Heated (Most Wanted 2)

And it wasn't just my own desire for the fantasy wedding that made me insist we wait. Like it or not, Damien is a public figure, and I knew that the press would be covering our wedding. It didn't need to be the fanciest affair--in fact, I wanted it outside on the beach--but I did want it to be a beautiful celebration. And since I knew the paparazzi would be pulling out all the stops to get tacky pictures, I wanted a collection of portraits and candid shots that we controlled. Fabulous pictures that we could give to the legitimate press, outshining--I hoped--whatever ended up in the tabloids.

More than anything, though, I wanted the story and photographs to overshadow the horrible things printed just a few months ago, when Damien had been on trial for murder. I wanted to see the best day of our lives on those pages in sharp counterpoint to and in triumph over the worst days.

I have said all of this to Damien, and while I know he doesn't fully agree with my reasons for needing this wedding, I also know he understands them.

As for me, I understand his fear that I've taken on too much. But this is my wedding we're talking about. The nightmares are only my fears; they are not my reality. I can handle it; I can handle anything if the end result is walking down that aisle toward Damien.

"Everything is going great," I say to reassure us both. "I've got it all under control. Really."

"You found a photographer?"

"Are you kidding? Of course." It is a lie. And that's a risk, because Damien can read me better than anyone. I force myself not to hold my breath as I wait for him to ask me details--name, studio, credentials. Those are questions I can't answer because the truth is, I haven't found a photographer to replace the one Damien fired last week after we learned the man had made an under-the-table agreement to sell unapproved candid photos of the wedding and reception to TMZ.

And that's not even our only problem. I found out yesterday that the lead singer for the band I'd lined up had decided to drop everything and move back home to Canada, which means we are now entirely without entertainment.

I need to get off my ass and find someone--and I need to do it fast. As Damien had so kindly reminded me, the wedding is just a few days away.

But, hey, it's not like I'm feeling stressed or anything.

I frown, realizing that maybe there is a solid explanation for my nightmares, after all.

"What is it?" Damien asks, and I fear that despite all my efforts to keep these minor ripples in the wedding planning out of his hair, it's about to get gnarly.

"Nothing," I say. "Just thinking about my massive to-do list."

I can tell by his expression that he doesn't buy it. But I am a bride, and like most grooms, he knows innately that "handle with care" is standard operating procedure. "In case it escaped your notice, we have the cash to pay someone to help you. Use it if you need it."

"What? Like a wedding planner?" I shake my head. "For one thing, the wedding's too close for that. For another, as I keep telling you, I want to do this myself. I want it to reflect us, not the latest fad in weddings."

"I get that," he says, "but you've taken on a hell of a lot."

"You've helped," I respond.

He chuckles. "As much as you've let me."

I lift a shoulder. "You have a universe to run."

It's a simple fact that I have more time than Damien. I'm juggling only one small business, which has exactly one employee--me. He's running Stark International, which has about as many people as an emerging country. Maybe more. And, yes, I have been busy, but that's partly because Damien didn't want a long engagement. And since I didn't think I could stand waiting, either, I was happy to agree.

It's been three months since he proposed, two months and twenty-nine days since I started diving into planning and prep, balancing my software development business against the business of my wedding. I'm proud of what's come together, and I'm even more proud that I've done so much of it on my own. Hell, I've actually been getting some use out of all those etiquette classes my mother forced me to sit through. Imagine that.

I aim an impish smile at him. "Maybe you're right. I mean, it is a bit stressful doing everything so fast, but I'm actually having a lot of fun working out the details of decorating the beach and organizing the caterer and pulling all the pieces together. I suppose we could push the wedding back a few months to make things even easier on me."

His eyes narrow dangerously. "Don't even joke about that. Not unless you want me to scoop you up, toss you on the helicopter, and elope to Mexico. Which, for the record, I still think is a fantastic idea."

"Vegas would be easier," I tease.

"There's no beach in Vegas," he says, his expression going soft. "Even if I'm kidnapping you, I won't deny you the surf or the sunset."

