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She blinked at the mountaintop, recalling Maurice’s reference to a retro-Yul Brynner. A distant memory of the movie The King and I flitted through her mind. As the king of Siam, Yul had swaggered across his palace, oozing arrogance and testosterone out of every pore.
Maurice was right. Bald heads were sexy. She wondered how it would feel to run her fingers over Nigel’s smooth dome….
An unexpected shiver of anticipation ran down her spine.
“Please, Mr. Durand,” she said, surprised how breathy her voice suddenly sounded, “have a seat.”
As the mountain descended, she crossed behind her chrome-and-glass desk. “Let’s talk about how Life Dates can help you find the woman of your dreams.” She sat down in her high-back, ergonomic chair, and set the clipboard on the desk. She hoped Maurice showed up soon with the coffee—her energy was flagging.
Nigel settled back into the guest chair facing her, and she locked on his eyes. Such a rich blue. Like the irises that grew rampant in her neighbor’s field back in Sterling, Colorado. As a child, she loved to pick armfuls and arrange them in her favorite vase. The vibrant colors brightened a home dominated by her serious, hardworking father.
“So Mr. Durand,” Kimberly said, folding her hands neatly in front of her. “You were a professional wrestler?”
“Yes.”
She nodded, waiting for him to say more. Nothing. Finally, she broke the silence. “Where did you practice this profession?”
“A fledgling career as a college football star segued into wrestling. Started out touring the circuits, got invited into the Showcase of the Immortals. Eventually made the grade into the WWE, settled in Vegas.”
“WWE stands for…”
“World Wrestling Entertainment. Retired from the ring a year ago.” He shifted in his seat, which would be a small movement on anyone else. But on Nigel, muscles bulged and strained before the mass stilled.
She took a calming breath, which had an absolutely zero calming effect. “How about I put on some music,” she suddenly said, her voice doing that breathy thing again. Good thing she forgot to ask Maurice to turn down the air-conditioning. Right now her overheated body needed every blast of chill she could get.
“Yes, music,” she answered herself a bit too enthusiastically. “Let’s put some on.”
She got up and went to the CD player that sat on a carved walnut bookcase in the corner. Music helped people relax. It better help her relax, anyway. She began flipping through the discs. “Tony Bennett? Lyle Lovett? Disco Divas?” Disco Divas? Had to be a recent Maurice addition.
“Got any Celine Dion?”
She glanced over her shoulder at Nigel. “You’re kidding—” She stopped, seeing the serious expression on his face. “Uh, let me look…I’m sure we have something here….” She’d just broken one of her cardinal rules about never insulting a client. Today was not starting out well.
“Here’s one!” she finally announced. “The Colour of My Love,” she read off the front of the CD.
“Yeah, that one’s cool.”
Not too many men admitted to being Celine Dion fans. It was like admitting they cried at sad movies. Or loved to go shopping.
After sliding the disc into the player, Kimberly headed back to her desk. Celine’s clear, vibrant voice filled the room, singing about always being there for her man.
Kimberly sat down, remembering a time she believed that. She still believed in true love for others,
just not for herself. It was a good philosophy, though, because not being romantically enmeshed kept her focused on her priorities. Number one being her independence—financial, personal, professional. Number two being…Well, she hadn’t gotten that far yet.
She glanced at the door. Where was Maurice and her coffee?
She grabbed a pencil out of her ceramic cup and fiddled with it, feeling jittery, wishing Nigel wouldn’t stare at her like that. Those big blue eyes had a way of boring into her, as though they saw more than she was willing to let on. Probably a technique he used in his wrestling days, a psychological tactic to unnerve his opponent.
“So,” she said, determined to not be unnerved. I should ask him something about wrestling. Like what? All she knew about wrestling was big, muscled bodies and bone-crunching antics.
Her gaze dropped to Nigel’s T-shirt decorated with the faded image of a…
“Rooster?” she blurted.
The corners of his eyes crinkled when he smiled. “Foghorn Leghorn.”
“Foghorn…? Was that…your wrestling name?”
He did a double take, then laughed. His lips were so full, his teeth so big.
“Didn’t you watch cartoons when you were a kid?” he asked.
“No.”
