“Speaking of which,” she rushed on before her mother had a chance to say anything, “how’s the new book going?
Do you think it will do as well as this last one? Number eight on the New York Times will be tough to top, but I’m sure you can do it—”
“Slow down,” her mother cut in and Skye prepared herself for the worst. Sure, Xandra got away with the whole avoidance thing, but she’d had more practice. Skye had been avoiding for all of five seconds. She was an amateur.
“Of course I can top number eight,” her mother surprised her. “This book is sure to be even better. It’s a detailed study of the male as a single parent. How men must then step into the female role and be the primary caregiver. An easy task financially, but a tough one as far as nurturing goes. Due to their biological makeup men simply can’t nurture as well as women and, therefore, it has a negative effect on the rearing of healthy daughters.”
“I see your point.”
“Of course you do. It takes a female mind—”
“How’s Dad?”
“—to truly nurture . . . What?”
“Dad. How is he? Where is he?”
“He’s fine. He’s in Brazil on an iguana retreat. I hate the things myself, but your father is committed, and that I can understand. Speaking of which, I hope you caught last night’s episode of Get Sexed Up because I talked about the difference between a life partner and a sex partner. I used your father as an example of both, much to his relief . . .” Her mother went on, dropping the subject of male-dominated households and football faster than she would have gotten rid of a platinum engagement ring.
Skye smiled. She’d programmed the damned TV and avoided her mother’s prying questions. Things were definitely looking up.
“What the hell is that?” Clint came up short in the doorway to Skye’s living room later that afternoon, after a full half-hour phone call with her mother—her mother had done almost all of the talking—and another two hours working the kinks out of her programming.
She’d done it. Every button on the remote now worked and she smiled as satisfaction bubbled inside her. While she didn’t get the whole electronic addiction that most men had, she had to admit that getting it all to work was somewhat of a rush.
She smiled. “It’s a TV.”
“It’s not a TV. It’s a big-screen TV.”
“I bought it this weekend.”
He stepped closer and eyed her new purchase before turning an accusing stare on her. “It’s the same brand as mine.”
“I know.”
“I can’t believe you even noticed the brand of my television.”
“Not just the brand. There are seven different models. This one has advanced picture programming just like yours.”
“This thing is a bitch to set up.”
“Tell me about it. It took me all day.”
“You hooked it up?”
“And programmed the remote. It took me awhile, but I finally got it to work so I didn’t have to keep getting up to pause the game when I had to go to the bathroom.”
“You watched a game?”
“After last night’s taped episode of Get Sexed Up. I watched a DVD of the Super Bowl.”
“A football game?”
“Last I heard that was the only sport that had a Super Bowl. It was pretty exciting once I got into it.”
“Exciting?” He shook his head. “You really thought it was exciting.”
“Crazy, huh? I just knew I was going to hate it. But it was great. That’s why I checked out these at the video store.” She held up a stack of DVDs. “Every Super Bowl game for the past five years and I’m not just watching the game either. I’m watching the commentary, too. Pre-game, post-game. I’m going the whole nine yards. I really do like it.”
Sure, she liked it, Clint thought. It was easy to like something when you were watching from the comfort of your own home. You could kick back on the sofa, a drink in one hand and a sandwich in the other. Food made everything that much better.
During his lunch break, he’d been known to tune into A Makeover Story a time or two. But that didn’t mean he would enjoy actually sitting down and letting some hair-stylist whose name he couldn’t pronounce foil and fry his hair before stuffing him into a black see-through mesh shirt and a pair of leather pants like on the last episode.
Clint dropped his own stack of DVDs—tonight’s lesson—on her coffee table and said, “Let’s go.”
“But I thought we were going to have lesson number two.”
“We are, but not here.”
“I really need my comfort zone.”
“It’s not about comfort.” It was one thing to watch from a distance. Getting up close and personal was the real test. “It’s about two men, lots of muscle and a throng of screaming, bloodthirsty fans.”
“Bloodthirsty?”
“The more blood the better.” He took her hand and started for the door.
She tried to pull away. “I don’t think that’s such a good plan.”
“It’s the best one I’ve had in a long time.”
“But I get really queasy at the sight of blood.”
“That’s what I’m counting on.”
Otherwise, Clint would be forced to consider the fact that Skye Farrel was a lot more his type than he cared to admit.
“His boobs are bigger than hers,” Skye stated as she stared at the wrestler who’d just entered the ring opposite the women’s current champion.
“They’re not boobs,” Clint told her as he watched the man and woman face off in a battle of the sexes. Clint had seen to it that he and Skye were sitting ringside. “They’re pecs.”
“If I pointed to the exact same spot on her, you would call them boobs.” She took a sip of her soda. “Why do men’s pectoral muscles get an athletic-sounding name, while women are stuck with the synonym for several fools?”
“Your feminist roots are showing.”
“I’m a womanist, and it’s just plain unfair.”
“Okay, look at the boobs on him.”
“They’re pecs.”
“I know that, but I thought you wanted to be fair.”
“If you want to be fair, then say something like ‘hey, would you look at the pecs on her?’ Women have pecs, too.” She frowned as she watched the ring. The male wrestler picked up the woman and slammed her down on the mat. Skye cringed.