I sigh and fold myself into his arms. "Do you have any idea how much I love you?"

"Enough to marry me," he says.

"And then some."

He hooks his arm around my waist and tugs me close, then brushes his lips over mine. The kiss starts softly, a feather-touch, a tease. But there's no denying the heat between us, and soon I am moaning, my mouth open to him, his lips hard against mine, taking and tasting. He pulls me closer to him, my name like a whisper on his lips, and the embers that are always burning between us burst into white-hot flames.

His hand slides along my back, then under my tank top at its base. The sensation of skin upon skin is delicious, and I sigh with pleasure, then gasp with longing as those clever fingers slip beneath the waistband of my yoga pants and curve over my rear. He tugs me closer, his erection hot and hard between us, as his fingers slip inside me. I'm liquid heat, and I want nothing more than to strip us both bare and let him take me right here, on the hardwood floor.

Passion thrums through me, and I swear I can feel the house vibrating around us.

It takes me a moment to realize that the thrum isn't entirely the result of my lust for my fiance--it's the arrival of his ride, the helicopter approaching from the north to settle on the helipad that Damien installed on the property.

I pull away, breathless. "You're going to be late, Mr. Stark."

"Sadly, you have a point." He kisses the corner of my mouth, and the pressure of his tongue at that sensitive juncture is almost as enticing as the feel of his erection hard against me. "Are you sure you don't want to come with me today?" he asks. "I don't think I've ever fucked you in the helicopter."

I laugh. "It's on my bucket list," I assure him. "But today's not the day. I'm meeting with the cake lady." Rather than a regular wedding cake, I'd decided to go with tiers of cupcakes, with only the top layer being the traditional cake with fondant icing. The baker, a celebrity chef named Sally Love, came up with an exceptional design for the icing on each individual cake, and she's going to incorporate real flowers on the tiers, making the overall design both elegant and fun. Not to mention tasty. Damien and I went together to pick out the flavor for the top layer, and also selected ten possible flavors for the cupcakes. Today, I'm going back to narrow the ten finalists to the final five.

"Do you need me?" he asks.

"Always," I say. "But not at the bakery. You did your part, I'm just finalizing the cupcake choices."

"Don't ditch my tiny cheesecakes," he says.

"I wouldn't dare."

"Is Jamie going with you?"

"Not today," I say. My best friend and former roommate recently moved back home to Texas for the express purpose of getting her shit together. She'd come back three days ago determined to be the best maid of honor ever--which meant that I'd had to field a full hour of apology when she explained to me why she might not make it to the bakery today. "She drove up to Oxnard last night, and she's not sure when she'll get back today. She did a play there a few years ago, and the director's a friend who now does commercials, and ..." I trail off with a shrug, but I'm sure Damien understands. Jamie's still trying to land a gig.

"And if she gets a job?" he asks.

I shrug again. I'm torn between wanting her to be cast and

wanting her to take as much time as she needs to get her head back on straight. I miss Jamie, but Hollywood pretty much ate her up and spat her out, and although my best friend likes to pretend like she's tough enough to take it, underneath the careless sex kitten veneer is the heart of a fragile woman. And it's a heart I don't want to see broken.

Damien kisses my forehead. "Whatever happens, she has you. That makes her one step ahead of the game already."

I smile up at him. "Will you be back tonight?"

"Late," he says, then trails a fingertip over my bare shoulder. "If you're sleeping, I'll wake you."

"I look forward to it," I say, then tilt my head up for a quick kiss on my lips. "You better go get dressed, Mr. Stark," I say, then push him off toward the bedroom. He's back remarkably fast, securing his cuffs as he walks toward me, then taking my hand as he tugs me onto the balcony with him. I follow him down the staircase and along the path toward the helipad.

We pause at the edge, and he kisses me gently one last time. "Soon, Ms. Fairchild," he says, but what I hear is I love you.

I watch as he bends over and hurries under the spinning blades to board the helicopter, which has SI emblazoned on the side. Stark International. I grin, thinking that SU would be more appropriate--Stark Universe. Or Stark World. Damien is, after all, my whole world.