by Leanne Banks
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Contents:
Prologue
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12
Epilogue
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Prologue
^ »
More than anything, eleven-year-old Nick Nolan wanted muscles.
He wanted to be so tall and strong, the bullies wouldn't even think of beating on him. No matter how many hamburgers, French fries, and milk shakes he ate, Nick knew he was the scrawniest guy in the Bad Boys Club. He was tired of getting pounded, especially by the meanest bully on the street, Butch Polnecek.
While the rest of the guys in the club played soccer in Ben Palmer's backyard, Nick sat on the outskirts of the playing area because he'd broken his stupid toe last week in gym class. Pushing his glasses up on his nose, he chewed on a piece of grass and studied the ad in the back of the comic book. Maybe this was the answer to his problems.
"Build bulk. Be a Real Man," Johnny Universe said in the ad. "I can teach you the secret magic formula to become a real man, and all it takes is twelve minutes a day."
It would be a dream come true to have muscles like Johnny Universe. Instead of running away, he could punch Butch in the nose.
Plus, he thought, as he read further, he would get three free gifts and a Real Man medal. Decided, Nick pulled a pen out of his back pocket and began to write his name and address in the tiny form.
A small shadow fell over him and he glanced up.
Olivia Polnecek. Considering she was Butch's little sister, she was a nice, but weird kid. Barely seven, she still played with dolls and liked cutting their hair.
Nick squinted through his glasses at the uneven fringe on her forehead and suspected she'd taken the scissors to her own bangs. Skinny as a rail, Olivia had big dark eyes, fine dark hair, and a red birthmark on her forehead. His mother called it a "stork bite." Her mother made her wear dresses all the time, and her knees were permanently skinned, probably from running from the worst brother in the world.
She looked so odd she was almost ugly. Even his mom said she was weird-looking. But Olivia was nice, and Nick felt sorry for her because Butch tormented her almost as much as he tormented him.
She rubbed her index finger and thumb together several times and shook her head, frowning. "I've been practicing, but I still can't snap my fingers."
"Use your middle finger with your thumb," Nick told her, snapping his fingers. "And do it kinda hard."
She concentrated and tried again with no success, then flopped down beside him. "I'll never learn."
"Sure you will. You're still little."
"Not that little." She bent forward to look at his comic book cover. "Mighty Warrior Commandos. Is it any good?"
Olivia was cool about comic books. She liked all kinds, even bloody monster ones, and this was one more thing Nick liked about her. "Yeah, the Mighty Warrior Commandos are taken hostage by the Evil King of the Underworld. They can't use their secret powers to escape, so they have to trick him."
"Can I read it?"
"Sure—"
"Olivia." The terrible singsong voice of Butch permeated the sunny spring afternoon like a dark cloud. "I decided your Barbie dolls needed another haircut."
Olivia sucked in a breath of terror and jerked her head around to stare at her brother. Nick glanced at the bald, dismembered dolls and shook his head in disgust.
Olivia sprang to her feet and shrieked at the top of her lungs. "My Barbies!"
"I used them to reenact the battle at Pearl Harbor with my G.I. Joe dolls," Butch said. "The Barbie dolls were the casualties."
Olivia ran at Butch and yelled, "You're the meanest brother in the world. You're terrible. You're evil."
Butch held her at arm's length and laughed at her.
Indignant, Nick stood. He'd nearly always run from Butch, but he couldn't this time. Maybe that was part of becoming a real man. He jutted out his chin. "What kind of a jerk are you to pick on a little kid? Your own little sister?"
Butch scowled and turned his attention to Nick. "And what are you gonna do about it, you bad little boy?"
Nick started to sweat. "I'm gonna tell you to stop."
"You and what army?" Butch demanded, stepping directly in front of Nick.
Nick swallowed the lump of fear in his throat. "I don't need an army," he said, but thought he sure could use one. Butch was easily four inches taller and forty pounds heavier.
