Best Man for Hire (Entangled Lovestruck) (Front and Center) (5 page)

“Did you hear anything?”

He watched her fighting to keep her expression neutral, but she wasn’t winning the battle. She took a sip of wine and looked out toward the ocean, her eyes distant. He studied her face, aware this was probably a story she didn’t tell much, if ever. He edged closer, brushing the side of her shoulder with his hand.

“My dad said my mom hadn’t been the same since they’d had kids—had
me
,” she said. “And Janelle, of course.” She swallowed, though she hadn’t lifted the wineglass to her lips again. “And my mom yelled back that
he
was the one who’d changed. They started arguing about how their marriage had become nothing but a business arrangement devoted to carpools and bake sales and soccer practice and whose fault it was they never spent time together. I didn’t understand a lot of the conversation, but I got the gist.”

“Jesus,” Grant said, shaking his head. “You can’t think—” He stopped short, knowing it would be a dick move to try and convince her that her parents hadn’t split up because of her. Who the hell was he to rewrite someone else’s story? He reached out and touched her arm. “I’m sure your parents loved you very much.”

“I don’t doubt that. But I also don’t doubt that my very existence destroyed my parents’ marriage.”

“That doesn’t mean it was your fault.”

She shrugged and took another small sip of wine. “Realizing at age eight that you’re responsible for the breakup of a marriage doesn’t leave you feeling enthusiastic about the institution as a whole.”

“So you just gave up on it?” His hand was still resting on her arm, and he wondered if she even noticed it there.

“No. For a while I still thought about it. Figured maybe a marriage without kids could be an option, or maybe just one where I worked really hard to make sure the romance wasn’t dulled by the tedium of picking up someone else’s socks. I fantasized about the fluffy white dress and the big bouquet of sunflowers and the Damascus steel band with one of those splotchy rustic diamonds on it.”

“Wow. That’s pretty specific.”

She shrugged. “That’s the nature of being a wedding planner. You learn what you love and what you don’t. I suppose I became a wedding planner so I could start foisting all those fantasies on other people’s weddings. Including my sister’s.”

He stood up and turned back to the grill, not wanting to miss a word of her story, but needing to flip the steaks. “Janelle’s married?”

“
Was
married. To a guy who turned out to be a raging jerk. But I was too wrapped up in planning her big, fat, ridiculous wedding to notice.”

“When was this?”

“The wedding was three years ago. The divorce is pretty recent. Still a lot of baggage there. The whole thing has really taken a toll on her.”

“You can’t seriously blame yourself for that.”

“Why not? I pushed her into it.”

“You can’t
make
someone get married.”

Anna shrugged and trailed a finger around the rim of her glass. “I’m pretty persuasive when I want something.”

“I can only imagine.” Grant turned and pulled the foil-wrapped potatoes out of the coals. He checked the steaks, making sure they were cooked to perfection. Satisfied, he returned to the kitchen and grabbed a bowl of baby carrots and some dip he’d bought at the store earlier. He nudged the fridge door shut and walked back to the patio, setting both items in front of Anna. She gave him a grateful smile and reached for a carrot.

“Aren’t you being a little hard on yourself?” He turned and pulled the meat off the grill, sliding it onto a clean plate. “I’m guessing this wasn’t an arranged marriage. Janelle had some responsibility for picking the guy, right?”

Anna shrugged. “It’s a long story, and it looks like dinner’s just about ready. Can we eat out here?”

Grant studied her for a moment, wondering if he should apologize for pressing her. She’d volunteered everything willingly enough, but maybe he’d been too pushy. She didn’t look rattled, and she smiled at him as she stood up and smoothed out the front of her dress. Still, something had shifted between them.

“Sure,” he said. “Eating outside is a great idea. Would you mind dusting off the table with that cloth there? I’ll go grab everything.”

He moved back into the kitchen and gathered silverware, napkins, coleslaw, and everything else he thought they might need. He considered grabbing the big citronella candle in the corner to help keep bugs away, but decided against it. No sense making her think he was trying to get romantic.

When he returned to the balcony, he saw she’d cleared off the table and laid out two bright orange plastic place mats his sister must’ve left behind when she last visited with the twins. They gave the table a festive look, and he set up the food feeling oddly jovial.

He sat down and began unwrapping his potato, glancing at Anna as she picked up her knife and fork.

