Hardest to Love Read online

  Hah, hah, hah, I only know how to torment men with my polysyllabic vocabulary until they scream in agony. Aside from the waitress, she’s the only female in this room, highly desirable, and men are circling her like grunting cavemen. To win her over, the guys in this room would balance beach balls on their noses.

  It’s her beauty as well as her laugh, I think, and the History Channel thing. Guys know about Vikings and Spartans and famous battles, and she does, too. I just overheard her talking about Operation Barbarossa. Some girls I’ve dated would think that was a boob job done by an Italian plastic surgeon.

  Now she’s talking to her brother. Chris ditched his grunge attire for a polo shirt and tan Dockers. Standing next to him is a shorter guy, military haircut, all muscle.

  I don’t like him.

  Between my own overheated engine and these warming trays, I might as well be hacking away foliage in the sub-tropics. Sweating, I inspect the steak appetizers and wind up putting the lid back on.

  Not hungry.

  She glides across the room in her blue dress.

  For food, anyway.

  Her dark chin-length hair is swept from her face with silver clips. Dangling earrings catch the light. She’s wearing one of those high-collar Asian dresses, pink roses spilling all over the blue silk.

  Confirmation, Cap’n. Professor Mufson has a smoking hot body. Large round breasts, small waist, gorgeous legs. For this evening’s forecast, I’d put her at a cat five, catastrophic to my crotch region.

  She walks—no, slinks—and the slit to her dress opens. It’s like a blue curtain pulls back and we have a peep show. Inwardly, I chant: Walk, Elena. Walk. Whenever she moves, I’m riveted to the flash of her legs, bare and smooth, her high heels a salmon pink color.

  Yeah, that’s right. Stroll over to get your drink, honey. Go on. Let Daddy see those legs.

  I’ve devolved into a salivating Pavlov dog. Pathetic.

  From one of the tables, she laughs again. The military guy must be a stand-up comedian when he’s not driving tanks.

  Fuck this. I make a path around the tables, passing her and refusing eye contact. At the bar, I use the prongs to drop three ice cubes into an old-fashioned glass and pour some Jameson.

  I try to relax. I sip slowly, tuck my other hand in my dress slacks pocket, jacket pushed behind my wrist.

  Well, well. Little Miss Mufson’s about to wander in my neighborhood, cementing a theory. Ignore a woman and set her free, she’ll come back, right to me.

  She strays near the food, where I’m standing. Fingers pressed to her lips, she inspects the buffet servers.

  I point to the center warming tray. “Ordered the spinach puffs for you.”

  “Maybe I don’t want a veggie appetizer. You’re generalizing again.”

  I smile and take another sip.

  “What amuses you now, Mr. Zaccardi?”

  “These appetizers prove sex stereotypes exist. Mostly guys here tonight, ergo, the steak bites and tacos are gone.” I raise an eyebrow. “You don’t like spinach?”

  “No, I do.” Using prongs, she plucks out a spinach puff. The poinsettia paper plate in her other hand is shaking. Badly.

  Ah-hah. Faking this little snotty act. I do affect her.

  She takes a tiny bite and chews. “You made a good call. It’s delicious.”

  “You look incredible tonight, by the way. Stunning.”

  “I’m not going to let you manipulate me, Nick.”

  “That why you kept your aunt home?”

  “She’s not into sports, and she’s not going to be rushed into a decision.”

  I shrug and fight the urge to fidget.

  “By the way, where is my hat?”

  “Ah. The hostage.”

  “It’s my favorite.”

  I lean closer, to whisper. “Under my pillow.”

  She looks up at me.

  I smile slowly. “How about I help you organize a search party?”

  Her gaze darts between my eyes and mouth, and I return her avid interest, making it very clear that if we were alone, she’d be completely under my control and love every second. Tonight, SHE is what tops my private menu selection.

  We keep up this mutual stare until the rest of the room dissolves, the attraction between us growing hotter.

  I move toward her, and before she can drop it, remove the shaking paper plate between her fingers. The instant our fingers brush, the magnetic charge makes her catch her breath. Her eyes widen, and her lips part. She licks at the corner of her lips and I stare, fascinated by that enticing pink tongue. All I can think of is getting my mouth and hands on her.

