Love On The Ropes (Ringside Romance) (12 page)

“You’re overreacting.” She planted
her hands on her nearly naked hips.

“I’m sorry, I’ve got to go.” He
raced down the stairs to his car and peeled way from the curb. Sandy made a
squeal of frustration, balled her hands into fists and did a little jumping
thing on the front stoop. Breasts jiggling, hair flying, she looked sexy as
hell.

She turned back to her apartment
building and pulled on the door handle. Apparently she’d locked herself out.

“Why, why, why!” she cried. With a
look of determination, she started to climb the facade to the second floor.

Spiderman she was not. She was
going to break her neck.

Jason whipped open his car door
and raced up the sidewalk. “Get down!”

“What are you doing here?” she
gasped, now hanging by her fingertips from the bottom of a balcony. “I know
what I’m doing.” She swung her legs.

“Get down, now. You’re gonna break
your neck.” He grabbed her by soft, firm thighs and pulled. She let go and the
force drove them both backward. Jason tumbled back and landed on the front lawn
with Sandy on top of him. He heard a sliding door open.

“Everything okay out there?” a man
asked from above.

“Go back inside and stop staring
at my boobs,” Sandy scolded. The door slammed shut.

Sandy got up and towered over Jason.
“I’d be inside by now if it hadn’t been for you. I could have done it, damn
it.”

“I’m sure.” He stood, rolling a
kink out of his neck. “What did you do to your date, anyway?”

“I didn’t do anything. It was
Madame Bovary’s fault.”

“No kidding?” He eyed the balcony
of her condo, trying to hide his surprise. She was into threesomes?

“Damn it, I’m cold,” she said. She
pulled on the front door again.

J took off his jacket and draped
it across her shoulders. “Why don’t you ask Madame Bovary to buzz us in?”

Sandy shot him a look. “She’s not
that smart.”

“Okay. What about someone else?”

“I try to keep a low profile
around here. The condo association wasn’t happy about someone like me moving
in.”

He shot her a questioning look.

“A masseuse,” she said, making
quotation marks with her fingers. “Obviously I’d have men coming over day and
night. What a joke,” she added. With two hands she pulled on the front door
again.

“Relax. I can get us in,” J
promised.

“Yeah, how? You got a key to my
place?”

“No, but I’ve got this.” He pulled
a pick from his wallet.

“Wonderful. I don’t want to know
why you have that.”

“No, you really don’t,” he agreed.
He started working on the lock.

“What a loser,” Sandy whispered.

“Hey, cupcake,” J snapped. “This
loser is going to get you back into your warm little condo.”

“I didn’t mean you.”

He felt a brief wave of relief.
“Oh, you meant Mr. Blind Date? He did look pretty spooked.”

“I didn’t mean him either.”

J turned and caught the sight of
tears welling up in Sandy’s eyes. Crap. He couldn’t do tears.

“Hey,” he said, reaching for her.

She put out her hand to stop him.
“I need someone to want me for me.”

“It’s okay. I’m sure someone
will.”

“Tonight. Now. I need you to make
love to me. Will you do that, Stripper?”

Good God, did she really just say
that? The Stripper patted her on the shoulder like a kid sister, and continued
his breaking-and-entering routine.

Sandy closed her eyes and pulled
his jacket tight across her body.

I need you to make love to me.
Will you do that, Stripper
? Could she have made a bigger fool of herself?
The last thing she needed was a one-night stand with The Stripper. Talk about
messing up her head.

Like it wasn’t already messed up. Ten
minutes ago she was ready to sleep with a complete stranger. Definitely out of
character. Usually a man had to earn her trust before Sandy would give away that
part of herself.

There’d been only three, and the
first one didn’t count because she’d been suffering from “panicked virgin”
syndrome, desperate to prove her worth as a woman, her attractiveness. Maybe even
prove that she was normal.

Normal? Glancing at her near-naked
body wrapped in The Stripper’s leather jacket, she realized how far off the
path she’d strayed. Standing on the front landing of her building dressed in
lace underwear, asking a coworker to break into her condo? That wasn’t exactly
normal.

“I’ve got to get a life,” she
said.

