Colleen Collins - Building a Bad Boy

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?”