Читать книгу Building a Bad Boy - Colleen Collins - Страница 9

KIMBERLY LOGAN PUSHED OPEN the polished mahogany door with the stenciled words Life Dates… where you’re coached along the path to love. The buzz of Las Vegas traffic faded as she stepped inside and clicked the door shut behind her. She paused to catch her breath while eyeing the recent renovation of her waiting room from cheery yellow to seductive dusty rose. The new color scheme was infinitely more stimulating, exciting…precisely the environment Kimberly wanted for her clientele who came seeking love ever after and lust evermore.

The air-conditioning seemed a tad cool, though. Even in February, she liked to keep it humming on a low setting. Most dating service first-timers were anxious. Cool air helped soothe them. Too chilly, however, would only add to their nervousness.

I’ll ask Maurice to adjust the temperature ASAP. Kimberly headed to his desk—her high heels clicking across the polished parquet floor until she stepped onto the thick Oriental rug—and halted at a teak desk.

Behind which sat Maurice, his tanned face creased by his I’m-not-happy-with-you look. Despite his attitude, he looked natty as usual. Khaki pants, pink polo shirt. Gay men sure knew how to dress.

She glanced at her office door, which was closed. “I know,” she demurred, meeting her office manager’s gaze. “I’m late.”

“Kimberly,” he said crisply, “you must stop making appointments for 9:00 a.m. and not showing up until—” with a flourish of his wrist, he checked the time “—9:38. Worse, this guy showed up fifteen minutes early, so he’s been cooling his heels in your office for almost an hour. Fortunately he has the patience of a saint, unlike that guy two weeks ago who copped a ’tude and used your Waterford bowl for an ashtray—”

“It’s those weekly Chamber of Commerce breakfast meetings,” she said on a release of breath. “People arrive late, speakers talk too long. I’m on time for all my other meetings.”

“When you’re here, not cavorting about in your Beemer, doing networking things.”

“You’re right. I’m still reacting to Great Dates opening up one of their national offices two blocks away. I keep thinking if I don’t do everything to promote Life Dates, especially as it has such a similar name, they’ll cut into our business.”

“Kimberly, what you offer is unique. No global dating agency can begin to cater to Vegas clients the way you do. They’re like Hershey’s chocolate, you’re like Francine’s Gourmet Bonbons.”

Francine, a local high-end chocolatier, had a loyal following who thought nothing of shelling out twenty-four dollars for a dozen homemade, hand-dipped bonbons.

“Thanks,” Kimberly murmured.

It offered some comfort that Life Dates was the most successful dating agency in Vegas, although she had a lot on her plate running the business as well as being its resident “success coach”—a marketing term she’d coined four years ago when she opened the doors. As a success coach, she didn’t just play the same boring connect-the-dots and match up person A with B, like Great Dates did, she personally coached her clients—from picking out their clothes to helping them practice the fine art of dating and, ultimately, seduction.

“If it makes you feel any better,” said Maurice, “I set up a meeting next week with Barnet and Owens.”

“The advertising agency?”

“Yes. They’re going to pitch a local TV campaign idea for us.”

“Great idea.” She plucked a jelly bean from the jar on his desk.

“You didn’t eat at the breakfast meeting, did you?”

“No time.”

He handed her a clipboard with a form secured underneath a silver clamp. “Here’s his application.”

She quickly scanned it. “His first name’s Nigel.”

“So Noel Coward, isn’t it? You know, I should fill that candy bowl with soy nuts instead of sugar. No wonder you’re always motoring a thousand miles an hour.”

“Nigel Durand.”

“A little English, a little French.” Maurice lowered his voice. “Shame he’s straight.”

She peeked at Maurice over the clipboard.

He raised a hand in mock protest. “I’d never flirt with any of your clientele.” He feigned a shudder. “I might be gay, but I’m no masochist.”

Kimberly offered a small smile.

“It’s good to see you smile,” he said warmly. “Someday I’ll even get you to laugh out loud.”

