Building a Bad Boy. Colleen Collins
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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