By Invitation Only (10 page)

“T
HESE CRAB THINGS ARE
amazing,” Holly Addison remarked to her collection of bridesmaids as she shoved another one in her mouth.

“I know,” the blonde on her left answered, reaching toward the silver platter for another. “If I keep eating these, I’ll never fit into that dress.”

“Really, Holly, darling,” a six-foot-tall woman with artfully waved brown hair said. Standing on a pedestal in a semicircle of mirrors, she sucked in her stomach as an assistant tried to zip her dress. “Couldn’t you have found a more forgiving fabric than satin?”

“You’re the one who drank four margaritas last night,
darling,
” Holly returned, followed by a benign smile.

Wearing a blond wig and her chef’s coat while pretending to straighten the flower arrangement on the small buffet table, Tara beamed as she listened to the bride’s and her attendants’ praise of the snacks on display.

Last night, after leaving Wade to handle the Code Lavender crisis, she’d made her way to the hotel’s kitchen, where she’d charmed the staff and learned Carla’s Posh Events team was providing hors d’oeuvres to the wedding party during their final tux and dress fittings. Andre, the resort’s pastry chef, was wildly put out by both Carla’s high-handed manner and her refusal to use any local specialties for her spread.

She’d further demanded “complete privacy” to make her precious tidbits out of fear Andre and his staff would steal her valuable recipes.

With his culinary heritage and his pride bruised, Andre had been an easy recruit to Tara’s plan to make her own spread and serve it before Carla’s staff arrived at the dress shop.

After tasting the offerings last night, she and Andre were confident of winning the head-to-head battle, and then she’d have proof—in her own mind as well as testimony from the bride—of her culinary superiority. With that knowledge, she planned to confront J. D. Maynard and ask him why she’d been rejected.

Ideally he’d tell her why he’d chosen Posh Events, then, admiring Tara’s spunk as well as her food, he’d recommend her to his rich friends, thereby saving her business.

See, I’m already standing on my own, Agent Cooper.

“My favorite is this pastry thing,” another woman commented, scooping up one of the desserts artfully placed in a scalloped-edged paper cup. “I can’t place the fruit, though.”

“It’s guava,” Tara offered with a polite smile. “The dish is called guava duff, a traditional Bahamian dessert, and made especially for you ladies by the staff at the resort.” During the
mmms
and
oohs
that followed, Tara set out the last of her and Andre’s selections, then withdrew to the shop’s storeroom. She’d cut her timing close to the expected arrival of Carla and her staff to hear the ladies’ reactions, but she needed to get into her secluded position before she was recognized by her rival.

No sooner had she stepped past the curtain separating the luxurious shop from its cluttered back room than an iron grip captured her arm.

Looking at her captor to identify him wasn’t necessary, but compelled to do so anyway, she stared into the angry face of Wade Cooper.

“Well, well, Ms. Lindsey, when did you become a bridesmaid?”

“Cute. I couldn’t fit in one of those tummy-sucking tube dresses if my life depended on it.” Seeing little point in subterfuge, she dragged off the wig. “I should have known the disguise wouldn’t fly, even for that dunce you put by the front door this morning.”

“I knew you were up to something last night.”

Tara fought against a pout. “I figured. That’s why I wore the wig.”

“Didn’t do you much good. I’d recognize those eyes anywhere.”

The intensity behind his eyes was well on display itself. Pointing that out at the moment, however, seemed unwise. Besides, she had heat of her own. “Is that why you invited me for a drink last night—to uncover my dastardly plan?”

For the first time since she’d met him, he looked surprised. “No.”

“You just felt the need for a drink at two-fifteen in the morning.”

“Yes.”

“And you didn’t want to drink alone.”

“I wanted to be with
you.
”

The anger and disappointment on his face said far more than his sharp tone. “You don’t now,” she said as she stepped back.

She should have been honest with him last night, she realized. She should have found a way to convince him that her plan wasn’t to make his job more difficult, or to disrupt the Maynard’s privacy. “I fed your clients for free, and they’re happy,” she said, still too annoyed to apologize. “Why aren’t you?”