She returned to the application. “Wrestler?”

“Former. Plus he’s bald, thirty-four, wants the picket fence, wife, kids.”

She looked up and frowned. “Bald?”

“Retro-Yul Brynner. Very in right now.”

“Hairless heads are making a comeback?” she murmured, nudging a strand of her blond hair back into her chignon.

“Darling, you might run the chicest dating service this side of the Rockies, but you must get out more! Go see a Vin Diesel flick.”

Vin who? “No time.” She checked her reflection in the gold-veined mirror over the guest couch. Making a quick adjustment to her jacket, she murmured, “I’ll go in and meet Nigel now.”

“I’ll bring in your coffee.”

“Two—”

“I know. Black. Two packets Skinny Sweet.”

She headed to her office. “And by the way,” she whispered over her shoulder. “I laugh out loud sometimes.”

“When?”

“I Love Lucy reruns.”

Maurice tossed her a “really?” look as he sauntered back to the kitchenette.

Until he came along, she’d been through nearly a dozen office assistants. It wasn’t that Kimberly was overly demanding or intense—despite what several of them had huffed—she just wanted her business to be run right.

Which, finally, Maurice did. After almost a year working together, she didn’t know what she’d do without him. Even his nagging. The guy had her best interests at heart.

Unlike the other men she’d had in her life.

She placed her hand on the brass knob of her office door, took a calming breath, then opened it and stepped inside.

“Mr. Durand, I’m so very sorry.” Kimberly swept into the room as she had a hundred times before, shoulders back, chin high, exuding conviction. She’d learned long ago that no matter what the circumstances, people responded favorably to grand displays of confidence.

“I had an emergency meeting this morning that was impossible to break,” she continued, putting on her best I’m-so-sorry look. “I apologize for your having to wait.”

Nigel Durand rose from the guest chair. And kept rising until he’d unfolded into a towering mass of bulk that loomed over her.

A towering mass of bulk with a shiny dome on top.

She eased in a stream of air and stared heavenward, getting the giddy sense she was standing at the foot of a mountain. And for a moment, she felt small, overwhelmed. Things Kimberly Logan never felt.

“That’s all right, ma’am,” said a deep voice that reverberated like thunder from the mountaintop.

She felt like telling him she was only twenty-eight. Call her Miss or Ms., but please not ma’am.

She blinked at the mountaintop, recalling Maurice’s reference to a retro-Yul Brynner. A distant memory of the movie The King and I flitted through her mind. As the king of Siam, Yul had swaggered across his palace, oozing arrogance and testosterone out of every pore.

Maurice was right. Bald heads were sexy. She wondered how it would feel to run her fingers over Nigel’s smooth dome….

An unexpected shiver of anticipation ran down her spine.

“Please, Mr. Durand,” she said, surprised how breathy her voice suddenly sounded, “have a seat.”

As 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 Crusher.”

Oh yessss, now she remembered. In one of the ads, he’d wrapped his arms around a truck—crushed it to his massive, bulky chest—and it had morphed into a sleek, sexy woman moaning his name. He’d then carried the damsel across the city, through burning buildings, over long hot stretches of sizzling desert. And the voice-over had said, “The Crusher. In its embrace, you’ll remain safe, protected.”

Thousands of women had purchased those trucks.

When those commercials were running, Kimberly had lost count of the number of her female clients who’d said they’d love to meet a man like The Phantom. A man who was outrageously bad while defiantly good.

“Where’s The Phantom these days?” Kimberly’s eyes dipped to that rooster, wondering what Nigel’s chest looked like underneath. Did he still shave? Was he one big mass of brown, oiled muscle?

“He doesn’t exist except in people’s fantasies.”

“What a shame,” she murmured. “Women love that kind of man.”

“Women love James Bond, too,” he snapped, “but that doesn’t mean he exists.”

She shifted in her seat. Kimberly had obviously stumbled into some serious button-pushing territory. “I’m not talking about everyday reality,” she said, keeping her voice conversational. “I’m talking about mystery.”

