by Kiki Howell
Cruz stood and shook his head. Disbelief etched his features. “I can’t believe you didn’t even make it to first base. What’s wrong with you? Losing your edge?” he taunted. “There was a time that wouldn’t have stopped you. You would’ve found a way to shut her up.”
Irritation rising, Jett opened his mouth.
“Wait.” Cruz held up a hand. “We’ll get to the bottom of this after I get back from the can.”
“Yeah, whatever.” Jett traced the condensation on his glass with his fingertip and listened to the hum of conversation echo off the thick-painted concrete walls.
Cruz was right. He would’ve slept with the yapper anyway. Why was he making excuses? His own brand of therapy had worked in the beginning. His crusade to forget the things he couldn’t handle. Lately, the one-night stands he experienced left him dissatisfied, empty.
Hopelessness engulfed him. Jett wouldn’t be going through this mental clusterfuck if his best friend Dan had escaped the warehouse fire alive. Would he be plagued forever with replays of losing his best friend? Desperate to feel the familiar rush of adrenaline and anticipation, he’d let Cruz set him up on the blind date. Maybe he should change tactics and spend several nights in a row with the same woman.
How could he find the one who would make him forget?
Jett peeled the silver label off his beer bottle. A whiff of fresh baked cookies reached him. His mouth watered. What the hell was that kind of smell doing in a bar? He scanned the room, but couldn’t discern the source. Less than a foot away a woman stood in a short red sundress. Her back to him, he started a slow perusal from the sexy black heels, up slim, shapely calves, past the hollow of her knees, over smooth thighs, all the way to firm, delicate shoulders. Damn. The gauzy fabric blocked the rest of his view.
She rocked back on a heel, and the material swished around her upper leg, teasing him further. A tiny spark flared low in his belly. She was perfect. The mock therapist inside him screamed for a little temporary sedation.
The woman in red shook her head, rustling the chestnut curls that floated down her back to the sweet curve of her ass. From his vantage point, he saw her disengage her hand from some guy’s grasp. Turning away, she moved in the direction of the toilets.
“Roxanne! Come on, baby. Just one dance,” the man whined over the din of music and conversation.
She paused and spun back toward the admirer, affording Jett a clear view of her face. The smile tipping the corners of that luscious mouth didn’t quite reach her large piercing blue eyes.
“Maybe later,” she said in a tone clearly garnered to put off the poor lovesick bastard. Heaven forbid that sort of brush off should ever happen to Jett. He smirked. Amused. As if.
A bit of a challenge. The missing element? Hmm.
Those high cheekbones and full painted lips would tempt a dead man. His gaze dropped down her slender neck, along the tight fitting lines of a halter barely restraining a lovely pair of generous breasts. Jett sucked in a breath and released the exhalation in a long, mock whistle.
A vision in red guaranteed to chase away the shroud of depression. As she disappeared around the edge of the bar, he wondered what she would look like when she gave a genuine smile. Even better, he envisioned her sprawled beneath him with rapture etched across her beautiful face and wild curls spilled across his pillow.
The tiny spark from earlier flamed, and blood rushed to his groin. He shifted uncomfortably on the vinyl seat.
Roxanne, huh? Sexy name to go with her come-get-me body. Time to turn on the Avery charm.
The server returned with Cruz’s beer and placed it on the table. His brother slid into the booth, winking at her.
Jett grinned at his twin. An idea germinated. “Hey! Do you remember if this joint still has any music from the band The Police on that old jukebox?”
There was one tune guaranteed to capture the attention of the woman in red.
ROXANNE CARTER DODGED Sam’s hungry hands and entered the bathroom. She refreshed her coral lipstick. Satisfied the rest of her makeup was intact, she returned to her table. She scooted into the booth opposite her friend.
“Nothing like getting accosted on the way to bathroom.” She made a face. “Sam is up to his old tricks. He had his hands all over my butt, which puts him in the Anatomy category. Ass man all the way.” She chuckled, glad Sam was neatly tagged and labeled. Now on to more interesting targets.
Ambra grinned. “Makes, complete sense. I always see him copping feels. I don’t think he’s ever gotten over the fact you won’t go out with him again. The poor guy has to take his jollies where he can.”
