Wicked Heat

A top-secret celebrity wedding, an exotic location and a devastatingly handsome brother of the bride… Everything’s coming together for event coordinator Ella, but will her new flame’s hidden agenda destroy her career and her happily-ever-after?

Event coordinator Ella Montgomery’s efforts to rebuild her shattered career seem to have paid off when she’s offered the chance to plan a top-secret destination wedding for a mystery celebrity. The bride wants to keep her identity a secret until the big day, so Ella has to work with a proxy: the bride’s distractingly sexy brother, Liam.

The pair finds their red-hot chemistry impossible to resist, and it doesn’t take long for them to well and truly christen the honeymoon suite. Their fling in paradise only gets hotter as the big day, and the biggest moment of Ella’s career, draws closer.

But Liam is hiding something—something big—and it could ruin everything. Convinced that his sister’s fiancé is a devious gold digger, Liam is determined to derail the nuptials, even if that means misleading the beautiful new woman in his life. Ella was hopeful for a future with Liam...but when catastrophe strikes the wedding, can their passionate affair survive Liam’s betrayal?

Sexy. Passionate. Bold. Discover Harlequin DARE, a new line of fun, edgy and sexually explicit romances for the fearless female.

KELLI IRELAND spent a decade as a name on a door in corporate America. Unexpectedly liberated by fate’s sense of humour, she chose to carpe the diem and pursue her passion for writing. A fan of happily-ever-afters, she found she loved being the puppet master for the most unlikely couples. Seeing them through the best and worst of each other while helping them survive the joys and disasters of falling in love? Best. Thing. Ever. Visit Kelli’s website at kelliireland.com.

Wicked Heat

Kelli Ireland

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ISBN: 978-1-474-08692-9

WICKED HEAT

© 2019 Denise Tompkins

Published in Great Britain 2019

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

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www.millsandboon.co.uk

To all the readers around the world who have found

joy in the pages I’ve written.

This one’s for you.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

About the Author

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

About the Publisher

ELLA MONTGOMERY PRESSED her forehead against the plane’s small window, her stomach wedged near the top of her throat. She watched as the ground rapidly approached, the pilot executing what felt like a slimly controlled descent through the trade winds. Flying always reminded her just how fragile mortality was. A small mechanical failure. A miscalculated approach. Hell, an unpredicted shift in the wind. Any of it could change her round-trip ticket to a one-way. No refunds. No guarantees.

She held her breath as the tires skipped across the crumbling asphalt runway, the wings flexing far more than anything metal ever should. A flock of feral chickens scattered into the thick brush, necks extended in alarm, the rooster frantic to keep up with his ladies.

The pilot hit the brakes on the twin engines, and the momentum thrust Ella forward in a seat designed to be comfortable for individuals still mastering the fundamentals of addition and subtraction. With her hands gripping the armrests, she gritted her teeth and rode out an arrival more in line with a dirt runway in remote Wyoming rather than her actual destination: Bora Bora, French Polynesia.

The Cessna puttered down the short airstrip before turning sharply and taxiing to the private airport. Two visibly harried baggage handlers tended the luggage. One crouched in the belly of the plane at the next gate over and tossed luggage out the plane’s belly button while the other caught said luggage and created a small pile on the tarmac. To the side of it all stood a lone airport representative in a starched white uniform sporting several leis draped over his arm.

The plane was small enough that the pilot didn’t use the intercom but instead emerged from the cabin. He opened the front exit at the same time a rolling ladder hit the side of the plane, a metallic clank resonating through the cabin.

Then the pilot stood—as much as he could in the compact space—and addressed the passengers in the eight-seat cabin. “Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Parkaire Field in beautiful Bora Bora. If you’ll gather your personal belongings, your baggage will be available at the foot of the stairs, where you or your driver may retrieve it.”

Seated in the second row from the front, Ella decided to wait out the minirush of fellow travelers anxious to be off the puddle jumper. She watched people contort their bodies into amusing shapes in an effort to retrieve their luggage and make their way to the front. A man who’d sat in the row opposite her tugged with ferocious intent on the handle of the large briefcase he’d shoved under the seat in front of him. The handle gave way and the man lunged ass first into the aisle, plowing into another traveler who stood beside Ella’s seat.

The assaulted passenger lurched sideways, flailing as he tried to regain his balance...but failed. Not just failed, but failed. He tumbled into her lap, all long arms and longer legs. A button from his suit jacket popped free and skipped across Ella’s forehead. Paperwork scattered as the stranger’s messenger bag was upended and a laptop landed on top of her foot.

