Planning for Love Read online

  Gib’s hand was outstretched, ready to shake until she uttered the name of the vile show. Smoothly, he reversed direction to adjust his pinstriped grey pocket square as though it had been his intention all along, and not an evasion. “Are you a guest here at the Cavendish?”

  “I am. But you can relax—I don’t have any screaming, hair-pulling brides with me. The bridal party is all staying at the Park Hyatt. We try to maintain a buffer zone from the people we film when not actually at the wedding. Learned that the hard way when a pissed-off maid of honor stole all our equipment one time in Denver. I promise your hotel will remain classy and quiet, exactly like every Cavendish Grand around the world.”

  “Then it’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Westcott.” Gib thawed his icily professional smile by a few degrees and shook the offered hand.

  “Call me Ben. Any friend of Ivy’s, right?”

  “Indeed.” That assessing grey gaze that so eerily matched his surroundings swung back and forth between Ivy and Ben. “So what brings you two here in the shank of the evening?”

  “Ivy’s had a long day. Thought I’d get her off her feet and relax her with a little bubbly.”

  “Off her feet? I see.” Gib shot his cuffs. He often used the gesture to give him a minute to assess. His eyes slid down to take in Ben’s fingers intertwining with Ivy’s despite her attempts to hide their hands behind the folds of her gown. For she knew Gib’s reserve to be, at best, a complete sham. By breakfast he would’ve used his considerable network of connections in town to spread the word far and wide about her date with Ben. Mocking would ensue, followed by merciless teasing and lots of searching on YouTube for the most reviled, most embarrassing quotes from WWS to rub in her face.

  “We can certainly accommodate you in the Ascot Lounge. Please enjoy a drink with my compliments.” A flick of the wrist produced a card he slid into Ben’s lapel pocket. “As you say, any friend of Ivy’s…” He trailed off, full lips twisting into the restrained, British version of a smirk.

  “Thanks, Gib.” Ben gave him a hearty man-clap on the shoulder. “This is a great way to let off some steam, put the day behind us.”

  Her oh-so-polite friend inclined his head an inch, the picture of a perfect gentleman, as opposed to the virulent gossipmonger he’d turn into the second they crossed the lobby. “I’ll be in touch, Miss Rhodes.”

  “I have no doubt.” As Ben led her away, she craned her neck around so she could stick out her tongue. Sure enough, Gib’s calm façade had crumbled, and his mouth gaped open. He held one hand at his ear in the gesture used by teenaged girls everywhere indicating that she should call him. Fat chance he’d get any details out of her. At least, not without serious bribery, something on the level of dinner at Vinci on their next wine night.

  The Ascot Lounge featured lots of burgundy leather with gold accents, from the deep couches, to the wall of matching books, to the ottomans in front of the fireplace. The only people in the room were the bartender and a tired-looking waitress rolling a stack of silverware into napkins at a table. Ivy sat on a barstool, relieved beyond words to be off her feet. But her physical relief quickly disappeared beneath the weight of anxiety as she watched Ben place their order with the bartender. The intimate bubble in which they’d danced had held up pretty well during their banter on the cab ride to the hotel. Seeing Gib, however, had burst that bubble with all the delicacy of a SCUD missile, and she felt awkward in a dozen different ways.

  Self-conscious, Ivy ran her hand over her still somewhat tidy French twist. Undoubtedly a few limp strands had escaped, and most of her makeup had probably faded. How on earth to pick up where they left off and start flirting again? She knew almost nothing about him. Oh, and how to smother her yawns as the after-midnight, post-event exhaustion caught up with her? Drinks with the handsome stranger had been a bad idea. Far too much pressure. For heaven’s sake, she wasn’t even wearing her date staple, the pink lace push-up bra! Ivy felt the distinct sense of its loss akin to that of an artist who’d left his favorite brush and paints at home, staring at a blank canvas.

  Ben pushed a stool aside and leaned sideways on the bar beside her, one elbow propping him up. He’d stuffed his bow tie in a pocket and undone the top three buttons of his shirt. The effect was very debonair. Like George Clooney in Ocean’s Eleven. And no red-blooded woman could resist anyone remotely resembling Clooney. In a rush, Ivy’s anxiety disappeared as quickly as it came, replaced by basic lust. Astounding how Ben put her through an emotional roller coaster without uttering a single word!