“What, this one isn’t exciting
enough?” The Stripper glanced over his shoulder and smiled. “Got it.” The front
door clicked open. 

“Thanks.” Sandy slipped his coat
off her shoulders and handed it to him.

He didn’t take it. “Aren’t you
going to ask me up?”

“You’re kidding.”

“I need to do a repeat performance
on the door to your place, right?”

She planted her hands on her hips.
“Why are you being so nice to me?”

“Get inside before you freeze
something off.”

Sandy’s nipples hardened, and not
because of the forty-degree weather. Fine, she needed the guy to get her into
her condo. That’s it.

She marched into her building and
up a flight of stairs. A door opened above them, then closed. Probably that
jerk neighbor, Edward Chaddle. He was always poking his nose where it didn’t belong.

She and The Stripper took the
steps to the second floor and she pointed to her door. Stripper kneeled and
started his picking routine. His arm muscles tweaked and twanged. Damn him for
wearing a tight T-shirt, exposing way too much of his glorious muscle. Sandy
leaned against the wall and watched, enjoying the sight of a man on his knees
in front of her.

Grrrr, it was times like these
that made her wish for a working vibrator.

“Got it.” He swung the door open.

“Thanks. Bye.” Sandy stepped
inside and started to close the door.

He shouldered it open. “Hey, I
don’t even get a nightcap for my trouble?”

“I’m short on booze.”

“I’ll settle for a cup of coffee.”

Those damn blue-green eyes looked
so honest and worried. About her? Nah. He was hoping for ... for what? Hadn’t
he already kissed her and decided they didn’t work?

She narrowed her eyes. “Why are
you here?”

He smiled. “Look, you helped me
the other day. I want to return the favor and make sure you’re okay. Let me
come in for a few minutes. I won’t touch you.” He put up his hands.

He wouldn’t touch her? Ouch!

“Fine.” She swung open the door
and turned her back on him. “Make yourself at home. I’m getting comfortable.”
She headed for her bedroom.

“You get any more comfortable and
you’ll be naked.”

“You wish.”

But he didn’t. Or he’d said he
didn’t.

Sandy wandered into her bedroom,
shut and locked the door. Ooops. She should have warned J about Madame Bovary,
the culprit who caused tonight’s disaster when she snatch and run with Decker’s
hairpiece. Sandy would have laughed if she weren’t so mortified by her cat’s
behavior. But then, love, sex and this single wrestling girl wasn’t meant to
be.

She collapsed at her vanity and
let her shoulders slump. Things started out okay: a little wine, conversation,
smooching. Okay, so Decker couldn’t out kiss The Stripper, but he definitely
had potential.

Not that she’d ever get to see it
fulfilled. No sir. After Madame Bovary’s ambush, Decker would never return to
her place. Not unless she got rid of the cat.

“Well, that’s not happening.” She
grabbed a brush and started working on her tangled hair. Decker wasn’t shy
about running his hands through it, mussing it up. That’s what people were supposed
to do in the heat of passion, right? Mess each other up?

She grabbed a band, wrapped her
hair at the back of her neck and snatched a tie-dyed T-shirt from the dresser. It’s
not like she was aiming to impress her criminal friend sitting in the living room.
Only a criminal would know how to break into someone’s home.

“Brother.” She grabbed makeup
remover and swiped at her eyes. The makeup, the fancy clothes—none of it was Sandy,
although the lace underwear felt strangely comfortable.

She stilled and studied her
reflection in the mirror. “Rough on the outside, sparkly on the inside,” she
whispered. She was starting to think there wasn’t a man on earth who’d get to
see the amazing light show happening at the center of her soul.

Padding into her private bathroom,
she washed her face, scrubbing off the disastrous night, her disastrous
failure. Sheesh, what did a girl have to do to get some sexual relief?

Drying her face, she froze. If
sexual relief was what she wanted then there was a hot-blooded, sexy male sitting
in her living room. She just had to…

“Not happening.” She slid the
towel back onto the rack and plucked her baggy sweatpants off a hook on the
door.

She’d been a fool to think one
night of hot sex with a stranger would cure her of whatever she suffered from.
Which was what exactly? A bad case of F.O.S.: fear of spinsterhood?