“Oh, God! Don’t remind me of that fiasco. One date with him was one too many.” She slapped her forehead and groaned. “What was I thinking?”
Ambra reached for the plastic stir stick of the Screaming Orgasm martini and nibbled on the end. She tilted her head. Her mahogany bob swished, revealing dangly silver earrings. She snickered, and a teasing glint danced in her green eyes.
“It was done in the name of scientific research. You made a grand sacrifice for the remaining single women of the world. What subject number was he, anyway? One? Two?” She popped the olive into her mouth and chewed. “It doesn’t matter. Quit stalling. Tell me about the latest study subject. You’re E-date. What was he like in person and where will he fit on The Manifesto?”
Roxanne ran a finger along the edge of her margarita glass, capturing a few grains of salt on the tip. She licked the granules. The plan had been so simple. Perfect, in fact. Out of a night of butterscotch martinis, chocolate lava cake, and the aroma of nail polish during a girls night in, The Great Dating Manifesto had been born. A chance to study the male psyche, to find out what really made men tick was a chance she hadn’t dared pass up. She glanced at her friend. “Sam was study subject number two. And, that’s the last time I let you add names to the list of potential dates. Especially after you’ve had a few martinis.”
Ambra arched a brow.
“Oh, all right. I’ll talk. Can you spell disastrous?” Roxanne expelled a breath. “I swear, I have a new category for The Manifesto—-Deceitful—-and that’s being lady-like.” She punctuated her words with an unladylike snort. “He seemed so nice online, but he’d spun a web of lies. Not only is he not an accountant, but the picture of himself he’d sent was completely bogus.”
Ambra leaned in, expression mischievous. “So I take it you didn’t rate any lip action?”
“You know me, I’m not a shallow person.” She hated the defensive tone that had crept into her voice. “If he’d had the personality he’d displayed on the internet, the fact he owned a set of very large teeth along with a receding hairline wouldn’t have mattered one bit.” Roxanne grabbed a few peanuts from a bowl and set them on the table, lining them up in the shape of a pair of lips.
“But...?” Ambra prompted.
“I won’t kiss a man who displays a picket fence that could easily surround an entire yard in his mouth,” she said, the words tumbled from her lips in a rush. She groaned and covered her face with her hands, then dropped them in despair. “God! That sounded horrible. I’m going to burn in hell, but a girl should have certain standards.”
Ambra laughed, clutching her sides. Moisture brightened her eyes. “Yes,” she gasped. “You are gonna burn. Welcome to my world, honey. Half the fun is getting there! I wonder if Hades will be as hot as they predict.”
Roxanne smirked as Ambra wiped the tears spilling onto her cheeks. “Very funny. I got stuck paying for dinner. After the two bottles of wine he’d ordered to go with his steak, the bill was not cheap, either. He said he’d forgotten his wallet.”
All laughter fled Ambra’s face. “Well that sucks! Another jerk. They seem to have their radar trained on you.”
“That’s me, a regular old loser magnet!” Roxanne tucked her hair behind her ear and frowned. “But no longer. Once this Manifesto is complete, I will be in dating heaven, along with any other woman who’d like some dating advice.” She grasped a small wo
rn leather journal from her purse. Opening to an animated monkey bookmark, she dragged her finger halfway down the page with a red tipped nail. “Okay. Next is the speed dating round at that fireman hangout.”
“Oh! That ought to be a real hardship!” Ambra said with a sly smile. “All that testosterone in one room, just waiting to be tapped and displayed under a microscope!” She fanned her face with her hand.
Roxanne smiled. “Sounds good to me. I ought to get a few good specimens to add to my study. I figure twenty to thirty ought to be a good-sized number. I’m fifteen days into my little project and have...” She glanced at her journal. “Twelve participants so far. This has been so easy. Especially since the entire endeavor is not about love or commitment, just finding the right men to date.” She slapped her journal closed with a satisfied click. “I could probably finish the research portion by the end of the month. What do you think?”
“Sounds good to me.” Ambra glanced around the jam-packed room. “There are dozens of eligible men in here. Why not add one or two now? No sense wasting a night.” Her arm swept toward the bar. “With the run of bad luck you’ve been having in the man department, what you need is a lot of hot sweaty sex. Remember—No strings. No commitments. Plain old heart pumpin’ sex with volcanic orgasms of monumental proportions. Why not pick one?”