  “Your kir royale will be ready in a minute. What were you thinking about just now?” He traced the smile brackets around her mouth with a slow, teasing finger. “You’ve got an odd look on your face.”

  Crap. Not just a handsome man, but a perceptive one. Ivy scraped the recesses of her mind to come up with a crumb of something, anything but the truth. “When we were talking to Gib, you made it sound as if you’d stayed at a Cavendish Grand before. I wondered where else you’ve been.” Her attempt at misdirection would be great at a church picnic or a quilting club, but it in no way classified as flirting. When would her drink come so she’d at least have something to do with her hands…besides fighting the urge to reach out and toy with the golden hairs cutting across the vee of his unbuttoned shirt?

  Now an odd expression crossed Ben’s face. “Where I’ve been is a much longer question than I’m prepared to answer. I will tell you that I’ve stayed in a Cavendish Grand in Berlin, London, Rome, Sydney and Los Angeles.”

  Gorgeous, globetrotting guy. It definitely pumped up his sex appeal another few notches. Lent him a worldly rakishness. Except for the utter boredom dripping like sludge off every mention of a far-flung locale. “You tick off those cities like you’re naming mundane freeway exits between Madison and Milwaukee. Where’s your sense of awe, your sense of excitement?”

  “A Cavendish hotel is always elegant, always has a fitness center on the seventh floor, a great restaurant, and a concierge that can score tickets to anything for the right price. The view outside the window doesn’t matter so much.”

  Was he kidding? “You can’t mean that,” Ivy stated flatly. “I don’t accept it. You’ve stayed in hotels where the view is of ancient palaces, instead of the high-end shopper’s paradise we’ve got here in Chicago. You’ve opened balcony doors to the swirl of exotic accents, and brushed your teeth in another hemisphere where the water actually swirls down the drain in a different direction.”

  “Come on, that’s just an old wives’ tale.” Ben punctuated his opinion with a roll of his eyes.

  Huh. Nothing disturbed a good rant like a fact check. She’d have to Google it tomorrow and see if he was right. “Maybe so. But still, you’ve walked down the same streets as kings and popes, trod in history’s very path.”

  “Did I miss the hidden cameras?” In an exaggerated motion, Ben twisted, looking back over both his shoulders. “Are you filming a commercial for the Cavendish, or are we having drinks?”

  “Sorry. When I’m enthusiastic, I tend to get effusive. And since I’ve never had the opportunity to stick a toe outside the United States, you could call me more than a little enthusiastic about travel.”

  “If you’re so worked up about it, why don’t you?”

  “Why don’t I what?”

  Ben waved his hand in expanding circles. “Go. Travel. Stick your toe someplace where they call it a punta.”

  “Excuse me? Did you just call me a whore?”

  He barked out a surprised laugh. “No. That’s puta. Why do nice girls always know the dirty words in foreign languages?”

  Whoops. “I had the flu last month. I spent three days in bed watching two seasons of The Sopranos. Felt like I picked up a little Italian.” Probably not smart to mention the twenty-episode marathon of Love Boat she’d recently raced through. He didn’t seem the type to appreciate the romantic nuances of one of her favorite classic shows. On the upside, if drinks didn’t go well, she could rush home and
knock off another episode. She’d left off at the pivotal change in cruise directors, and couldn’t wait to see how the new one fit in.

  “Molto poco. Very little.”

  “Maybe, but at least I do feel I learned three surefire ways to dispose of a body.”

  “And people say television isn’t educational.” The bartender delivered their drinks, then immediately backed away to the other end of the bar. Ben picked up his rocks glass filled with dark liquid and clinked it against hers. “Here’s to WWS.”

  Ivy halted her glass halfway to her mouth. “No. Absolutely not. I won’t drink to that show. And you certainly made no secret of the fact you didn’t like it either. Why would you toast to it?”

