Taste of Temptation (3 page)

Outside the suite, Laine turned on him. “What gives? Is there a problem with the cake?"

"It'll be here in fifteen minutes.” He extracted a white hanky with a flourish and sopped up the bit of gunk Melinda left behind on Laine's shoulder.

"Thank you."

He nodded, offering an exaggerated wink just to get under her skin. She couldn't help but laugh.

"My pleasure,” he said, guiding her by the elbow down the narrow hall. “How many attendants does the boo-hoo bride have in there?"

"Eleven maids, four juniors and two flower girls."

Jason's brow arched. “Wow, is this the biggest bridal party you've handled?"

She stole a sidelong glance at Mr. Chit-Chat and rolled her eyes. “Yes, professionally, anyway.” Way to add the qualifier. It was an open invitation. She could have slapped herself.

"That's right, you've got a slew of married sisters. Six? What was the biggest bridal party?"

"Sixteen maids."

"Bet your dad wished he'd had some boys in the mix."

Laine knew he was just trying to fill the dead space, but talking about Malone weddings wasn't the most calming experience for her.

Jason glanced over at her. “You must have had a lot of experience with planning pretty early then. That what got you hooked to make a career of it?"

She ignored the question, trying to will it and the image it conjured—a tear-streaked face vanishing down a distant corridor in a flurry of silk and sobs—out of her mind. At the end of the hall, Jason punched the down button at the bank of elevators.

Swallowing hard, she shook off the memory and forced the practiced smile back to her lips.

Jason stared at her, his clear blue eyes curious and intent.

"What?” she snapped, hitting the already illuminated down button a few more times.

"Nothing, just wondering what was behind that sad look you covered with your stock smile."

Her breath hitched in her throat. It was disconcerting to feel like he saw through whatever façade she put up. How was it that Jason, of all people, would be immune to her pretense? Was it that he saw her more clearly than everyone else, or, more likely, that the playboy/professional was so skilled in the art of masking emotions all her old tricks were transparent to him?

Regardless of the answer, making light seemed an apt solution. “I'll have you know, this smile is professional grade. It's gotten more brides—with zits the size of spitballs, nasty mothers-in-law, and fights over china patterns—down the aisle than you could shake a stick at. Why? Because this smile ... is effective. Makes people trust me. Don't knock it because your professional smile is just a poor man's version of mine.” There, she sounded flippant, fine, but deep in her core, she trembled.

"What are you talking about?” Concern etched across his furrowed brow. Ack, he was infuriating, seeing everything she didn't want him to see.

Suddenly she felt hot, claustrophobic, like the neutral walls and subtly patterned carpeting were closing in around her. She didn't want to talk with him about the hows and whys of Laine Malone—she didn't want to think of them either.

Enough of this. “I'm taking the stairs to clear my head. Thanks for the cake."

"Laine—” he started, his fingertips grazing her elbow.

Screams sliced down the corridor, cutting him off.

Without a pause, Jason charged down the hall with Laine trailing behind. This was her floor—everyone booked on it was a wedding guest. Her heels dug in. Whatever it was, she'd manage it.

The hallway T-ed off, and Jason darted to the right, shouting into his phone for someone at the front desk as he vanished around the corner. The screams ceased, giving way to a barrage of obscenities from a voice all too familiar.

Laine's stomach lurched.

Bridezilla.

Rounding the corner, she nearly slammed into Jason's back, hitting the wall instead to stop herself.

Her eyes went wide as she took in the scene within the small soda and ice alcove. Jason grabbed for Melinda, trying to drag her back from Ed, who was frantically tucking his shriveled penis into his fly. One of the bridesmaids, half-hidden behind him, had her silver, bubble-hemmed dress bunched up around her boobs and her pantyhose around her ankles.

There was no saving this day.

The reception hall was empty. It had been a mass exodus of tuxedos and taffeta dresses as the entire wedding party followed behind the bride and groom, who left the hotel screaming at each other. Everyone shouting into cell phones, booking flights back home early, bellowing threats at their would-be in-laws. People who would have been family, if fate hadn't stepped in, in the form of a 5'8” blonde bridesmaid cousin who liked it from behind.

Laine's shoulders slumped as she stood within the small prep-room off the reception hall. Staring at the enormous cake in front of her—delivered, in true insult to injury form, ten minutes after the wedding had imploded—her thoughts lost in how to convey the catastrophe to Connie. It wasn't as though they wouldn't get paid for their services—the bills got paid whether the “I do's” were said or not. It was a matter of reputation. The perception of bad luck and marriages-that-might-have-been was enough to close the doors for good. This was the second wedding Laine had coordinated that had been lost hours before the ceremony—and both within a month. She was screwed.

Her stomach tensed; her eyes closed. Why did people want to get married if they couldn't keep their hands from roaming into forbidden territory the very day of the ceremony? She could wonder all she wanted, but weddings brought out a side of some people she would never understand. A need to have it happen, to check it off their “life list", regardless of the circumstances.

"Damn it, damn it,” she muttered under her breath, not sure what she felt worse about, the fact that she hadn't kept a tight enough rein on the grab-ass groom, or the fact that she would even consider trying to keep a grab-ass groom in check.

