Building a Bad Boy. Colleen Collins

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СКАЧАТЬ the mountain descended, she crossed behind her chrome-and-glass desk. “Let’s talk about how Life Dates can help you find the woman of your dreams.” She sat down in her high-back, ergonomic chair, and set the clipboard on the desk. She hoped Maurice showed up soon with the coffee—her energy was flagging.

      Nigel settled back into the guest chair facing her, and she locked on his eyes. Such a rich blue. Like the irises that grew rampant in her neighbor’s field back in Sterling, Colorado. As a child, she loved to pick armfuls and arrange them in her favorite vase. The vibrant colors brightened a home dominated by her serious, hardworking father.

      “So Mr. Durand,” Kimberly said, folding her hands neatly in front of her. “You were a professional wrestler?”

      “Yes.”

      She nodded, waiting for him to say more. Nothing. Finally, she broke the silence. “Where did you practice this profession?”

      “A fledgling career as a college football star segued into wrestling. Started out touring the circuits, got invited into the Showcase of the Immortals. Eventually made the grade into the WWE, settled in Vegas.”

      “WWE stands for…”

      “World Wrestling Entertainment. Retired from the ring a year ago.” He shifted in his seat, which would be a small movement on anyone else. But on Nigel, muscles bulged and strained before the mass stilled.

      She took a calming breath, which had an absolutely zero calming effect. “How about I put on some music,” she suddenly said, her voice doing that breathy thing again. Good thing she forgot to ask Maurice to turn down the air-conditioning. Right now her overheated body needed every blast of chill she could get.

      “Yes, music,” she answered herself a bit too enthusiastically. “Let’s put some on.”

      She got up and went to the CD player that sat on a carved walnut bookcase in the corner. Music helped people relax. It better help her relax, anyway. She began flipping through the discs. “Tony Bennett? Lyle Lovett? Disco Divas?” Disco Divas? Had to be a recent Maurice addition.

      “Got any Celine Dion?”

      She glanced over her shoulder at Nigel. “You’re kidding—” She stopped, seeing the serious expression on his face. “Uh, let me look…I’m sure we have something here….” She’d just broken one of her cardinal rules about never insulting a client. Today was not starting out well.

      “Here’s one!” she finally announced. “The Colour of My Love,” she read off the front of the CD.

      “Yeah, that one’s cool.”

      Not too many men admitted to being Celine Dion fans. It was like admitting they cried at sad movies. Or loved to go shopping.

      After sliding the disc into the player, Kimberly headed back to her desk. Celine’s clear, vibrant voice filled the room, singing about always being there for her man.

      Kimberly sat down, remembering a time she believed that. She still believed in true love for others,

      just not for herself. It was a good philosophy, though, because not being romantically enmeshed kept her focused on her priorities. Number one being her independence—financial, personal, professional. Number two being…Well, she hadn’t gotten that far yet.

      She glanced at the door. Where was Maurice and her coffee?

      She grabbed a pencil out of her ceramic cup and fiddled with it, feeling jittery, wishing Nigel wouldn’t stare at her like that. Those big blue eyes had a way of boring into her, as though they saw more than she was willing to let on. Probably a technique he used in his wrestling days, a psychological tactic to unnerve his opponent.

      “So,” she said, determined to not be unnerved. I should ask him something about wrestling. Like what? All she knew about wrestling was big, muscled bodies and bone-crunching antics.

      Her gaze dropped to Nigel’s T-shirt decorated with the faded image of a…

      “Rooster?” she blurted.

      The corners of his eyes crinkled when he smiled. “Foghorn Leghorn.”

      “Foghorn…? Was that…your wrestling name?”

      He did a double take, then laughed. His lips were so full, his teeth so big.

      “Didn’t you watch cartoons when you were a kid?” he asked.

      “No.”

      “Not even on Saturday mornings?”

      Saturday mornings were like any other morning in her house. They had to be quiet because her mother was sick. Rather than watch TV, Kimberly would sit on the porch and read. Or hang out at her neighbor’s, helping feed or groom the horses.

      “No,” she answered softly.

      “Really? I thought all kids knew Foghorn Leghorn. He’s a cartoon character. My kid sisters decided, years ago, that I was like him because I’m so big and my voice is so deep.”

      Yes, you are big. Mountain-size big. A woman probably got lost in those arms, cocooned within all those muscles and warmth. “So,” she whispered, “what was your professional name?”

      “The Phantom.”

      She sucked in a breath of surprise. “The Phantom who pitched trucks a few years back?”

      When he nodded yes her heartbeat pounded so hard, she feared it would overpower Celine. Kimberly clutched the pencil, recalling the series of television commercials starring The Phantom. She’d seen them late at night while catching up on paperwork. She’d never been all that hooked on TV, but whenever The Phantom had appeared, she’d been riveted. He exuded strength and mystery…and was one hell of a piece of eye candy.

      No wonder she didn’t recognize him. In those ads, he wore a black mask à la Zorro. His only other body covering had been a pair of leather briefs that covered the essentials but left the rest of his massive, muscled body deliciously exposed. He’d been a mouthwatering mound of chiseled, oiled brown…

      Crack.

      She looked down at the pencil she’d just snapped in two.

      “You okay?” Nigel asked.

      Kimberly raised her gaze and met those eyes, wide with concern. Heat rushed to her cheeks as she nonchalantly dropped the broken pencil pieces into the chrome trash can beneath her desk where they clattered loudly in their descent. Maurice was too efficient, checking her wastebasket—among other things—every morning when he got in, taking care of anything the night cleaning crew had lazily forgotten. Really, Maurice was too on top of things. She’d have a talk with him about leaving a little trash, just enough to deaden the sounds of things tossed in moments of embarrassment.

      Like snapped-in-two pencils.

      “What were those trucks called?” she asked as though nothing out of the usual had just happened.

      He frowned again. “What trucks?”

      “The ones in The Phantom ad.”

      “The СКАЧАТЬ