Jane Sullivan - When He Was Bad...

She pursed her lips, trying hard not to react.

“Now, don’t worry, Sara,” Nick went on. “I’m not knocking off any points for those. Contrary to common belief…” He dropped his voice to a sexy drawl. “Men do make passes at girls who wear glasses.”

Sara just sat there, astonished that he was saying these things in front of…good God. Ahundred thousand people?

“And I’m thinking she’s probably…” Nick paused. “Let’s see. Thirty-two years old?”

She couldn’t stop her eyes from narrowing.

“Oops,” Nick said. “Got the evil eye on that. With all those letters after her name, I assumed she had to be older. Turns out she’s not old, just smart. Let’s try twenty-eight.”

Actually, he was off by two years, but that was absolutely none of his business, and she willed herself again not to react. She didn’t want to telegraph to the women in the audience that she cared whether this man found her attractive or not.

“Okay,” Nick said. “Twenty-eight it is.” His gaze slid down her body, lingering on her legs. “I’m guessing she’s got some really nice legs, but underneath the wool pants she’s wearing, it’s hard to tell. Now, up on top…” He eyed her breasts with such intensity that she had to resist the urge to fold her arms over her chest. “Unfortunately, she left the spandex at home today, and her buttoned-up cotton shirt kinda hinders the view.”

“So what score do you give her?” Andy asked.

Nick sighed. “I’m afraid I can’t go any higher than a six.”

Sara’s eyes flew open wide. “A six?”

She instantly clamped her mouth shut. Damn it. He’d dangled the bait and she’d snapped at it. She’d known exactly what he was up to, and still—

“Wait a minute, Sara,” Nick said. “Let me clarify. I’m pretty darned sure there’s a ten under there somewhere, but I can’t go jumping to conclusions with the obstructed view and all. Now, if you could see your way clear to get rid of some of that cotton and wool, I might be persuaded to reevaluate.”

For several seconds, Sara was dumbfounded into silence. Did he seriously think she’d consider such a thing, as if she was one of the strippers he was so famous for interviewing? Was she supposed to take this kind of thing lying down?

Then, out of nowhere, she was hit with an image of taking all kinds of things from Nick Chandler while lying down.

Oh, God. Why was her brain going there at a time like this? What was the matter with her?

“Never mind, Sara,” Nick said. “Numbers really aren’t that important, now are they? Let’s take a few more calls.” He punched a button on the console. “I’ve got Tawny in Forest Heights on the line. Hey, Tawny. Welcome to the show.”

“This question is for Sara,” she said.

Sara sat up and squared her shoulders. Finally. A woman who wanted to ask a serious question. She leaned into the microphone. “Yes?”

“I’ve never seen Nick in person,” Tawny said. “Is he as gorgeous as his picture on the Web site?”

Sara flicked her gaze to Nick, who was wearing a smile of supreme satisfaction.

What was she supposed to do now? If she said yes, he’d become so arrogant and unbearable that his ego would ooze right out of this studio. If she said no, her nose would grow like Pinocchio’s on steroids. There was only one way to deal with this.

It was time to fight fire with fire.

She took hold of her microphone. “Hi, Tawny. You want to know if Nick is as gorgeous as his picture on the Web site?”

“Oh, yeah.”

“Well, maybe it’s time for me to do a rundown of my own. Let me tell you what I’m looking at.”

She turned and stared at Nick, who responded only by leaning back in his chair, folding his arms over his chest and giving her a challenging smile.

“Nick Chandler is the kind of man who makes every woman he meets check her chest for the heart she’s sure she’s lost. And no wonder. When it comes to good looks, this man went through the line twice. He’s got a smile that would light up New York in the middle of a blackout. A body that dropped right down from Mount Olympus. I suspect he’s given more than one woman a case of whiplash just by walking past her.”

A big grin spread across Nick’s face. He leaned into his microphone. “Tawny, I’ve got to tell you. This woman really knows what she’s talking about.”

“Hold on, Nick,” Sara said. “I’m not finished yet.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” he said with a smug smile. “Did I interrupt?”

She leaned into the microphone again. “Given his excessive good looks, I suspect he never developed any real talent because he never had to. That’s why he hosts a radio show that relies strictly on his physical attractiveness and his magnetic yet misguided personality. Where women are concerned, he’s as full of empty promises as he is of BS. He’s the kind of man who wouldn’t think to ask ‘Was it good for you, too?’ because he couldn’t fathom that five minutes in his presence wouldn’t drive a woman to orgasm. And while you’re busy thinking about the future, he’s wondering how many beers are left in the fridge.

“So, without demeaning him by asking him to strip to make the assessment, I’d give him a ten-plus for looks. What I’d give him for what’s underneath those good looks, though, would be a big fat zero.”

A few seconds of dead air passed, and the flicker of amazement on Nick’s face gave Sara a rush of vindication. Yes. She’d scored a direct hit. Let him try to mess with her after that.

To her surprise, though, his expression morphed into a grin of sheer delight. “Well,” he said into the microphone, “there may be a little frost on her windows, but it looks as if the furnace inside is going full blast. So how about it, guys? If you like your women feisty, this one might be worth turning off the big screen for. Give me a call and tell me what you think.”

As the phone lines lit up, anger rumbled inside Sara like a volcano ready to blow. Feisty? Had he just called her feisty? And how had this interview gotten to be about her, anyway?

Nick started to touch a button to pick up another call, only to put a finger to his headphones. “Oops. Sorry, guys. Butch is telling me we’re out of time.” He swung around and grabbed the copy of Sara’s book from the table beside him. “The name of the book is Chasing the Bad Boy, by Sara Davenport. Buy it because you believe it or buy it because you don’t, but whatever you do, buy it. Then drop Sara an e-mail at—” he flipped to the back of the book “—Sara at Sara Davenport dot com and tell her what you think. Now, don’t go away. We’ll be back in just a few minutes with a little sports talk.”

Nick punched a button, then pulled off his headphones and faced her. “Wow, Sara. You really let me have it, didn’t you?”

Sara couldn’t believe this. As if it was her fault they’d squared off the way they had? He’d baited her, angered her and demeaned her, and now he was upset because she’d given him a dose of his own medicine?

She pulled off her headphones. “Look, Nick. If you’re expecting an apology—”

“Apology? Are you kidding? That was what I call damned good radio.” He gave her a radiant smile. “Don’t let this get out, but I swear sometimes it’s better than sex.”

Huh?

He leaned toward her, dropping his voice. “How about you, Sara? Did you feel the rush?”

What the hell was he talking about? “All I felt,” she said hotly, “was the desire to get out of here. You made me look like a fool.”

Nick drew back. “Nobody looked like a fool. Least of all you.”

“But all those things you said—”

“Yes. I said a lot of things. And you gave them right back to me. We lit up those lines. That’s a good thing.”