  “Just trying to be succinct. But if you prefer the long version…” he clinked her glass again, “…here’s to WWS, for dropping me smack into the path of a bewitching, beautiful woman.”

  Eyes closed, Ivy savored the cool, foaming rush of bubbles against her lips as the black current and champagne concoction burst across her taste buds. Crisp yet sweet, she liked to imagine this was what the distilled essence of pure romance tasted like. “You could’ve just toasted to Fate. Even more succinct.”

  “Fate’s a two-timing bitch who doesn’t pull her punches.”

  Ivy’s eyes flew open. Ben was staring into his drink, swirling the ice cubes with a practiced twist of his wrist. “Good thing you’re not bitter at all.”

  “Sorry. Fate and I aren’t exactly tight.”

  It had to be closing in on one in the morning. Should she press him for the level of information men only revealed with whiskey-roughened voices in the middle of the night? Or, since she probably knew less about him than the TSA screener at the airport who waved him through security, should she overlook the oddly caustic remark and move on? Ivy took another, bigger swallow of her cocktail while she considered.

  Standard dating protocol would be to push, to pry open every conversational oyster shell in search of that pearl of personality which could reveal the inner man. But did she really need to delve that deep? Ivy knew his generous lips were talented, his blue eyes bottomless, and his wide chest a vast, uncharted territory she yearned to explore. Tonight was about letting off steam at the end of a trying day with an attentive man. Oh, and hoping to get a few more kisses out of him before she called it a night. Perhaps it served her purpose better to smooth his frown away, rather than seek the cause. She downed the rest of her drink in a nervous gulp. Pushing the glass away, she traced the back of his hand with a TuTuPink-tipped fingernail.

  “Would you overlook your journalistic integrity and tell me how we stack up?”

  Ben’s eyes narrowed, but stayed pinned on the swirling sea of his drink. “Against what?”

  “The other Wild Wedding Smackdown bride, of course. Now that I’m part of an episode, my competitive spirit’s kicked in. I want to come out on top.”

  He lifted his gaze to lock onto hers. Blue fire burned in the depths, and Ivy felt pinned like a hapless butterfly on a Victorian insect collector’s board. The breadth of his shoulders loomed closer, legs pressing against her thigh. It forced her to tilt her head back, and he caught it, cradling a warm palm at the base of her skull. The bartender, the entire bar, no the entire hotel disappeared in the intimacy of their partial embrace. Ben was all she could see, all she could feel, his eyes sending trails of warmth along the same paths the champagne bubbles recently awoke.

  “There’s nothing I’d like better than for you to be on top. I like a woman who takes the initiative.”

  Chest tight, lungs cramping in protest, Ivy finally remembered to breathe. If a kir royale embodied romance, then Ben Westcott was the personification of sensuality. And both of them were equally intoxicating. Or maybe she needed one in order to handle the other. “I’d like another drink.”

  “No.” His grip tightened, and his other arm snaked around her waist to pull her flush against him. “I’m cutting you off.”

  “Chicagoans don’t react well to Prohibition. Take Al Capone, for example. I’m a consenting adult, and if you won’t order me another, then I will.”

  “Your consent is exactly what I’ve got in mind.” Warm breath fluttered at her ear, his lips whispering against the edges. “We could tiptoe around for another hour, throw back a few more drinks. Give us both a chance to relax…and realize how exhausted we are. Instead of wasting that time, let me say that I want you. I want us to go upstairs to my room, right now. I want to take you, fast and hard. While you’re still coming down, I want to lick every inch and spiral you right back up to the stars. Then, if you’re still game, I really do want you on top.” Ben let go, eased back a good foot, leaning both elbows back on the bar. The move stretched his shirt taut against pecs that bulged against the cotton. “But I don’t want your brain clouded with booze when you decide to come with me.”

  Wow. So much more than the stolen kisses and hand slipped between his tux shirt studs she’d planned on. Aside from a forgettable one night stand in college she blamed entirely on her weakness for piña coladas and too much sun, Ivy didn’t hook up. She dated. She had relationships. Every man was a stepping stone on the path to marriage.

