Nerds Are Freaks Too (2 page)

“No,” he finally admitted, shoving his hands in the pockets
of his khakis. “Once I’ve tasted you, I’d be unable to settle for anything
else.”

Roxanne blamed the milk she’d gulped down earlier for the
sudden flutter in her stomach.

“Come on, get in,” he said. “I’ll drop you back off at the
boutique. I’ll come over later and we’ll finish your profile.”

Roxanne nodded in agreement. But as she slid in beside him,
she wondered if what she really needed was online…or already sitting right
beside her.

* * * * *

Leo realized the dynamic between them had changed the moment
Roxanne had climbed into his car. During the half-hour commute across town, she
didn’t speak a word. She’d even taken pains to make sure they didn’t touch,
sitting as stiff as an ironing board. And when he’d dropped her off, she’d
jumped out of the car so quickly, he could barely say goodbye.

Cursing under his breath, Leo gripped the leather steering
wheel. He’d opened his big mouth and ruined everything.

Leo made a sudden right. As he merged into traffic, he speed
dialed his assistant. Instead of returning to his offices overlooking Lake
Shore Drive, he headed west outside the Loop and Chicago’s downtown business
district. He needed to let off some steam and there was no better place than a
round at Halsted Boxing Club.

“What’s up, boss?” His personal assistant, Marcello greeted
him on the other end.

“I need you to clear the rest of my afternoon.”

“Okay.” Leo heard the hesitancy in the other man’s voice.
“You’re not sick, are you?”

If he were in a good mood, Leo would have smiled. He was
notorious for his work ethic. He worked so many hours, his staff, which now
numbered in the double digits, had nicknamed him the 80-Hour Man―behind
his back, of course.

“No, I’m heading uptown to HBC. I need to work through some
things, let off some steam.”

Damn, too much information.
His assistant knew he and
Roxanne had a late lunch every Tuesday and Thursday. And since he’d left in a
good mood, it wouldn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out something had gone
down between the two of them.

Extremely private when it came to his personal life, Leo
gripped the steering wheel even tighter. Roxanne had him so turned inside out
he wasn’t behaving like himself.

There was a long pause on the other end and then Marcello’s
baritone voice drifted through the receiver. “No problem, boss. I can shuffle
Mr. Lloyd around. Any phone calls you would like me to pass on to you?”

“No.” He knew Marcello was fishing for information.

“See you tomorrow. Enjoy the rest of your day.”

“Same to you,” Leo replied automatically. He doubted he’d be
able to really enjoy anything for quite some time. He’d made sure of it by
alienating Roxanne.

* * * * *

Only five blocks from his parents’ home, the Halsted Boxing
Club was so far removed from the shiny, spotless gyms most hip Chicagoans
flocked to. Truth be known, many locals barely knew the club existed since the
brick building still resembled the public bathhouse it once housed during the
first half of the nineteenth century.

The interior wasn’t much of an improvement. Converted into a
boxing club in the early 1950s, Halsted remained dark, dank and smelled worse
than the inside of an old gym bag. Leo wouldn’t want it any other way.

The place kept him grounded, reminded him of how far he’d
come from the hard-headed fourteen-year-old disciple of the No Mercy Graffiti
Masters. To this day, Leo still marveled over the fact he hadn’t ended up
behind bars or living on a park bench, still breaking into train yards. But
he’d straightened his life out—or had it straightened out
for
him by the
gym’s owner.

Salvatore Cipriani had caught him defacing the front of the
building with a Papadopoulos original. Instead of turning him in to the cops,
he’d marched Leo down to his father at the family restaurant and told him to
get one last look, because Cipriani now owned Leo’s ass, lock, stock and
barrel.

The crotchety, third-generation Sicilian hadn’t been
bluffing. He put Leo to work fixing what he’d damaged. What should have only
been two days, Leo’s punishment lasted two months as Cipriani had him repairing
or repainting practically everything.

