Burned Deep (5 page)

“Let's move along,” my dad said. He glanced toward the fairway and the foursome who had been breathing down our necks—my fault—since we'd started earlier in the morning. “They didn't want to play through, but let's not needlessly hold them up. Especially when there's a storm moving in.”

He was so golf-PC. I grabbed my ball and clubs and we headed to the cart. He drove us up to the clubhouse and we found a table on the patio overlooking the eighteenth hole—the one that had just slaughtered my confidence. Making the gloomy weather quite suitable.

While the server brought our usual round of drinks without us even placing the order, since my dad was well known on just about every course in the Southwest, he finished tallying his score, three under par. His shoulder must be hurting him. He'd left the limelight years ago and was now the GM and occasional instructor for a private golf club.

Tossing aside his pencil, he asked, “How was yesterday's big soiree?”

I gave him a knowing smile before taking a sip of iced tea. “You don't really want to talk about that. You hate weddings.”

And I didn't like torturing him with details of starry-eyed couples. Nor was I inclined to mention my chance meeting with Dane Bax. It already felt too obsessive that, as exhausted as I'd been the previous evening, when I'd closed my eyes it was the gorgeous man with the hypnotic green gaze that flashed in my mind.

“Everything else okay?” my dad asked.

“Sure.” I didn't worry him with the mini–rescue scene that had played out at Grace's bar. Though that wasn't far from my thoughts, either. Particularly Dane's role in the whole thing.

Changing the subject to a safer one, I chatted my dad up on news of The Open Championship while we ate lunch. Then we parted ways outside and I loaded my clubs into the SUV and drove to my townhome.

I spent the first part of the week reorganizing myself following the rushed preparations for the Delfino-Aldridge affair. I had papers strewn all over my kitchen counters and table. Meghan's mishmash of ideas for flowers and decorations were plastered across the corkboard that hung above my desk in the spare bedroom, mostly pages from magazines that we'd torn out or images from the Web she'd given me so that I could get a full visualization and come up with more definitive suggestions for her.

I was long overdue for actual office space, but since I always met clients at their venue of choice or in their home I chose not to waste the money. Not that I could really afford the extra expense at the moment without making serious sacrifices to my budget.

I wanted an office, though. Dreamed of someday having a large, elegant one that would bedazzle my brides and their parents. A little more hustle and bustle would be nice, too, as I'd mentioned to Dane.

Not surprisingly, I checked my smartphone about a dozen times more frequently than normal, hoping for a call or an e-mail from 10,000 Lux. Though there was no sense in denying that I wished
he
would call. He had my number, after all.

I found myself fantasizing about him asking me to bring a résumé to his office, personally, saying mine had apparently gotten lost in cyberspace. I was actually tempted to do just that without the open invitation. In fact, the more I thought about it, the more appealing the idea became.

When I had everything in order, I wrapped up a few details for a Halloween wedding still a couple of months away and prepped for a new client I'd be meeting with the following week. I also had a bridal show in Phoenix that required paperwork and a vendor booth selection to consider.

All of that taken care of, I printed my résumé with the Delfino-Aldridge wedding added as a highlight. I willed myself to find the nerve to drive to 10,000 Lux and deliver it to Dane. But then I thought back to the last visual he'd had of me—soaked to the bone—and decided he'd likely forgotten all about me the moment the door had closed on his Venom F5.

Too bad I couldn't dismiss him quite so easily.

Too bad I was preoccupied with him every moment I wasn't engrossed in something that required my full brain capacity. The very reason I kept myself immersed in details, details, details.

I even stopped in at Grace's bar over the weekend. She complained about her latest date not being able to tear his gaze from the TV when they'd stopped into a pub for a drink before dinner the night before. It'd gone downhill from there. I commiserated with her over a glass of wine.

The following Wednesday, I parked in the partially paved, partially dusty lot of Tlaquepaque, a rustic yet high-end complex of restaurants, art galleries, and boutiques in a lovely traditional Mexican village setting, complete with cobblestone walkways and vine-covered stucco walls. The full sycamores created a canopy overhead and the sound of Oak Creek running strong and steady echoed through the archways along with a trilling breeze laced with sultry humidity.

