“I’m hurt you don’t want to play with me,” he chided good-naturedly, his deep green eyes looking at her as though they actually saw her. “I am blind.”
Sipping her club soda, Jasmine gave a half smile. “So because you have a disability I’m supposed to indulge you and your come-on? I thought people with disabilities wanted to be treated equally? I’m perfectly happy to give you the same fair treatment I’d give any sighted man. Thus, in the interest of equality—go away.”
His linebacker shoulders shrugged in his blue football jersey. “Equality is overrated. I’m all about the pity card if it gets me what I want.”
She began to hide a smile at his joke, then realized there was no need to. Jasmine ran her finger around the rim of her glass. “And what do you want?”
Mystery Man dragged his stool closer to Jasmine and leaned into her, their thighs touching. He smelled of department store cologne and chicken wings. Yet that didn’t stop him from sending a chill of unadulterated pleasure along her arms when he said, “I want you.”
Him and the rest of the free male world. “I remain unimpressed.”
He reached with a deft hand to find the bowl of peanuts and pop one in his mouth. “How disappointing.”
Jasmine chuckled before she could stop it. “Life’s full of that.”
“You’re telling me?” he tapped the bar with his lean, well-manicured finger. “Blind guy here.”
She waved a dismissive hand at him, forgetting he couldn’t see it. “Right. Nice crutch.”
He surprised her by laughing, deep and inviting. “Is it helping my cause?”
Another grin spread across her lips. “Not even a little.”
“Sucks to be me today.”
“Sir?” A tall man wearing a dark suit and dark glasses placed a hand on her would-be suitor’s shoulder. “We really must go.”
Mystery Man cocked his head back at the sound of the stranger’s voice and smiled. “Aw, c’mon, Jeeves. Just two more minutes with the pretty lady, and I promise we’re out.”
Jeeves sighed from pursed lips. “Sir, it’s Winchester,” he scolded, nodding his head with acknowledgment in Jasmine’s direction. “I’m Winchester Barclay—not Jeeves. Simonides loves a good joke.” Putting his hand under Simonides’s elbow, he encouraged him to rise from the bar stool. “Now, while the lovely lady would be a wonderful way to pass a cold and gloomy afternoon, I’ve caught what you yourself would call her vibe—and it distinctly screams disinterest. Even I, utter novice in the ways of a woman, could sense that from all the way across the room whilst I ate greasy peanuts. I say we call the game and head for your interview before we’re late. You know how Oprah feels about tardiness.”
Jasmine couldn’t help but wonder at Mystery Man’s name—and Oprah ...“Simonides?”
Winchester gave her a curt nod. “Yes. Simonides Rhadamanthus Jones.”
She sat farther back on her bar stool, stunned. “The football player?” Ashton had been a huge fan.
Simonides rose, allowing Winchester to place his cane back in his hand. He leaned into her. “Actually, it’s just Simon. Or Blind Guy. Whichever makes you feel sorrier for me so you’ll let me buy you dinner.”
Jasmine looked to Winchester through the smoky haze of the bar.
Winchester smiled in return, broad and with a fond look to Simon. “Yes, miss. The football player.”
Simon made a mock sad face at Jasmine. “Who’s blind. Did I say blind?”
Winchester chuckled. “As a bat, sir. I think the nice lady is clear. Now shall we?”
Simon turned to obey Winchester but not without a parting shot sprinkled with amusement. “I’ll be back, Jasmine Archway. Count on it.”
Long after Simon and his friend had left, Jasmine sat on the bar stool, perplexed. Not just by the legend attached to a man with a name longer than a country mile, or the tragic accident that had left him blind, but simply that he knew her name.
Plucking a peanut out of the bowl, she found she wasn’t in the least bothered by it either.
Just curious.
Very curious.
“Is she as hot as I remember, Win, or have things gone south for her? Not that I care as much as most think I would, but my curiosity has no shame.”
