Got A Hold On You (Ringside Romance) (28 page)

He’d started out okay, thanking her as politely as he
could. But the thought of her coming here out of duty infuriated him. He wanted
her to be here because she genuinely cared, maybe even because she liked
him...a lot.

“How about some ice for the knee?” she called from the
kitchen.

“Whatever.”

A few minutes passed. The clank of dishes, running
water, and the ticking of the kitchen timer bounced off the cathedral ceiling
into the living room: sounds of home, of a woman taking care of her family.

“Hell.” He grabbed a news magazine off the floor and
stared at the fine print. Only after a full minute did he realize the article
reported statistics about sexual intercourse improving one’s mental health.

He tossed it across the room.

“You’re testy tonight.” She ambled to the couch and
knelt beside him, then propped his knee on an overstuffed plaid pillow.

He held his breath at her gentle touch. His knee felt
better already.

“How’s this position?” she said.

“Fine.” His mind raced with all kinds of positions
that had nothing to do with an injured knee.

“Too cold?” She placed the ice bag on his knee.

“It’s fine.” He crossed his arms over his chest and
stared at the entertainment center across the room.

She rocked back on her knees. “I’m not here because of
my uncle or WHAK. I’m here because I’m worried about a friend.”

“I can take care of myself. Have been for over thirty
years.”

“I know.” She brushed a strand of hair off his cheek.
Her fingers stilled, and he wondered whether she felt it too, if her body
burned in secret, private places like his did right now.

“Everyone needs a little help sometimes,” she said.
“Even the invincible Black Jack Hudson. It’s okay to need someone, Jack.”

Not like I need
you, babe
.

“You okay?” she asked.

He cleared his throat. “Fine.”

“You don’t look fine.”

Her iridescent eyes caught his heart.

“I’ll be fine, doc, promise.”

“But—”

“Don’t worry about me. Marco’s stopping by later,” he
lied.

“I should probably stay until he gets here,” she
offered.

“No need. I’m okay. Just tired.”

“I know the feeling.”

Of course she did. She’d been up all night, holding
him, soothing him. And what did she get for her trouble? Attitude from a horny
bastard. She deserved more than that. Much more.

“Listen, I appreciate the dinner, but I’m fine.”

She narrowed her eyes. “No, you’re not. Something’s
up. I can tell. I’ll stay until Marco gets here.”

If she did, they’d both regret it. He couldn’t spend
another minute in her presence and expect to keep his hands to himself.

“Go on. Stop babying me. You’ve got a date, don’t
you?”

She glanced at her watch. “Oh my gosh! I didn’t
realize it was so late. I have to be at a restaurant on the north side in half
an hour.”

“Well, you’d better get going.”

“But I wanted to serve you dinner, clean up the
dishes, pick up a little,” she said, scanning the room.

“That’s why I’ve got a dishwasher. The maid service
comes day after tomorrow.”

“But—”

“You’re driving me crazy, woman. Go on, get outta
here.”

She stood, took a deep breath, and ran flattened palms
across her hair.

“Do I look okay?”

“Yep.” Good enough to eat.

“No lipstick on my teeth?” She shot him a full grin.

“You’re clean.”

“I don’t know why I’m so nervous. I guess because I
haven’t seen him in weeks and I want everything to go well. How about my hair?”

“You look great. Any man would be nuts not to fall for
you.”

Like I have
.

She took a deep breath and stared him down. Hell, he’d
been caught.

“Are you sure you’ll be okay?”

“Get out of here!” he ordered.

“Okay, okay.” She snatched her purse off the breakfast
bar and paced to the door. “The shells should ring in thirty-five minutes. If
you want the bread hot, pop it in the oven for about ten minutes. The salad’s
tossed and in the fridge.”

“Got it.”

“I’m sorry I have to abandon you like this.”

“You’re not abandoning me. Go have a good time.”

She pulled open the door, hesitated, and marched back
to the couch.

He’d always remember her like this, hands planted on
her hips, copper-streaked tendrils dancing across her cheeks where her hair had
slipped free from its braid.

“You’re sure Marco’s coming?”

“Stop worrying about me. I’m not your problem.”

Even thought he’d like to be.

