Planning for Love (5 page)

“True. I don’t buy it as an excuse, though. You need time to
unwind after an event. Now, you can either go home and watch bad television,
surf the web, or come sip champagne across from a man who thinks you’re
beautiful.”

“So you’re saving me from my weakness for infomercials? The
invitation is strictly out of the goodness of your heart?”

“Quite the opposite. The invitation is strictly selfish. I want
to taste you, Ivy.” The scrape of his feet against the stones came to a halt. A
gentle nudge with his forehead tipped her head back. Their eyes locked. “Why
don’t we get a jump on the inevitable? Because I don’t want to wait another
moment.”

Ivy had a split second to decide. Stick to her guns—and her
professional ethics—and slip out of his arms? Or stay and lock lips with a super
sexy man in the moonlight? Really, it was easiest to not decide at all. Her
eyelids drifted shut as she waited for Ben to make his move. And waited. Nothing
happened. She peeked out from beneath her lashes to see the merest hint of a
smirk lifting the edges of Ben’s mouth. Her eyes flew open the rest of the
way.

“What? What happened to the tasting and the moment?”

“The moment’s not right until you decide to commit to it. I
promised earlier I wouldn’t steal any more kisses from you. Kissing is
interactive. A two-way street. You’ve got to choose to slide behind the wheel
and turn the key.”

Why did men turn everything in life into a car metaphor? Well,
she could play along. Despite showing every sign of being something of a player,
Ben had shown her, with that one little pause, that he also had bucket loads of
integrity. No sane, single woman could turn down an honest to goodness
gentleman. They were a rare breed, and she didn’t intend to waste this
particular chance sighting. Time to seize the day…or at least what was left of
the night.

“Oh, my motor’s fully revved. You’d better buckle your
seatbelt, Mr. Westcott.”

Ivy tightened her grip around his neck and went up on her
tiptoes to reach his mouth. The mouth she’d stared at off and on all day,
remembering the firm albeit brief feel of his lips against hers. He wasn’t the
only one who wanted a taste. She puckered up and planted a soft kiss. And then
Ben quite expertly elbowed his way back into the driver’s seat.

His lips slanted hard across hers, instantly ratcheting the
level of heat up from tender to full on sizzle. This was no getting-to-know-you
smooch. Ben claimed her mouth with possessive pressure. His teeth nibbled open
her lips, allowing his tongue to sweep inside. Her moan of pleasure was all the
urging he needed to slide his hands down to not only cup her ass, but lift her
off the ground.

Ivy’s world spun. Under the spell of the spring night, she’d
yearned for nothing more than a touch, a quiet kiss. She’d wanted a sip of water
to slake her lustful thirst. Instead, Ben’s kisses drowned her in a downpour of
passion and heat. The arch of her foot curved around his calf, looking for
something to ground her. Each stroke of his tongue ignited an array of sparks
behind her closed eyes. He tore his mouth away but hovered his lips a breath
away from hers. Eyes heavy lidded, he moved not at all, aside from the pounding
of his heart thumping through his tuxedo shirt. Suddenly, she realized what he
waited to hear.

“Okay, Ben. You’ve convinced me to have a drink with you.”

A hum of approval sounded low in his throat. He buried his face
in the curve of her neck. And then from somewhere behind them, a short high
gasp, and the unmistakable crash of glass breaking on the stone floor. Ben’s
grip bobbled, but he didn’t drop her.

“Get your hands off my friend’s ass right now, or I’ll call in
someone a lot bigger than me to make you.”

Mortified, Ivy wriggled down until her feet touched the ground.
Bad enough if they’d been caught literally necking by a client or another
vendor. That alone would have been reminder enough why she never randomly hooked
up with men, and especially not on the job. At least then she could’ve walked
away with bruised dignity, but able to bury the memory in a very deep hole. But
now, discovered like this, Ivy knew she was in for a solid week of lectures,
followed by months of teasing. She peeked around Ben’s wide chest to meet the
worried gaze of her best friend.

“You can hold off on the imaginary security, Daphne. I’m
fine.”

Ben rebuttoned the tux jacket she didn’t even remember undoing,
then turned around. “I assure you, my hands had nothing but good intentions
toward your friend’s ass.” He strode to the doorway, skirting around the
shattered remains of a vase, and held out his hand. “Bennett Westcott, True Life
Productions.”

Daphne wiped her hands on the lavender apron covering her
end-of-the-night uniform of jeans and a tee. “Daphne Lovell. Sorry about the
mess.”

“Daphne’s my best friend and business partner at Aisle Bound.
She’s an amazing florist.” Ivy talked as fast as possible while slipping back
into her shoes. The more she talked, the less chance Daphne would be able to ask
what the hell was going on. “She did today’s flowers. I completely forgot you
were coming back to get all the vases tonight.”

