Baddest Bad Boys (3 page)

“I am not a baby!” She leaped to her feet. “Do I look like a baby?”

“You’re acting like one. If Danny knew I was having this conversation, he’d rip out my intestines and strangle me with them.”

“But he doesn’t know!” she protested. “And he won’t! Get it?”

“Great. Even better. Now you’re asking me to lie to my friend.”

“No, I am not!” she flared. “Keeping your private life private is not lying! It’s none of Danny’s business!”

Jon snorted. “You know, I very much doubt he’d see it that way.”

“Danny and Mac are the reason I have this problem in the first place!” she raged. “All through school! It never failed! Any time a guy ever got near me, he got The Talk. If he did anything more than hold my hand, they’d threaten to break every bone in his body with a hammer.”

He was trying not to smile, the bastard. “So I get to be the chump asshole who gets the compound fractures? Wow. I’m so honored.”

“It’s not funny.” Robin spat the words out. “I am not laughing.”

“I see that. But there’s a good reason your brothers try to protect you. Men are filthy dogs. They’re men themselves, so they know this. I don’t blame them for doing it, and neither should you.”

“Well, I’m sick of it! It’s going to end, one way or another. I’m out of here. Goodbye, Jon. I’m really sorry I bothered you.”

She tried to flounce past him, but he grabbed her arm and swung her back around. She landed in the chair again with a grunt.

“Where do you think you’re going?” he asked.

“To lose my virginity.” She flung the words at him.

“Oh, yeah?” His eyes narrowed to bright, glittering slits. “To who?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know yet. I had what I thought was a workable plan, but it blew up in my face. Time to move on to Plan B.”

“And what’s Plan B?”

“Oh, the usual techniques. Bars. Clubs. Tight clothes, high heels, too much alcohol. Whatever it takes.”

She launched herself out of the chair, and got thumped right back down again. He held her in a vise grip. “You’re not going to do that.”

“Let go of me.” She flailed and wiggled. “You don’t like virgins? Fine. The next time you see me, I’ll be an ex-virgin. I promise.”

He gripped her upper arms and lifted her out of the chair and up off her feet, so she dangled there like a doll. He bumped her up against the wood paneled wall. “No way. I’ll be damned if I’ll let you go out there and let some random fuckhead wipe his feet on your body.”

“Tough shit,” she hissed, shoving at his chest. “It’s not up to you!”

“It is now.” His voice was grim.

Tears of humiliation welled into her eyes. “Get your hands off me.”

His grip loosened. She sank down from her tiptoes onto her feet.

He loomed over her, still frowning. “Robin,” he said, his voice gentler. “Listen to me. You want your first time to be with a guy who worships you. Who’s overcome with the honor. Not with some bar scum who just wants to score. I’m sorry, but I just can’t let that happen.”

Their gazes locked, and something happened. The air got thick, hot. Hard to breathe, like it had turned to viscous liquid. Jon looked almost scared. He lifted his hand from her face and took two quick steps back.

“I am not that guy,” he said warily. “I am a selfish bastard. I’ve got an ex-wife and a string of ex-girlfriends who all hate my guts. I’m not nice and I’m not gentle, and I don’t worship anybody or anything.”

“You’ve always been nice to me,” she whispered.

“That was a big mistake. One that I won’t be making again.” He dug his cell phone out of his pocket and started punching it.

She grabbed his arm, alarmed. “Who are you calling?”

“Danny.” He held the phone to his ear.

“No way!” She lunged for the phone. “He and Mac will kill me!”

“Should have thought about that before.” He peered at the display. “Shit. He’s still in his meeting. Phone’s turned off. Lucky you.”

“You asshole!” Her voice was fogged with angry tears.

“Thank God, she’s starting to face reality.”

Robin wheeled away and dove for the door. His arm clamped under her rib cage from behind and lifted her right off her feet. “Uh-huh. You’re not going anywhere until one of your brothers is here to escort you. I don’t want the responsibility.”

“I have my car here,” she snapped. “I have to drive it down.”

“So I’ll tell Danny to bring Mac up. He can drive your car down.”

She bucked and flailed. “You cannot do this to me!”

“Watch me.” His voice was steely.

“I’m not a minor! My brothers don’t have any authority over me!”

“That’s their problem, thank God. Not mine. Nod if you’re going to be good. If you mess with me, I’ll cuff you to the stove. Understand?”

