neighbor.
Max wasn’t at all what one would expect at first glance, and she wondered what other secrets hid behind his rough façade.
He held open the back door and she stepped into a laundry room piled sky-high with dirty gym clothes, jeans, underwear, towels, and sheets. This was what she expected from Max Wilde!
“Excuse the mess,” he tossed over his shoulder, and kept on walking. As she stepped around laundry baskets and the occasional dirty sock, she thought how desperately he needed a housekeeper, or... a wife.
Of course, maybe he had a wife, a pretty, petite blond who worked as a receptionist in a dentist’s office. Someone who looked good in tight black leather, someone who didn’t worry about the laundry because she had a sexy, wild husband who preferred that she join him in more athletic adventures—indoors and out.
For some odd reason, that thought annoyed her.
From the chaos of the laundry they stepped into the orderliness of the kitchen, an impressive room of gleaming stainless steel, white walls, a terra cotta tile floor, and framed posters of souped-up choppers and hot rods. Pots and pans hung in clusters from the ceiling, as did wire baskets overflowing with tomatoes, apples, and bananas. On one wall was a massive stove, several oversized refrigerators littered with magnets and notes, a bank of ovens, homey touches like a red and black motorcycle cookie jar on the counter, and at the far end a sunroom blooming with plants.
“My cook would probably abandon me if she saw this kitchen,” Lauren said, taking a seat on the barstool Max pulled out for her. “She convinced me to put in a third oven a few years ago, and not a week goes by that she doesn’t come home with some new kind of gadget. I don’t know one from another, of course, but Mrs. Fisk is absolutely wonderful in my kitchen, so I don’t think I’ll tell her about yours.”
Max liked the way she chattered. Hell, he liked far too much about her, just as he had ten years ago, and that was a big mistake. Earlier today he’d told Jed that if you touch something hot you’re gonna get burned. Practice what you preach! he told himself.
But he liked the soft and feminine sound of her voice, a like that didn’t come anywhere close to resembling the lust he felt for her soft and feminine body. Tall, womanly, and gorgeous, she had generous curves that had felt damn good snuggled up against him as they’d ridden through the streets of her neighborhood and his. He’d even taken a few wrong turns so he could stretch out the exhilaration he’d felt with her arms wrapped tightly around his stomach, her breasts pressed against his back.
She was one hell of a woman, and maybe he’d been a little rude, stomping around like a man with a chip on his shoulder. There was just something about rich, snooty women that rubbed him the wrong way, even if this rich, snooty woman was incredibly charming.
But was she as charming as she seemed? Was she really sorry for leading on a naive kid ten years ago? Or was her apology simply a ruse to make sure he didn’t back out on catering Betsy Endicott’s uppity wedding? He’d had a mother who’d used her beauty as well as lies to get what she wanted, a mother who’d hopped from one man’s bed to another and eventually abandoned her kids. He’d never once believed that all women were like that, but he could easily believe it of Lauren Remington, given her tendency to turn up in the tabloids and her history of marriage and divorce.
Maybe it was high time someone taught Lauren Remington a lesson or two about men. She needed to learn that she couldn’t flash her pretty smile—or offer someone an armload of money— and get whatever she wanted. She needed him, and he was going to make her work hard for every speck of his help.
Turning his back on the pretty woman who was still chattering about her cook, and her butler, and her kitchen in that pink marble monstrosity where she lived, Max opened one of the
Max wasn’t at all what one would expect at first glance, and she wondered what other secrets hid behind his rough façade.
He held open the back door and she stepped into a laundry room piled sky-high with dirty gym clothes, jeans, underwear, towels, and sheets. This was what she expected from Max Wilde!
“Excuse the mess,” he tossed over his shoulder, and kept on walking. As she stepped around laundry baskets and the occasional dirty sock, she thought how desperately he needed a housekeeper, or... a wife.
Of course, maybe he had a wife, a pretty, petite blond who worked as a receptionist in a dentist’s office. Someone who looked good in tight black leather, someone who didn’t worry about the laundry because she had a sexy, wild husband who preferred that she join him in more athletic adventures—indoors and out.
For some odd reason, that thought annoyed her.
From the chaos of the laundry they stepped into the orderliness of the kitchen, an impressive room of gleaming stainless steel, white walls, a terra cotta tile floor, and framed posters of souped-up choppers and hot rods. Pots and pans hung in clusters from the ceiling, as did wire baskets overflowing with tomatoes, apples, and bananas. On one wall was a massive stove, several oversized refrigerators littered with magnets and notes, a bank of ovens, homey touches like a red and black motorcycle cookie jar on the counter, and at the far end a sunroom blooming with plants.
“My cook would probably abandon me if she saw this kitchen,” Lauren said, taking a seat on the barstool Max pulled out for her. “She convinced me to put in a third oven a few years ago, and not a week goes by that she doesn’t come home with some new kind of gadget. I don’t know one from another, of course, but Mrs. Fisk is absolutely wonderful in my kitchen, so I don’t think I’ll tell her about yours.”
Max liked the way she chattered. Hell, he liked far too much about her, just as he had ten years ago, and that was a big mistake. Earlier today he’d told Jed that if you touch something hot you’re gonna get burned. Practice what you preach! he told himself.
But he liked the soft and feminine sound of her voice, a like that didn’t come anywhere close to resembling the lust he felt for her soft and feminine body. Tall, womanly, and gorgeous, she had generous curves that had felt damn good snuggled up against him as they’d ridden through the streets of her neighborhood and his. He’d even taken a few wrong turns so he could stretch out the exhilaration he’d felt with her arms wrapped tightly around his stomach, her breasts pressed against his back.
She was one hell of a woman, and maybe he’d been a little rude, stomping around like a man with a chip on his shoulder. There was just something about rich, snooty women that rubbed him the wrong way, even if this rich, snooty woman was incredibly charming.
But was she as charming as she seemed? Was she really sorry for leading on a naive kid ten years ago? Or was her apology simply a ruse to make sure he didn’t back out on catering Betsy Endicott’s uppity wedding? He’d had a mother who’d used her beauty as well as lies to get what she wanted, a mother who’d hopped from one man’s bed to another and eventually abandoned her kids. He’d never once believed that all women were like that, but he could easily believe it of Lauren Remington, given her tendency to turn up in the tabloids and her history of marriage and divorce.
Maybe it was high time someone taught Lauren Remington a lesson or two about men. She needed to learn that she couldn’t flash her pretty smile—or offer someone an armload of money— and get whatever she wanted. She needed him, and he was going to make her work hard for every speck of his help.
Turning his back on the pretty woman who was still chattering about her cook, and her butler, and her kitchen in that pink marble monstrosity where she lived, Max opened one of the
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