Daphne brought her hands together over her heart in feigned
shock. “You forgot?
You
forgot a logistical detail
about an event?” Her blue eyes narrowed, swept from the top of Ben’s
sun-streaked mop of hair, all the way down his more than six feet of
handsomeness. “Normally I’d assume the only explanation is a sudden onset brain
tumor. But looking at what distracted you, I guess I can understand.”

“You can?” Ivy was floored. Where were the recriminations? The
scolding at her stupidity and risking the company’s reputation?

“God, Ivy, look at him! Who wouldn’t want a nibble? He’s hot,
built, and apparently you’ve already hooked him. I say go for it.”

“Ladies, I’m standing right here. Could you maybe not talk
about me like I’m sex on a stick?”

“Nope. Now you’ve permanently implanted that imagery in my
brain. But I will leave the two of you alone. Have a good time. Oh, and I’ll
send someone up here to clean up the vase, so you might want to relocate your
frolicking.” Daphne backed away, putting her hand to her ear in a call-me
gesture.

A heavy silence thickened the air. The music downstairs had
ended. Ivy wasn’t sure what to do with Daphne’s surprising nod of approval.
Daphne’s appearance had splashed cold water all over the magical moment. All the
reasons why not to go along with Ben flooded back in a rush. And then he took
her hand, planting a kiss in her palm and closing her fingers over it like a
promise.

Ben locked inky blue eyes with her, deep dimples ratcheting his
smile from sexy to irresistible. “So, how about that drink?”

Chapter Four

Marriage has many pains, but celibacy has no pleasures.

—Samuel Johnson

“I feel like I’m starring in a madcap thirties movie. Rushing into a hotel in the wee hours of the morning dressed in formalwear. If only you wore a top hat,” Ivy mused as she and Ben crowded together into the revolving door.

“Decadent, isn’t it? Until you remember that we’ve been in these clothes since noon, and worked our butts off all day. Kind of takes the shine off the image.” Ben pushed them through into the refined grey and black elegance of the Cavendish Grand lobby. A soaring atrium rose three stories, with one entire wall of windows overlooking the hustle and bustle of Michigan Avenue. The walls were covered in dove grey satin echoed in the chairs and sofas grouped around a cascade of water streaming from the ceiling into a mound of shiny black river stones. Sheets of glass formed the check-in desk, supported by columns of dark granite.

“Miss Rhodes, welcome to the Cavendish. I wasn’t aware any members of your bridal party were staying with us this evening.” Cool as the cucumber slices Ivy used to de-puff her eyes, the starched British accent caused her to snatch her hands off Ben’s arm as though it were suddenly aflame. Yep, she’d been caught. At this rate, she might as well take out an ad in the
Chicago Tribune
announcing her intention to let Ben keep kissing her.

“Don’t worry, Gib. Your crack staff hasn’t let you down. Mr. Westcott is one of us. Well, if you only count his actual work as a videographer, and overlook his slimy employer.” No use beating around the bush. Gib would ferret out Ben’s job whether she mentioned it or not. Better to bring it up now and control the spin. She put a hand on each man’s arm. “Gibson Moore is the manager of this lovely facility and one of my dearest friends. Gib, meet Bennett Westcott, who as of about fifteen minutes ago, can proudly state that he no longer works for
Wild Wedding Smackdown
.”

Gib’s hand was outstretched, ready to shake until she uttered the name of the vile show. Smoothly, he reversed direction to adjust his pinstriped grey pocket square as though it had been his intention all along, and not an evasion. “Are you a guest here at the Cavendish?”

“I am. But you can relax—I don’t have any screaming, hair-pulling brides with me. The bridal party is all staying at the Park Hyatt. We try to maintain a buffer zone from the people we film when not actually at the wedding. Learned that the hard way when a pissed-off maid of honor stole all our equipment one time in Denver. I promise your hotel will remain classy and quiet, exactly like every Cavendish Grand around the world.”

“Then it’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Westcott.” Gib thawed his icily professional smile by a few degrees and shook the offered hand.

“Call me Ben. Any friend of Ivy’s, right?”

“Indeed.” That assessing grey gaze that so eerily matched his surroundings swung back and forth between Ivy and Ben. “So what brings you two here in the shank of the evening?”

“Ivy’s had a long day. Thought I’d get her off her feet and relax her with a little bubbly.”

“Off her feet? I see.” Gib shot his cuffs. He often used the gesture to give him a minute to assess. His eyes slid down to take in Ben’s fingers intertwining with Ivy’s despite her attempts to hide their hands behind the folds of her gown. For she knew Gib’s reserve to be, at best, a complete sham. By breakfast he would’ve used his considerable network of connections in town to spread the word far and wide about her date with Ben. Mocking would ensue, followed by merciless teasing and lots of searching on YouTube for the most reviled, most embarrassing quotes from
WWS
to rub in her face.