“Sorry, sorry, sorry,” the assailant repeated as he retrieved his briefcase and clutched it to his chest with one hand, mopping his forehead with the other.

“No worries. It’s bound to happen in such cramped quarters.”

Without offering to help Ella up, the pardoned man shuffled the few steps to the front of the plane and down the stairs.

“Right,” the stranger on her lap mused in a proper British accent, amusement saturating each word. “Because it’s certainly de rigueur to hip-check fellow passengers.” He twisted around to look down at her, mischief darkening his gaze. “Is it not?”

She shouldn’t engage with him—she knew she shouldn’t—but he was so damned attractive, sitting there in her lap flirting, with the challenge in his eyes so open, that she couldn’t stop herself. Tilting her head in a coquettish manner, she met his gaze head-on. “I suppose it depends, really.”

“Oh?”

She nodded somberly.

One corner of his mouth twitched. “Pray tell, what does it depend on?”

She sat up a little straighter just as he leaned in. Her lips brushed the shell of his ear as she spoke. “I suppose it all comes down to one thing. Is your ass in the habit of assaulting laps?”

“I’ll be honest. I’ve been considering it as a side job.”

“Obviously.”

“Obviously?” he said on a choked laugh.

The stranger twisted and turned as he tried to free himself from the narrow alleyway created by the seat in front of her and her upper body. He managed, but not without accidentally brushing the outer edge of her breast.

His touch made her draw in a sharp breath.

The man cleared his throat and eyed his laptop bag, which rested between her legs.

She wasn’t going to help him retrieve it. Nope. Not any more than she’d stop him from retrieving it.

He considered her for a second before reaching for the bag, twisting a bit more than necessary. The result allowed the back of his free hand to skate down her bared calf.

He might have shivered, but she couldn’t be sure given her own reaction.

She looked him over then let her eyes linger on his face as she answered. “You’re clearly in need of additional funds. The charity shops in your neighborhood must have stopped carrying the best quality Hermès socks or Rolex watches like they used to.” Her gaze landed on his, and eyes the color of dark chocolate stared back with unerring intensity.

If I were a strawberry, I’d totally dip that.

The thought made her grin.

The stranger grinned back. “Penny for your—”

“Not even for a hundred thousand pennies, but thanks.” She barely managed to stifle a sigh. Of course, he had a British accent. Her personal kryptonite.

Ella smoothed her hair, fighting the urge to fan her face. “You know, if you told me this was your first lap dance, I’d have said you were doing pretty well...right up until you broke that no-touch rule.”

“My first? Ha.” He pushed a lock of errant hair back into place. “You’re perfectly aware that this is precisely how these things go. I impress you with my moves on the first dance. The first is always gratis, by the way. Then you’re enticed to pay for the second dance, wherein I employ my signature moves and render you speechless. And trust me, my lady,” he all but purred, “I’m highly skilled at keeping things professional. Everything is part of a job, even pleasure.”

She chuffed out a laugh, gathering her own things. “Signature moves. You think pretty highly of yourself, Oxford.” Man, he smelled good—cologne that smelled like windblown shores laid over the warm wool of his suit and heat from his skin that carried the essence of him. Drawing a deep breath, she briefly closed her eyes before glancing up to meet his gaze. “I would imagine you’ve had ample opportunities to perfect those moves. Particularly the keep-it-professional routine.”

He tilted his chin down and leaned forward, closing the distance between them. “Pay up and find out,” he said in a soft but unquestionably suggestive tone. “For your convenience, I take all major credit cards—even Diner’s Club. Cash as well. Lady’s preference.”

Her mouth twitched, and she blinked with slow suggestiveness. “I save my bills for tipping.”

“Lucky me,” he murmured.

From the front of the plane, the pilot cleared his throat, clearly fighting laughter.

Ella shot the stranger a sly look. “It seems we’re causing a scene.”

“This is hardly a scene.”

“No? You’re an expert, then?”

He leaned close enough that, this time, it was his lips a whisper from her ear. “A bona fide professional.”

A moment of sheer hysteria ensued. What if this guy actually was a gigolo? Wouldn’t that be the icing on the wedding cake she had yet to design.

Patting the man’s outer thigh in dismissal, she shook her head. “Unfortunately, I’m scene averse. Time to go.”