“Mystery?” He cocked an eyebrow. “You mean, faking something you’re not.”

“No,” she said slowly, “I’m talking about adopting a persona that appeals to the opposite sex. Dating is a buyer’s market and women want to ‘buy’ a man who exudes a virile, forbidden, bad-boy persona.”

He frowned. “Maybe they love the persona, but they don’t want the man behind it.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“That’s the true reality, Ms. Logan. I should know. I lived it.”

Kimberly realized she was tense, leaning forward in her own chair. Nigel was sitting stiffly, his big square knuckles gripping the arms of his chair. Their gazes were locked, waiting for one of them to back down.

The door opened and Maurice entered, carrying a steaming pink flamingo coffee cup. “Sorry this took so long,” he said, sashaying across the room to Kimberly’s desk.

“Was wondering where you were,” she said, hearing the edge to her voice. But this little surprise showdown with Nigel had left her tense.

“Couldn’t find the Skinny Sweet. Had to do a quick trip next door to the convenience store. Figured while I was there, might as well grab something nutritional for your breakfast, too.” He set down a steaming foil-wrapped package that reeked of onions and spice.

She shot him a questioning look.

“Tofu breakfast burrito.” He twirled a finger in a circle. “Wrapped in a whole-wheat tortilla.”

Her mouth dropped open slightly. “You’re kidding.”

“No, and you’re welcome.” Maurice folded his hands neatly. “Anything else before I go?”

Kimberly caught herself and smiled tightly at Nigel. “Did you care for anything?”

“No, thanks.”

With a pleasant dip of his head at Kimberly, Maurice left.

Nigel fought the urge to follow the assistant out of the office. This interview was growing increasingly frustrating, just like all his dating experiences. And bringing up The Crusher commercial pissed him off. If there was anything he regretted doing in his life, it was that. As a wrestler, he’d been flexing his skills at least. In that commercial, he’d been nothing but a piece of oiled meat.

Celine wailed about her man reaching for her, and being all that she could for him….

Nigel eased out a slow breath. That’s all he wanted, too. A woman who would reach for him, love him for who he was. And he’d give her the same…and more. His heart, his love for the rest of their days. If I walk out now, I might lose that chance. Up to now, he’d tried everything—slipping women his number, writing a personal ad, baking brownies as gifts—and every time, he failed at love. Walking in the Life Dates door was his last chance for love.

Can’t leave. Can’t give up, not yet. Ms. Right was somewhere out there, he just needed help finding her.

Although to look at Kimberly Logan, it was difficult to imagine this woman being a matchmaker. From the moment she’d sailed through the door, she’d seemed more like a machine than flesh and blood. Most women wearing a silk suit looked soft, feminine. Even though it was a nice shade of purple, it fit her like a suit of armor. That bun number only added to her strict look.

Snapping that pencil in two cinched it, though. This was a woman who needed some serious loosening up.

A woman who, also, from that perplexed look on her face, might appreciate an explanation for his strong reaction to that damn commercial. It’d be in his favor, too. If she understood what turned his crank, she’d know what to leave alone.

“I hated that commercial,” he muttered.

She arched an eyebrow.

He scrubbed a hand across his face. “That image—me looking like a meatball Zorro with a woman in my arms—is the last image the public has of The Phantom. Feels rotten for that to be my parting shot, you know? It’s my biggest regret in life, something I’ll never repeat again.”

She nodded, all poise and sophistication.

Reminded him of women from his past. The coiffed, moneyed ones who hung out ringside during matches and tipped their way backstage afterward. Women who were privileged, uptight and desperate for some guy they viewed as wild and bad to help them relax a little. He’d made the mistake of indulging a few of them, then realized their game. They didn’t want him.

They wanted The Phantom.

“So,” said Kimberly, pushing the burrito aside with her manicured pink nails. “Who is that man they discovered?”

“Pardon?”