She nodded. He shoved her down into the chair. His footsteps receded. She gauged the distance to the door, got up and tiptoed—

“Don’t even try it. Sit your ass back down.”

She spun around, nerves jangling. Jon tossed her a tattered gray sweatshirt. “It smells like mold, but it’s better than…that.” He jerked his chin at her chemise top.

Bossy, controlling bastard. He was worse than both her brothers put together. Anger made her bold. She tilted up her rib cage, making her boobs strain against the buttons. “Do my tits scare you, Jon?”

His mouth tightened, as his eyes flicked down to her chest.

An unfamiliar sense of power unfurled inside her. An instinct to push him, and then push him harder, just to see where it went. She reached up, popped the top button of her chemise.

“Don’t you dare.” His voice was hoarse and menacing.

“What are you going to do?” she taunted, popping a second button. “Turn me over your knee? Spank me?”

He advanced on her, until he was inches from her, staring down into her face. “Don’t mess with me, Robin,” he warned. “Just…don’t.”

“Why not? You’re completely safe, right? You don’t want me. You have a rule. I’m off limits. So why not have my slutty fun with you?”

He tilted her chin up. “Look into my eyes. Do you know where you’re going when you push me? Are you sure you want to go there?”

She gazed back, and realized that she wasn’t. She’d thought she was, but she’d imagined a tender seduction that would make her feel, well, safe. That predatory glow in his eyes was anything but.

Nope. She didn’t have the nerve. He was so angry. So big. So…hard looking. She broke eye contact. Chickenshit. Tears stung her eyes.

He had the gall to look relieved that she’d backed down. Bastard.

“I’m going to fix some dinner while we wait for Danny to call me back,” he said. “Put on the goddamn sweatshirt.”

Robin sighed, and pulled the chilly, mildewed fabric over her head. When her face emerged from the frayed neck, he held out a plastic bag of tomatoes and cucumbers, a look of challenge on his face.

“Make yourself useful,” he said. “Do the salad.”

 

Jon focused on the garlic he was slicing into spikes, which he then stabbed with unnecessary fierceness into the thick steak he was about to grill. Good thing he’d left on that denim shirt. Or she’d take one look at his tent-pole hard-on, and know she had him cold. Millimeters away from falling to his knees. Begging for a piece of that.

He wasn’t sure if the sweatshirt helped. The damage was done. The sweatshirt was slipping off one gleaming golden shoulder. Her skin was so soft. His hands itched to touch her again to confirm that sensation. And other sensations, beckoning him. Like the long, sinewy curve of her taut belly. The swell and hollows of her hips. The nipples of those plump cupcake boobs, straining against thin lace. Sweet.

He squeezed his brain, did the math again. She’d been ten, eleven when he met her. He’d been, what, twenty? A smart-ass, swaggering hoodlum. Yeah. It tracked. Twenty-five. Wow. He was thirty-four. That was still a big, eyebrow waggling, wink-wink, nudge-nudge age gap, even if it wasn’t out and out cradle robbing. And what the fuck was he thinking, anyway? Was he actually trying to justify…?

Whoa. No way. Down, boy. She was Mac and Danny’s precious princess. She would always be a baby to them, and this thing was a fucking train wreck in the making. He could feel it. He valued his friendship with Danny. He wasn’t going to screw around with it. Uh-uh.

He shook salt and pepper over the garlic-impaled meat, set the rice to boil on the propane stovetop. A thudding sound made him turn.

She was juggling. Five fat hothouse tomatoes were in the air, whirling in a dizzying circle. “Robin,” he complained. “What the hell?”

“I’m tense,” she said, her voice distant. “Juggling relaxes me. I can take another one. Give me another. Go on. Toss me one.”

“But that’s my dinner,” he said, plaintively. “Can’t you relax yourself juggling something else? How about rolls of toilet paper?”

“Shut up. Throw me another.” Her concentration never wavered.

He groaned, grabbed a tomato, intuited her rhythm, and tossed.

Sure enough. She danced back, eyes far away as the sixth tomato flew perilously close to the ceiling. Hair swung, hands flashed, as she maintained perfect equilibrium in constant movement. She was good.