“So,” she said, slicing into the meat with a clean, even stroke. “So what’s your secret?”

“Well, I usually pan sear the meat first to give it a nice even crust on the outside.”

“Not the steak.” Her eyes fixed on his, unblinking. “What you just did there.”

He cocked his head to the side, studying her with renewed interest. “What did I just do?”

“The conversational equivalent of stripping off my clothes and having me on my back in the first thirty minutes of a date.” She took a bite of steak and chewed, eyes never leaving his. Grant felt his mouth fall open, but no words came out.

Anna finished her bite and kept talking, her voice bright and calm and surprisingly cheerful. “Not that I didn’t enjoy it,” she continued, “and not that I didn’t willingly spread my legs—metaphorically speaking, of course. But level with me here, Grant Patton—what the fuck was that about?”

Chapter Four

Anna waited politely while Grant choked on his wine. She should probably help him, but given how goddamn perfect he was at everything else, she figured he knew how to perform the Heimlich on himself.

“Are you always this blunt?” he asked when he finally got some air.

“Pretty much.” She took a bite of steak and chewed. “Seriously, how did you do it? How’d you have me confessing my life story in less time than it normally takes me to remove my jacket?”

“You weren’t wearing a jacket.”

“You no doubt would have removed it if I were,” she said. “Metaphorically speaking. Come on, Marine man. What the hell did you just pull to get me to tell you everything but the color of my underwear?”

The corner of his mouth quirked. “Fill in that last detail and I’ll confess.”

“Blue. To match the dress.”

“And the streak in your hair.” He took a long drink of water, then set the glass down and met her eyes. “Fair enough. What do you want to know?”

“What was that all about? Why did I just tell you my whole life story before I even knew your full name?”

“Grant Ulysses Patton. Our parents named us all after military generals. MacArthur, Grant, Sheridan, Schwartz—short for Schwarzkopf, as in Stormin’ Norman.”

“Your family isn’t messing around with this military stuff.”

“No doubt. Which might have something to do with my use of elicitation techniques in inappropriate settings like dates and job interviews. I apologize.”

She blinked at him. “You used military-counterintelligence skills to get into my pants?”

“Are we still speaking metaphorically?”

“Yes. Why did you interrogate me?”

“It would only be an interrogation if I’d detained you, and I’d be using coercion tactics instead of evoking trust and comfort. Technically, this was more elicitation—a skill by which you acquire information without the subject realizing you’re doing it.”

Anna tried not to grin. “The
subject
? And here I’ve been dating guys who called me
honey
and
baby
.”

“I didn’t call you pet names, but I did ply you with a steady flow of refreshments. I also touched your arm and expressed sympathy for your misfortunes. That was genuine, by the way.”

She shook her head and took another bite of steak. “That is seriously the most fucked-up form of foreplay I’ve ever heard of.”

He studied her like he was trying to figure out if she was angry, amused, or crazy. It was certainly more of the last two, but she might as well keep him wondering. She picked up her butter knife and sliced into her potato. She felt his gaze on her as she loaded it up with sour cream and butter, along with a sprinkle of the fresh chives he’d grabbed from the potted plant beside the railing. Fresh chives? Christ, who was this guy?

“Even before the Marines trained me in counterintelligence, I had a knack for getting people to open up,” he said. “It’s always been like that. Even when I was a kid, random people just wanted to tell me things, confess secrets they didn’t tell other people.”

“I see,” she said, taking a bite of potato. “So your career choices were either spy catcher or priest, and you were too big to fit in the confessional booth?”

He gave her a smile that looked almost guilty. “Pretty much.”

“You’re good, I’ll give you that.” She took another bite of potato, surprised by how fast she was devouring her dinner. Good Lord, this man was an amazing cook. An amazing
everything
, really. It was infuriating. And perplexing. And maybe a bit suspicious.

But it was mostly just sexy.

“So teach me something.”

“What?”

“A technique. A way of making a bad guy reveal something he doesn’t want to tell you. That’s what you said counterintelligence means, right?”

“More or less.” He considered her for a moment, then nodded. “Okay, fine. Tell me a story that’s a lie.”

“What?”

“A story, but I want it to be a lie. Like maybe give me a detailed account what you did today, but lie about it.”