  But Ben talked a good game. If his words alone sped up her pulse this much, imagine what would happen when he applied those lips to her body. Stalling sounded like a good tactic while her brain caught up with her vibrating nerves. “You’re so sure I’ll just hop in the elevator?”

  A smug smile crawled across his lips. “Pretty sure.”

  “Really? With a man I barely know? For all I know, you could be a serial killer!”

  “Then a hotel’s the safest place. Tell your buddy Gib to post hotel security on my floor, to be sure I don’t try and smuggle a body down the stairs.”

  “Sweet talker.”

  “Tell me you’re not interested. Tell me you don’t want to slide between the sheets, skin to skin with me, and I’ll order you that drink. We’ll chat about whatever you want, and go our separate ways.” Her mouth opened slowly, but before she could form words, he continued in the same, matter of fact tone. “Or I could make your panties—which I’m betting match your dress—damp in less than five minutes.”

  God. How could he talk like that in the middle of a bar? Where people could hear? How could he be so comfortable propositioning her in the dirtiest way possible while they both wore formal attire? And how could she ever live with herself if she passed up this opportunity?

  “Quite a promise.” Ivy hopped off her stool, digging her fingernails into her palms in an effort to keep the excitement out of her voice. Matching his blasé approach to what promised to be a white-hot night was sensible. Far less embarrassing than succumbing to the urge to run to the bathroom, call Daphne, and squeal like a teenager anticipating her first hickey. She put a little extra swing in her hips as she headed to the door. “You know you’re going to lose at least a minute while we walk to the elevator?”

  “You’ve got to learn to think outside the box, Ms. Rhodes.” Arms like steel caught her behind the knees and cradled her effortlessly. No huffing and puffing, no hitch in his step. Ben’s long legs kept up a brisk pace across the interlocking grey and black circles stamped into the carpet. Ivy crossed her ankles and looped her arms around Ben’s neck, more for the sheer pleasure of it than necessity. She felt as secure in his arms as if back home in her overstuffed purple chair. All those hours he racked up shouldering a video camera were definitely working to her advantage.

  Ben’s tongue traced the rim of her ear. Tiny shivers cascaded down her neck with each swipe. A quick tickle of the inside, and then he lightly bit her lobe with his teeth. The contrast of the soft touch with the sharp nip amped the shivers up to full-fledged zings.

  “That’s cheating. You can’t start before we even get to the elevator.”

  “I call it efficient time management. Thought you of all people would appreciate it.” Ben pressed the button with his elbow and turned the full force of his raffish grin ont
o her. Good thing he was carrying her, because that grin alone could melt her knees in one second flat. Ivy’s senses spun on overload. Concentrate on the confident swagger in his voice, promising all sorts of R-rated fun? The way his thick bangs drooped over his forehead, just begging for her fingers to comb through? Or…oh…the faint taste of aged scotch flavoring the kiss he began while she was still taking stock of the bank of muscles pressed against her breasts?

  Their lips merged. Slow and dreamy, soft and tender. As romantic as any woman could ever hope for. Ivy knew this to be fact, as she spent quite a bit of down time thinking about the perfect kiss. The key ingredients were just the right amount of pressure, the right amount of heat, delivered by a handsome man. Ben hit the bull’s eye on every qualification. Plus, he got extra points for swooping her into his arms and Prince Charming-ed her down the hallway. Her eyes drifted shut at the sheer pleasure. It had been so long since the last time she’d had the opportunity to lock lips with a man. Even longer since she’d been kissed by someone as talented as Ben.

  No doubt about it—he’d seduced her into a puddle with nothing more than a kiss. It gave her high expectations for the rest of the night.

  Ben set her down and whipped off his jacket. Ivy hadn’t even noticed when they boarded the elevator, and now the doors whisked shut behind them. “What’s the matter? Did I get you all hot and bothered?” she asked. Regret set in as the words left her mouth. Why did some things sound so good in your head, and sound so much like a seventies porn spoof when said out loud?

  “It’s for you.” He settled the jacket over her shoulders. “Have to keep you decent. Never know when someone might actually be manning the security camera.” He nodded at the small, black dome in the corner of the ceiling.