At least it hadn't been her call to tell the bride as Melinda discovered the guilty parties herself. Laine had tried to talk to her, to make sure she was okay, but couldn't get a word in edgewise between the string of ten decibel curses Melinda directed at the groom as she ran out with a strangely possessive groomsman tucking her under his shoulder.

Maybe she'd be okay. Laine would call her later.

The door shut behind her. She didn't have the strength to see who it was, though she had a pretty good idea. Jason. “Do you need me out of here to clear all this?” she asked.

"No, I told the staff to give us some privacy. They'll wait. Shame, after so much work to get this cake in here, only you and I get to see it."

She nodded silently.

"You okay?” His voice was as strong and soothing as the hands he laid on her bare shoulders. His thumbs pressed into the knotted muscles astride her spine and circled slowly. How did he always know where to find her when she needed a distraction from her head?

Feeling exhausted from the wind up of the day, the efforts invested, she leaned back into his hands. She didn't have it in her to haggle or argue. It was easier to just give in. “I'm fine. Frustrated. Connie's going to tan my hide for this."

Jason's hands stopped moving at her neck. “Laine, Connie is a crusty old bat with a rawhide heart, but even she couldn't object to this. The groom was giving it to a bridesmaid before the wedding. This would have been a marriage made in hell. It was doomed."

"I know, but it's my job to make the wedding happen. It's my livelihood. My chosen career. If I'd been on my toes instead of screwing around with you—"

"Hey now, to my utter and eternal disappointment, there was no screwing going on. You were trying to make this cake materialize. And most importantly, the bride was better off finding out before she actually married that piece of crap. You can't beat yourself up."

So easy for him to be confident in the morality of the situation. He wasn't the one debating over whether he would have been able to do the right thing and tell if the circumstances of discovery had been different. He wasn't the one with a job on the line. Or a past haunting him.

"It's my job, Jason, to make sure that weddings happen. Not to ensure the couple is a perfect fit. I'm not a matchmaker. I'm a wedding planner. My livelihood depends on making the wedding happen."

"Don't get so worked up about this. It's just a job. You lose it, I'll hire you here. No biggie.” He reached out and scooped up one tiny bit of frosting and dotted it on her nose. “It's out of your control. Loosen up."

Loosen up? What in the hell?

That was the final straw. Exasperated, Laine grabbed a solid handful of cake, spun on her stiletto and slung it into Jason's stunned face.

Her satisfaction lasted only an instant before she sucked in her breath with the horror of knowing she'd made a potentially monumental mistake. Jason reached up and swiped the buttercream and cake off his face, taking a menacing step toward her.

Her hands shot up, palms out in a pacifying gesture. Shit, he looked like he meant business. “Okay, I'm sorry. Jason, I'm sorry, don't—"

The wet glob of creamy frosting splattered across her face, and one chunk of cake rolled down her nose and into her cleavage. No way.

She wanted to scream, be angry, but her cheeks were betraying her, the corners of her mouth defying gravity and her need to look mad.

Jason eyed the cake and then reached out and, with two fingers, swept the glob from between her breasts and popped it into his mouth. “Coconut,” he said, chewing thoughtfully.

She stared, wide-eyed. Dumbfounded by the affront. “You—you—” At a loss for words, she spun back for the cake and grabbed two fistfuls, ready to retaliate.

His strong hands clamped onto her arms. “Whoa, that's enough."

Tired of circumstances beyond her control, Laine decided to take destiny by the reins. The cake was going all over him. She pulled at his grip, twisted and ... slipped from his grasp, launching face first into the second tier.

"Whoops,” came the muffled concession from behind her, sounding less than sincere.

Baked confection erupted from her mouth, sweet spongy goodness embedded down the front of her dress, frosting, greasy and slick, smeared across the swells of her breasts and face. Her hands fisted tightly, and a strangled moan of fury erupted from her depths.

It must have sounded like pain, because in a flash Jason was by her side, trying to take her hand and pull her away from the destroyed dessert.

He wished.

Laine wrapped one hand around his wrist and planted her feet for the best leverage, all under the pretense of accepting his assistance, and then yanked back using everything she could muster to throw Jason into the cake behind her. He had to outweigh her by nearly a hundred pounds—she never would have gotten away with it but for the slick stretch of frosting smearing the carpet underfoot.

He toppled forward and, suddenly, Laine was going down with him, and, dear God, she was afraid he'd crush her. He spun around and, landing on his back, pulled her down on top of him. The cake cart shot forward, the cake itself collapsing underneath their bodies.

Eyes wide, Laine tried not to laugh as she stared down into Jason's stern face. Bits of frosting and crumbs gave him a stuccoed complexion—so very not the perfectly groomed man she was accustomed to doing business with. Of course, that perfectly groomed man would never have his arm circled around her waist the way he did now, would never look at her with the smoldering stare that was suddenly setting her on fire.

Laine lay on top of him, her legs together in a stiff line along Jason's body, her arms folded up under her breasts as some sort of futile defense against the hard planes of his muscular torso. He wore his clothes well, but lying on top of him gave her a new appreciation for what rippled beneath his Zenga suits.

