Building a Bad Boy. Colleen Collins
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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