The dancing pickle? The memory remained vivid. The radio station had sent Mick and Dayne to an on-site remote at Pinelli's Deli. While Mick interviewed the owner and wrapped his jaws around a mile-high sandwich, a costumed Dayne hip-hopped and handed out sweet gherkins.
She'd felt silly, and her hands had smelled like pickle juice for a week. Yet she'd have done anything to promote Mick's career.
“Life happens and situations change,” he said.
“You changed, and it affected me most.”
“It was a business decision with benefits.” His remorse was minimal. “I guess you've figured it out by now. I had an affair while we were engaged.”
“Who'd you do?”
You son of a bitch.
“You don't want to know.”
Oh, yes, I do.
“You owe me a name.”
His confession stabbed her in the back. “Willow Clarke.”
Sex for career advancement. Mick Jakes had screwed the big-breasted, bottle-blonde station manager to reach syndication. Dayne had trusted Willow. She'd shared her wedding plans with her boss. And Willow had betrayed her.
Sick to her stomach, Dayne turned off her cell phone. She should never have spoken to Mick. He made her feel like a loser.
Several seconds passed, and her cell again buzzed. She saw Mick's number was the incoming call. She dropped her phone and stomped it to death. Fragments and wires soon scattered the floor.
A faint beep indicated he'd left a message.
She kicked the cell against the wall.
No more beeping.
She inhaled a ragged breath.
Exhaled Mick Jakes out of her life.
She never wanted to hear from him again.
The trailer would help heal her.
No way was Kason putting her out on the street.
“Temper, temper.”
Speak of the devil. His voice hit her from behind, low and menacing. Her heart kicked so hard, she swore she broke a rib. How had Kason gotten inside? She turned so slowly, and time seemed to stand still.
There he stood, big, broad, and black-eyed.
“Bathroom window,” he said, answering her unspoken question.
The same way she'd snuck inside when she'd taken over the mobile home.
Cimarron moved halfway between them, not taking either's side. Dog was diplomatic.
She stared at Kason. His eye was red, the rim darkly bruised. Concern took hold. “Were you in a fight?”
“Minor confrontation, nothing serious,” he stated.
She shook her head. “Fists first thing in the morning—very manly.” She took a step toward him. “You need frozen peas on that eye.”
One brow rose and his good eye narrowed. He seemed surprised she would help him. Without a cold press, the lid would soon swell shut.
She kept plenty of space between them as she edged near the kitchen counter to reach the refrigerator. Then, swinging open the frozen food door, she removed a big bag of peas and tossed it to him.
“Thanks.” Kason pressed the bag to his eye. He shifted his gaze to the floor and the destroyed cell phone. “Some stomp. Care to explain?”
She scooped up the phone, dumped it in the trash. Then she shook her head. “No more than you want to detail your fight. It's personal.”
“You're in my trailer,” he reminded her. “If something bad is about to go down, I'd like advance warning. Pissed-off boyfriend? Angry husband?”
“No involvements.” Which was the truth.
“You wanted by the cops?”
“I could ask you the same.” She could picture him behind bars in an orange jumpsuit. He was already bald.
“I'm law abiding,” he told her.
“You're out to steal my trailer.”
He ran one hand down his face. “You're one dense woman. I'm tired of explaining myself. It's time to toss your ass.”
“My ass isn't ready to be tossed.”
“Your ass has no say in the matter.”
She stood her ground. “You're mad about the change in locks.”
“I damn sure am. That, and the fact you kidnapped my dog.”
“I'd have eventually returned Cimarron.”
He flipped the bag of peas, placed the colder side over his eye. “You have to go.”
“I can't...” She desperately needed to stay. “A coin toss for the trailer. Your call—heads or tails?”
His neck and shoulder muscles tightened.
“Rock, paper, scissors?” she asked hopefully.
He snarled, “Get real.”
“Thumb war?”
He held up his thumb, which was twice the size of her own. She wouldn't stand a chance.
“Monopoly? Scrabble? Winner takes all.”
His lips flattened against his teeth. “I don't do board games.”
She jammed her fingers in her hair, clutched her skull in frustration. He made her want to pull her hair out. “What do you do?” she hissed.
He took his sweet time replying. His one-eyed stare was direct, serious, sharp as he debated their dilemma. She crossed her arms over her chest in a protective gesture. The man gave her goose bumps.
His mind made up, he tossed the bag of peas onto the counter. The vegetables were fully defrosted from his body heat. Male arrogance set his shoulders, the shift in his stance supported by thick thighs. His words hit her belly low.
“Sex settles my arguments with most women.” One corner of his mouth lifted, stopping short of a smile. “Whoever ends up on top wins.”
Sex. The air thickened with his suggestion.
His brown eyes ran over her body, holding on her breasts until her nipples puckered; then his stare slid even lower. His gaze tangled with the ties on her sweatpants. Her V-zone warmed.
Sexual intimidation. Was he out to scare her? Or was he trying to turn her on? Whatever his intention, she wasn't riding his thighs. “Sex is to your advantage. You're stronger than me. One flip, and I'm flat on my back.”
He shook his head. “Not necessarily so. Strength means little in sex. A woman could kill a man with a slow ride. The trailer could be yours in thirty minutes.”
A naked half hour with this man would strip her of common sense. She knew without a doubt he'd be in total control.
She wouldn't stand a chance against him. She'd start on top and end up missionary. His weight would hold her to the mattress. He'd dominate her orgasm.