“Okay.” She thought about it. “Well, I started off my morning by getting a pedicure from Hugh Jackman. Then I went out and bought a new Mercedes and drove to Hanalei Bay where I made love in the surf with George Clooney before meeting up with Daniel Craig for lunch. After that I went for a ride on the back of Bradley Cooper’s Harley to teach a hula class to a bunch of school children, and then I watched the sunset from my private hot tub with Brad Pitt.”

“You have a very good imagination.”

“That’s why I’m a weird wedding planner and not a priest or a spy catcher.”

He took a sip of wine, his eyes never leaving hers. “So what did you do before lunch with Daniel?”

“What?”

“Your lunch with Daniel Craig. What did you do right before that?”

She frowned, trying to remember. “I think I was with Bradley Cooper. No, wait—”

“Or how about you tell me your whole day backward? What did you do last, and what did you do right before that, and what did you do before
that
?”

She grinned. “Okay, tricky guy. I can’t do it easily, I’ll admit. That’s a technique?”

“Yep. Someone who’s rehearsed a lie, or someone who’s making one up on the fly only knows the story one way. But if you try to get him to tell it to you backward or from the middle or from someone else’s point of view, a liar will stumble.”

“What if the person just has a bad memory?”

“It’s possible, which is why you’re also watching for visual cues. There’s a difference between someone who’s concentrating on remembering the truth versus someone who’s making up fiction.”

“How do you mean?”

“You read someone’s neurolinguistic indicators. For instance, you looked up and to the left when you were speaking. That can be a sign someone is accessing a part of the brain that fabricates fictional responses.”

“Huh.” She smiled, enjoying the game now that she knew what it was. “Do me again.”

She watched his throat move as he swallowed. “Metaphorically speaking?”

“Right,” she said, feeling a hint of heat creeping into her cheeks. “Come on, I want to learn some more of your secret spy-catcher skills.”

He laughed and carved into his steak. “Okay, tell me another story that’s not true.”

“About what?”

“Anything. Just make something up. A total fabrication.”

“All right.” She took a final bite of her meal, then dabbed her napkin over her lips and set it atop the empty plate. “When I first met you on the beach yesterday, I was physically repulsed by your presence. Like, completely horrified. You’re flabby and out of shape with no muscle tone to speak of, and your eyes are a ridiculous color.” She paused, flicking her gaze over his massive biceps and chiseled chest, before returning to his eyes. Her stomach did a funny little somersault, but Grant didn’t blink. Had she gone too far? His expression was passive, and he said nothing, but he was nodding slightly.

She kept talking to fill the silence. “And of course, now that I’ve spent a little more time around you, I know you’re a complete and utter dolt. You have no real talents like cooking or woodworking or home renovation, and you don’t seem to have any admirable connection to your family.” She pressed her lips together, but Grant kept nodding, a faint smile on his face.

“You have all these shelves around your house that are packed with books, which is a total bore—I mean, who likes a man who reads? And I saw the diploma on your wall in the office—magna cum laude?—please, no one likes an intelligent man, especially not one with great big hands and killer abs and a smile that could melt titanium on an ice rink. And don’t even get me started on your complete lack of career ambition or failure to serve your country or community or charity or—”

“Are you finished?”

He was watching her with amusement in his eyes, so Anna managed a weak smile, even though the room felt a little spinny. “Actually, no. I could probably keep going awhile.”

“I don’t doubt it.”

He leaned closer in his chair, so near now that their knees touched under the table. She could feel his breath rustling her hair, and she smelled something spicy and woodsy on his skin. The sun glinted in his hair, which was clipped close in a military buzz cut. What would it feel like to rub her palm over it?

He leaned closer, making Anna’s breath catch in her throat. What was it with this man and personal space?

And why did she want him in hers so very, very badly?

“Okay then,” Grant said. “You just spoke about two hundred words. Generally speaking, that’s three to four times more words than you would have uttered if I’d sat here quietly with my hands in my lap.”

She stared at his hands, distracted by the size of them and the thought of what they could do to her and almost missed the fact that he was still talking. “Instead of doing that, I nodded as you spoke—three times in quick succession. It’s a visual cue that lets you know I’m listening, I’m engaged, and I want you to keep talking.”

“Right.”

He leaned closer, near enough now that she could feel his shoulder brushing hers and the heat radiating from his chest, and she wanted to fall into that warmth. She forced herself to keep breathing.

“Another thing I did was not speak,” he continued. “I didn’t interrupt, I didn’t ask questions, I just sat here. People don’t like long silences—especially people who are uncomfortable with what they’re saying—so they’ll usually keep talking to fill the silence. Women in particular have an urgent need to fill silence.”

