Born to Be Wild by Patti Berg Page B

him rather than their mother and a couple of friends? What if he had another head-on collision and Jamie and Ryan were his newest victims?
    The thought tortured him, made him realize what a special gift he’d been given when Jamie and Ryan came into his life.
    He pressed a kiss to Jamie’s forehead. “I’ll call an adoption attorney tomorrow.”
    He felt Jamie’s arms tighten around him, while Ryan stared at the floor. Slowly Ryan raised his head and Max couldn’t miss th e moisture welling up in the corners of the boy’s eyes. The words “I love you” were on the tip of Ryan’s tongue, but they remained unspoken. Sometimes words weren’t necessary—he knew that from his own relationship with Philippe.
    Max reached out and pulled Ryan against him, feeling a strong tug at his heart a moment before an uncharacteristic tear slid down his cheek.
    Tomorrow he’d take steps to make sure he never lost Jamie and Ryan—to make sure that they never lost him. Because he knew all too well the pain of losing the ones he loved.

Six
    S neaking down to the kitchen wasn’t a habit of Lauren’s, especially at midnight, but she couldn’t get the boxes of mini quiche she and Charles had purchased at Costco off her mind. She had no idea if frozen mini quiche would taste delicious or if it would taste like cardboard. The same torturous thoughts had also gone through her mind for the past three hours about the pre-sliced chocolate cheesecake, not to mention the platters of shrimp and something called tortilla roll-ups scheduled to be picked up from the deli bright and early Saturday morning. What would Betsy and Bunny Endicott think if they got wind that Lauren had purchased the reception delicacies at a price club?
    How would they react when they learned that Lauren had chosen not to have waiters at the fancy affair, that instead the guests would have to walk from table to table if they wanted something to eat or drink?
    This was all Max Wilde’s fault, of course. How dare he insinuate—no, he hadn’t insinuated, he’d blatantly accused her of being a snob. Then he’d walked—no, he’d stormed—away from the most lucrative, glamorous job of his life!
    Well, she planned to show him and all of Palm Beach just how good a job she could do without the services of a professional caterer.
    “Pride goeth before a fall,” Charles had stated in a proper British whisper as he’d pushed the extra-large cart up one Costco aisle and down another. Over and over he’d told her that she should call Max Wilde and beg him to reconsider, but she’d adamantly stated, “No!” Max Wilde was insensitive, insufferable, and he’d deserted her. The nerve of the man!
    Flipping on the light, she entered Mrs. Fisk’s black and white kitchen. Clean, almost to the point of sterile, it was a place she’d sat in many times chatting with Charles and Mrs. Fisk about the happenings in Palm Beach and Newport, where they often retreated during the hot and humid Florida summers.
    It never ceased to amaze Lauren that her butler and cook could tell her what was going on behind closed doors long before she heard exaggerated versions of the stories from her friends. Naturally she listened to all their reports, dispelled rumors when she could, and made it a point never to pass on the information.
    Listening to gossip was one thing. Spreading it was quite another. She’d long ago tired of the scandalous tales about her own escapades. Most everyone knew that the tabloids and rumor mill blew everything out of proportion, but all too often something vicious would strike out and hurt someone close—all too often herself.
    Of course, people like her—rich society folk— were supposed to be insensitive to backstabbing and name calling. Max Wilde must have thought she was made of steel. Why else would he have treated her the way he did?
    She didn’t want to think about Max, but it was hard to think of anyone or anything else at midnight, when the house was