Best Man for Hire

by Tawna Fenske

  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?”
r />   “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—

  “Oh, God, don’t stop.”

  “Wouldn’t dream of it,” he murmured, his voice making pleasant vibrations against her sternum as his lips trailed from one breast to the other.

  She let one hand stray down his back and nearly groaned at the feel of all that muscle. Did this guy spend every waking hour at the gym, or was he just really gifted?

  Really gifted, her brain telegraphed as his hand slid farther up her thigh, his thumb stroking her through her panties. She gasped, knowing how wet she was, how badly she wanted him, how urgently she needed his—

  Ding-dong!

  Anna opened her eyes and blinked, trying to orient herself amid the buzzing in her brain and the hum of pleasure pulsing through her body.

  The chime sounded again, and Grant pulled his mouth from her nipple long enough to murmur, “Doorbell,” against the underside of her breast.

  Then he went back to kissing her, his mouth on hers again, the heel of his right hand brushing over her nipples. His left hand was buried under her dress, fingers sliding beneath the elastic of her panties. The tips of two fingers dipped inside her, sinking into her wetness as he stroked her with his—

  Ding-dong!

  “Oh, God,” she gasped as the pad of his thumb found her clit, circling and sliding and making her crazy with heat. He buried two fingers deeper into her, using her wetness to glide and tease and stroke her to the brink of delirium. Anna closed her eyes again as his thumb circled faster, finding a rhythm as his fingers pulsed inside her and drew back, then pressed into her again. She gripped the back of his head, urging him on as he drew one nipple into his mouth, swirling his tongue around it in dizzying circles as Anna gasped and writhed and urged him to plunge deeper with his—

  Ding-dong!

  “Oh, for crying out loud!”

  She opened her eyes and looked back through the house, thinking seriously about throttling whichever salesman or religious fanatic hovered out there on the damn porch. Grant sat up, blinking a little like a man coming out of a trance. He took a breath.

  “I’m sure whoever it is will give up and go away,” he whispered. “If it’s important, they’d call.”

  “Right.” Anna licked her lips. “Maybe we could sneak to the bedroom and—”

  “Grant?” From the front of the house came a voice. A woman’s voice. It was shrill and choked with something that sounded like tears, and Anna felt her blood run cold.

  “Grant, are you home?” the woman cried again. “Oh, please—there’s an emergency! I need you.”

  Chapter Five

  Grant closed his eyes and counted to ten.

  Okay, it was more like two. The panicked voice of the little old lady who lived next door was enough to send him sprinting into the house before the chime of the doorbell stopped echoing.

  He grabbed the doorknob and hesitated, turning back to see Anna right behind him, buttoning up her dress. She was flushed and tousled and so goddamn beautiful he wanted to burn the house down to make the damn doorbell stop ringing.

  Instead, he turned the doorknob.

  “Oh, Grant—thank goodness it’s you!” On the front steps, his plump, elderly neighbor stood blinking in the dusty sunlight on his porch. She wore an oversize pink chambray shirt that billowed around her like a big pink tent, and her chubby cheeks were flushed with terror. “Oh, dear, I just knew you were home, I heard voices a minute ago. I’m terribly sorry, dear, but—”

  “Mrs. Stein,” Grant said, throwing the door open all the way and pasting on his best Boy Scout smile. “What seems to be the problem?”

  His gut tightened at the sight of the old woman’s tear-streaked face. He scanned her from head to toe, looking for injuries before he tur
ned his gaze to the street for potential assailants. He wasn’t sure whether to reach for a pistol or a tissue. Behind him, he could feel the heat of Anna’s body, and part of him still ached to grab her again.

  Mrs. Stein began sobbing in earnest, which was enough to send all the blood rushing back to Grant’s brain where it belonged. “Mrs. Stein,” he tried again. “What is it, what’s wrong?”

  “It’s Rumpymuffle. He’s gone up a tree, and I don’t know what to do. Oh dear, he’s never been outside before, and the sun is going down soon. Help me!”

  The woman wailed again and launched herself at the front of Grant’s shirt. Given her considerable bulk, he had to brace himself to keep from toppling backward. He patted her shoulders, feeling faintly guilty about where his fingers had been just seconds before. He glanced at Anna, who had regained her composure and was looking on with an expression of intense concern.

  Rumpymuffle? she mouthed.

  “Her cat,” Grant supplied. “Mrs. Stein, this is Anna Keebler. She’s my sister’s wedding planner. Anna, Mrs. Stein lives next door with a great big Maine coon who’s never set foot outdoors.”

  Mrs. Stein drew back and sniffled. “I went to take the trash out and must have left the door ajar. I wasn’t gone more than a minute, but something must have scared him and—well, look.”

  The old woman pointed to the large coconut palm that separated Grant’s house from hers. Grant followed the direction of her finger, his gaze landing on the quivering form of Rumpymuffle gripping the tree for dear life.

  “Shit,” he muttered, then felt bad about it. “I mean shoot. He’s at least twenty feet up there.”

  “I saw you had a ladder when you were painting your house, so I thought maybe—”

  “No, that won’t work,” Grant said, eyeing the tree. “My tallest one is an extension ladder, but I can’t brace that against a trunk that narrow. A rental shop might have an A-frame ladder that could work, but they’re all closed at this hour.”

  The old woman began sobbing again, and Grant patted her back, thinking hard. He had a buddy with a small crane, but that was over on Oahu. Here on Kauai, he didn’t know anyone with the sort of gear he’d need to get up that high, much less get down with a frightened cat. He looked at Anna again. Her eyes were big and round, and she was looking at him as though she expected him to be some sort of savior.