Building a Bad Boy. Colleen Collins

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СКАЧАТЬ she’d cross herself and say at least a dozen Hail Marys.

      Through the store display window, he suddenly saw Kimberly striding purposefully down the sidewalk, dressed in a classy but strict-looking pantsuit. Bright red, which surprised him. She seemed the kind of woman to stick with cooler colors to match that attitude of hers.

      Sunlight glinted off her hair, making the blond appear almost white. As she walked, she talked on a cell phone, the fingers of her free hand gesturing emphatically.

      The woman was a whirlwind. He wondered if she ever relaxed…or even knew how to.

      She glanced at her wristwatch, visibly jumped and quickly ended the call. Then she checked her reflection in the window, tucking a stray hair into another variation of that bun-thing she called a hairdo. After a quick adjustment to her jacket, she plastered on a smile and sailed into the store.

      He shook his head. The lady has perfected her grand entrance. Having been a professional wrestler, grand entrances were something he knew a thing or two about and she certainly had hers down.

      Blinking rapidly, she approached a salesclerk and began talking animatedly.

      Taking in a fortifying breath, Nigel sauntered up to her. She did a double take, then replastered on that manufactured smile.

      “Nigel! I apologize for being late. I had a morning meeting—”

      “Let’s get this over with.” He’d already heard her “I had a morning meeting” speech yesterday. Just because he’d made a commitment to this shopping gig didn’t mean he had to be good-natured about it.

      “Bad mood?”

      “Goes with the bad boy.”

      She looked surprised.

      “It was a joke.”

      “Oh. Right.” Scarcely missing a beat, she resumed issuing instructions to the clerk, a middle-aged guy with thinning hair and a cat-that-ate-the-canary grin.

      “And some of those stretchy T-shirts,” Kimberly said, her voice rushing over words, “any color but pink. And you have leather jackets, right?”

      “I’m not wearing a leather jacket,” Nigel interjected.

      The clerk cocked an eyebrow at Kimberly as though to say “Do I listen to him or you?”

      She gave him an authoritative nod. He sauntered away.

      Kimberly leaned toward Nigel. “I’m only asking you to try a few on,” she said under her breath. “Besides, if you check out the price tags, this place is very reasonable.”

      “That’s not the issue.” Nigel had handled his pro-wrestling earnings well. Tack on his subsequent earnings from endorsements and coaching, he never worried about money. He opened his mouth to say more about not wanting to drape himself in leather when her perfume snagged his attention.

      He recalled the spicy scent from yesterday. But today, he picked up a trace of something extra. Something hot and languid, like a drop of summer.

      The scent seemed too exotic compared to the rest of her strict look, which made Nigel wonder if she was like one of those hothouse orchids. Elegantly beautiful, but needing a humid environment in which to thrive.

      “Vegas isn’t a leather-jacket kinda town,” he said, finally gathering his thoughts. “Men wear sport shirts, linen jackets.”

      “Leather equates to sex. Besides, it’s only February. Still cool enough to wear one.”

      Sex. Not that he hadn’t heard the word before. Or didn’t give it as much, if not more, respect than he did money. But to hear this exotic orchid say the word so matter-of-factly was like hearing Queen Elizabeth cuss.

      “I thought…” he backpedaled, grappling to remember what he’d been thinking before “sex” entered the picture “…this was about getting a date, not getting…” laid. Maybe she could casually say “sex” as though it were a refreshing after-dinner mint, but he didn’t talk that way. Maybe it was a dying art, but a man watched his language and his behavior around ladies.

      “Hopefully one leads to the other,” she added, filling in the missing blank.

      “I like to wait for the…other.”

      “Well, that’s certainly your prerogative,” she answered, raising one shapely eyebrow. “But my business is to sell you, and trust me, sex sells. And by that I mean, we’re working on you oozing sex, flashing enough testosterone to bring women to their knees. Figuratively speaking, of course.”

      He stared at those red lips that uttered things like “sex” and “knees.” They were still moving but he’d stopped listening. Had he ever before seen such a perfectly shaped mouth? Outlined and glossed as though it was an art object and not a living, pulsing piece of her body. Funny, she talked so straightforwardly about bad boys and sex and “figurative” whatevers, but he didn’t detect the source of her own passion.

      Had to be hidden deep somewhere under that fire-engine red suit.

      “So what do you think?” she said.

      He lifted his gaze to meet her gray eyes. “I’ve never worn a leather jacket before,” he murmured, fairly certain that the response would fit just about anything she’d been saying.

      “You wore a leather Speedo.”

      Not this again. “As The Phantom. Not me.”

      “Like he’s not part of you.”

      “Like he was a character, somebody I made up.” His voice hardened. “I’m getting tired of resurrecting The Phantom every time we meet.” If she brought up that commercial again, he’d walk.

      Their gazes locked for a long moment. Over the speakers a singer crooned the old Dylan tune “Tangled Up In Blue,” wailing about a man keepin’ on, like a bird that flew, tangled up in blue.

      That’s me, thought Nigel. Tangled up in this, committed to this. My best bet is not to fight it, but flow with it if I want to find true love.

      She seemed to pick up on his thoughts because her face relaxed a bit, her mouth mimicking a smile.

      “We haven’t even said hello and we’re already off on the wrong foot,” she said, her voice taking on a syrupy quality. She extended her hand. “Hello.”

      He hadn’t noticed her watch yesterday. Ornate. Silver. Were those diamonds? Either she had a moneyed beau or she bought this bauble for herself. He voted for the latter. Only women who made big bucks could afford such luxuries, which meant she’d successfully played matchmaker to many “life dates.”

      Which meant those people were, at this moment, happily attached—maybe even married—to their soul mates.

      Which meant it was in his best interests to stick with the program. Even if he felt tangled up in blue.

      He took her hand, which disappeared into his. “Hello.”

      “We’re getting silly СКАЧАТЬ