Kimberly dabbed a nervous tongue to her lip

The gesture grabbed Nigel’s attention, sharpened the pull between them. Following the bad-boy rules she had set out earlier, he moved slowly across the bar toward her, stopping directly in front of her chair.

She looked up, her lips parted as though to speak. Instead, she fluttered her fingers to the top button on her blouse.

He shifted closer, his knee brushing hers. The accidental touch triggered small fires over his skin. And from the flush on her cheeks, he could see she felt it, too. The unspoken desire in her eyes made him bold. He slid one arm around her waist and pulled her to him, feeling her swollen breasts against his body. She shivered.

In his best bad-boy tone he leaned forward and whispered hotly into her ear, “I want you.”

Dear Reader,

Many of you have asked about the hunky, former professional wrestler Nigel—aka “The Phantom” with the body of The Rock and the heart of E.T.—who loved to bake brownies for the heroine in Joyride (Harlequin Temptation #867, February 2002).

Well, Nigel’s back and he’s bad.

Make that almost bad. In Building A Bad Boy, Nigel has decided he’ll never win the woman of his dreams by sitting next to the phone, so he signs up with a dating agency whose owner, Kimberly Logan, enrolls him in her “How To Make a Bad Boy” program. After all, women love bad boys, right?

What Kimberly is totally unprepared for is the impact her coaching has…on her!

This is one of my last books for Harlequin Temptation, and I’ll miss the line as both a reader and writer. My history with this series goes back to 1992 when, as an unpublished author, my story placed second in their fifth annual Harlequin Temptation contest. I finally sold to Harlequin four years later.

I hope you enjoy Building A Bad Boy. To check out my upcoming books and enter my monthly contests, please visit my Web site, www.colleencollins.net.

Happy reading!

Colleen Collins

Books by Colleen Collins

HARLEQUIN TEMPTATION

867—JOYRIDE

899—TONGUE-TIED

913—LIGHTNING STRIKES

939—TOO CLOSE FOR COMFORT

977—SWEET TALKIN’ GUY*

HARLEQUIN DUETS

10—MARRIED AFTER BREAKFAST

22—ROUGH AND RUGGED

30—IN BED WITH THE PIRATE

39—SHE’S GOT MAIL!

108—LET IT BREE CAN’T BUY ME LOUIE

Building A Bad Boy

Colleen Collins

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

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To the Temptresses

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

1

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.

2

Step one: Look like a bad boy

“LOOK LIKE A BAD BOY,” Nigel muttered to himself the next morning, giving his head a slow shake. He thought back to all the times he’d made one of his three kid sisters go back to her room and change clothes that were too tight, too low cut, too short before leaving the house. How many times had he reprimanded them, “Dressing bad isn’t good.” Who knew those words would come back to haunt him.

Come to find out, once you were grown-up, dressing bad was good.

But he still wouldn’t change a thing about how he treated his kid sisters, despite their eye rolling and occasional pouts. With their father working swing shift at the factory, their big brother, Nigel, had often had to play “Dad.”

Even their boyfriends did as he told.

And not just because Nigel was merely the big brother.

He was just plain big.

By twenty, he was six-five, two-hundred-and-eighty pounds of rock-hard muscle thanks to his daily workouts and amateur wrestling schedule. The brave young men who dated his sisters were more than willing to let Nigel be the law of the land. If he said to have his sister home by midnight, the kid pulled up in the driveway at 11:50.

Speaking of time, Nigel glanced at the wall clock again. This shop for tall men, aptly named Tall Threads, had a clock on the wall shaped like a pair of extra-long pants, with suspenders for hands. The shorter suspender pointed at nine, the longer at three.

Nine-fifteen.

Maybe he could scare teenage kids into being on time, but apparently it didn’t work with Ms. Kimberly Logan.

Yesterday, he’d thought she was joking when, while escorting him out after his interview, she’d announced she’d meet him at Tall Threads at 9:00 a.m. the following morning. She explained it’d be their first “success coach” meeting where they’d shop for bad-boy clothes.

He’d laughed.

She hadn’t.

With a pinched “this is serious” look, she reminded him that twenty percent of his fee, as outlined in the contract he’d signed, was allocated for miscellaneous expenditures.

Which, in this case, meant clothes to build his bad-boy image.

He had the urge to ask if she shopped someplace special to build her uptight-woman image, but had bitten his tongue. Not only because his mother had drilled it into him to never insult a lady, but also because once he’d made a commitment, he stuck to it. His siblings had the same trait; the roots from witnessing their parents’ living commitment to their faith, their marriage, their children. They’d soon be celebrating their fortieth wedding anniversary, a milestone Nigel wished for himself, someday.

“Look like a bad boy,” he muttered to himself for the nth time. If his mother knew he’d gone to these lengths, 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 over a jacket.”

When she turned her head slightly, he noticed she wore only one earring. Fancy watch, but only one earring. There was no beau in her life. Not a live-in one, anyway. Because a loving man would stop her before she rushed out the door missing an earring, or anything else for that matter.