His face was scant inches from hers now, and she watched his mouth in seeming slow motion as it formed the words “urgent need to fill.” His pupils were wide and round, swimming in a sea of blue gray. He had faint stubble on his jawline, and she ached to know what it would feel like scraping against the hollow of her throat, the hollow between her legs—

“The other thing I did,” he murmured. “Is invade your personal space. It’s one of the most disarming techniques.”

She swallowed, her mouth suddenly dry. “You don’t say.”

“Is it working?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Good. It’s usually pretty effective.”

“Oh?” Her voice was high and breathy and sounded distant to her own ears. Her blood was pounding hard in her head, in her fingertips, between her legs. Grant’s eyes held hers, the tips of his fingers grazing the fine hairs on her forearms so lightly it might have been an accident.

She lunged for him, not sure if this was part of his plan, and not really caring. She had to have his mouth on hers, his hands on her body, his legs tangled with hers under the table or under a set of cool, sweaty sheets.

God, she wanted him.

He kissed her back, his lips softer than she imagined they’d be. He was slow at first, gentle, a man who knew how to take his time. It only made her hungrier. She urged him on, pressing her body against his as she cursed the damn chair arm that kept her from climbing into his lap and grinding against him like some kind of sex-starved animal.

His mouth moved down, and Anna closed her eyes to savor the scrape of his stubble rough against her cheeks, her lips, her throat, her shoulders. He seemed to be kissing her everywhere at once, his mouth and tongue hot and wet and so goddam perfect.

Of course he’s a perfect kisser, too
, her brain pointed out, sounding slightly snarky about it.

Not that the rest of her was complaining. One of his hands had drifted to her left thigh, fingertips toying with the hem of her sundress. He stroked her there, in no particular hurry, the lightness of his caress making her ache for more. Anna groaned as his touch grew firmer, his palm closing over her knee, engulfing it. His fingers stroked the tendon at the bend in her leg, taking their time, making her crazy. She kissed him harder, urging him on.

He moved the heel of his hand up just a fraction of an inch, sliding the hem of her dress out of his way. Anna raked her nails over the back of his skull, begging him without words to keep going. She let her knees fall apart, wondered if that was too forward, then decided she didn’t care. She wanted him to touch her everywhere.

As if reading her thoughts, Grant let his other hand drift to her bare shoulder. His fingers tangled with the spaghetti strap on her sundress, slipping it down to reveal the curve of newly bared skin. He covered the flesh with his mouth, laying a trail of kisses along her collarbone. Anna cursed the tiny row of buttons up the front of her dress, wishing like hell they were snaps or Velcro or fucking nonexistent. She needed him to undo the goddamn buttons and bury his face between her breasts, sliding his tongue from one nipple to the other and devouring her like a starving man.

She also needed him to keep moving his hand up her thigh.

He’s so goddamn perfect, why doesn’t he have three hands?

Moaning a little in the back of her throat, she wriggled her fingers through the armrest and into his lap. Her palm grazed something hard and solid through the fabric of his shorts, and she used the points of her knuckles to stroke the length of him.

Good Lord. That’s not a third hand, but it’s certainly bigger than a baby’s arm.

She fumbled with his zipper, wanting to wrap her hand around him, to feel his length gripped snug in her palm. He moaned a little in the back of his throat. She felt him start to release her leg, and she drew her hand back and clamped it around his. Holding it in place, she drew back and met his eyes.

“Let me,” she said, and reached for the front of her dress.

She fumbled with the first two buttons, then found her rhythm and undid three more, baring the tops of her breasts. Grant wasted no time moving his mouth to the naked expanse of skin, his free hand sliding the other shoulder strap down. Anna closed her eyes and breathed in the ocean air, heady with the caress of the evening breeze on her bare breasts. She’d never been so grateful for her less than ample chest, which meant going braless was totally an option.

Thank God for fewer layers, fewer hooks and buttons, and anything separating her from this man with the magical mouth.

Grant stroked her nipple with his left thumb, while his tongue made languid strokes over the other breast. She groaned and slid her hands into his hair—what little there was, she thought as she savored the soft prickle of his buzz cut under her palms. God, this man was a playground for her fingers. His scalp felt warm in her hands, and the things he was doing with his mouth—