El Rincon was one of my favorite restaurants, with a patio on the bank of the creek. I'd reserved a table for the consultation with my new client and her extremely excitable mother. The future mother-in-law was also present, looking anxious and trepid, as though she really didn't want to be there. I was used to this sort of dynamic and knew to work the group to make sure everyone felt included and involved. It also helped to order margaritas.

We debated the pros and cons of three local resorts they were contemplating for the reception that would follow the ceremony in a friend's backyard, which had an astounding view of the Mystic Hills and the glass-veneered Chapel of the Holy Cross that sat amid red-rock buttes, looking like a giant cross wedged between the rocks. A stunning sight to see, but the sacred Native American land was also believed to emit an energetic spiritual force, its vortex drawing the New Agers and worshipers to it in droves. Not something I'd wholly subscribed to, but I still found it all very interesting.

I was in the middle of my spiel on the difference between popular resorts L' Auberge and Los Abrigados when I saw him.

Every fiber of my being went on high alert. I faltered mid-sentence, my gaze following him across the patio as a flurry of dried leaves nipped at his heels. Dane Bax joined three others at a large, round table, one of them being the same salt-and-pepper-haired man he'd met with in Grace's bar.

Dane wore black pants with a robin's-egg-blue dress shirt, the sleeves rolled up his sinewy forearms, displaying an expensive-looking watch. Titanium, I guessed. He took a chair, set his laptop bag at his feet, and dug out a slim black leather portfolio that he placed before him.

When he glanced up, his eyes landed on me. A flicker of surprise crossed his face. Then his look turned intense. Smoldering. Heat flashed through me.

I had no idea how many seconds—minutes?—passed. Eventually, he released me from his captivating gaze and launched into reviewing paperwork with his associates.

I vaguely heard my name in the background, along with the distinct sound of a knife tapping gently against a water glass.

“Ari? Something you'd like to share with us?” Shelby Hughes, the bride-to-be, teased in her singsong voice.

It took all the willpower I possessed to divert my attention from the sexy stranger who so mesmerized me.

Shelby gave a coy smile, her tawny eyes sparkling. “Someone you know?”

“I, uh…” I shook my head. Swept a few wayward strands of my blowout style from my face. I'd lost all train of thought the moment I'd caught a glimpse of Dane. My pulse spiked and adrenaline flooded my veins. “Sorry,” I added. “What was I saying?”

She laughed. “I know that look all too well. Every time Matthew walks into a room, I'm utterly speechless.”

Mrs. Hughes smiled and patted her daughter's hand. “You're such a sweet couple.”

I'd met Matthew Barnes and was inclined to agree.

“Sooo…?” Shelby prodded with wagging brows.

I tried to fight the blush, to no avail. Even the mother-in-law seemed to take great interest in this turn of events, perking up considerably. I shook my head again, mostly to dislodge the vision of Dane Bax that burned a hole in my brain. I said, “I actually don't know him.” That was pretty close to the truth.

I spared a peek at my notes and then picked up where I'd left off, clearly disappointing my audience. But what, exactly, was I going to say about the man? That I had no idea who he really was and yet I was absurdly fixated on him? Desperate to speak with him again, even though it'd be a pointless endeavor?

When I'd finished my dissertation on the various resort offerings, I reached for my margarita and nearly downed the entire thing in one long gulp. My insides were on fire, just knowing Dane sat tables away, with me in his direct line of vision. Did he steal glances my way? I was dying to find out but didn't dare look over my shoulder. Not this time.

I wrapped up my meeting in a breathy tone and with slightly shaky fingers that made it difficult to write as I added details to my planning book. With nothing more to discuss at the moment, I said, “I'll type all of this up and send it in an e-mail so you can peruse it again, make some decisions or come up with more questions. Ping me anytime, for anything. I'll share with you everything I possibly can about the venues and vendors we've talked about.”