“Not even on Saturday mornings?”
Saturday mornings were like any other morning in her house. They had to be quiet because her mother was sick. Rather than watch TV, Kimberly would sit on the porch and read. Or hang out at her neighbor’s, helping feed or groom the horses.
“No,” she answered softly.
“Really? I thought all kids knew Foghorn Leghorn. He’s a cartoon character. My kid sisters decided, years ago, that I was like him because I’m so big and my voice is so deep.”
Yes, you are big. Mountain-size big. A woman probably got lost in those arms, cocooned within all those muscles and warmth. “So,” she whispered, “what was your professional name?”
“The Phantom.”
She sucked in a breath of surprise. “The Phantom who pitched trucks a few years back?”
When he nodded yes her heartbeat pounded so hard, she feared it would overpower Celine. Kimberly clutched the pencil, recalling the series of television commercials starring The Phantom. She’d seen them late at night while catching up on paperwork. She’d never been all that hooked on TV, but whenever The Phantom had appeared, she’d been riveted. He exuded strength and mystery…and was one hell of a piece of eye candy.
No wonder she didn’t recognize him. In those ads, he wore a black mask à la Zorro. His only other body covering had been a pair of leather briefs that covered the essentials but left the rest of his massive, muscled body deliciously exposed. He’d been a mouthwatering mound of chiseled, oiled brown…
Crack.
She looked down at the pencil she’d just snapped in two.
“You okay?” Nigel asked.
Kimberly raised her gaze and met those eyes, wide with concern. Heat rushed to her cheeks as she nonchalantly dropped the broken pencil pieces into the chrome trash can beneath her desk where they clattered loudly in their descent. Maurice was too efficient, checking her wastebasket—among other things—every morning when he got in, taking care of anything the night cleaning crew had lazily forgotten. Really, Maurice was too on top of things. She’d have a talk with him about leaving a little trash, just enough to deaden the sounds of things tossed in moments of embarrassment.
Like snapped-in-two pencils.
“What were those trucks called?” she asked as though nothing out of the usual had just happened.
He frowned again. “What trucks?”
“The ones in The Phantom ad.”
“The Crusher.”
Oh yessss, now she remembered. In one of the ads, he’d wrapped his arms around a truck—crushed it to his massive, bulky chest—and it had morphed into a sleek, sexy woman moaning his name. He’d then carried the damsel across the city, through burning buildings, over long hot stretches of sizzling desert. And the voice-over had said, “The Crusher. In its embrace, you’ll remain safe, protected.”
Thousands of women had purchased those trucks.
When those commercials were running, Kimberly had lost count of the number of her female clients who’d said they’d love to meet a man like The Phantom. A man who was outrageously bad while defiantly good.
“Where’s The Phantom these days?” Kimberly’s eyes dipped to that rooster, wondering what Nigel’s chest looked like underneath. Did he still shave? Was he one big mass of brown, oiled muscle?
“He doesn’t exist except in people’s fantasies.”
“What a shame,” she murmured. “Women love that kind of man.”
“Women love James Bond, too,” he snapped, “but that doesn’t mean he exists.”
She shifted in her seat. Kimberly had obviously stumbled into some serious button-pushing territory. “I’m not talking about everyday reality,” she said, keeping her voice conversational. “I’m talking about mystery.”
“Mystery?” He cocked an eyebrow. “You mean, faking something you’re not.”
“No,” she said slowly, “I’m talking about adopting a persona that appeals to the opposite sex. Dating is a buyer’s market and women want to ‘buy’ a man who exudes a virile, forbidden, bad-boy persona.”
He frowned. “Maybe they love the persona, but they don’t want the man behind it.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“That’s the true reality, Ms. Logan. I should know. I lived it.”
Kimberly realized she was tense, leaning forward in her own chair. Nigel was sitting stiffly, his big square knuckles gripping the arms of his chair. Their gazes were locked, waiting for one of them to back down.
The door opened and Maurice entered, carrying a steaming pink flamingo coffee cup. “Sorry this took so long,” he said, sashaying across the room to Kimberly’s desk.
“Was wondering where you were,” she said, hearing the edge to her voice. But this little surprise showdown with Nigel had left her tense.