“Wish me luck?” she said.

Agonizing pain sliced through the center of his chest.

He forced a smile. “Luck.”

She leaned over and kissed him on the forehead. His
heart lurched.

“You’re a nice guy,” she whispered against his skin.
“Don’t let anyone tell you different.”

She rushed out of his condo and closed the door,
taking a piece of his heart with her. He’d lose it all if he weren’t careful,
ending up with an empty spot the size of the Atlantic Ocean in his chest. He
had to stop this craziness and redirect his focus on getting out of
wrestling…on living again.

Only, could he live without Frankie?

***

Frankie paced the lobby of Leo’s Fish House waiting
for Bradley to show. She couldn’t believe she’d actually beaten him here. But
then she’d broken a few traffic laws to make sure she wouldn’t have to explain being
late.

“It’s not like I was doing anything wrong,” she
muttered.

Although she’d been making dinner for another man,
icing his injury, and tending to his needs. She couldn’t remember the last time
she’d tended to Bradley. They had such a mature and independent relationship.
They worked ten-hour days, met twice a week for a planned outing, and shared a
bed on Saturday nights. It was a stable, sensible partnership. Nothing like her
relationship with Jack.

She nibbled at her lower lip. She and Jack didn’t have
a “relationship” not in the technical sense. It was simply a business
partnership.

She pulled out her compact and checked her reflection,
wanting tonight to be perfect. Her eyes lit with panic. How could she expect
perfection when she had to confess her sins, bare all about her exploits with
WHAK?

Maybe she wouldn’t have to tell him everything, not
tonight anyway. She’d ease him into it. Yes, that’s what she’d do. Besides,
it’s not like he read the wrestling gossip magazines or surfed pro wrestling websites.
Heck, he probably didn’t even know professional wrestling existed.

“Peek-a-boo.” Bradley’s hazel eyes stared back at her
through the compact.

“Bradley!” She turned and wrapped her arms around his
neck, giving him a hearty squeeze.

“Easy there.”

“Oh, right. Sorry.” He never was one for public
displays of affection.

“Is our table ready?” He extended his arm to lead them
into the restaurant.

“I didn’t ask yet. I was waiting for you.” She
squeezed his arm and grinned. This felt right, normal.

Real.

“You’re awfully amorous this evening. Too bad I have a
plane to catch first thing tomorrow or I’d ask you up to my hotel room.” He
winked.

They strolled through the crowded bar toward the
restaurant. Televisions blared, as men drank and laughed. They were having a
good time. Bradley turned up his nose in disapproval.

The hostess greeted them at the entrance to the Garden
Room.

“Reservation for Dunsmore.”

“Actually, McGee,” Frankie corrected.

Bradley glanced at her.

“Sorry,” she said. She’d forgotten how he liked being
in charge, one of the many things she admired about her future fiancé. In
control at all times, Bradley never left anything to chance.

Unlike Jack.

Why was she thinking about Jack? Because she felt
responsible and shouldn’t have left him to fend for himself. The man could
barely walk, much less balance on his own two legs. How was he going to pull
dinner out of the oven?

It wasn’t her responsibility. He was a big boy and, as
he’d pointed out over and over again, he’d been taking care of himself for
years. Still, the thought of a ten-year-old boy going to the hospital alone
made her stomach burn.

The hostess led Frankie and Bradley to a private booth
in the corner, trimmed in decorative ivy. Frankie took the seat facing the
entrance to the bar knowing that the sight of it would ruin Bradley’s evening.

“What can I get you to drink tonight?” a blond young
waitress asked.

“I’ll have a glass of Chablis and she will
have—”

“Brandy, please,” Frankie interrupted.

“Francine? That’s an after dinner drink,” Bradley
admonished.

“I know, but I’ve got a taste for it.” And she needed
something stronger than wine.

“All right then.” Bradley nodded at the waitress.
“We’ll start with the spinach salad with Italian dressing.”

“Actually, I’d like a house salad with blue cheese,”
Frankie said.

Bradley folded his menu and eyed her carefully. “Blue
cheese it is. For both of us.”

The waitress nodded and left the table.

“Francine? Is everything okay?”

“Sure. Why?”