And gorgeous. Out of her skull, maybe, but total eye candy. How could he have missed it for so long? She’d sucker-punched him. He stared at the dick-tingling-spectacle for several awestruck minutes.

“How did you reach twenty-five still a virgin?” he asked.

Splat, a tomato landed at his feet, exploding juice and seeds all over his shoes. Robin caught the others, thuddity thud thud in her crooked arm, looking abashed. “How could you ask a question like that to a woman who’s got six tomatoes in the air?” She dumped them on the counter, grabbed a paper towel. “Sorry,” she said. “Can I—”

“I’ll do it.” He snatched the towel out of her hands and wiped the mess off himself. No way was he letting her kneel in front of him for a front-row view of his boner. He dropped the towel into the plastic bag designated as garbage, and triple checked that the shirt was closed over his crotch. “You haven’t answered my question,” he prompted.

Robin’s mouth tightened. She sliced a cucumber, tossed it in the bowl. “It just happened,” she said quietly. “In high school, it was mostly Max and Danny, and The Talk. And in college, I was super busy, with training, gymnastics competitions, clown gigs. There was never time for it to happen. And then…I guess I wanted…” Her voice trailed off.

“Yeah?” he prompted, relentless. “What did you want?”

“I didn’t want it to be just anyone,” she whispered.

“Right. You were hoping for someone special. Who’s crazy about you. And so you should,” he said vehemently. “So you should.”

She hacked a tomato in half. “Don’t start in on me again,” she said. “Believe me, I heard you. It was bad enough the first time around.”

“Hey. You’re the one who started this, birdie, and I—”

“Do. Not. Call. Me. That. Ever again, hear?”

He glanced at her, startled. Her face was hot pink, eyes sparkling with anger. “What? Why? Your brothers always used to—”

“Yeah. When I was a fucking infant they did. Not anymore. They’ve learned. The hard way. I’ve got a name, Jon. Use it.”

He was a contrary, smart-ass bastard by nature, and saw no reason at all to downplay that quality, being as how he was not, repeat, not getting laid tonight. He gave her a toothy, in-your-face grin. “Don’t get your panties in a wad, birdie. I think it’s kind of cute.”

Thwanngggg. The chef’s knife she’d been chopping with quivered in the doorjamb, two feet from his head. He stared at it. His jaw sagged.

“Uh, Robin?” he said faintly. “You just threw a knife. At me.”

Robin’s hands were on her hips. Her eyes had a hot battle glow. “No, Jon,” she said sweetly. “If I had thrown a knife at you, it would be sticking out of you. It’s sticking out of the wall. Important distinction.”

“It’s two feet from my head!” he protested.

“Yes? And? Your point is?”

He took a deep breath, and shoved the words out from behind a wall of gritted teeth. “I don’t want you to do that. Ever again.”

She shrugged. “I’m sure that you don’t,” she said lightly.

The nerve of the chick was mind-boggling. He glared at her. “I do not like knives flying at my—”

“Of course you don’t. Duh. I grew up with a couple of big lunks like you and I found, by trial and error, that the most successful form of communication with them is non-verbal. Bet you’ll think before that nickname comes out of your mouth again, won’t you? Admit it.”

He yanked the knife out of the doorjamb, shoved her out of the way and proceeded to slice up the abused tomato himself. “Just shut up, Robin,” he muttered. “You’re bugging me.”

He loaded her up with fluffy, buttered rice, salad and a juicy chunk of seared sirloin, and slapped the plate down in front of her. Then he pulled the beer out of the bag, and gave her a doubtful glance.

She gave him a look. “Yes. In case you were wondering, twenty-five is definitely old enough to drink a beer. Thanks, yes. I’ll have one.”

He shrugged, popped the top, handed her the longnecked bottle.

“My turn to ask embarrassing provocative questions,” she said.

He sawed off a chunk of steak. “What do you want to know?”

“What have you got against virgins?”

He choked on the beer, and coughed. “Virgins are bad news. I don’t touch them with a ten-foot pole. I learned the hard way.”

“But everybody was a virgin, once,” she argued. “Even you!”

“Was I? Really? I barely remember,” he said blandly.

“But why?” she persisted. “If it’s just a matter of skill—”

“Nah.” He waved her words away with his beer bottle. “It’s not that. It’s that virgins are walking emotional bombs. They fall in love the first time you fuck them, if you do it right. And then it’s a bad scene.”