“You said that women might love the persona, but not desire the man behind it,” she prompted. “And I was wondering, who did they discover behind the mask? I need to know you, understand your dating history so we can plan our strategy. That’s how we differ from other agencies, and why our success rate is so high. I’m your success coach, as you probably read in our ad. In that capacity, I work closely with you, get to know you, so I can maximize our approach for your success.”

Her clipped, assured tone was as smooth and polished as the furniture in this room. The only soft thing in the area was the sunlight from a corner window sifting through a ficus tree, creating a pattern of light and leaves on the floor as delicate as lace.

Plus, there was nothing personal in here. No family pictures, kids’ finger paintings, nothing to show she had a life other than work.

“Women didn’t like the homebody,” he admitted.

She raised her eyebrows, a signal for him to elaborate.

“Homebody,” he muttered, shifting in his seat. “You know, the guy who bakes brownies. Wants the picket fence and two-point-five kids.”

“I can’t imagine any woman not wanting that…”

“Oh, I can.” He snorted a laugh. “Nice guys finish last.”

“May I suggest,” she said gently, “that you’re a nice guy who maybe tries too hard?”

That hurt almost as much as a ringside body slam. “Baking brownies is trying too hard?”

“What do you do at night…besides bake?”

“Sit in my favorite armchair, listen to music. Watch cable if a good movie’s on.”

“While waiting by the phone.”

He shifted in his seat. “No.”

“Where’s the phone?”

“Next to the armchair.” Okay, she was smart. Uptight, but smart.

“You’re too available,” she said quietly. “People don’t respect someone who’s at their beck and call.” Her eyes softened, their pewter color shifting to a soft gray, and he wondered if she had firsthand experience in this area.

She took a sip of her coffee and set it down. “We need to make you more…unattainable.”

Kimberly jotted a note on the application, then put down her pen. “I have an approach that would work excellently for you. I’ve used it before with men and they’ve all ended up married to the woman of their fantasies within a year. I call it my Bad Boy Makeover.”

He frowned. He knew it. These regimented types always loved the bad boys. “I don’t want to be bad.”

“Wasn’t The Phantom bad?”

“He was known for defeating evil, saving the woman.”

“We’ll be doing something similar. Women eat it up. You’ll have to turn the ringer off on your phone because so many of them will be calling you.” She opened a drawer. “Let me get my notes, explain in a bit more detail.”

She extracted a navy-blue folder. “Here we go!” she said, opening it. “Step one,” she read. “Look like a bad boy. Step two, act like a bad boy. Step three, make women melt. Step four, kiss her ’til she whimpers. Step five, love her ’til she screams. Step six, pick ‘the One.’”

He blinked, digesting the stream of words, all punctuated with bad-boy this and that. He’d once dated a woman who loved writing “Honey-Do” lists, which had struck him as odd considering all she needed to do was ask him for help and he’d be there.

But this success coach’s bad-boy list was stupid. A perversion of a honey-do list. If you want a honey, do this. And this. What was step five? Love her ’til she screams? This edgy, armored broad thought she was going to teach him how to do that?

Was she freaking crazy?

He tapped his finger on the chair of the arm, figuring he could be out of her office and back on the street in ten strides.

Last chance for love, buddy.

He cleared his throat, rubbed a spot on his forehead. “And, uh, these work?”

“I’ve had an eighty-five percent success rate. Like I said, women love bad boys.” She leaned forward, a seductive look softening her features.

And for a moment, he saw something he liked in her. Something tender, almost needy. The opposite of everything she plastered on her earnest, coiffed self. And in that moment, he had a flash of understanding about this woman. Just as she externally made over others, she’d done so with herself.

And he wondered what was so soft, so vulnerable inside that she’d built this fortress of a person.

“I can make you over in three months,” she said.

Three months? In ninety days, he finally might have the one thing that had eluded him all these years. A loving partner, someone with whom to share his life, his dreams. A woman he could coddle and pamper and love for the rest of his life.

But a makeover?

Celine wailed about never finding love again.

“I’ll do it,” said Nigel.