“You seem...different.”

“It’s been a long two weeks.”

“Speaking of which, don’t you have some confessing to
do?”

She bit her lower lip. He knew! He was a closet
wrestling fanatic and knew all about her leopard bikini performance. But the
show wouldn’t air until Tuesday night. There was no way he could—

“Chablis.” The waitress placed a wine glass in front
of him. “And brandy.”

Frankie curled her fingers around the glass and took a
healthy sip. More like a chug.

“It can’t be that bad,” he said.

She glanced at him, noting his dark brown hair combed
back in a perfect wave, and hazel eyes that changed color depending on the
clothes he wore. Tonight they were brown to match his suit.

“Bradley, there are things you don’t know about me.
About my family.”

That’s it. Blame everything on Uncle Joe.

“Your family? You mean your mom? But I love your mom,
and I think she likes me. She always makes those lemon tea cakes whenever we
visit.”

“It’s not about Mom. It’s about my uncle.”

“You mentioned him over the phone. The criminal?”

“He’s not a criminal, but his business is, well, kind of
unusual.”

An ear-piercing roar echoed from the bar.

“Honestly.” He snapped his fingers and the waitress
rushed to their table.

“Is there any way you can close the doors to the bar?”
he asked.

“Yes, sir.”

“What is it? Basketball playoffs? I wonder if I should
have set the DVR,” he muttered.

“No, sir, it’s Sunday night wrestling,” she answered.

Frankie choked on her brandy, spraying fine drops of
brown liquid across the white tablecloth.

“Wrestling,” Bradley said in a condemning tone. “Shut
the door. Lock it if you can.”

“Yes, sir. Your salads will be out shortly.” She
scurried away to shut the door.

“Can you believe that?” Bradley said. “A bunch of
grown men getting paid to jump around like idiots.” He snapped open his napkin
and placed it in his lap.

“You…don’t like wrestling?” Frankie asked.

He made a face, the same face he made when little kids
ran into him in the grocery store, or when Frankie suggested they go miniature
golfing.

“Professional wrestling is violent, phony, and geared
for the lower class. No, I don’t like wrestling.”

She took a generous swallow of her drink.

“It’s all pretend, you know,” he said. “They don’t
really fight. No one really gets hurt.”

Images of a bedridden Jack Hudson crying out in his
sleep invaded her thoughts. He might act the tough guy, but his temporary
paralysis had created new emotional scars to rival those from his childhood.

“I read an article about it in
Financiers Magazine
last month. It’s a big money maker. I don’t
understand it.” He tore off a piece of bread. “It’s all scripted, you know.”

“Yes, but the athleticism is real.”

“What athleticism? One man jumps and the other catches
him. One man throws a punch, the other pretends to be hit.”

One man dumps another man on his head and paralyzes
him.

“They’re actors, nothing more,” he said with such
conviction.

Actors who sacrifice their bodies.

“Your salads.” The waitress slid their plates in front
of them.

He opened his menu. “Let’s try something different
tonight, Francine. We’ll have two orders of the fried catfish.”

She’d noticed the special price on the menu. Good old
Bradley, always looking for a deal.

“Is that okay with you, Sweetums?”

“Sure.” She needed to be agreeable considering the
bomb she was about to drop.

“Back to wrestling,” she said.

He pursed his lips and focused on his salad.

“Sure it’s scripted and violent, but what’s the
difference between wrestling and that movie you took me to see last month,
remember? Death Before Danger?”

“There’s a big difference. One is art. The other is
cartoon.”

“Some people consider wrestling an art form.”

Bradley snorted. She didn’t think him capable of
snorting.

“Okay, so wrestlers are performers,” she said. “But
they really do sustain physical punishment.”

“No, they don’t. That’s my point. They’ve got you
fooled, little girl.” He pointed his fork at her.

She gritted her teeth and controlled the urge to bat
it away with her knife.

“Everything’s padded to prevent injury,” he said,
sounding like an expert. “The ring, the mat outside the ring, those pole things
that hold up the ropes.”

“Turnbuckles,” she corrected.

“The floor is like a giant trampoline. There aren’t
any hard surfaces, so they can’t really get hurt.”