But by then, Leo didn’t care. He was so hooked on boxing he
was making up excuses to stick around. Thankfully the old man took pity on him
and opened a spot for him on the youth boxing team. One single act of charity
had led to half a dozen amateur boxing titles and a four-year academic
scholarship from the USA Boxing Association, which he’d used to attend
Northwestern University.

He’d paid his debt, but Leo received far more in return. He
attributed his strict personal discipline, his successful career,
multimillion-dollar fortune and even Roxanne to boxing.

As his thoughts turned to Roxanne, Leo developed a mental
hard-on.
What’s new?
He’d been in lust with the curvaceous brown-skinned
beauty since the moment he’d laid eyes on her outside the college bookstore
several weeks into their freshman year, and secretly in love with her by the
time they’d graduated.

Now he’d gone and ruined a perfectly good friendship by
allowing his one-eyed monster to lead, instead of his head. After all these
years, why had he decided to finally walk the line?

Simple—her rare sexual confessional had turned him on.

“Great job, dumbass,” Leo muttered, retying the drawstring
on his dark-blue athletic pants.

“You’re here early.” Salvatore Cipriani’s gravelly bark
followed Leo as he set himself up under a speed bag. The club’s owner had just
hobbled out of his tiny office, carrying a mug of God knows what in one hand
and a folded newspaper in the other. He glanced over at two guys sparring in
the club’s center ring and snapped, “Keep your hands up, Rodney, unless you
want your head to take the place of your ass.” Without missing a beat, he
turned back to Leo. “What’s wrong?”

Leo rolled his shoulders. Sometimes he hated how well the
old guy knew him. “I came in to exorcise a few demons.”

Salvatore’s shaggy eyebrows shot skyward. “Demons? They
wouldn’t be of the female kind, would they?”

Leo shook his head. Salvatore could read people like a book.
“How’d you guess?”

“You have a great head for business and you’ve tackled
everything else with ease. Females, on the other hand, have always been your
Achilles heel.”

“I hit on Roxanne.”

Salvatore nodded solemnly. He’d met Roxanne on several
occasions and, with a sixth sense, he’d picked up on Leo’s secret infatuation.
And ever since, the old man pestered him on an almost constant basis to finally
seal the deal. “’Bout time,” Salvatore barked. “When’s the special day?”

Leo shook his head. “Roxanne’s not interested. She doesn’t
want to ruin our ten-year friendship.”

“Pshaah!” Salvatore waved his newspaper in the air. “What a
load of shit. If a woman is really attracted to you, she won’t give a damn if
you’ve been friends for three minutes, three days or thirty years.”

Leo rested his taped hands on his hips. “Now you know why
I’m here rather than at work.”

Salvatore swatted the paper against his leg. “What are you
going to do?”

“Nothing,” Leo muttered. In an attempt to close the subject,
he lifted his arms and started working the bag. He didn’t get a chance to work
up a momentum because Salvatore stepped around him and smacked his hand against
the back of the bag.

“Nothing? You’re not going to try to convince her?”

“I don’t beg,” Leo countered with more attitude than he
felt, but he didn’t need this right now. He was trying to blow off steam, not
become even more worked up.

“Begging isn’t convincing. She just needs to see you in a
different light.”

Leo almost rolled his eyes but didn’t out of respect.
Salvatore believed he knew the art of seduction like he knew how to train a
prize fighter. And he’d trained dozens over the years.

“You need to lay down the three Ts.”

“The three Ts?” Leo asked hesitantly, unsure if he really
wanted to know the answer.

Salvatore smiled slyly. “You need to tempt her, tease her
and make yourself so tantalizing she’ll want you as much as you want her. Oh,
and you should cock block any potential suitors. You
do
know how to do
that, don’t you?”

“Yes,” Leo replied, humoring his old mentor.

“Good.” Salvatore let go of the speed bag. “I’ll leave you
to your workout. You’re moving slower than day-old grits. And that’s never a
good thing, in or out of the ring.”