Butch pushed him hard, and Nick stumbled backward. It hurt his toe, but he didn't run. "Stop!"
"Make me," Butch said, and shoved him again, this time, harder.
Olivia ran between them and began to bounce up and down. "Leave him alone. You're just jealous," she said to Butch. "You're just jealous 'cause they won't let you play in their treehouse."
"Twit!" Butch said. "He's a wimp."
"He is not. He's smart. And if you don't stop, I'll—I'll—" She took a deep breath and stomped her foot. "I'll tell everyone you have worms!"
Butch roared in anger and shook Olivia by the shoulders.
Nick did what he had to do. He had no other choice. He put his head down and plowed into Butch's side, knocking Olivia free.
From the corner of his mind, he heard the voices of his buddies.
"Hey, what's Butch doing to Nick!"
"Butch'll kill him."
"We gotta help."
Butch took a quick glance past Nick's shoulder, then pulled his fist back and hit Nick square in the nose. Pain shot through him, blinding him.
Nick fell to the ground, the pain continuing to vibrate throughout his head. It hurt so bad he was afraid he would cry. He heard the voices again.
"Butch has worms! Butch has worms!" Olivia yelled at the top of her lungs.
Stan bent over him and winced. "Nail 'em Nick, you're bleeding!"
Nail 'em Nick, he thought dazedly. His Bad Boy Club name.
Ben leaned down. "Oh, wow. Do you think it's broken?"
Joey squeezed his shoulder. "You okay?"
Nick tried to nod, but he felt like cannons were firing in his head. "Yeah," he said, but he was lying. As the other guys circled around him, Nick decided if he ever got the urge to be a Real Man again, he'd better learn Johnny Universe's secret magic formula.
* * *
Chapter 1
« ^ »
She was up late again, and so was he.
Nick Nolan moved away from his bedroom window, denying his curiosity about his new neighbor. Her image lingered in his mind. Every night she paced the length of her room, wearing a skimpy nightgown and carrying a book in her hand. A lamp silhouetted the bounce of her long brown hair and the curves of her body. He saw worry in her walk, which made him more curious. A student studying for an exam? She looked a little more mature than most of the college students.
Nick had his own reason for insomnia. His law practice would consume every waking and nonwaking moment if he let it. It went against his policy, but he'd taken an appointment after hours, and the teenage girl's scarred face had haunted him the rest of the evening. His body was tired from his recent workout, but his mind was already working on how he would manage the case, leaving him in a state of stimulated exhaustion.
Through his years in the legal profession, Nick had learned the unfortunate truth that the American judicial system didn't always get the job done the way it should. Criminals didn't always pay the consequences.
Tonight was a perfect example. The teenage girl had been hit by a drunk driver whose father was a wealthy, respected doctor. The driver had gotten off with a word of warning from the judge, and the teenage girl would be scarred for life.
That was where Nick came in. In civil court, the rules were different, and Nick had developed an uncanny ability to make
the bad guy pay. Although there were plenty of cases where lynching was preferable, Nick concluded that hitting a guy in the bank account was the adult equivalent of kicking a bully where it counted. It caused pain, the victim was compensated, and Nick figured he'd helped balance the scales of justice.
He nursed his beer and slowly paced his own hardwood floor. Years ago, he had moved into the fashionable Fan district of Richmond, Virginia, because he hadn't been ready for suburbia. The houses were old and situated close together, the businesses a mix of old diehards and trendy upstarts, and the residents ranged from retirees to university students. The eclectic mix suited Nick.
One of his neighbors was a city councilwoman. The other, an artist who rented an upstairs apartment so he could keep eating. The woman pacer currently occupied the artist's upstairs bedroom.
He glanced through his window once again and saw her with a towel wrapped around her body. She must have just taken a shower. Her hair in a tousled knot, she shook her head and it tumbled loosely past her bare shoulders.
The towel fell to the floor, and for the first time in months, Nick forgot about his law practice.
