some of Mrs. Fisk’s delectable food. He walked across the room, shaking his head when he gave her a quick glance, then crossed to her dresser. “I’ve brought a fresh supply of food,” he said, setting that tray down and picking up the one left over from lunchtime—the food still untouched.

“Pardon me for saying this, Miss Remington, but are you going to stay in this room forever?”

“I’ve thought about it.”

“Have you thought about the fact that crying for two days is not going to make Mr. Wilde come back?”

“It doesn’t appear that anything’s going to make Mr. Wilde come back, but I’d hoped crying might gain me a little sympathy, at least an ounce of understanding and concern from the people I love.”

“Are you finding that to be the case?”

“No, quite the contrary. You’re the only visitor I’ve had in two days, and you’ve been anything but congenial.”

He grinned. “I thought my attitude might get you out of bed sooner. Obviously I was wrong.”

“Do you have any other thoughts that might get me out of this room? I’m particularly interested in hearing what you have to say about how I can get Max Wilde back.”

“I believe there are dozens of possibilities.”

“Care to share them with me?”

“No.”

“And why not?”

“Because you’ve spent your entire life doing what everyone wanted you to do or expected you to do. I seem to recall you telling me that you were tired of that, and you planned to do things on your own from now on. Well, I believe it’s high time you follow through on that.”

“All I asked for was one small suggestion.”

Charles walked toward the door. “And I’ve complied with that request.” He stepped into the hallway. “Good night, Miss Remington.”

Why was it that Charles was always right?

Blowing her nose again, she shot the tissue toward the trash and missed. She’d probably missed a lot of other things in the last two days— like her entire life.

Get a grip, she told herself, and think of a way to get Max back. But her brain was too muddled to think. She needed help.

Picking up the telephone, she punched in her
brother’s number. It was just past seven in Wyoming and she knew she couldn’t possibly be interrupting anyone’s sleep. She’d done that once in the last couple of weeks and she couldn’t do it again, not when she thought about Sam’s delicate condition.

Her sister-in-law’s voice was just the thing she needed to feel better. Trying her hardest not to sound hung over, not to sound like a woman on the brink of madness, she took a deep breath and tried to launch a calm conversation after all the hellos, how-are-yous, and how-are-you-feelings were exchanged.

“Oh, Sam,” she cried, “I don’t know what I’m going to do.”

“The first thing you’re going to do is stop crying,” Sam instructed, “and then you’re going to tell me what’s wrong.”

Grabbing a tissue from the box in the middle of her bed, Lauren blew her nose, sighed deeply, then tried again.

“I’m in love with Max Wilde.”

“And that’s making you cry.”

“Of course not. He loves me, too.”

“I don’t see the problem here.”

“Mother hates him.”

“That’s your mother’s problem. Not yours.”

“He’s a biker. He has a big mermaid tattooed on his arm, a goatee, and he wears earrings in both ears.”

“Sounds like the kind of men I was attracted to before I met your brother.”

“You’re not helping me a bit, Sam.”

“How can I help when I don’t understand the problem?”

Sam had a point. She always had a point, but she always had answers, too.

Lauren took a deep breath. “I told myself I didn’t want to get involved with Max because he was all wrong for me, but goodness, Sam, he’s just so gorgeous, and wonderful, and he makes me feel special and loved in a way no one else has ever done.”

“Then you should be with him.”

“That’s the problem. He doesn’t want me.”

“But you said he loves you.”

“He does,” Lauren admitted, “or at least he says he does, and that’s the reason he doesn’t want to be with me.”

There was a terribly long silence on the other end of the phone. “Are you there, Sam?”

“Yes, I’m still here. Could I ask you a question about Max?”

“Of course. Ask any question you want?”

“Are you sure he’s sane?”

“Positive.”

“Then you’d better explain to me why he walked away from you because he loves you.”

Lauren spent a good ten minutes going over the situation and when she was through, Sam simply said, “I think the man’s crazy.”

“But he’s not. He’s wonderful, Sam. He’s adopting a boy and a girl, and they’re the greatest kids you’d ever want to meet. He spends a lot of his money on a place for underprivileged children. He donated all the money I was going to
pay him for Betsy Endicott’s wedding to your charity. And I can’t forget the fact that he makes wonderful barbecue sauce, and well, everything else is pretty personal.”

“You really do love him, don’t you?”

“I never thought it was possible to love someone this much. You know,” Lauren said, lying back in the pillows and thinking about her time with Max, “I’ve always been afraid of trying something new, of stepping outside the boundaries of what’s expected, but Max made it all so easy for me. He encouraged me to ride a motorcycle, and baby-sit his kids, which I’m really pretty good at, and, goodness, Sam, he brings out the best in me.”

“Sounds like he’s worth fighting for, but I don’t have any suggestions, Lauren. You’re on your own this time.”

He’s definitely worth fighting for, Lauren told herself. She only hoped she could come up with the proper strategy, and that Max would be willing to get in the ring and go a round or two. Succeeding at this was far more important than planning the perfect wedding. This time, her future with Max was at stake.

oOo

“You look like hell.”

Max jerked his head toward the sound of Jazz’s voice and the slamming kitchen door. She was dressed in her best throw-in-an-extra-twenty-and-I’ll-give-you-the-works streetwalker outfit, slinging a big floppy chartreuse plastic purse.

Max grinned, always amazed at the way Jazz dressed for work. “You look like hell, too.”

“Thanks. I do my best.” She dropped her bag on the kitchen counter, kicked off her five-inch heels, and climbed onto one of the barstools.

“What’s for lunch?” she asked.

Max stared at the concoction in front of him. “Salmon tartare.”

“You’ve got to be kidding.”

Max shook his head. “That’s the specialty of the house today.”

“No fried chicken?”

“I’ve got leftovers in the fridge. Want me to heat it up for you?”

“I’ll get it. Don’t stop what you’re doing.” Jazz slid off the barstool, sauntered to one of the refrigerators, the same thing she did two or three times a week, pulled out a dish of cold fried chicken, and sat back down at the bar.

“So, what’s with the salmon tartare?” she asked, lifting the plastic wrap off the plate in front of her and grabbing a drumstick.

Max looked up from the salmon. “I got a very discreet call from some woman who was at Betsy Endicott’s wedding, asking if I could cater an intimate dinner she’s having this evening. She loved the Caribbean brochettes and she’s just
dying
to try some of my other specialties.”

Jazz chewed on the chicken, staring at him as if he’d gone mad. “You don’t sound happy about it.”

“I spent years getting away from preparing this kind of stuff.”

“So why’d you take the job?”

Because, damn it, he wanted the people of Palm Beach to like him. “It’s my attempt to fit in.”

Jazz laughed. “Is that possible?”

“Hell if I know.”

“Is that what Lauren wants?”

“I haven’t talked with her in a week.” He slammed the broad side of the knife down on the salmon and flattened it in one whack. “I’ve been busy trying to figure out how the two of us can be together without starting a feud between bikers and society snobs.”