The move upset the woman’s partner who’d accompanied her to the ring. He was a big, brawny, mouthy guy who grabbed a nearby chair, parted the ropes and jumped into the ring on her behalf. He slammed the chair over the guy’s head.
“Oh, no.” Skye covered her eyes. “Is he bleeding?” “Everywhere.” Actually, it was just a small cut on his forehead that sent him stumbling backwards.
She swallowed. “I think I’m going to be sick.”
“We can always leave,” Clint told her as the chair guy pulled the female wrestler to safety before jumping back into the ring, chair in hand, and going after the other wrestler a second time. “Just say the word and we’re out of here. I know you don’t like this.”
“But men do. Macho men.”
“But you don’t,” he pointed out again. “You don’t, do you?”
“I . . .” She swallowed. “It’s not that I don’t like it. I tend to get nauseous at the sight of blood.”
Clint barely resisted the urge to slide his arm around her shoulders and pull her close. She was cringing and he was glad and that was the end of it.
“Wow,” he said, eager to press his advantage all the way home. She was this close to making a run for it. “It’s smeared all over his forehead.”
“A head wound?”
“A bad one. That guy really gave it to him good with that chair and—oh!” The crowd roared. “He hit him again.”
“Again? Is it bad?” She was still covering her eyes, but she’d slid forward to the edge of her chair. “How bad?”
“He’s stumbling around.” “I don’t like this.”
“He’s barely conscious.”
“I really don’t like this.”
“He’s going down. He’s going . . . There! He’s down.” But she already knew because her fingers had parted and she was peeking between the space.
“Get up,” she murmured as the referee started his count. One ...
“Come on,” she pleaded. “Get up.”
Two ...
Her hands fell away from her face. “Come on,” she yelled out. “Get up!”
Three ...
“That’s the way to go!” She jumped to her feet along with the rest of the crowd as the wrestler struggled upright before the referee slapped the mat for the third time. “Get that guy for hurting your woman!”
Clint was on his feet next to her. “What are you doing?” “Cheering.” She clapped and whistled as the two men went at it again. “He’s defending her honor.”
“He’s beating the guy to death with a chair.”
“Yes, and on the woman’s behalf. He’s her hero. Atta way to go!” she yelled out.
Clint frowned. “What about the blood?”
“What about it?”
“It’s all over him.”
“He asked for it. He hit that guy’s girl. Let’s go!” she shouted out before letting loose a wolf whistle. “Give that jackass a taste of his own medicine. That’ll teach him to hit a woman.”
She looked so excited and eager and passionate, and it was all Clint could do to keep from tugging her into his arms and kissing her.
This was not good.
Chapter Twelve
Tonight was strictly sex.
Skye clung to the comforting thought as she pressed Clint’s doorbell and waited. There would be no talking or sharing about anything other than hot, pleasurable S-E-X.
That had been her mistake on Friday night. All the conversation about his past and her past had derailed her thoughts and sent her careening off into the land of the ill-prepared. That’s when she’d gotten nervous and that’s why she’d responded to his impromptu kiss. She’d been anxious and desperate for a cookie and then he’d kissed her and he’d tasted just as sweet. And so she’d kissed him back.
She licked her lips and pushed aside the sudden image of Clint hovering over her, his eyes so dark and intense, his lips parted just enough to let her know that he intended to taste her...
Skye shook away the thought and reached into her bag for a SweetTart. She popped the candy into her mouth. She’d taken Xandra’s advice and found a substitute. Kissing involved puckering and sour candy definitely delivered a pucker.
She wasn’t going to fall victim to her craving tonight and she certainly wasn’t going to act on her attraction to Clint. He was sort of taken and she didn’t do sort of taken men.
Even if he were completely available, she wouldn’t be doing him. Chemistry aside, they wanted different things out of life. She wanted long-term commitment minus the ball and chain, while he couldn’t wait to snap on the shackles and throw away the key.
They were worlds apart, even if they did both enjoy a good wrestling match.
She still couldn’t believe she’d actually enjoyed last night. She’d never really seen the appeal of wrestling before. The moves had always seemed so fake. But sitting ringside, she’d actually found herself caught up in the sport. However over-the-top, the wrestlers and the fans had been so enthusiastic. So passionate. And if there was one thing Skye could relate to, it was passion.
The sport, while theatrical, had oozed energy, from the oversized, loudmouthed wrestlers themselves, to the very vocal crowd of fans packed into the arena, Skye included.
Never in all her thirty-three years had she pictured herself ringside at WWE Monday night RAW, but that’s exactly where she’d been, and she’d enjoyed every moment.
Okay, she hadn’t enjoyed every single moment. At first, she’d been skeptical and sick to her stomach. But every match seemed to have its own theme and story— the arch rivals finally facing off with each other, the underdogs fighting for their pride and dignity, the bad boys everyone loved to hate getting away with being bad yet again.
She knew she wouldn’t have been nearly as into it watching from the comfort of her own living room. Clint had known that and so he’d hauled her out to a live show. He was definitely fulfilling his end of the proposition, which meant she had to keep her mind on business and fulfill hers.