She whipped open her bedroom door
and walked down the hall. No sign of The Stripper. Relief and disappointment
snagged her insides. He’d up and left without saying good-bye?

“Where are your glasses?”

Sandy jumped at the sound of his
voice coming from her kitchen. “What are you doing?”

“Making us something to drink.”

“I’ve had enough, thank you very
much.” She plopped down on her oversized floral couch, clutching a pillow to
her chest.

“I meant tea. You’re quite the
connoisseur.” He appeared in the doorway and rattled a container of tealeaves.
“Or do we roll this and smoke it instead?”

“Very funny. It’s green tea.”

He made a face.

“It’s delicious.”

“How do I…?”

“Boil water. The tea ball is in
the top drawer. But I should be making it for you. You were gracious enough to
get me back inside.” She started to get up.

“Stay right where you are, kid. I
know my way around a kitchen.”

He disappeared from view. She
heard a crash and a muttered curse word.

“You okay in there?” she called.

“Fine. I’m putting the water on.”

He must have hit his head on the
chakra wind chimes. She loved them so much she’d hung them in the middle of her
kitchen, which suited her petite frame. But a guy towering six feet would have
to take evasive action not to get poked in the eye. Tough, this was her place.
She shouldn’t be worried about his comfort.

Now she sounded like a prospective
spinster bitch. Must be the dull headache from the booze. She wasn’t a big
drinker by nature, and the two glasses of wine at dinner had definitely killed
off some brain cells and left her with a pre-hangover, if such a thing even
existed.

The Stripper came into the living
room and sat in the rocker on the other side of the coffee table. Probably
didn’t want to get too close. Good thing, considering Madame Bovary’s
protective mood tonight. Where was that wicked little feline, anyway?

“Nice place,” he said.

“Thanks,” she replied, fiddling
with the beaded design on her purple pillow. Purple, blue, and green: her
favorite colors that graced the condo. This didn’t look like the world of a
spinster, it really didn’t.

“It’s not what I’d imagined,” The
Stripper said, glancing at a photo of Sandy, her father and brothers.

“What did you imagine?”

“I don’t know.” He put the picture
frame down. “It’s girly, but comfortable.”

Wait till you meet Madame Bovary,
she thought. “You haven’t seen the cat, have you?”

“No, I... hey, there.” The
Stripper glanced down at his ankles. As if she’d heard her cue, the feisty cat
rubbed against his legs, back arched, head high, begging to be stroked.

“This is what scared off your
date?” He gently petted the cat’s back.

“This is her charming mode. You
didn’t see her in attack kitty mode.”

“You’re exaggerating.” As The
Stripper stroked, Madame Bovary purred, and Sandy fumed.

“I’m telling you, she’s bipolar,”
Sandy warned.

“There’s no such thing.”

The phone interrupted their discussion
of cat psychology. Sandy knew who it was and didn’t want to answer.

“Aren’t you going to pick up?” The
Stripper asked.

“Nope.”

“Why not?”

“It’s my brother calling to yell
at me about disaster date.”

“How would he know about your
date?”

“My date was a friend of his.”

“It’s not your fault. The guy was
a tool.”

“You make a lot of snap judgments
about people,” she said. “Decker is a good guy.”

“Decker?” The Stripper’s eyebrow
shot up.

“Stripper?” she taunted.

“That’s not my real name.”

“Whatever. Decker Smitts is a
gentleman.”

“Which is why you were nearly
naked when you chased him outside?”

Sandy glanced at her toes, wishing
she’d worn polish. “He didn’t take off my clothes. That was my idea.”

Silence hung between them. There,
she said it. She was a desperate slut.

“You’re being too hard on
yourself,” he said.

Her gaze shot up to meet his eyes.
“What do you mean?”

“I can tell. You do this funny
thing with your lip and your bottom teeth.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking
about.” The kettle whistled and she got up to turn it off, but he blocked her.

“Sit down,” she said. “You’ll
screw it up.” She went into the kitchen, needing some space.

“Answer the phone while you’re in
there,” he called. “It’s driving me nuts.”

She poked her head around the corner.
“You can leave at any time.”

“And who would pet the cat?”
Madame Bovary eyed him with admiration.

“Traitor,” Sandy said.