“We can certainly accommodate you in the Ascot Lounge. Please enjoy a drink with my compliments.” A flick of the wrist produced a card he slid into Ben’s lapel pocket. “As you say, any friend of Ivy’s…” He trailed off, full lips twisting into the restrained, British version of a smirk.

“Thanks, Gib.” Ben gave him a hearty man-clap on the shoulder. “This is a great way to let off some steam, put the day behind us.”

Her oh-so-polite friend inclined his head an inch, the picture of a perfect gentleman, as opposed to the virulent gossipmonger he’d turn into the second they crossed the lobby. “I’ll be in touch, Miss Rhodes.”

“I have no doubt.” As Ben led her away, she craned her neck around so she could stick out her tongue. Sure enough, Gib’s calm façade had crumbled, and his mouth gaped open. He held one hand at his ear in the gesture used by teenaged girls everywhere indicating that she should call him. Fat chance he’d get any details out of her. At least, not without serious bribery, something on the level of dinner at Vinci on their next wine night.

The Ascot Lounge featured lots of burgundy leather with gold accents, from the deep couches, to the wall of matching books, to the ottomans in front of the fireplace. The only people in the room were the bartender and a tired-looking waitress rolling a stack of silverware into napkins at a table. Ivy sat on a barstool, relieved beyond words to be off her feet. But her physical relief quickly disappeared beneath the weight of anxiety as she watched Ben place their order with the bartender. The intimate bubble in which they’d danced had held up pretty well during their banter on the cab ride to the hotel. Seeing Gib, however, had burst that bubble with all the delicacy of a SCUD missile, and she felt awkward in a dozen different ways.

Self-conscious, Ivy ran her hand over her still somewhat tidy French twist. Undoubtedly a few limp strands had escaped, and most of her makeup had probably faded. How on earth to pick up where they left off and start flirting again? She knew almost nothing about him. Oh, and how to smother her yawns as the after-midnight, post-event exhaustion caught up with her? Drinks with the handsome stranger had been a bad idea. Far too much pressure. For heaven’s sake, she wasn’t even wearing her date staple, the pink lace push-up bra! Ivy felt the distinct sense of its loss akin to that of an artist who’d left his favorite brush and paints at home, staring at a blank canvas.

Ben pushed a stool aside and leaned sideways on the bar beside her, one elbow propping him up. He’d stuffed his bow tie in a pocket and undone the top three buttons of his shirt. The effect was very debonair. Like George Clooney in
Ocean’s Eleven
. And no red-blooded woman could resist anyone remotely resembling Clooney. In a rush, Ivy’s anxiety disappeared as quickly as it came, replaced by basic lust. Astounding how Ben put her through an emotional roller coaster without uttering a single word!

“Your kir royale will be ready in a minute. What were you thinking about just now?” He traced the smile brackets around her mouth with a slow, teasing finger. “You’ve got an odd look on your face.”

Crap. Not just a handsome man, but a perceptive one. Ivy scraped the recesses of her mind to come up with a crumb of something, anything but the truth. “When we were talking to Gib, you made it sound as if you’d stayed at a Cavendish Grand before. I wondered where else you’ve been.” Her attempt at misdirection would be great at a church picnic or a quilting club, but it in no way classified as flirting. When would her drink come so she’d at least have something to do with her hands…besides fighting the urge to reach out and toy with the golden hairs cutting across the vee of his unbuttoned shirt?

Now an odd expression crossed Ben’s face. “Where I’ve been is a much longer question than I’m prepared to answer. I will tell you that I’ve stayed in a Cavendish Grand in Berlin, London, Rome, Sydney and Los Angeles.”

Gorgeous, globetrotting guy. It definitely pumped up his sex appeal another few notches. Lent him a worldly rakishness. Except for the utter boredom dripping like sludge off every mention of a far-flung locale. “You tick off those cities like you’re naming mundane freeway exits between Madison and Milwaukee. Where’s your sense of awe, your sense of excitement?”

“A Cavendish hotel is always elegant, always has a fitness center on the seventh floor, a great restaurant, and a concierge that can score tickets to anything for the right price. The view outside the window doesn’t matter so much.”

Was he kidding? “You can’t mean that,” Ivy stated flatly. “I don’t accept it. You’ve stayed in hotels where the view is of ancient palaces, instead of the high-end shopper’s paradise we’ve got here in Chicago. You’ve opened balcony doors to the swirl of exotic accents, and brushed your teeth in another hemisphere where the water actually swirls down the drain in a different direction.”

“Come on, that’s just an old wives’ tale.” Ben punctuated his opinion with a roll of his eyes.