Her neck was long and graceful, her breasts, lush and full. She was a little too thin, he thought, seeing the lamplight dance over her rib cage and narrow waist. Her hips and thighs had a welcoming curve.
She reminded him of what he'd done without for the sake of his practice. Hell, there was no shortage of women, he thought, irritated with himself. Since that damn article had appeared in the Richmond Magazine naming him Bachelor of the Year, he'd received so many calls he'd gotten an unlisted phone number.
The problem with the women swarming around him was that there was always something missing. He couldn't nail the exact quality that was lacking, and Nick had never been fond of taking just because he could, so he spent many nights alone.
His gaze transfixed on the woman, he felt a tug deep inside him. He wondered how her skin would feel against his, what he would see when he looked in her eyes. The deprivation burned and settled in his loins. He tried to blink, but couldn't make himself look away.
She held his attention as easily as she held the bottle of lotion or oil in her hand. Pouring it into her palm, she began to smooth it onto her skin. It was a cool night in November, and his window was cracked, but Nick felt warm.
With sensuous, yet careless strokes, she rubbed the oil down her neck to her chest and breasts. The tips of her breasts stiffened, causing a corresponding tightness in his gut. He would have lingered longer on her nipples with his hands, with his mouth.
She brushed the oil from her shoulders to her fingertips, between her fingers, and Nick found even the movement of her fingers intertwined arousing.
Her hands continued over her back and down her torso to her curved bottom. He sucked in a careful breath. She was the most sensual sight he'd ever seen. Her body was beautiful, but it was the way she touched it that affected him. Long enough to get the first breath of pleasure, but not indulgent.
He would want to indulge.
It occurred to him that she was trying to soothe herself, to massage away her apprehension. She probably had an anxious personality and wore her heart on her sleeve.
Messy, he told himself, his gaze still glued to her. She probably didn't hide her tears or laughter. Or her passion.
He took a careful breath at an erotic image that sizzled through his mind. He'd never needed to soothe a woman sexually. He'd never known a woman who had wanted that kind of tenderness from him.
Nick watched her lift one foot to rest on a chair. She worked the oil into her foot and calf, moving upward to the top of her thigh. The motion was both incredibly feminine and sexual at the same time.
Nick swore. He should look away. She was just a woman who studied her nights away. Just a woman with a body that turned his mind to mud. Just a woman with a bottle of oil. He wondered how her hands would feel on him.
Nick swore again. Where had that thought come from? Too much self-denial, he supposed, and looked away. He sipped his beer and thought about pouring it on his head.
This was ridiculous, he thought, and decided to pull his shade. Just as he started to tug it down, he saw her one last time in a sheer nightgown. She lifted her fingers to her lips as if she were taking medicine, then drank from her glass.
He frowned, but pulled down his shade and headed for his own shower.
* * *
The smell of smoke woke him. Nick sat up in bed and listened for his smoke alarm, but it wasn't buzzing. He climbed from beneath the covers and quickly checked every room of his house. No sign of trouble.
Returning to his bedroom, he thought of the woman who'd made him entirely too aware of his humanity, and lifted the shade. Smoke poured from an attic vent.
His gut tightened, and he reached for the phone. The 9-1-1 dispatcher took the call, but Nick knew lives were traded with seconds in these situations. Pulling on his jeans and a shirt, he pushed his feet into leather loafers, then ran down the stairs and across the lawn to his neighbor's.
He hammered on the door and yelled repeatedly, but no one answered. Nick wondered where Clarence, the artist owner, was. He wondered why the woman pacer wasn't answering. His last image of her drifted through his mind. She'd been taking a sleeping pill, he realized. Too sleepy to respond to the smoke.
Alarm trickled past his irritation. He pounded again, then decided to go in. The door lock was a joke, easily broken. Smoke filled the foyer. Yelling, he took the stairs two at a time to the second floor where flames kicked up in orange fury.
When a shower of sparks fell on him, he grabbed the metal banister where it curved at the top and immediately felt his palms branded. The heat and pain would have taken his breath if he hadn't been holding it.