Heat and slow pulses fluttered between Roxanne’s thighs. If Ambra could provoke a mini-orgasm just by painting a mere image, it had been way too long since she’d experienced the real thing. She squeezed her knees together, squelching the sensation while keeping her eyes trained on her friend’s face.
“You know what I’m talking about,” she continued. “The Mattress Mambo! Take your research a step further.”
“Take one for the team all in the name of science, huh?” Roxanne laughed at Ambra’s melodrama. God, this was just what she needed. She was glad she agreed to come out with her girlfriend tonight.
Lately, she’d been feeling sorry for herself. Her personal life sucked. The last time she had an orgasm was... She tapped her chin, unable to recall the moment. Obviously, whenever it’d been, it hadn’t been that memorable. All the more reason to complete her Manifesto—A girl’s guide to avoiding dating pitfalls!
She sighed. Her gaze searched the dimly lit bar. There were couples huddled together, absorbed in intimate conversations. A cheer erupted amongst those watching a football game on the big screen television mounted along one wall. More people crowded on the dance floor, getting a groove on to a tune rockin’ from the jukebox.
A favorite hangout of Phoenix’s finest EMS, there were many familiar faces. Her job as an emergency room nurse brought her into contact with paramedics, police, firemen, and doctors.
Why hadn’t she been able to find a nice eclectic group of men to date? Why, as Ambra had so succinctly pointed out earlier, did all the losers have their radar trained on her? She dismissed those dreary thoughts. The first strains of the Police’s Roxanne poured from the jukebox.
Roxanne grimaced, meeting her friend’s serious gaze.
“Oh, God! I absolutely hate this song. Not Sting, mind you. We could do the Mattress Mambo any time,” she joked. “But couldn’t he have used another name besides mine?”
“Never mind Sting,” Ambra said. As she grabbed her martini, the silver bracelets lining her slender arm jingled. She downed the contents. Her eyes watered and her body quivered. She set the glass on the table, a determined tilt to her chin. “Now. We have to get your mind in the gutter, and find you a man to use and abuse.”
“Never mind that,” Roxanne disagreed. “We need to discuss the remaining categories left to round out my research—.”
Without warning, a nearby falsetto voice sang the opening line in perfect harmony with Sting. “Roxxxannne...”
Chapter Two
ROXANNE TWISTED ON the seat, her gaze landing on the singer. Doctor Cruz Avery, a six-foot tall, black haired, broad shouldered man who held a beer bottle to his mouth like a microphone. Worn jeans hung low on tapered hips, and he sported a black T-shirt that molded well-muscled pecs. She snickered at the phrase splashed across the front of the fabric in bold letters—“I Can Handle Your 9-1-1”.
“Well, Cruz is looking for some action. Check him out, Ambra. His entire persona is completely different—from the preppy clothing to his I’m available attitude.” Roxanne said. This wasn’t a side of him she was familiar with.
“Now that’s what I’m talking about! Look how the testosterone just oozes from his pours. He screams, ‘I’m sexy and you’re gonna get lucky,’” Ambra exclaimed, straightening her spine.
“Cruz is definitely nice to watch, I’ll give you that,” Roxanne said. “As the ‘heartthrob’ of the ER, he certainly gets a lot of action. In fact, he’s probably been with every eligible female nurse, PA, doctor, and paramedic in the entire Phoenix metro area.”
Roxanne glanced back to his strutting form. Interesting. Tonight, something seemed odd about him. She couldn’t quite figure the difference as he swaggered closer to her side of the room, continuing to belt the words to the song in tune with the music. Others in the bar monitored his progress and cheered.
She smoothed the hem of her dress and moistened her lips. Heat seeped low into her belly and simmered. “Ambra, do you think he’s coming my way?”
She searched the darkened recesses of the bar as awareness saturated her half-tipsy brain. She slid to the edge of the booth. Should she stay? Curiosity glued her to her seat. She placed an elbow on the table and set her chin in her palm, her gaze never leaving his steady progression. Besides, his audience had grown. The throng of people gathered in the aisles, blocking all routes out of the spotlight.