  She shakes herself and takes a step backward.

  “Coward,” I whisper.

  She lifts a trembling hand to smooth her dark hair. “Stop looking at me.”

  “But you want me to look, or you wouldn’t be wearing that dress. The leg show alone is worth the price of this suite.”

  She gives me a side glance. “You’re incorrigible.” She takes another step toward the group.

  I smile and gently nudge her arm. “C’mon. Stay and talk awhile. I won’t bite. At least, not here.” I nod toward Tank Man. “Who’s Studly?”

  “Kyle Hotchkiss. He and Chris went through boot camp together. He flew in from Texas to be here.”

  “I’m fine with just his name.”

  Her brows come together. “He flew in to be with my brother, so I think that’s a detail worth mentioning. He took time away from his family.”

  Good. The guy’s married.

  “He’s a former Marine.”

  The way she says that, a note of admiration in her voice. “A hero and a family man. Officer and a gentleman. Got it.” My voice is irritable. Suddenly I want to climb over the chairs as though they’re an obstacle course and challenge every man in here to bench-press three-hundred pounds. “So. You’re into real hero types.”

  Just as she’s about to say something, there’s a sound at the door to the suite, a sniffle. Lots of snuffles, in fact, a kid sound. The door had been slightly ajar, and a boy wanders in, rubbing bloodshot puffy eyes.

  The kid’s about six, I think, wearing a sweater vest and wrinkled corduroys. Poor kid probably is howling from having to take the hundredth family photo for one of those overly posed phony Christmas cards. He wipes at his nose.

  “Hey, it’s Nick’s long-lost love child,” one of the guys says.

  Laughter erupts.

  “Can’t you see he’s upset?” Elena darts across the room, a blur of blue and legs, and crouches down to talk to him. Her dress scrunches up, but she manages. She looks into the boy’s wet eyes. “What’s wrong, sweetie?”

  I’m avoiding it, watching her console the kid, so tender and caring. My collar’s pulling at my throat, and sweat’s streaming from my armpits. Has to be from the extra hot sauce. My stomach’s rolling; I feel like I’m going to hurl.

  I can’t though. Stop. Watching.

  Her face is luminous as she strokes the kid’s wavy dark hair. “You lost your daddy? Don’t worry. We’ll find him.”

  The boy puts an arm around her neck. She draws up, smoothes down her dress, stained from where the kid came into contact with her. But she appears to not care. Girls like Lexi, they’d be bitching about the dry cleaning bill and screaming for napkins.

  The truth? I’d be screaming for napkins.

  “Justin. There you are.” A guy who’s the human version of a rhino storms into the suite. He’s bald, and his leather bomber’s too small. On the side of his neck is a tattoo of a cartoon cat giving the finger. “I’ve got the car pulled around outside. Let’s go, buddy.” In a rush, he grabs the kid by the arm, and the kid cries out.

  The kid’s bawling harder, rubbing his little fists into his eye sockets.

  She tries to mop up the mucus off his face. “Sir. I know you’re in a hurry—”

  “Hey, chicky. Enough already. I’m double-parked.”

  Something thaws in me, something I’ve kept unde
r ice a long time.

  I want to protect her.

  I step forward. “Don’t talk to her like that.”

  “Screw you.” He pushes me.

  “Apologize to the lady.” I shove back, knocking him off balance, and he staggers, falling against the wall. His arms fan out to brace himself.

  The guy’s wife is at the door, a brunette with curly hair, her face pinched. She shepherds the kid out the door while trying to corral two older kids.

  Meanwhile, Elena is at my side, her hands pawing at my arms, trying to pull me back. Both of my hands are fists.

  Rhino Man gets up, his eyes slits, lips drawn back tight across his teeth.

  Go on, horn face. Swing. I dare you.

  Red-faced, he moves back toward the door. Then he spins and shoves me again.

  I don’t have time to anchor myself and I fall, my face landing on the sharp corner of the bar.

  A shock of pain explodes in my nose.

  An abstract painting of a rearing stallion in silhouette hung above his California-king-sized bed. She wouldn’t be surprised if its hooves landed on her.