Winchester settled in the backseat of the limo Oprah had sent, scoffing in Simon’s direction. “What a shallow question, Simon. Answering it makes me feel cheap and degraded.”
Simon gave a hearty laugh. “Answer the question.”
“Don’t you think a heterosexual male would be a much better candidate to provide you an answer?”
Simon visualized the face Win was making at him right now, sour and disapproving. “You know what a good-looking female is. You definitely know the kind of woman I find attractive. You also know I’ve waited a long time for this moment. This isn’t some whim. This isn’t some casual pickup.”
“No, sir, not at all. This is what you as a child called backsies. In fact, what you’re doing is as childish as the word ‘backsies.’”
Simon placed his hands on Win’s face, tracing his mouth and grinning. “I knew it. You’re scowling at me again. No matter how blind I am, I can call up your ‘Simon, I disapprove’ face. It’s a classic.”
Win cleared his throat, turning his head away from Simon, judging by the sound of his voice. “Good. Then my message is clear. I wholly disapprove of what you plan to do to Jasmine Archway.”
What he’d planned to do began to fade as what he’d like to do took precedence. “Maybe my plans have changed,” he offered, vague and distracted while his mind busied itself changing courses.
His conversation with Jasmine, though brief and filled with roadblocks, had changed the landscape he’d so carefully honed in his mind’s eye. “In fact, they’ve definitely changed, Win.”
Definitely.
“Well, look what the cat dragged in,” Gail crowed from her recliner, clicking off the Bon Appetit Channel as though she’d been caught surfing Internet porn.
Frankie leaned in to kiss her weathered cheek before plopping on the couch, scooping Kiki up to sit with her. “You don’t have to stop watching because of me, Aunt Gail.”
“Bah! I’d sooner have my tongue cut out than watch anything even remotely involving that dirty bird Mitch.” She jammed a needle into the needlepoint she was working on.
“Oh, c’mon, Aunt Gail. You know you think Jean-Luc from Viva La Vegetarian! is cute. It’s okay to admit it. Everyone thinks so—even I do, and he’s nice, too. I’m not so bitter I’ll never watch anything Bon Appetit televises. You shouldn’t be either, though I appreciate the loyalty.”
“Never mind the TV. Was today any better than the last four days?”
Frankie closed her eyes, grateful for the reprieve from her aunt’s prying eyes. “It was fine.” Everything was fine. Fine as fine could be.
“You say that every day when you come home, sassafras. I still don’t know how every day is just plum fine with that hunk o’ burnin’ love Nikos for a boss. He’s anything but fine, young lady. I’d reconsider my retirement for him and his cute derriere.”
Her face reddened. That was part of the problem. The more time she spent at Nikos’s side as his assistant, which she’d discovered was really just a made-up position because Nikos owed Maxine something Frankie was still unsure of, the harder it was to ignore the fact that everything he did made her insides melt like cheese on the grill.
Pity employment, humiliating as it was, was dandy for now. Lusting for a man she was nowhere near ready to lust for wasn’t dandy or even fine—it was nerve-wracking. When Nikos had fed her that meatloaf, he’d cinched the deal. He was dangerous with a capital H-O-T. Since that first day, she’d stayed as far away from him as she could on her breaks. Yet her eyes found him no matter where he was.
“I don’t give what he looks like much thought. I’m just putting in my time so Maxine won’t hunt me down and shoot me like an animal of prey.” Kiki rose up on her hind legs, putting her paws
on Frankie’s mouth, silently accusing her of being a total bullshitter.
“Your nose is growing,” was Gail’s dry response.
She caught her fingers before they sought her nose and clenched them into fists. “Don’t be silly. Yes, Nikos is lovely to look at. Denying that would be like denying the pope wears a pointy hat. But I’m not interested. He’s my boss. Period.”
Period, period, period. Now if only someone would tell that to the Sandman so her dreams weren’t littered with him in his tight jeans and T-shirt, she’d be golden.