She might be dead. The thought chased all others from his mind. Nick kicked in the door closest to his house. Her room was a fog of smoke. Bowing his head to inhale, he lurched toward her bed.
He took her in his arms and haphazardly threw the sheet over her. She was light and relaxed in his arms. Out cold. His chest tightened at the thought. That might not be good. Ducking down for one more draft of air, he sprinted out her door and down the steps. Loud sirens permeated the distinctive sound of licking flames.
He rushed out the front door and nearly stumbled over his councilwoman neighbor dressed in a bathrobe.
"Is it Clarence?"
Nick shook his head and snorted the cold, fresh air. "A woman. I think she must be renting from him."
"I thought he was supposed to be out of town. The wiring in his house is a mess. He should have replaced it years ago. He'll be lucky if he doesn't get sued."
"Yeah," Nick muttered, lowering the pacer to the ground. Adrenaline still pumped through his veins. Suing was his profession, but he was preoccupied with the woman in his arms. He wished she would stir.
"Is she okay?"
Nick didn't answer. He lifted the sheet from her face to see if she was breathing. She was, and still sleeping peacefully.
He shook his head. "That must've been some sleeping pill."
The sirens shrieked the arrival of the fire truck and the rescue squad. The crew was out of the vehicle almost before it stopped.
A med tech stooped beside Nick and immediately began to check the woman's vital signs. "She's unconscious?"
"I think she may have taken a sleeping pill."
He nodded and waved ammonia under her nose.
She coughed and shuddered. Her eyes opened, alarm shooting through their dark centers. "What—what—"
Something about her eyes nudged at Nick. He studied her face. There was something familiar about her, a sweetness that almost made him feel nostalgic.
She looked from the med tech to him and back again, confusion tugging at her features. She lifted her hand to her forehead and pushed aside her hair.
With the light from the vehicles, Nick could see a mark on her forehead. A scar or a birthmark? He narrowed his eyes. A stork bite? A weir
d sensation rustled through him.
In a calm voice, the med tech told her what had happened and was asking her questions she was clearly struggling to answer.
"I—I was up late studying for my exam. I don't remember a thing after my head hit the pillow."
"Your name?" he asked.
"Olivia," she said.
The light instantly dawned, and Nick felt the oddest mix of emotions. "Olivia Polnecek," he murmured, staring at her in amazement. After all these years. He'd wondered what had become of her after his family had moved away from Cherry Lane
.
Her forehead wrinkled in confusion. "Who are you?"
"He's the man who saved your life," the councilwoman told her. "He went into that burning house and pulled you out of it." She glanced away. "Oops. Is that a news team? I want to get dressed."
"News team," Olivia echoed with a cringe. She sat up and pulled the sheet around her more securely. Still staring at Nick, she gave a slight shiver. "How do you know my name? Who are you?"
Inexplicably reluctant to tell her, Nick paused a half beat. "I'm Nick Nolan, your next-door neighbor."
Her eyes rounded in surprise. Her gaze quickly traveled over him and she shook her head. "Nail 'em Nick Nolan?" she said in disbelief. "But you don't look—" She broke off and searched his gaze. "You've changed."
"Yes," he agreed. He wasn't a scrawny, vulnerable kid anymore. As the adrenaline drained from his veins and his heart settled down, Nick began to feel a throbbing sensation in his palms.
"Hey, you've got a few burn marks on your face and arm," the med tech noted, reaching for his hand.
A shot of pain nearly buckled his knees. He grimaced.
"What's wrong?" Olivia asked, concern in her voice.
The med tech carefully lifted Nick's hands upward. Staring at his charred palms, he shook his head and whistled. "These will have to be dressed." He ignored the swarm of people running around, along with the reporter nosing closer. "Why didn't you tell me you burned your hands?"
Nick looked down at his hands as if they weren't his. The pain throbbed with every beat of his pulse. "I forgot."