  A foot below the horse, Nick Zaccardi brooded against pillows pushed against an oak headboard. He pressed a lumpy washcloth filled with several ice cubes against his nose. Heathcliff version 2.0, with a grown-out buzz cut that showcased his cheekbones and planes of his face. His legs and body were at an angle, feet resting at the center of the bed, enabling her to sit on the edge.

  Unable to resist, she stroked his forehead. “We should’ve gone to the ER.”

  He jerked away and bunched the bedding in his fist, eyebrows coming together in a scowl. “I’m fine. It’s not the first time it’s happened.”

  “You defended me.”

  “No damsels or knights, none of that bullshit.” Pressed further into the pillows, his white business shirt fell open, exposing the sinews of his throat and chest. “Remember, I do my reading on the toilet.”

  “I’m sorry I said that, Nick.”

  “A woman who apologizes. Now I trust you even less.”

  Ever since they’d all left the stadium, Chris and Kyle leaving in separate cars, her driving Nick home, he’d been surly. She remained unflappable, despite his brooding. “Should I—uhm, call someone? Someone in your family? Your parents or a sibling?”

  “I’m not a kid who fell off his bike.”

  “Don’t you want someone to care when you get hurt?”

  The question flared like a hot lantern. Despite the tranquil moonlight streaming through the windows, blanketing the bedroom in midnight blue, the space between them felt vast, uneasy. He shifted his seated position on the pillows, one arm slung over his eyes, sharp blade of a nose casting a shadow, his jaw clamped shut, locked hard. How tightly he clung to his anger, because the second he let go, he’d bump into the wound inside him. The tough-guy heartbreaker removed from his own heart.

  A strange tenderness bloomed inside her, unfolding like the tentative petals of a flower. She wasn’t used to opening up herself; how could she expect him to?

  “I know what you like,” he said. “Heroes who bring you flowers. The big gesture, the happy ending.”

  “I’m not one to bask. If something good happened, I’d have to share it with my family.”

  He flashed a cold smile. “You sound like a pageant contestant.” He shifted his posterior, and his left knee moved. He shook off droplets of water from the dripping washcloth in his hand. “I want world peace,” he said in falsetto. He peered around his forearm to wink at her. “Dirty rotten do-gooder.”

  The smirk on his face told her he was coming out of his dark mood.

  “Well, you need glitter. An alpha female with endless confidence. The Lexi type.”

  He groaned. “If I ever dated her again, I’d hire a food taster and have to wear an athletic cup.”

  “Don’t be mean. I don’t like her, but—”

  “She’s a fembot. And some of us prefer women who don’t require batteries.” He lowered the washcloth, moved around the ice cubes, which stuck to the terrycloth. “Did Chris have a good time tonight?”

  She nodded, her lips twitching upward. She didn’t know why him remembering her brother’s name pleased her so much, but it did.

  He’d switched the washcloth to his right hand, and his left roamed over her hip. Moved slowly upward, over the threads and bumps of the elaborate embroidery. “I got blood on your pretty dress.”

  “I know a great dry cleaner.” She returned his hand to his lap while her heart skipped a beat. Everything she touched, the satin of the bedspread, the embroidered flowers on her dress, felt more intense. “You said that this was the second time? Your nose? What happened the first time?”

  He kept his eyes downcast, the thick rim of lashes casting a shadow on his cheekbones.

  “Okay, so don’t answer.” She scootched a little closer. She opened her purse and brought out a compact. “Do you want to take a look at it?”

  “Put that away.” Nick’s eyes squinted shut.

  “You have something against mirrors?”

  He wouldn’t answer.

  Puzzled, she slid her compact back into her purse. “Let me see if the swelling’s gone down.”

  He lowered the washcloth containing the melting cubes, and she delicately probed the puffy skin and nose. She stroked his temple, let her forefinger trace along his jaw, the dark stubble, the corner of his mouth. The tip of his nose. “Can you breathe okay?”

  His stare bordered on ferocious. Wandered to her mouth and back up to her eyes. “Can you?”

  Nick Zaccardi at maximum intensity was a sight to behold. She closed her eyes, reminding herself of who he was. “I can’t be a hookup, Nick. I won’t be.” She tucked her black patent leather clutch under her armpit and rose. “Okay, then. I’ll go, so you can get some sleep.”