“They—” he flung his hand in the direction of the shop’s interior “—are not my clients. J. D. Maynard is.”

“You need some crab cakes,” Tara said, turning from his glowering face. “And definitely a guava duff.”

He snagged her hand and dragged her to his side. “Stay.”

Tara wrenched herself from his grasp. “Look, you’re really hot and interesting, and I like you, but I’m not big on manhandling, so don’t—”

He yanked her back against him and covered her mouth with his huge hand. “That’s your competition coming through the back door,” he whispered in her ear.

The protest that had risen to her lips died. She stilled, and Wade’s body relaxed, as well. He removed his hand from her mouth, but kept her tucked against him, his hand braced against her stomach.

As she heard Carla’s fake-but-peppy greeting to the bridal party, she was distinctly aware of Wade’s heart beating firmly against her back.

His scent and warmth washed over her like a wave of comforting strength. He might not be fully with her, but he wasn’t against her. Did that mean they were on opposite sides or somewhere in the middle of the chasm?

She was here to save her business—the most important thing in her life. Yet she realized she’d fallen into a much deeper pool, and treading water wasn’t likely possible for much longer.

W
ADE CLOSED HIS EYES AND
kept his body absolutely still.

He fought to remember his sniper training. The desire for relaxation, yet the need for watchfulness.
No sudden moves. Let them come to you.

But the impression of Tara’s body against his was the only thing he could feel.

At least his hearing still worked.

The sound of movement in the main part of the shop floated to him. The catering staff was laying out their platters and confused by the ones already present.

“Your assistant brought them a while back,” one of the women said. “The blond girl.”

“Did she?” an aggressive voice responded.

“Hey, don’t take that” was heard next.

“But we have fresh spinach canapés.” The aggressive voice was more placating, but not by much.

“Yay for you,” said the first voice. “But take that platter of crab puffs, and I’m going to hurt you.”

Tara glanced back at Wade. “Told you they liked my food,” she whispered.

“I’m sure they do,” Wade responded. “But then you aren’t up against much competition.”

“How do you—”

He pressed his palm against her stomach, sending a fresh wave of need careening through his body. “Listen.”

He closed his eyes to force himself to do the same.

The conversation shifted away from the food. They heard complaints about the dress—too tight, too shiny. That was coupled with a few bawdy comments about the groom, then his groomsmen, then his father, who was apparently known for a big bank account, multiple wives and small body parts.

“No comment is worse than a complaint,” Tara said, keeping her voice low.

“I doubt J. D. Sr. would agree.”

She lightly jabbed her elbow against his ribs. “I was talking about the food.”

“A good meal isn’t going to pump up J.D.’s shriveled ego.”

“Sex. Is that all men think about?”

Since she’d turned and was presently standing in the intimate circle of his arms, Wade didn’t see how he could deny the obvious. “Really good food is a close second.”

“Yippee.” She rolled her eyes. “Runner-up. Don’t I love that position?”

Nothing about Tara Lindsey was second best. The fact that she could even consider casting herself in that role bothered him way more than it probably should. As she’d pointed out the night before, they barely knew each other.

But the disappointment in their life’s work, after giving everything they had, was common ground. Their sacrifices had led absolutely nowhere. Sure, they were on their own, but they were failing.

Him in purpose; her in finances.

Before he could say any of that, though, she rolled on.

“I don’t see what the big deal is by me coming here.” Her vivid blue eyes narrowed. “I’m not bothering anybody.”

“You’re doing a damn good job of distracting me.”

She flicked her gaze to her hand, lying palm down against his chest. “I know what you mean.”

Loyalties warred inside him. Clearly Tara had been shafted, but J.D. had hired her rival. Wade didn’t necessarily like his job, respect his employer or agree with him, but protecting his interests was essential. If the client wanted bad food along with uninvited photographers in restraints, that’s what he got.

A small voice reminded Wade that he didn’t always follow a protectee’s orders. If there was suspected or eminent danger, all orders were mute.

But he wasn’t in the world of life-or-death decisions anymore.