She looked down at herself and felt her cheeks heat. Her breasts looked like giant frosted melons swelling up between them. Melons with berry garnish. Her nipples had popped completely free of the ruined gown and pointed up through a sheen of greasy frosting at Jason.

Slowly, she turned her gaze up to meet his. The look in his eyes left little question as to what he was thinking and nervous anticipation began to simmer within her. Suddenly, the arm around her waist tightened and Jason rolled them over so that Laine was underneath him, squishing into a pillow of dessert for two-hundred-fifty. He pushed himself up on one arm, his hips resting against her, his legs tangled with her own, the hard bulge of his cock at her abdomen.

Heat pooled in her belly, and every nerve danced with an electric charge across the surface of her skin.

Her lips parted, shallow breaths mingling between them. “You started it."

Her hushed words seemed to absorb all other sound around them.

Jason's eyes narrowed inches above her. “I was trying to cheer you up."

Biting her bottom lip, she gazed up at him. All she wanted was to run her frosting-slicked fingers through the dark slash of straight hair falling across his brow, pull his face down to her and lick the buttercream off the strong lines of his jaw. She wanted him, but their relationship was based on little more than a mutual love of sparring. She didn't know any other way to be with him. “You still started it."

The solid columns of muscle that pinned her at either side tightened in. His knee shifted, nudging between her thighs. Lowering his head, Jason had only one retort. “Fine ... Now, I'm finishing it."

His mouth met hers in a slow, sinking press of hard against soft. A measured rub of tender skin caressed back and forth with increasing pressure until the tip of his tongue touched the corner of her mouth and traced across the seam of her lips in a devastating assault. Desire swirled through her, overcoming her mind as she wrestled with the possibilities and repercussions. The kiss, all coercion and confidence, demanded she open to him. It was an exercise in restraint Laine couldn't endure. Her lips parted on a soft gasp, and Jason's tongue delved into her mouth, thrusting deep and then retreating in a rhythmic promise that sent a shuddering need racing through her core.

The hungry, wet velvet rub of his tongue against her own pushed her over the edge, swept away all thoughts of consequence and a primal, desperate need took control of her body. Their heads angled, deepening the kiss. Her hips pressed up against the ridge of his erect cock, her hands splayed wide across his chest, stroked over the muscles, the heel of her palm testing the unyielding resistance. He felt too good, so far beyond her wildest, most forbidden fantasy—

Suddenly she tensed, breaking away from the kiss with a desperate, “please,” as she turned her head to the side and squeezed her eyes closed, her hands fisting against his shirt. What was she doing? This was a risk to her job, her career. This wasn't what she was supposed to be doing—and he was the last person she should be doing it with. Jason might be certain he could handle the aftermath of a fling like this with total professionalism, but Laine wasn't so sure she could guard against emotion. Dependency. Expectation.

Her breath came faster with the encroaching anxiety, and Jason pressed a slow kiss against the side of her neck below her ear. “Don't think yourself out of this, Laine.” His words were ragged, husky. “Can't you feel what's between us?"

She could feel it. It was huge and hard and she wanted it. And now, having had a taste, she wondered if she backed out, would she ever stop thinking about it?

Catching her chin, he tilted her face toward his. Jason looked into her eyes, and then ran his hand down the line of her arm to her fist. Pulling it up to his mouth, he kissed her knuckles, lapping at the frosting between them with his tongue, until her balled hand flexed open, and his tongue flicked against the connective tissue between her fingers, sending waves of wet heat flooding between her legs.

"Give in,” he rasped against her skin as he licked and kissed his way back up her inner arm to where the soft flesh of her breast swelled beneath the joint. Pushing down the fabric of her dress, he cupped the globe, squeezing gently as if to test her for ripeness. The warmth of his hands melted the frosting between them into a slippery gloss covering her skin.

"Let me have you,” he breathed across her chest as his fingers slid from the wide base of her breast toward the nipple in one seamless caress that stopped just shy of the nipple. He lowered his head and licked a slow circle around the outer areola, pausing mid-orbit to nip at the fleshy mound before suckling the sting away. “Laine."

The sound of her name on his lips, rough and desperate, pushed her beyond her senses, and all restraint broke. Clinging to his shoulders, she rocked against him, her knee skimming up the side of his thigh and hip to ease the throbbing ache in her sex. His hips pressed down, shifting with a steady pressure as he continued to feast on her body. He grazed the candy-hard tip of her nipple with his teeth.

"Please,” she gasped, and he lowered his mouth around the erect tip and drew it in with a suction that pulled deep through her core and made her moan and beg again.

She grabbed at his shoulders, fumbled down his back and settled against his butt. Gripping the base of muscle, she pulled him against her before following the line of his belt around to the front.

Breath coming in steady pants, she struggled with the buckle wedged between them, while he suckled at her breast. Her mind was lost in the rhythmic pull across her body. Her core throbbed with an aching need to be filled, a desperation she didn't want to fight. She wanted this. She wanted him. And buried in a confection of pure, sexy sin, her smile spread wide as she gave herself over to seduction completely.