“Miss Lowell was attacked.” Rebecca came to stand beside Keely. “Those animals scared the life out of us.”
“There’s a leash law on Colonial Hill,” Olivia Morris Tuthill informed him. “We’re appalled those black beasts run free.”
“The boys have learned to flip the latch. I need to get a lock,” Psycho said as he led Boris to the pen.
“Miss Lowell,” Rebecca said with southern dignity. “We would understand if you no longer wish to work for Mr. McMillan.”
Psycho McMillan. His reputation and news of his suspension had preceded her visit. Commentary on every radio and television station reported him wild and impulsive. A man on a short fuse. He’d fought his own teammate. It had taken the strength of six men to pull Psycho off Chris Collier.
As he came toward her now, his dark gaze narrowed. She took him in. Unruly black hair, bruised hip and foot, and raw male swagger. He’d yet to snap his jeans. His Stands on Command tattoo was still visible.
Naughty, notorious, and an avowed nudist, he was like no man she’d ever met. He both scared and attracted her. The attraction won. She would take her chances with him and his Colonial.
She cleared her throat. “I appreciate your concern, Rebecca, but I’ve never backed down from a challenge. I will return the house to its noble heritage.”
Admiration shone in the older woman’s eyes. “The colonel would be proud.” With those words, the Daughters picked their way across the lawn and departed.
The moment they were out of sight, Psycho turned to her. He rolled his shoulders, dug his hands deep into his jeans pockets. “You saved my butt. Got the Daughters off my back.”
“They want their heritage preserved.”
“Can you make it happen?”
“I can try.” He hadn’t officially offered her the job. “Am I hired?”
“Against my better judgment. You’ve no experience.”
“Allow me to decorate the entrance hall and living room,” she bargained. “If you’re not satisfied, I’ll walk.”
“If I’m not satisfied, you’d better run.”
“I’ll also train your dogs,” she suggested to sweeten the pot.
“They’ve been kicked out of two obedience schools.”
“They need hands-on discipline. How long have you had them?”
“Long enough to build a run and learn they can flip a latch.” He raked one hand through his hair. “My brother recently separated from his wife. She kicked him out of the house and forced him into an apartment with no room for the dogs. I took them off his hands. They’re playful and clumsy. Tend to be wild.”
Wild, just like their master. “I can handle them.”
“Question is, can you handle me?”
“Handle you how?”
“I’m a nudist. I like being naked.”
She’d bet he looked good nude. “Whistle a warning before you enter a room.”
“I’m not a nice guy,” he told her straight out. “I flip off the world. Play by my own rules. I hear son of a bitch more often than my name. I tend to piss people off. I’ll tick you off too.”
“Maybe I’ll tick you off first.”
One corner of his mouth curved. “Maybe you will.”
There was a moment of silence before she shuffled her feet. “Guess I should be going.”
“Guess you should.” He rolled his tongue inside his cheek. “I’ll be at James River Stadium tomorrow. Call my secretary for a key to the house.”
She hesitated. “Mrs. Smith, right?”
“If she doesn’t answer, I keep an extra one taped to a brick beneath the second window to the left of the front door.”
She scrunched up her nose. “You don’t have a secretary, do you?”
“No more than you have an oil painting of Colonel William Lowell on his warhorse Danger.”
“Ranger,” she corrected.
“Stretch the truth all you want with the Daughters, but be straight with me.”
“I’ll work on it.”
“Work sky blue, sun yellow, and outfield green into the interior design,” he said. “I’m pure summer, sweetheart. Not an autumn.”
TWO
Jesse “Romeo” Bellisaro mentally relived Media Day. The fight had been unavoidable. His collision with Emerson Kent, totally inexcusable. In all his thirty-three years, he’d never purposely hit or knocked down a woman—even though retaliation had been justified when he was eleven and a jealous Sylvie Davenport punched him on the school playground. All because he’d shared his Milky Way with Avery Jane Carmichael. The first girl in his sixth grade class to wear a bra. Sylvie’s birthstone ring had cut the corner of his right eye. He still carried the scar.
Sylvie had been the only female ever to hurt him. On the whole, women loved Romeo. He loved them back. He kissed, stroked, and took them to bed as often as was humanly possible. He enjoyed buying them gifts, taking them on expensive dates, making them feel desirable.
He could always find something special that set each one apart. Soft skin, pretty eyes, a good personality, a nurturing nature, a love of sports or politics.
He drew women with a wink and a smile. He liked to flirt and tease. Liked to fill the ladies with as much lustful yearning as he felt in their presence.
He’d known a lot of lust in his lifetime.
It was now five o’clock. The exact time the receptionist had told him Emerson Kent would be leaving the Virginia Banner. Housed in a building older than time, the Banner occupied the top five of the twenty floors. The majority of the reporters had passed retirement age. Emerson was the first new blood in a decade. The first to write a sports article for women, and make it to syndication.
Romeo planned to charm the sports reporter into a new outfit, as well as writing a nice article on the Rogues.
He’d circled the block twice and found parking places nonexistent. Engine running, he doubleparked his Dodge Viper behind a sporty BMW Z4, then focused on the main entrance to the building. People slowly trickled out. Mostly men. He waited and waited. No sign of Emerson Kent.
Two minutes after six and she appeared. He recognized her immediately. Feathered chestnut hair, her signature red-framed glasses, and a cocoa-brown pantsuit that didn’t hide her curves. Her leather briefcase was her only concession to the fact that she worked in a man’s world.