  “Before you go. Buttons.” He swung his long left leg to the floor, followed by the right, and stood up. “I hurt my hand. Don’t worry, Florence Nightingale. It’s not serious.” He held out the right hand, flexing his fingers. “The thumb and forefinger are a little numb.”

  “We should’ve gone to the ER, but you’re such a stubborn grouch.”

  He tried to unbutton his shirt and quickly gave up. He flapped his arms like a giant penguin. “A little help here?”

  “Do you ever say please?”

  “I get better results when I insist rather than ask.”

  She took halting steps closer and stopped inches away from him. Hands shaking, she reached for the third button of his shirt, aware that he watched keenly. Her fingers shook, but she undid it. The fourth button refused to slip through the buttonhole. She tried again.

  “You know, kids learn this basic skill by kindergarten.”

  “Hush. Or I’ll stop.” She worked her way down and unbuttoned the rest along the placket. She tugged the shirt flaps free.

  He pulled in long breaths. His pecs expanded and slid up and down, his six-pack rippling. His bare chest was something to behold: smooth skin, well-muscled, a dusting of dark hair across the pectorals. Perfectly formed areolas, small hard nipples. A sculpted Michelangelo.

  She felt lightheaded. Utterly rattled. The man was the devil for talking her into this. She couldn’t look up, or they’d make eye contact, and she couldn’t look down, especially below the waist. She pulled the shirt off one muscled shoulder, followed by the next. The white shirt fell to the wood floor in a rustle.

  She was about to pick it up, but he sucked in a sharp breath, and the skin around his belly button concaved, a contrast to his muscled chest and what she couldn’t avoid seeing either, the bulge under his fly, as though a pipe pushed up the zipper.

  He was about to ask her to unbuckle his belt. Lower his zipper. She couldn’t. Couldn’t.

  She looked up.

  Those amber eyes gazed down at her, black pupils dilated. Closing the sliver of space separating them, he traced a light nail over her lower lip. “How about you put me to bed every nig
ht?”

  A wave of dizzying heat washed over her. One of the deadliest weapons he had in his arsenal was that deep, sexy voice.

  He twirled a tendril of her hair around his forefinger. “You bite your nails.”

  “Nerves.”

  “I could help cure you.”

  “How? You have a magic wand?”

  His smile widened in slow motion. “You might say that.” His hand slid down the small of her back, and he pulled her close to brush a feathery kiss across her forehead. “Ever have a near-religious experience? I’ll make you see angels.”

  She bit her lip. Get out now. Now. Before she gave in. But it felt so natural, so shivery and wonderful, his strong arms around her, the heat from his body warming hers.

  Play now, regret later.

  She swallowed. “But nothing meaningful.”

  “But I’d offer copious amounts of meaningful. I’ll take care of you in a very personal, meaningful way.” He leaned over, lips caressing the other side of her neck, his stubble rubbing her skin.

  God, she wanted him. Badly. She curled her hand against his chest, nails digging into her palm, his heartbeat pulsing under her fist.

  “Copious should earn me one gold star on the vocabulary chart.”

  Smartass. Yet horribly turned her on. “Nick.”

  “Do you have a boyfriend?” he whispered. “Someone who drives you crazy? Brings out your claws and tongue and hot breaths? Because a woman like you, Elena? I’ll turn you into a lioness. And you’ll love every second.”

  And then he was kissing her. Hungrily, no mercy. When she tried to move her head, he held her face in place and pulled her lower lip between his teeth. He plundered her mouth with a devastating deep kiss, his tongue exploring hers, his fingers steadying the back of her head.

  She opened her hand and stroked his supple warm skin. Glided over the erect nipple.

  He growled. His arm and hand swept under her back, and the other hand went under her knees. Madness had overtaken them, for she was in the air, and then landed on the bed, pillows bouncing everywhere. He slung the washcloth across the room.

  He removed her heels and lifted a foot to kiss the insole. She moaned and writhed on the bedding, gathering the satin fabric in her fists. Forget trying to fight this; her willpower was on the floor with her shoes.