“This is really great, Ari,” Shelby said. “I'm a little brain fried from all the information you've given us.”

“Take your time looking through it all.” I handed over the packet I assembled for bridal parties, with the pertinent ins and outs and protocols neatly, concisely described so no one was too overwhelmed. It was a futile attempt to keep everyone calm, because there were just so many decisions to make and so much to do to pull off fairy-tale weddings. And Shelby's had Cinderella Moment written all over it.

The threesome left me and I jotted down more ideas as I polished off the rest of my marg and grew a bit antsy over the rumble of thunder through the clouds.

Suddenly I felt that emerald gaze. Tried to ignore the tickle against my clit it evoked. I needed to focus on immediate action items. Though the Hughes-Barnes wedding wasn't scheduled until the following summer, there were always things to accomplish and put on the radar right off the bat.

I tapped the end of my pen against my notebook as it started to dry up. I had a few more things to scribble down, but the ink ran out.

“Damn it,” I mumbled as I scrawled against the paper in a vain attempt to get a little more out of the ballpoint. No such luck.

Seconds later, a fancy Montblanc fountain pen rested on my planner, with the initials
DBB
inscribed in gold script.

My heart nearly jumped from my chest and I swear there was a sparkage factor between my legs that had to be illegal. I pressed my thighs together as the thrumming started deep inside.

Lifting my gaze, I found Dane staring down at me, an arrogant smile on his too-handsome face. As though he knew he so easily set my body on fire.

“You can return it whenever you're done.”

His laptop bag was slung over one impossibly broad shoulder, so I guessed he'd concluded his own business.

I handed the pen back. “I'm good. Thanks.” Every thought, save for one, had just fled my mind, so I had nothing left to write. Except the fantasy of him pushing my skirt up and taking me right then and there.

Oh, wait.
We were in the middle of a busy restaurant.

I shook the mental image from my head. Tried to breathe like a normal person, not a lust-crazed one.

He tucked away the pen and then gestured toward the chair Shelby had vacated. “May I?”

“Of course.”

Crap.
I'd had two margaritas, which took way too much of the edge off. I felt all warm and fuzzy and that just would not do at the moment. Why couldn't he have caught me after I'd taken a tour through the art galleries, as I had planned for the afternoon?

I reached for my water as Dane said, “You clearly don't lack for clients.”

I sipped, then set aside the glass. Even ice water couldn't cool my blazing insides. “I get a decent amount of referrals now. Word of mouth, or people who were guests at one of my weddings.”

He retrieved a magazine from the side pocket of his bag and dropped it on the table. My face smiled back at me.

“Congratulations,” he said.

It was the latest issue of
Southwest Weddings
magazine, in which I was featured in as an up-and-coming wedding planner, following an event I'd orchestrated at the private Forest Highlands country club outside of Flagstaff, just north of us. The son of an eighties rock musician had married a Malibu Barbie type and the wedding had been sensational, with the gorgeous San Francisco Peaks as the backdrop.

“Are you in the habit of reading bridal magazines?” I asked, my tone low and provocative. I couldn't seem to find my real voice when I was around this man.

“The cover caught my attention,” he said, a hint of mischief in his words. “Turns out you're exactly what I was looking for.” Excitement flared in his eyes—warning signals went off in my head.

Still, I said playfully, “I'm not the marrying kind.”

He smirked. And oh, what that sexy look did to my insides was nothing short of volcanic!

Even light flirting with him was dangerous. My gaze dropped as I tried to regroup. Then I forced myself to make eye contact again. Not exactly a good thing. I was way too entranced, way too hooked on how he looked at me, the way his eyes glowed seductively, the way the corner of his mouth lifted slightly, revealing the shadow of a grin.

“What
were
you looking for?” I managed to ask.

His gaze dipped to my rapidly rising and falling chest. Which made it all worse for me. My nipples puckered behind the tight bodice of my lavender summer dress as desire flitted across his chiseled features. I fought the insane urge to have his hands and mouth all over my body.