He saved drunk bridesmaids from the effects of top-shelf margaritas.

And yet compromising his professionalism wasn’t in his DNA. No matter how much he respected and wanted Tara, they weren’t going to walk side by side this weekend.

“I think my backup Paul can handle bad spinach canapés,” he said finally. “Let’s talk outside.”

After slipping through the back door, he faced Tara in the bright tropical sunshine. Her dark hair was clipped back to conceal it beneath the blond wig, but she immediately leaned her head back and thrust her fingers through the waves, scattering pins and sending his need for her soaring.

Still, he did the difficult thing. Wasn’t that what he was paid for? Trained for? “We’re on opposite sides of this.”

Her gaze jumped to his. “Are we?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t want to be.”

“Me, either.”

“So why are we?”

“Because I have a job to do, and you don’t respect the boundaries I’ve set.”

“I’m trying to save my business,” she snapped.

“I’m trying to do my job.”

Her face flushed deep red, and he was pretty certain it wasn’t because of the heat.

“Opposite sides,” he repeated.

“Fine.” She turned, presumably to leave, but ground to a halt after only two steps and the words they both heard a short distance away.

“Look, J.D., I’ve made a lot of sacrifices to make this wedding special for Junior.”

Tara glanced back at Wade and mouthed
Carla.

Having eavesdropped on more than a few conversations in his career, Wade moved to Tara’s side, took her by the arm and pulled her next to the building. Carla and Maynard Sr. were around the corner, near the entrance.

“I paid you to make it special,” J.D. returned angrily. “And I’ve heard a lot of grumbling about your food. With the bills I’m paying, I oughta be getting better.”

“You’re getting
exactly
what you’re paying for,” Carla returned, her tone unyielding.

A door slam followed this statement.

Tara turned toward Wade. “Well, now, wasn’t that interesting?”

“C
LIENTS OFTEN DISAGREE
with vendors.”

Though Tara knew Wade’s words to be absolutely true—having been on the losing end of an irrational and disgruntled client a few times—she didn’t think the argument was quite so insignificant. “But vendors never talk back. The client is always right.”

“To you, maybe. That Carla chick doesn’t seem the type to apologize too often.”

But Maynard Sr. was one of the richest men in Texas. Why would she be dumb enough to piss him off? “Earlier you said there wasn’t much competition between me and Carla. What did you mean?”

“There
is
no competition.”

“Apparently there is. I’m losing contracts to her.”

“Wouldn’t be the first mistake Maynard made. I tasted her food last night. And I did eat a crab cake. No contest.”

“So isn’t it hard to believe she can be rude, expensive, serve crappy food
and
still be stealing my best customers?”

Wade’s expression was speculative. “Good point.”

Tara bit her lip. “The question is, how is she doing it?”

“Do you really think Paul is a dunce?”

Oh, so Mr. Security Chief wasn’t going to help her save her business, but he wanted advice on his. She patted his shoulder in what she sincerely hoped was a condescending gesture. “The door he was guarding? I breezed through it with food on a silver tray, chef’s jacket and a laminated ID tag I made at Walgreens last week.”

Before walking away she had the pleasure of seeing him wince.

“Have fun during the excursions this afternoon,” she added. “Water-skiing, scuba diving and snorkeling, I hear. I’m only sorry I can’t witness you keeping law and order, bare-chested and wearing only a bathing suit. I wonder which trashy tabloid reporter will be the first to buzz the island in a helicopter?”

“Hang on,” he shouted after her. “How did you know about the excursions?”

Tara didn’t answer. She smiled and kept walking.

B
Y DINNERTIME
, T
ARA’S
amusement had long since faded.

She’d skulked around the beach and resort all afternoon and hadn’t seen hide nor hair of J. D. Maynard Sr. Now that she knew her food was superior, she had to find out where she’d gone wrong. How was she supposed to confront the man, charm him and win future business if she couldn’t even find him?

But then, there was always the chance she’d get to him by admitting they were her surreptitious—but free—snack offerings at the dress shop, and he’d call the intimidating Wade Cooper, who’d then either have her arrested or tossed off the island entirely.

