Born to Be Wild (5 page)

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 though
t 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.

He was going out of his way to help her, too. What would it hurt to meet him halfway?

“All right. Just give me a moment to get my purse and car, and I’ll follow you.”

“I weave in and out of traffic. You’d never keep up with me.” He smiled, satisfied, more than likely, because he thought he was going to get his way. “Come on,” he said, coaxing her, his voice
turning suddenly seductive. “The bike doesn’t bite, and neither do I.”

She had her doubts.

“Do you need some assistance, Miss Remington?” she heard Charles ask from the doorway.

“I’m not quite sure.” She moved a bit closer to the big black machine Max was straddling. She had to be out of her mind to even consider riding on the back of the massive bike. Getting on a motorcycle—especially one driven by Max Wilde—had to be dangerous. Then, again, would living dangerously be all that bad?

Drawing in a deep breath, she called out to Charles over her shoulder. “I’m going with Mr. Wilde. Could you get my handbag, please. The silver Prada.”

“You’re sure?” Charles asked.

She looked at the big black motorcycle again. She looked at Max’s boots planted on the driveway, scanned the length of his powerful legs, his flat stomach, and the muscles in his arms. The tail of the mermaid swished as his biceps flexed, and she allowed her gaze to trail slowly up his arm to the ring in his ear, to the mustache and goatee, to the grin on his face.

For one more moment she contemplated the utter foolishness of zooming off with a stranger whose mood changed from one tick of the clock to the next, then turned to Charles and said, “I’m sure.”

Max chuckled, and she snapped back around to look at the smirk on his face.

“May I ask what’s so funny?” she asked.

His eyes darted to her ice-blue silk pants suit, to the diamond solitaire at her throat. “Silk. Diamonds.” He shook his head and chuckled again. “You’ve got to be the most well-dressed woman I’ve ever had riding behind me.”

“Thank you,” she said, gracious enough to keep a snide retort from sliding over her tongue. She would have changed into something more practical, but she didn’t own leather pants. Besides, she doubted he would have given her time to change, considering the hurry he was in. And, to be quite honest, she was anxious to see how it felt to ride something so powerful.

She slid her hand over the leather seat, and her fingers rested mere inches from Max’s jeans-clad bottom. “Are you sure there’s room enough for two?”

Max eyed her up and down. The last man who’d done that was Peter, right before he took her to that snooty fat farm in the English countryside, insisting that she lose twenty extra pounds before their wedding. Peter’s gaze had always been critical; Max’s gaze was altogether different—hot-blooded and erotic, making her quiver inside.

“Climb on,” he said, taking hold of her hand and clasping it against his stomach, obviously something one did for balance. “There’s more than enough room.”

Taking a deep breath, she swung her right leg over the seat and felt her body slide exceedingly
close to his. Her breasts squashed against his back, her thighs grazed his thighs, and her heart thundered. Oh, dear!

He slipped his hand over her leg, taking liberties she hadn’t expected.

“What do you think you’re doing?” she asked, tugging his fingers from the back of her knee.

His hair blew in the breeze and tickled her nose as he glared at her over his shoulder. “Helping you put your foot on the peg.”

A likely story. “Thank you, but I’m sure I can do that myself.”

Shaking his head, no doubt annoyed—again— he gripped the handlebars as she lifted one silver spiked heel from the pavement and put it on the shiny chrome peg. Her strappy sandals, not to mention her ice-blue silk pantsuit, weren’t exactly biker mama gear, but they’d have to do for now.

Her right foot found its way to the other peg, and she rested her hands on her thighs. She wasn’t about to wrap her arms around the owner of Born To Be Wild Catering. That seemed far too personal, and this was a business trip, nothing more.

Peering over Max’s shoulder, she could see him lift his helmet from its resting place between the handlebars. “Put this on,” he said, turning halfway around in his seat and unceremoniously slipping the heavy helmet over her head.

“What about you?” she asked, her words muffled as he fastened the strap under her chin. “Isn’t it against the law to ride without a helmet?”

“I’ll take my chances.”

The motorcycle jerked when he released the kickstand, and his thighs rubbed against hers. When he started the engine, she could feel the vibration between her legs, and it pulsed faster and stronger as he twisted the ends of the handlebars to rev the motor. She hated to admit it, but the sensations were sinfully delightful.

“Here’s your handbag, Miss Remington,” Charles shouted to her over the roar of the engine. “Is there anything else you’d like?”

“No, Charles,” she said, latching on to the Prada, as if it were her only lifeline between craziness and sanity. She should be worrying about what seedy part of town Max Wilde planned to take her. She should be wondering if he drove sensibly, or if he had a streak of Evel Knievel in him. She should be afraid that she’d never see her family or her home again. But at the moment, the only thing bothering her was the fact that a whole lot of her body was touching a whole lot of this brash and fascinating stranger.

“You have Mr. Wilde’s phone number if you need to reach me,” she shouted to Charles through her helmet.

“Very well, Miss Remington,” he shouted back, then smiled slyly. “But I will do my best not to interrupt you.”

Lauren knew quite well what Charles was insinuating by that statement. How could he possibly think she was interested in a man like Max Wilde? When she returned home, she’d inform
him that she’d gone with Max Wilde
only
to expedite the arrangements for Betsy’s wedding, and not to go jumping to conclusions.

Max revved the engine again. “Ready?” he asked, looking at her over his shoulder.

Smiling weakly, wondering one last time if she’d lost her mind, she slipped her arms around Max’s waist, giving up on propriety for the sake of safety. “Ready,” she answered, as bravely as possible.

The machine beneath them rumbled. Her heart beat wildly, and she could hear Max’s laughter as the motorcycle streaked down the driveway. “Hold on tight,” he hollered against the rush of wind. “You’re in for the ride of your life.”