Fangs for Nothing(10)

Damn, men were bastards. Especially the good-looking ones like this guy. With deep, intense stares and roguish smiles. And who kissed a woman until she was senseless. And who probably made love to a woman as if she were the only one in the world who’d ever mattered to him.

Dear, freaking God, what was she doing? Imagining how this man made love? She needed to get a grip. A very serious grip.

Fortunately, her employee finally moseyed up—with only a broom and dustpan, but it was a start. And she could get away from this jerk.

But she couldn’t resist having the last word.

“No worries, sugar pie,” she said to the pirate, her voice taking on all the sickening sweetness his had lost.

Then, on an impulse, she sank her fingers into the cascade of ruffles on his chest and dragged his lips down to hers. She kissed him hard and thoroughly.

“Enjoy the rest of the party, sweet cheeks,” she cooed, before turning to head back to the kitchen, not needing to make direct eye contact with her employee to know he was sporting a bemused expression.

She didn’t slow her departure even as she slipped slightly on a chunk of tuna still stuck to her shoe.

Of course by the time she reached the kitchen, she wasn’t feeling so self-righteous. Why the hell had she done that? Really? After the mental lamenting about needing to be nothing but professional? Why would she potentially cause another round of raised eyebrows? And what if rubber-bound Barbie with her crop and black lipstick trotted over to the bride and groom and told them their caterer was busy playing kissy-face with the wedding pirate?

“And this, Josie Lynn, is why you are destined to be the Queen of Bad Decisions,” she muttered to herself. She needed to use the damn brain God gave her.

And not for evil.

She pulled in a deep breath and tried to focus on the chaotic kitchen. She couldn’t take back her behavior—or his, but she could finish this wedding with a bang. And that didn’t mean banging a pirate.

Even though she could imagine it. His body had felt really nice against hers. And surprisingly, he sort of smelled like the sea, fresh and manly and a little salty.

She felt her body react, nipples hardening, moisture gathering between her thighs.

Enough! She shook her head. “So, the Queen.”

“Huh?”

Josie Lynn turned to her other employee, a slender, pretty blonde who was sadly reinforcing all dumb blonde jokes. Apparently minimum wage got her minimum speed with Eric and minimum intelligence with Ashley. And as soon as she noticed what Ashley was doing, all thoughts of kissing pirates and poor decisions vanished.

“Ashley! What are you doing?”

The blonde made a startled squeak and dropped the food syringe she was holding.

“I—I’m filling the éclairs with cream.”

“No,” Josie Lynn said slowly, “you are filling the éclairs with a crawfish and crab cheese sauce.”

She snatched up a pastry bag filled with vanilla bean and Grand Marnier crème and shoved it toward Ashley. “This is the right filling.”

Ashley gave her a pained look, but Josie Lynn barely acknowledged it, instantly counting the number of desserts ruined beyond repair.

Only a dozen. Thank God.

“I’m so sorry, Josie.”

“No worries,” Josie Lynn said, realizing that response was becoming the mantra of the night. “Just do the rest with this filling.” She pushed the metal bowl filled with more crème toward her employee. “Please.”

“Of course,” Ashley said. “I’m so—”

Josie Lynn raised a hand to stop her apology. “No worries, just finish the rest and I’ll finish the minicrepes.”

Which are filled with the crawfish-and-crab cheese sauce, she finished silently. And sarcastically.

“You can pull this off,” she said quietly to herself, determined to make this her new mantra of the night. “You can pull this off.”





         Chapter Three

THE WEDDING CRASHERS

JOHNNY looked at the crappy punch on the table and said to Wyatt, “Seriously? This is a dry wedding? Who the hell has a dry wedding in New Orleans?”

“A dominatrix, apparently.” Wyatt glanced around the courtyard before lifting up his pants leg. He had a flask strapped to his calf. “But I was prepared.”

“You should have told me.”

“You should have read your invitation. It said it right on there they weren’t serving booze.”

“I barely glanced at it.” Johnny wasn’t fond of paperwork. Or details. He wondered where Lizette was off cursing him at the moment. So he had beaten her to the apartment that morning. His apartment. Which contained his stuff, he might add. And so he had broken off the locks her goofy henchman had installed and liberated his drum kit. They were his drums and he had gotten them off of Keith Moon back in the sixties. They were sentimental, not to mention the most expensive thing he owned by far, including his car, and he was not about to let Dieter take a crap on them or whatever he was planning to do in there. In his apartment. Where he paid the rent. And did he mention it was his apartment? He was not going to feel guilty that he might just be making life slightly more difficult for her. She was the one making his life difficult.