Tori Carrington - Skin Deep

Michael’s mind ventured back to the object of his gaze. He’d already figured out that some of what he felt for Kyra stemmed from his need to protect her. He took great satisfaction in knowing that he knew her better than any other person alive—her sister Alannah aside—including all of the men she dated put together. He admired her strength when she’d told him she’d grown up in a two-room shack in a small town outside Memphis, Tennessee. He was equally as appalled when he’d learned she’d been working since she was ten, baby-sitting, pet walking, newspaper delivering, then graduating to fast-food joints so that she and her older sister Alannah could eke out a living after their parents had died. And he was even strangely proud that he’d been able to help her help herself when she’d flubbed up a receivables report and was almost dismissed from her job at the firm. Now she practically ran the place, keeping everything and everyone in line, proving to be the glue that held them all together when things got rough.

She was a breath of fresh air to a man who had grown up in a confused family environment. And she was a harsh taskmaster who refused to let him feel sorry for himself.

“Remember…things could always be worse,” was one of her trademark sayings.

And she was living proof that they, indeed, could be.

But why she continued to prove the point by dating men who didn’t have a clue about her true worth ceaselessly mystified him. Whenever he brought it up, she laughed, waved her slender hand, and told him that she was attracted to whichever guy she was attracted to, simple as that.

And Michael had been there to help pick her up whenever one of the jerks dumped her, as they all eventually did.

Kyra’s face turned suddenly ashen. It was only then that Michael realized he’d been staring at her nonstop. He looked at Holsom, the way he held his hands, palms up, the elevated state of his brows as if explaining something Kyra wasn’t equipped to handle.

Uh-oh.

Michael’s fingers tightened on his beer bottle as Kyra reached out and rested a hand on Holsom’s sleeve. Michael wished he hadn’t sat so far away. If he were closer, he’d be able to listen in on what they were saying. Then again, he didn’t have to hear the words to translate their meaning.

“I…don’t understand,” was written all over Kyra’s pretty face.

Holsom plucked her hand from his forearm and put it down in front of her, then patted it patronizingly. The bottle in Michael’s hand nearly shattered. “It’s over,” Jerk Number Thirteen mouthed.

Here we go again.

Michael started to get up from the table. It was getting a little old, this playing the knight-in-shining-armor bit. Especially since he never earned the princess’s traditional gratitude.

Kyra urgently said something to Holsom and he coiled back, staggering to his own feet.

Double uh-oh.

Michael forced himself to leave his beer where it sat on the table and began to make his way toward his best friend.

But he was afraid he was too late.

“Oh, yeah?” Holsom said, his face turning an unappealing shade of purple. “Well you’re about as lively in bed as a dead fish.”

Oh, boy.

KYRA WAS CERTAIN her jaw was stuck in the open position. She gaped at Craig Holsom as if he had two heads. Which, at the moment, he did, because the room suddenly swam in front of her, not so much a fancy room in a trendy club, but the fish tank Craig had just plunged her into the middle of.

He was dumping her.

And he had just insulted her abilities in bed.

The problem was, Kyra wasn’t sure what bothered her more. Sure, okay, when he’d said it was over between them a few minutes ago, she’d been unable to swallow the comment that their relationship could have been clocked on an egg timer…pretty much the same way sex with him had run. Then he’d gotten up and compared her to a dead fish in front of everyone.

Kyra let her eyes close and rubbed her temples. This couldn’t be happening. Not on top of everything else that had happened today. First she’d awakened to hear her landlady pounding on the floor, complaining her alarm buzzer was too loud. Then during lunch hour, she found out the dry cleaner had lost nearly every piece of clothing she owned aside from what she had on. To top all that off, this afternoon she’d stumbled onto an accounting error at work that could mean her job if she didn’t figure out what amounts she’d added up wrong and quick.

She’d considered opting out of drinks with Craig altogether, fearing what else fate had in store for her that day. Instead, she’d figured things couldn’t get much worse.

Oh, how very wrong she’d been.

Quiet giggling from the club patrons penetrated Kyra’s distracted state. She blinked and stared up at Craig who was wearing an all too satisfied expression on his face.

Kyra twisted her lips in contemplation. You know something? Michael was right. Craig was a jerk. The only problem was, Michael was always right. Which was infinitely irritating.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the man in question moving in her direction. Dear, sweet, solid Michael. Good. Because she’d need him to help her get out of here with at least a modicum of dignity.

Kyra pushed away from the intimate table for two, her knees wobbling so hard she was afraid she might knock over her chair. Thankfully, she didn’t. She glanced at Michael’s thunderous face, then at Holsom’s smug expression, half tempted to let Michael have a go at her latest ex. But, strangely, she wasn’t all that upset that Craig had broken things off with her. In fact, she was…relieved.

What did that mean?

It meant she should have walked away when he’d compared her skin to a peach at the produce section of the local supermarket three weeks ago. What a lame come-on line, she thought now. And about as original as the guy himself. The loser probably hung out at the supermarket to pick up chicks.

Kyra glanced around the club, realizing that almost every pair of eyes was on her, waiting for her response to Craig’s comment.

She tilted her head and smiled at her ex, satisfied that he looked instantly afraid of what she might say. And he had good reason to be. “Yes, well, Craig, better a dead fish than a lost cause, even with Viagra.”

She shoved her chair under the table, which in turn hit his chair, knocking the back of it against one of Craig’s more strategic areas. He gasped and grabbed the vicinity in question with both hands, while one of Kyra’s own hands went to cover her mouth.

“I’m so sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean—”

She felt fingers on her arm. “Let’s go,” Michael said in that deep baritone that always commanded her attention.

“You bitch!” Craig said, probably meaning to shout the insult, though it came out as a high-pitched wimper. Even with her genuine remorse, she felt the voice fit.

Michael slowed his step, and this time Kyra found herself tugging him toward the door.

“Call her that again and you’ll be eating your teeth,” she heard Michael tell Craig.

Thankfully there were no more exchanges in the few moments it took them to get from the table to the door. Once outside, Kyra blinked against the setting sun, then collapsed against the closed door, the thick late-summer Florida heat seeming to spray beads of sweat all over her skin. She blinked up into Michael’s glowering face. A lock of raven-black hair hung over his brow, his natural honey-colored skin looking darker yet in the waning light.

She glanced toward the door then found herself smiling. “I really didn’t mean to…well, you know, hit him with the chair.”

“That’s a shame, seeing as it was so fitting.”

She blinked and the side of Michael’s mouth budged up in a grin. He really was devastatingly handsome when he grinned.