Huh. Nothing disturbed a good rant like a fact check. She’d have to Google it tomorrow and see if he was right. “Maybe so. But still, you’ve walked down the same streets as kings and popes, trod in history’s very path.”

“Did I miss the hidden cameras?” In an exaggerated motion, Ben twisted, looking back over both his shoulders. “Are you filming a commercial for the Cavendish, or are we having drinks?”

“Sorry. When I’m enthusiastic, I tend to get effusive. And since I’ve never had the opportunity to stick a toe outside the United States, you could call me more than a little enthusiastic about travel.”

“If you’re so worked up about it, why don’t you?”

“Why don’t I what?”

Ben waved his hand in expanding circles. “Go. Travel. Stick your toe someplace where they call it a
punta
.”

“Excuse me? Did you just call me a whore?”

He barked out a surprised laugh. “No. That’s
puta
. Why do nice girls always know the dirty words in foreign languages?”

Whoops. “I had the flu last month. I spent three days in bed watching two seasons of
The Sopranos
. Felt like I picked up a little Italian.” Probably not smart to mention the twenty-episode marathon of
Love Boat
she’d recently raced through. He didn’t seem the type to appreciate the romantic nuances of one of her favorite classic shows. On the upside, if drinks didn’t go well, she could rush home and knock off another episode. She’d left off at the pivotal change in cruise directors, and couldn’t wait to see how the new one fit in.

“
Molto poco
. Very little.”

“Maybe, but at least I do feel I learned three surefire ways to dispose of a body.”

“And people say television isn’t educational.” The bartender delivered their drinks, then immediately backed away to the other end of the bar. Ben picked up his rocks glass filled with dark liquid and clinked it against hers. “Here’s to
WWS
.”

Ivy halted her glass halfway to her mouth. “No. Absolutely not. I won’t drink to that show. And you certainly made no secret of the fact you didn’t like it either. Why would you toast to it?”

“Just trying to be succinct. But if you prefer the long version…” he clinked her glass again, “…here’s to
WWS
, for dropping me smack into the path of a bewitching, beautiful woman.”

Eyes closed, Ivy savored the cool, foaming rush of bubbles against her lips as the black current and champagne concoction burst across her taste buds. Crisp yet sweet, she liked to imagine this was what the distilled essence of pure romance tasted like. “You could’ve just toasted to Fate. Even more succinct.”

“Fate’s a two-timing bitch who doesn’t pull her punches.”

Ivy’s eyes flew open. Ben was staring into his drink, swirling the ice cubes with a practiced twist of his wrist. “Good thing you’re not bitter at all.”

“Sorry. Fate and I aren’t exactly tight.”

It had to be closing in on one in the morning. Should she press him for the level of information men only revealed with whiskey-roughened voices in the middle of the night? Or, since she probably knew less about him than the TSA screener at the airport who waved him through security, should she overlook the oddly caustic remark and move on? Ivy took another, bigger swallow of her cocktail while she considered.

Standard dating protocol would be to push, to pry open every conversational oyster shell in search of that pearl of personality which could reveal the inner man. But did she really need to delve that deep? Ivy knew his generous lips were talented, his blue eyes bottomless, and his wide chest a vast, uncharted territory she yearned to explore. Tonight was about letting off steam at the end of a trying day with an attentive man. Oh, and hoping to get a few more kisses out of him before she called it a night. Perhaps it served her purpose better to smooth his frown away, rather than seek the cause. She downed the rest of her drink in a nervous gulp. Pushing the glass away, she traced the back of his hand with a TuTuPink-tipped fingernail.

“Would you overlook your journalistic integrity and tell me how we stack up?”

Ben’s eyes narrowed, but stayed pinned on the swirling sea of his drink. “Against what?”

“The other
Wild Wedding Smackdown
bride, of course. Now that I’m part of an episode, my competitive spirit’s kicked in. I want to come out on top.”

He lifted his gaze to lock onto hers. Blue fire burned in the depths, and Ivy felt pinned like a hapless butterfly on a Victorian insect collector’s board. The breadth of his shoulders loomed closer, legs pressing against her thigh. It forced her to tilt her head back, and he caught it, cradling a warm palm at the base of her skull. The bartender, the entire bar, no the entire hotel disappeared in the intimacy of their partial embrace. Ben was all she could see, all she could feel, his eyes sending trails of warmth along the same paths the champagne bubbles recently awoke.

“There’s nothing I’d like better than for you to be on top. I like a woman who takes the initiative.”

Chest tight, lungs cramping in protest, Ivy finally remembered to breathe. If a kir royale embodied romance, then Ben Westcott was the personification of sensuality. And both of them were equally intoxicating. Or maybe she needed one in order to handle the other. “I’d like another drink.”

“No.” His grip tightened, and his other arm snaked around her waist to pull her flush against him. “I’m cutting you off.”