“You wouldn’t be the first girl to fall in love with her boss. But I think if we’re going to make him fall in love back, we have to do something about...well, something, that’s all. Your clothes are falling off you, and if I didn’t know you, I’d think you were some crazy homeless bag lady. All you need is a shopping cart and another stray dog to complete your bag lady ensemble.”
Frankie’s face reddened again. How far the fabulous had fallen. Being Mitch’s wife had been filled with the kind of pressure to be beautiful at all times, pressure only beauty queens and movie stars should endure. She wanted to feel the shame that her appearance had a homeless hint to it. Instead, her embarrassment came and went like a double coupon sale.
She shrugged off Gail’s insult, though she knew her aunt had only said it out of love. Gail had never seen her as anything less than picture-perfect. To see the comparison now had to be a shock. Yet Frankie was making no apologies for this small freedom she’d found since walking out on Mitch.
“First, let me set the record straight. No one’s falling in love with anyone. Most especially not me and Nikos. No matter how Greek god–like he is. Second, there’s a certain kind of freedom to not wearing makeup, and there’s definitely no pressure involved in just rolling up out of bed, brushing your teeth, and going to work.”
Gail snorted, rapping the needlepoint she held against the arm of the recliner she’d had since Frankie’s childhood. “I’ll say.”
Frankie gritted her teeth. “I’m not working at the diner to impress anyone with my impeccable taste in clothes, Aunt Gail. I’m working because you and Maxine forced me to. I was happy where I was. It was the two of you who decided I needed to shower and find all this purpose and meaning in my life. So here I am. Clean and searching for the meaning of my life in a burger deluxe with a double side of fries.”
Gail yawned. “You’ll thank us both when they don’t come take your cute car from you and put my Squeaky Kiki up for adoption at the pound. You need a cute car to romance a cute man. From what I hear, having your own set of wheels is important when you’re dating so you always have an escape vehicle.”
“Aunt Gail, I really think it’s much too soon to talk about dating or Nikos or of all things, falling in love. I was married for eighteen years, and I’m just now realizing how unhappy I was for probably the last twelve of those years. I don’t want to consider a relationship with a hamster, let alone a real, live man for a very long time.”
No matter how many nights she spent pondering one with Nikos. Were you supposed to do that so soon after you were divorced? This had to be chalked up to a rebound crush.
Gail trailed her fingers over her niece’s, giving her a warm, albeit appeasing smile. “You’ll change your mind. If you fall off the horse, you just gotta get right back on, kiddo,” she said, blowing Frankie a kiss and planting one on Kiki’s head before leaving the room.
Frankie let her head fall to the cushioned arm of the sofa in defeat.
Screw the horse.
No more riding lessons.
Kiki cocked her head at Frankie as if she knew her mistress was a big, fat liar. Her wide, liquid-brown eyes pierced Frankie’s.
She’d better hurry up and find a hobby soon. Distraction was the key to her waking libido. “How do you feel about ceramics, Kik? I could make you a new bowl with your name on it.”
With a sigh, Kiki dropped her paws from Frankie’s chest, flopping to sprawl across her lap. Frankie gave her a loving nudge. “Fine. But if you’re jealous when I bring home a ‘handmade by Frankie Bennett’ garden gnome to Auntie Gail, you’ll have no one to blame but yourself.”
“Frankie?”
“Nikos?”
“Where are you right now?”
Cuddling the phone to her ear, Frankie decided every woman who’d been scorned and needed a pathetic, never-gonna-happen fantasy should have a wake-up call from Nikos Antonakas. It was decidedly sinful. After two weeks of working with him, she’d become a never-gonna-happen fantasy expert.
She burrowed deeper into the blankets, relishing the warmth of her favorite afghan and Nikos’s silken voice in her ear. “Isn’t that a rather personal question from my boss?”
“Well, I guess it would depend on why I’m asking.”
Frankie frowned with a wide yawn, setting a sleepy Kiki on her chest. “Okay, why are you asking?”
“Can I ask you one more thing first?” he whispered, delicious and husky into the mouthpiece.