Ambra’s laughter penetrated her numb ears. “Are you kidding me? Of course, he’s coming this way. Your way. I don’t know any other ‘Roxannes’ in this vicinity. Do you? Get ready for the tongue tango! His body language screams intent!”
Cruz was only a couple of tables away. His lean body rotated in pace with the tempo, hips rockin’ from side to side. The flippant reply on the tip of Roxanne’s tongue died. Ambra was right. Every couple of feet he halted and spun in a circle, or he’d kick a leg to the side. He even performed a “shimmy”. Mario Lopez had nothing on this man. She wondered if Cruz had lost some bet, or had drunk more than his share tonight.
“Roxxxannne. You don’t have to wear that dress tonight....”
She spied a man beyond Cruz’s shoulder who looked exactly like him. He also clapped and cheered. Oh, God! Now she was seeing double. She blinked rapidly and squinted to get a clear view, but the guy disappeared.
Maybe it was she who’d drank more than she’d thought.
No more margaritas for me.
Gaze once more pasted to Cruz, she wondered what it would be like to kiss him. The simmering heat from earlier sparked and flamed, fanning a lust she hadn’t thought possible.
This entire event will be all over the ER tomorrow.
The unwelcome thought slammed into her chest. Panic momentarily swelled. She tore her gaze away from Cruz’s gyrating form and glanced at her friend. “I’ll play this out, Ambra. If nothing else, it ought to add some interesting data to The Manifesto.”
“Whoop! Whoop!” Ambra cheered in unison with the growing appreciation of Cruz’s exhibition from the other patrons.
“You better help tomorrow when I get razzed at work about this. Understood? Nothing worse than hospital gossip! I do need to maintain a certain professionalism and respectability.” Roxanne warned. “My reputation is important to me.”
“I’ll cut down anyone who dares to talk about this in my presence. You can count on me.” Speculation bubbled in her bright-green eyes. “As far as I can see, this is a perfect solution. Just because you two are friends doesn’t mean you can’t take advantage of a learning opportunity.” She winked. “You need great sex and he’s got one-night-stand written all over him.”
Roxanne unsuccessfully suppressed a laugh. “Well, I wouldn’t
quite go that far. But I’m willing to take on a little side research.” She grabbed the stem of her margarita glass and lifted. “To The Manifesto!”
“...those days are over....”
As their glasses clinked, Cruz stopped beside their table and continued to sing into his make-believe microphone. Dark stubble shaded his angular jaw. An urge to run the pad of her thumb over his full lower lip nearly irresistible. She carefully set her margarita glass on the table. Against her will, her gaze lifted. She met deep-set grey eyes and beheld a heated intensity that scorched her very center.
Yowza!
The jeers of the crowd jolted her from her trance.
“You’re a long way from the trauma room,” she teased.
He lowered the beer bottle to the table and leaned over. The tangy fragrance of his cologne reached her nostrils, the scent different—a heady leather and spice.
Warmth curled in her belly.
“Dance with me.” The rich baritone words were not a request, but a command. He held his empty hand toward her in invitation.
A tingle slithered along her spine. Should she? Or shouldn't she? How far did she really want to take this? After all, he was a co-worker and co-workers weren’t exactly approved research material.
He must’ve read the indecision on her face because the bottle approached his mouth once more. Merriment twinkled in his eyes and his lips twitched.
“Why not?” she said, staring at the makeshift microphone. “I hope you know what you’re getting yourself into.”
Her gaze traveled to his provocative smile and he set the bottle on the table. He seized her wrist, seductively assisting her from the booth. The contact sent a sharp zing through her entire body. Her pulse leapt. His grey eyes widened. Had the strange sensation whipped through him, too?
A slow, sexy smile spread across his face. He tugged on her arm, and led her onto the dance floor. A cheer erupted from the crowd around them.
Anticipation swelled. What exactly was happening here? She worked with this man every day. There’d never been a flash between them. Although he’d dated about every available female in the ER, he’d never made sexual overtures toward her. They’d always had a smooth, easy relationship. His arms circled her waist, and pulled her flush against him, setting a slow tempo despite the upbeat pace of the music. He buried his face in her neck and inhaled.