“Pity, that.” He gave a short nod toward the small messenger bag in the overhead bin. “Yours?”

“Yep.” She straightened her skirt and moved to stand only to find he’d retrieved the bag and held it for her.

He looked at her then, no pretense. No artifice. No sexy banter. It was that look, hunter to hunted. “I’ll see you to the bottom of the stairs. It is, after all, the least I can do.”

“Thanks,” she managed, the sheer sexual pull of his person making her fight the urge to rub her thighs together. Nothing like starting the most critical job she’d ever had by engaging in seriously unprofessional behavior with a gorgeous man.

And she was here for a job. No, not a job. The job—the one that would revive a career that had been on life support ever since her business partner, Rob Darlain, had bailed on her.

Rob had taken their pitch for a TV show to a local cable network. They’d offered him the gig, which catapulted him to regional fame. Then the national network had come calling. Ella had been left to plan children’s birthday parties and bar mitzvahs instead of the exclusive, high-end events for which she and Rob had become recognized. And it didn’t help that he’d claimed to be the exclusive coordinator/designer while labeling Ella the help. The contract she had in her bag was her shot to not only prove her ex-partner wrong but to really, truly make a comeback. This event would park her business, her name, at the top of the list of event planners favored by society’s upper echelon.

Ella preceded the stranger to the exit, hunched over due to the low ceiling made lower by her heels’ height. Every woman had a list of things she refused to cut corners on, from the brand of her coffee to the skin care line she used to the gym membership she ate noodles to afford. For Ella, her shoes were near the very top of that list. The heels she’d worn today had been a careful choice. They were her only pair of Louboutins, and she’d saved for months to buy them when times had been good. They were her power shoes, her I-can-do-anything-I-set-my-mind-to shoes. They were ass-kicking, name-taking shoes. She saw them as her personal totem, her symbol of power and control. Some might find her foolish. But those people didn’t fuel the voice in her head, the voice that demanded she be the best at what she did.

Ella sighed.

If she could pull this job off... No. When she pulled this job off, it would mean no more choosing between groceries or gas, electricity or water.

With the Los Angeles elite being what they were, the culture being what it was, she’d been required to sign a confidentiality clause. She wouldn’t even know who the bride and groom were until the day before the rehearsal. So instead of dealing with the bride, Ella had agreed to work with the bride’s personally appointed representative. She, or he, would have the final say in approving the plans and could, per contractual agreement, make suggestions and changes as she saw fit. If Ella hadn’t been desperate to relaunch her career, and if she wasn’t sick and tired of eating noodle packs to survive, she’d have balked at that stipulation. But she needed this. More than the bride needed an “unrecognized” event planner no one would suspect had been hired to coordinate the wedding of the year.

Whatever. It would work.

It had to.

Ella was prepared to realign the heavens if it meant making this wedding go off without a hitch. She’d worked too hard and for too long to settle for anything less. If she failed?

“Not going to happen,” she said to herself.

The resort’s shuttle pulled up near the plane. Stepping around several chickens that had wandered back onto the tarmac, she hoisted her messenger bag onto her shoulder, extended her suitcase handle and headed toward the vehicle.

She had seven days to pull off the social event of the year—the event that would put money in her account, restore her professional reputation and maybe, just maybe, give her back the most valuable thing she’d lost over the last couple of years.

Self-respect.

* * *

Liam Baggett made his way from the plane much slower than the woman he’d crashed into. Pity he’d failed to charm her. Had he possessed an ounce of the infamous Baggett charisma, he’d at least have procured her number. No reason this whole trip had to test his moxie. Especially not when there was a gorgeous distraction within easy reach.

He glanced her way again and watched as she dodged a rather large rooster. The woman was stunning in a nontraditional way. Mouth a tad too wide but lips decidedly lush, eyes a devastating green, her hair varying shades of brown that said someone with talent had taken what nature gave her and enhanced it to suit that pale complexion. She possessed a lovely figure he’d briefly—far too briefly—had his hands on. He hadn’t noticed her legs until she’d made for the plane’s front exit. In truth, he’d been so distracted as he admired their toned length that he’d nearly knocked his skull on the door.

Blinking rapidly, he chastised himself for allowing the distraction, no matter how fine. He had one life to save and another to destroy before he returned to London and resumed the helm of his late father’s empire.

Trade winds blew with predictable unpredictability, tousling his hair.