Strictly sex.
With that thought firmly in mind, she straightened her shoulders and pressed the doorbell again. Somewhere inside Jezebel started to bark. She glanced around while she waited. She’d noticed his home before, but only from the inside.
The truth of just how different they were surrounded her in the form of a huge yard with towering oak trees and neatly trimmed hedges. She stood on a big, sprawling front porch with a wooden swing just to her left. It was the sort of place just made for a handful of kids running here and there. The perfect place to raise a family.
Skye’s high-rise apartment, in direct contrast, was barely fit to raise plants. Her teeny, tiny balcony could barely hold a small ivy and one lounge chair. Sure, her apartment was sizable, with a spacious living room, two roomy bedrooms and a large office area, but the place had been crafted more for looks than comfort.
Looks were important, of course, particularly if one were raising daughters. She’d loved her grandmother’s treasured porcelain dolls and her china cabinet that housed antique crystal and a collection of glass frogs.
But boys? They definitely demanded comfort. Forget the miniature table and chairs, the mini china cabinet filled with tiny teacups and saucers and the frilly skirted vanity table—peach to match the bedspread and curtains—that had dominated Skye’s room as a child. Boys needed beanbag chairs and big stuffed pillows shaped like footballs and shatter-proof furniture for WWE Raw imitations.
Clint was definitely preparing himself for boys.
She smiled as an image hit her of Clint running across the yard with a football in his hands, a half dozen little boys with his same dark hair and dancing blue eyes hot on his heels.
She frowned as the image shifted and she saw herself standing on the front porch, her belly overflowing with little Clint number seven, a smile on her face as she watched her man.
Bellies and babies and Clint?
Before she could dwell on the disturbing thought, the door creaked open and a frazzled-looking redhead appeared, her arms overflowing with files and newspapers.
“Can I help you?”
“I’m here to see Clint MacAllister. I’m Skye Farrel. He’s expecting me.”
“I remember you from the wedding. The owner of the sex company.”
“Girl Talk and it’s more like an educational company.” “That educates people about sex.”
“Yes.”
“Exactly. The sex company. Come on in.” She opened the door and stepped back so that Skye could walk by her.
“Can I help carry anything?” Skye asked as the woman juggled the stack between her two arms and kicked the door shut with her foot.
“No thanks.” She eyed Skye. “You don’t really look like the type to teach sex for a living.”
“No red velvet dress with a matching feather boa? I left that at home tonight.”
The woman’s stoic expression broke into a smile. “Actually, I was thinking black thigh boots and well-placed tassels.”
“The boots are being oiled and the tassels are at the cleaners, so I got stuck wearing a suit.”
Another smile and she motioned. “He’s on a phone call right now, but you can wait in the den.”
Skye followed Lindy down the now familiar hallway and into the paneled room lined with trophies. In the far corner, Jezebel the Blue Heeler sat on her doggie bed. She glanced up at Skye as if to say I know you, before nuzzling down and closing her eyes.
“So how long have you known Clint?” Skye asked as she placed her briefcase on the coffee table and sank down to the sofa.
“My
entire life. Sort of.” Lindy juggled her load to the opposite arm and used her free hand to shove her glasses back up her nose. “I lived just up the road from his folks and we used to walk the same route to school, but Clint always kept to himself. Until high school. Then he found shop class, joined the football team and became one of the beautiful people, and I wasn’t.”
Skye smiled and pointed at herself. “Glasses, skinny legs and a high IQ.”
“Chubby, with braces and hair like Bozo the clown. I had the high IQ, too, which only made matters worse. Clint didn’t even notice me until seventh grade when he saved me from a group of bullies.”
“Did he beat them up?”
“He charmed them silly.” At Skye’s puzzled look, she added, “They were girls. The Wallace triplets. Fay, Kay and Wilda May. They were cute, blonde and brutal, at least to me. They used to give me hell every day after gym class. One day they were giving me their usual spiel about how I was the product of a mutant alien coupling and didn’t deserve to share the same locker room with them. Clint came up to us and turned on the charm. In a matter of minutes, the girls had forgotten all about me and had eyes only for him. They never bothered me again after that.”
“That was nice of him.”
“I offered to pay him five bucks per triplet but he didn’t want money. He wanted tutoring. I agreed and we’ve been working together ever since.”
“She means she’s been bossing me around ever since,” Clint said as he walked in.
“Somebody around here has to do it.” Lindy turned her attention to the stack in her hands. “Here’s the contract I briefed you about. You need to sign it.” She handed over a folded stack of blue-bound documents. “And here are the expenses for this past race and the projected expenses for next week.” She handed him several folders, followed by a stack of various newspapers and magazines. “And here is all the press coverage for this past weekend.”
Clint eyed the sizable stack. “Seems like they really like Tuck. Who won yesterday, in case you forgot.”
“Who won despite the fact that he messed up on two turns and nearly took out another car during his last lap,” she said pointedly. “Besides, most of their coverage is about you.” She turned to Skye and smiled. “Nice to meet you.” And then she left the room.
Kiss Me Once, Kiss Me Twice Page 12