Not a promising path to success.

Without Maynard to charm, she’d instead listened in on dozens of conversations, hoping for more hints about the schedule later that night and the wedding the next day, and concluded there was some sort of party, but she had no idea where.

“It’s probably best to leave the investigating to the professionals,” she muttered as, exhausted, she entered her room a few minutes after five.

“I couldn’t agree more.”

Lounging in the desk chair was none other than Chief Cooper himself.

“What the hell are you doing?” she demanded, advancing toward him. “How did you get in?”

He flipped his hand to show her a key card.

“Look, buddy, that’s going too far,” she said, snatching the plastic from his hand. “This is my room. You can’t invade my privacy like this.”

Unruffled, he simply stared at her. “You’re not just a suspected party crasher, you’re a confessed one.”

“You’re an ass. And you’re probably some weirdo who likes to go through women’s underwear drawers.”

Of course she knew he wasn’t, since she’d also spent the afternoon using her cell phone to check out his Secret Service story. “Treasury Agent a True Hero” was her favorite headline.

His smoky eyes churned with promise. “I generally get offers to see underwear on an actual woman.”

Bracing her hand on the desk, she leaned close to him. “I’ll just bet you do.”

The proximity sent the emotion that had started as anger zipping in a new, more carnal direction. Maybe it was her frustration finally breaking free, maybe it was chemistry, maybe it was him.

In the next breath, her lips were fused with his.

He pulled her into his lap, his hands roaming up her back as his tongue invaded her mouth. She sighed into him as her arms curled around his neck. He was certainly as strong and hard as she’d imagined, but seductive, as well. He knew how to kiss and put his whole focus into the act.

Her heart pounded; her breathing grew labored. And desire wound itself around her, binding her to him like a rope.

When the kiss finally broke, they stared at each other, panting and dazed, knowing a line had been crossed from which they weren’t going to retreat.

Still, she felt self-conscious, having attacked the man as if she were both desperate and lonely—which, basically, she was. But she needed cash more than a man.

Didn’t she?

She sat up, and he let his hands fall to the chair’s armrest. “Sorry.”

“Happy to be here for you.”

“It’s been a long day,” she offered, searching for some common ground. “Did
you
pull a photographer out of the ocean who’d used a faulty bungee cord to lash himself to the side of a speedboat in an effort to get an exclusive shot of Holly Addison in her wedding bikini?”

“Ah, no.”

“Then I win the crappy day prize.”

“I guess you do.” She angled her head. “Wedding bikini?”

“White, obviously. With a lace and crystal train attached to the back like a fish tail. Or maybe a fish veil. Custom-made by some Paris designer, who apparently failed to notice the fabric became transparent when it got wet.”

“So other than drowning paparazzi, you watched over a bunch of scantily clad starlets all day. ’Scuse me, but that doesn’t sound so bad—at least from your point of view.”

For the first time since she’d met him, his lips broke into a broad smile. “There are some excellent plastic surgeons and personal trainers in Beverly Hills, and their specialty seems to be boobs and butts.”

“I’ll bet.”

“I saw you spying from the beach. Hot blue bikini. You spend some time at the gym yourself.”

“With my proximity to rich food, regular exercise is pretty much a necessity.” And how nice he’d noticed. Especially surrounded by those perfect Hollywood chicks. Maybe he— “Hold on, how did you see me? I never saw you.”

“Binoculars.”

“That’s a bit…unnerving.”

“A tool necessary for the job. Kind of like your need for a whisk.”

“Funny, I don’t see the correlation at all. If you want to see me in my bikini, you might try asking.” She narrowed her eyes. “Kind of like entering my room.”

“Okay. But catching you in the binocular sights was an accident the first time.” He scooped a stack of folded papers off the desk. “And I only came by to bring you this. As you’ll see, it’s not something I’m comfortable handing over in public. I was writing you a note when you came in.”

Looking down at the paper, she noticed the bold scrawl of the words
Tara, I thought you might…
But as she started to flip open the stack, she recalled a particularly interesting part of his confession. “The first time?”