Should have cut the damn mop before flying out. “If there’d been time, I would have,” he groused to no one save the hen who’d taken a liking to the shine of his shoes. “Bloody bird. You’re a barnyard animal, not a magpie.” He scooted her away with his foot, but she returned post haste to continue the burgeoning love affair.

The one benefit to the breeze was that it kept the temperatures tolerable. For an Englishman who saw the sun roughly every third day, and only if he was able to leave the office before dark, it was bloody warm.

Searching the tarmac, he found the shuttle to the resort waiting, both side and rear doors open and the driver posted at the back to load passengers’ bags. Liam gathered his bags and briefcase, strode to the van and delivered all but his briefcase into the driver’s care. He rounded the passenger doors, set one foot on the running board and stopped. The woman who’d fascinated him only minutes before was in the far seat and rapidly entering notes on her iPad.

He wordlessly moved into his seat, all the while keeping watch on his travel companion.

The driver shut the doors with authority before clambering into his seat. Putting the van in gear, he took off down the road. Less than one hundred yards later, he was looking in the rearview mirror instead of out the windshield and talking to the woman with an easy demeanor. “The roads between here and the resort can be a bit trying, miss, so you may want to forgo typing until arrival.” Then he hit the gas and they shot away at breakneck speed...right through a massive pothole.

The woman fumbled her iPad, recovered it before it hit the floor and caught the driver’s stare. “A bit trying, huh?”

He laughed. “Wait until we hit traffic. Here in Bora Bora, traffic includes cars, motorcycles, scooters, and even the occasional cart and donkey.”

She stuffed her iPad into her bag without further comment, yet Liam couldn’t help but notice the way her shoulders didn’t move with the bus’s motion. The muscles in her neck were visible and appeared rigid. And despite her sunglasses, there were faint lines that radiated from the corner of each eye. Lines that clearly represented both stress and worry.

He was about to speak, to restart the banter they’d shared on the plane, but she turned away, reaching in to her bag and retrieving a travel pack of ibuprofen. She ripped the package open, retrieved two pills and tossed them into her mouth. Without water available, she struggled to get them down but managed.

What could be so bad a woman lands in paradise and has to take something for a headache? And why am I obsessing? I have my own issues with this godforsaken trip.

Still...

The gentleman’s code Liam lived by demanded he do something to distract her. Leaning toward her, he said, “My travel agent assured me the resort was a guaranteed headache-free zone.”

The woman whipped her entire upper body toward him, eyes wide as she pushed at a strand of hair that had worked its way out of her chignon. Recognition dawned, and her eyes warmed. “You,” she said, smiling.

“And you as well.”

“What are you doing...” She shook her head. “Never mind.”

“You have impeccable taste in locale as well as accommodation.” He nodded at the driver as the man wove between slower moving traffic as if the ten-seat bus were an IndyCar, their route Le Mans. “The Royal Crescent is a lush resort. If you didn’t reserve a cabana over the water, you should consider upgrading.”

“I actually have a room in the resort proper.” When he said nothing, only watched her, she shrugged. “It suits my needs.”

“Sometimes simply meeting one’s needs should be abandoned in favor of obtaining one’s desires, don’t you think?”

She stared at an indeterminate point over his shoulder, tapping her forefinger against her lower lip as she considered his question. It was only seconds before she shifted her gaze to meet his. The wicked gleam in those impossibly green eyes told him she’d give as well as she got. “Actually, no. I’m of the opinion that a woman shouldn’t leave desire on her wish list. A smart woman places her desires, whatever...whomever...they might be, near the very top of her list of necessities. Wouldn’t you agree?” She arched a dark brow, the wordless gesture a direct challenge.

He had intended to bait her. Clearly, she knew it. What Liam had never expected, though, was that she’d take the bait. The image of reeling her in had his heart beating a bit faster, breath coming a bit shorter. He liked it, liked her, and found himself hungering for the thrill of the chase.

He traced his fingers over the tanned skin on her shoulder.

She drew in a deep breath.

He smiled, knowing full well that the look he gave her was leonine. How often had he been accused of letting that particular look loose in both boardroom and bedroom when he discovered exactly what he wanted? Today, this second, what he wanted was this woman.

“Touché,” he murmured, shifting slightly to accommodate his rising desire.

She laughed then, the sound as sultry and evocative in its richness and depth as the first sip of the finest scotch rolling across the palate. Her laughter whipped through him, muddying his thoughts and fogging his awareness of everything but her.