“Couldn’t find the Skinny Sweet. Had to do a quick trip next door to the convenience store. Figured while I was there, might as well grab something nutritional for your breakfast, too.” He set down a steaming foil-wrapped package that reeked of onions and spice.
She shot him a questioning look.
“Tofu breakfast burrito.” He twirled a finger in a circle. “Wrapped in a whole-wheat tortilla.”
Her mouth dropped open slightly. “You’re kidding.”
“No, and you’re welcome.” Maurice folded his hands neatly. “Anything else before I go?”
Kimberly caught herself and smiled tightly at Nigel. “Did you care for anything?”
“No, thanks.”
With a pleasant dip of his head at Kimberly, Maurice left.
Nigel fought the urge to follow the assistant out of the office. This interview was growing increasingly frustrating, just like all his dating experiences. And bringing up The Crusher commercial pissed him off. If there was anything he regretted doing in his life, it was that. As a wrestler, he’d been flexing his skills at least. In that commercial, he’d been nothing but a piece of oiled meat.
Celine wailed about her man reaching for her, and being all that she could for him….
Nigel eased out a slow breath. That’s all he wanted, too. A woman who would reach for him, love him for who he was. And he’d give her the same…and more. His heart, his love for the rest of their days. If I walk out now, I might lose that chance. Up to now, he’d tried everything—slipping women his number, writing a personal ad, baking brownies as gifts—and every time, he failed at love. Walking in the Life Dates door was his last chance for love.
Can’t leave. Can’t give up, not yet. Ms. Right was somewhere out there, he just needed help finding her.
Although to look at Kimberly Logan, it was difficult to imagine this woman being a matchmaker. From the moment she’d sailed through the door, she’d seemed more like a machine than flesh and blood. Most women wearing a silk suit looked soft, feminine. Even though it was a nice shade of purple, it fit her like a suit of armor. That bun number only added to her strict look.
Snapping that pencil in two cinched it, though. This was a woman who needed some serious loosening up.
A woman who, also, from that perplexed look on her face, might appreciate an explanation for his strong reaction to that damn commercial. It’d be in his favor, too. If she understood what turned his crank, she’d know what to leave alone.
“I hated that commercial,” he muttered.
She arched an eyebrow.
He scrubbed a hand across his face. “That image—me looking like a meatball Zorro with a woman in my arms—is the last image the public has of The Phantom. Feels rotten for that to be my parting shot, you know? It’s my biggest regret in life, something I’ll never repeat again.”
She nodded, all poise and sophistication.
Reminded him of women from his past. The coiffed, moneyed ones who hung out ringside during matches and tipped their way backstage afterward. Women who were privileged, uptight and desperate for some guy they viewed as wild and bad to help them relax a little. He’d made the mistake of indulging a few of them, then realized their game. They didn’t want him.
They wanted The Phantom.
“So,” said Kimberly, pushing the burrito aside with her manicured pink nails. “Who is that man they discovered?”
“Pardon?”
“You said that women might love the persona, but not desire the man behind it,” she prompted. “And I was wondering, who did they discover behind the mask? I need to know you, understand your dating history so we can plan our strategy. That’s how we differ from other agencies, and why our success rate is so high. I’m your success coach, as you probably read in our ad. In that capacity, I work closely with you, get to know you, so I can maximize our approach for your success.”
Her clipped, assured tone was as smooth and polished as the furniture in this room. The only soft thing in the area was the sunlight from a corner window sifting through a ficus tree, creating a pattern of light and leaves on the floor as delicate as lace.
Plus, there was nothing personal in here. No family pictures, kids’ finger paintings, nothing to show she had a life other than work.
“Women didn’t like the homebody,” he admitted.
She raised her eyebrows, a signal for him to elaborate.
“Homebody,” he muttered, shifting in his seat. “You know, the guy who bakes brownies. Wants the picket fence and two-point-five kids.”
“I can’t imagine any woman not wanting that…”
“Oh, I can.” He snorted a laugh. “Nice guys finish last.”
“May I suggest,” she said gently, “that you’re a nice guy who maybe tries too hard?”
That hurt almost as much as a ringside body slam. “Baking brownies is trying too hard?”