And a really good man would grab this bundle of energy on her way out the door and plant a kiss on those luscious red lips so they didn’t look too perfect.

“The leather jacket is about first impressions, that’s all,” the glossy red lips continued. “And first impressions are the most important thing in the dating scene. Actually, the most important thing in any scene. Anyway, the dating scene is a buyer’s market and we’re making you into a salable product. Once you’re off the shelf, you’ll have plenty of time to let the woman of your dreams—your life date—get to know the real you, see into your heart, and fall in love with you and only you—”

Her voice caught, and he sensed she’d just revealed more than she’d intended. Someone hadn’t loved her, only her?

“You know what?” she asked, rushing on, “I think you’ll need a new, bad name to go along with the your new, bad look.”

He frowned. “I thought this meeting was about my looking like a bad boy, not taking the name of one.”

“Yes, but wouldn’t it have been silly to have named the Eiffel Tower ‘that big pointy structure’?”

He paused. “I’m not a building.”

Her gaze traveled down his body, then back up. When she met his eyes, he noticed a pink tinge to her cheeks.

“No, no you’re not a building,” she finally said. Her fingers fluttered around the top button of her silk blouse.

“What’s wrong with Nigel?”

She continued playing with the button. “Nigel is so…Noel Coward.”

“Noel who?”

“It’s too stuffy.” She closed her eyes and rolled the button between her thumb and forefinger. “Got it!” she suddenly said, releasing the button to snap her fingers. “Your name will be…Nicky!”

“Nicky?”

“Yes,” she enthused. “Nicky Durand!” She shuddered a breath. “It’s sexy, bad…oh, yes, very bad, which is very good. Nicky it is.”

Before hearing that burst of breathy enthusiasm, he’d been ready to fight to the death to remain Nigel…but suddenly “Nicky” wasn’t so bad. Especially if women reacted as she did, all pink cheeked and ready to pop buttons.

“I’ll just say it’s my nickname, right?” Lots of people had nicknames.

“Hmm, yes.” She looked around, distracted.

“After a few meet and greets with a woman, I’ll divulge my true name.”

“Right, right,” she murmured, catching the eye of the salesclerk, who was thumbing through a rack of leather jackets. “Black,” she called out. “Lots of zippers.”

She reached into her jacket pocket and extracted a yellow jelly bean, which she tossed into her mouth.

Yeah, she lived alone. Nobody to watch over her, make sure she ate right. Nigel could see it now—her running out the door in the mornings missing earrings, stuffing her pockets with pieces of candy. He doubted she had a pet or plants—when would there be time to take care of them?

Which meant there was no one to come home to, to talk to about her day, share her worries and her joys. Did women like her really choose such lifestyles, or did they wake up one day and realize they’d worked so hard to make their way in the world, they’d forgotten to make a home for themselves?

The thought saddened him. Because he related. His home life had been loving, but money had been tight so his dad was always pulling double shifts. And even though Nigel knew firsthand how much he, his sisters and Mom missed him—or how many school events he missed—damn if Nigel didn’t do the same thing.

By the age of twenty-four, he had been on the road building his wrestling career, figuring there was plenty of time for marriage and babies. Then he got sidelined with that busted knee, which gave him plenty of time to realize he’d let his career deep-six building his own family. The fact hit him hardest after being released from the hospital and there was no loving woman welcoming him home, no child’s arms hugging him, just his empty apartment.

“How are these, ma’am?” The salesclerk walked up, his arms laden with jeans and shirts. “Left several leather jackets in the dressing room.” He slid a glance to Nigel. “Lightweight ones.”

Kimberly went into success-coach mode and began flipping through the clothes, oohing over this, saying “no” to that. Nigel stood nearby until the salesclerk escorted him to a dressing room.

It was a big room. No surprise there, considering this place catered to big guys. Alone, Nigel looked at himself in the mirror. Today he’d thrown on a pair of old cotton shorts, a loose T that had been washed so many times he wasn’t sure if the logo was from a burger joint he once visited in Minnesota or another Foghorn Leghorn that had seen better days. On his feet, an old pair of sandals that had turned the color of dirt.

Hardly chick-magnet attire.

Maybe he’d come in here muttering to himself about “looking like a bad boy,” but faced with his image, he had to admit this let’s-go-bowling look needed some serious renovation. How many times had he seen his buddies dress like wolves when they were on the prowl? Tight pants, body-hugging shirts, slick shoes. Even his best pal Rigo, now settled down with a bambino on the way, had donned that look in his bachelor days.

Looking hot and bad to attract the opposite sex.

“Maybe you bake the best brownies in the state of Nevada,” he said to his reflection, “but buddy, you sure aren’t cooking up everlasting love.” He started peeling off his clothes, ready to dress bad.

He’d just kicked aside his shorts when a woman’s voice called out, “How’s it going?”

He straightened and saw Kimberly’s face peeking through the curtain of his dressing room.

“What the hell are you doing?” He released a huff of breath. “Sorry.”

“For what?”