His gray eyes gleamed. “I liked looking at you. I kept coming back.”

Her whole body went hot. “Did you? What about all those nosy reporters lurking around? Didn’t you want to keep an eye on them?”

“Except for bungee cord guy, they went with helicopters—nice call on that, by the way.”

“I’ve catered for celebrities, rich folks, demanding crazy people and the political elite. I’ve seen some strange stuff in the name of party crashing.”

“Which is why you knew what to do this weekend.”

“Apparently I don’t.” She dropped the stack of paper in her lap, then covered his hands with hers and leaned closer. “I keep getting caught.”

“Understandable. I’m pursuing you pretty hard.”

“Are you?”

His gaze roved her face, then focused on her lips. “It’s a little hard to keep my balance, but yeah.”

She understood his meaning. They had obligations to their jobs that weren’t meshing with their desire for each other. Like dieters licking chocolate off their fingers, they couldn’t seem to find the willpower to say no.

When he brought one hand up to cup her cheek, she melted into him like a gooey treat. She gave herself over to a kiss that was more tender than she’d expected, more needy than simple stress relief. He explored her mouth as if he planned to spend all day doing so.

The faint scent of coconut-laden sunscreen as well as sea air wafted from his skin, enveloping her in a forbidden island fantasy and exotic sensations. His arms, though banded around her like steel, held her with exquisite care.

She had no idea what they were doing, plastered together like magnets. But she knew she was glad he’d come, and she didn’t want to let him go.

Parting, she let her forehead rest against his. “This is crazy.”

“Then sign me up for the loony bin.”

“Done.” Smiling, she pressed another kiss to his lips. “I guess you have to go back to work.” A fact she regretted more than she expected.

He lifted the stack of paper he’d brought. “See for yourself.”

Straightening, she unfolded the packet. Her shocked gaze jumped to his. “This is the wedding events schedule.”

“It is.”

Her heart pounded as hard as when he’d kissed her the first time. “Why?”

“You got the shaft with the catering. I stand for truth and justice and all that jazz. At least I used to.”

“Truth and justice and all that jazz?”

“It’s supposed to mean something—not only for the rich and famous, but everybody. And especially you, particularly when I have something to say about it.”

His concern warmed her heart. He’d built a bridge between their opposing sides, and she was more interested than ever in finding out where their paths might meet.

She noted both a rehearsal dinner for family and the wedding party and a nightclub party for everybody else were taking place during the next few hours. The air leaked from the balloon of hope of satisfying her desire. “It looks like you’re going to be busy tonight.”

“I could bring up leftovers from the dinner.”

“Is this a meal Carla’s cooking?”

“Based on the resentful kitchen staff, I’d say so.”

“Then no, thanks. But I could call room service—the resentful kitchen staff does know a culinary thing or two. Maybe we could have a late dinner?”

“I’ll bring the wine,” he agreed immediately.

With a seemingly effortless move, he rose from the chair with her in his arms. She could really get used to this.

At the door, he set her down, then pressed his lips briefly to hers. “I’ll see you around nine—after the dinner and before things get out of control at the nightclub. Then I’ll help you find Maynard Sr. He’s really the only one who can answer your questions about losing the wedding contract.”

“Okay.” Her heart resumed its excited pounding. The possibility of having a heart-to-heart with a billionaire who might become a future client wasn’t the only cause. After all, all work and no play made for a cranky—if financially solvent—caterer.

Wade paused with his hand on the door. “Oh, and something squirrelly’s going on with that Carla chick.”

Spoken like a true Texan. “She got her cooking lessons from the Academy of Tasteless Hoes?”

He grinned, and she wondered how she’d ever had a hard time picturing a smile on his face. “Probably. And her financials are way off base for a caterer.”

“How do you know anything about her financial status?”

He simply raised his eyebrows.

“Right. You have access to information I don’t.”

“I’ve got a hunch.”

“What—”

He held up his hand. “Let me see where it goes. I have to deal with this rehearsal dinner, then we’ll talk.”

“Just talk?”

He brushed his lips across her cheek. “And eat. Don’t forget room service.”