“Cussing.”

She blinked. “Everybody cusses sometime.”

“I try not to. Made a point to watch my language when helping raise my three kid sisters. Role model and all that.” He pressed his thumb against his lower lip. “What are you doing here?”

“I wanted to check up on you.”

“I’m naked.”

Her eyes dipped. “Not quite. You’re wearing…”

Kimberly couldn’t stop staring at the bulging black briefs that seemed stretched to the max over his member. Just like that black leather Speedo number he wore in those Crusher ads. She glanced at his oversize feet. So what they said was true….

She tried to look back at his face, but there was a lot of body to cover on the way. Prominent thigh muscles. Ridged tummy. A sun-kissed torso underneath swirls of thick, black chest hair.

She thought back to their initial meeting yesterday in her office when she’d wondered if the former wrestler still shaved his chest. She could put that question to rest.

She glanced at his head, hard and pink under the lights. “Your head…”

“What about it?”

“Do we have to go the Yul Brynner route?”

“Yul who?”

“The King and I?” As soon as she said it, she imagined herself in a satin gown, dancing in the arms of the King of Siam who, in this particular fantasy, looked like Nigel. Although Nigel would never resort to the charming bullheadedness of the King. This guy is hopelessly sincere, and from what he mentioned about helping raise three kid sisters, dedicated. She wasn’t sure whether to be amused or amazed at this mass of man who had a body like The Rock and the heart of E.T.

Those baby blues had a confused look and she realized he still didn’t get the Yul Brynner movie reference. “I think you should grow out your hair,” she said, gesturing limply toward his fleshy dome. “Women like to run their fingers through a man’s locks.”

Nigel gave the dome a shake. “I can do the clothes, even try on a new name, but the head stays as is.”

“Why?”

“Because I like it. No muss, no fuss.”

“But women like to run their fingers—”

“Over my shiny bald scalp. After wrestling matches, I can’t tell you how many fingers skimmed and rubbed and tickled the surface. Old women, young women, kids. Here, you do it.” He leaned down, holding his head inches from her.

“This is ridiculous,” she managed to say despite her pulse leaping into her throat.

“Feel it.”

“I can see it.”

“Feel.”

“If you had so many fingers feeling you—I mean, your head—why didn’t you just hook up with…” It really wasn’t any of her business why he hadn’t latched on to one of the finger-feeling woman back in his Phantom days.

He glanced up, and something in his expression gave her heart a squeeze.

“Just ’cause they wanted to cop a feel didn’t mean they wanted to know the real me.”

She blinked, thinking how many women had complained about the exact same thing. Men just wanted them for their bodies, not their minds and heart. “You know, that’s what a lot of women say about men.”

He shrugged. “It’s a curse and a blessing being a sensitive man.”

She was wondering about the blessing part when he dropped his head, waiting for her to feel.

“Oh, no, that’s all right—”

“I insist. Because afterward, you’ll never ask me to grow my hair again.”

“Okay,” she whispered, reaching toward his scalp. She became aware of his scent—a citrusy aftershave. And she tried not to be overly aware that this mountain of a man, dressed in nothing but black stretchy briefs, was bending over in what looked like a bowing position.

For a moment, she felt like Anna taming the King of Siam.

And then her fingertips brushed lightly over his scalp, the connection warm, solid. She gasped and withdrew her fingers.

“No, touch me,” Nigel insisted.

“I did,” she said shakily.

He straightened a little, his blue eyes firing her a look. “That wasn’t a touch.” He gently took her hand and, bending down a little, placed it full on his bare scalp.

Her heart raced like a schoolgirl’s as her palm pressed against his head, her fingers resting on smooth skin over hard skull. Back here, tucked away in a curtained room, pressing flesh to flesh, she suddenly felt as though they were doing something secretive, forbidden.

“It feels so…” She breathed in and out, her chest rising with the effort. “…silky, yet hard.” She swallowed back a nervous sound, realizing how what she’d just said must sound.

Nigel still held her hand, his grip confident, warm. “Run your fingers over the surface,” he said in a low voice that rumbled from deep within the mountain.

For a split second, she thought about lying and saying, oh, no, no, she’d felt enough, thank you. But in that blip of time, he started to guide her hand slowly, trailing her fingers in lazy paths over the sleek, pink dome.

“See?” he said, his voice low and husky. “It feels good, doesn’t it?”

She murmured something in the affirmative, not trusting herself to form coherent words. The pounding of her heart had escalated to a pagan beat, pulsing loudly over the piped-in music.

Nigel straightened, slowly, causing her hand to slide ever so gently off his bare head and drift down the side of his face. Her fingers touched the bristle of his unshaven face.

As he straightened to his full height, her hand slid to his chest. She paused on the thick carpet of chest hair, feeling his heat through her fingertips.

After several long moments, as though awakening from a dream, she slowly withdrew her hand and stepped back through the curtain, her last image being the big, nearly naked man whose simmering blue eyes looked at her as though he’d discovered far more than she had in that sensual interlude.

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