The visual she had of him, sitting at his office desk, in that tightfitting black T-shirt, his chest hard, and screaming her name came to mind. He was probably gnawing on a pencil, his reading glasses propped on top of his thick head of hair while he did two things at once. So. Sexy. So, yes. hell, yes. He could ask her anything he wanted. Any—thing.
Blinking to remind herself she was having impure thoughts, she replied. “Uh-huh.”
“Wasn’t it me who hired you even though you were clearly unwilling to do anything other than feel sorry for yourself?”
Wow. The haze of sleep she’d been in began to lift—and not pleasantly. “Wait a minute. I wasn’t feeling sorry for myself. I was—”
“You were moping, and you did whatever you could to get out of getting off your backside and working. That’s what you did. But I hired you anyway, and this is the kind of thanks I get for taking such a leap of faith with someone who has little or no skills?”
Leap of what? In an instant, she was wide awake. “Where are we going with this?”
“We’re going to the unemployment line if you don’t get your butt in here now!” he roared.
Holy hissy fit. Nikos almost never yelled. He was loud—boisterous even when the pressure was on during rush hour—but he never yelled in anger.
Frankie’s eyes flew to the alarm clock on the nightstand in panic. Ten. It was ten in the morning. She wasn’t scheduled to work until one thirty. She’d seen it with her own two eyes—right there on the board in the back room where she’d gone every day for two weeks to see the schedule.
It was also the only reason she’d stayed up so late last night, surfing the Internet on Gail’s laptop in search of a hobby. Shit. She should have known better than to let herself get sucked into that ladies’ blog about making furniture out of beer cans.
Frankie glanced at the clock again. It was only ten. She sighed with relief. “But I’m not scheduled to work until one thirty. So I’m clearly missing your point. Today’s my late day.” It was.
“Huh,” Nikos rasped against her ear with a sarcastic drip to his words. “Funny. I’m looking at the schedule right now, and it says you should have been here an hour ago. So unless you want to find yourself out of a perfectly good job you need, I’d skip your morning massage followed by eggs Benedict and fluffy, freshly baked croissants and get the hell in here fast, princess!” he bellowed.
The phone went dead with a crackle while she sat stunned, but only for a moment.
Frankie threw the blankets off and shot into the bathroom, ignoring her pasty pallor and puffy eyes. Jamming the toothbrush into her mouth, she scrubbed her teeth, seething while she did. She’d seen that schedule and it had said one thirty, and when she got into that diner today, she was going to show Mr. Hot Pants he needed a new pair of glasses.
She stuffed her unwashed hair into a ponytail, hurled an unfazed Kiki at her aunt with a plea to take her potties, and flew out the door, still unclear why she was rushing off to a job
she hadn’t wanted in the first place. Were people dying because she wasn’t there to slice onions for onion rings?
And when had a job, especially this job, become so important?
Oh, I dunno, Frankie. Maybe it was when you decided there was still life and oh yes—hormones left in your waiflike body and they were all screaming Nikos’s name?
Twenty minutes later she screeched into the parking lot, slamming on the brakes and throwing her car into park. She fought the harsh blasts of cold air, pressing her hands to her ears it was so sharp. A gust of wind later and she was inside the diner doors—the very quiet diner with only one patron.
She’d missed the breakfast hour rush—hoo boy.
Chloe greeted her from behind the front counter with a smile that never reached her beautiful sloe eyes. “Must have been some night for you to oversleep like that, huh, Frankie?”
Hector shook his head at her before gliding out from behind the counter and off to the back with a slight wave of his hand over his shoulder.
Frankie’s eyes narrowed in Chloe’s direction, catching her slender hands on her curvy hips and the glimmer of something in her gaze Frankie wasn’t quite sure she understood.
One of the customers at the counter spun around on his stool. “Is that her?”
Chloe’s dark head nodded in his direction. “That’s her, Ralph. Mitch in the Kitchen’s wife. Oh, sorry, ex-wife. Right here in our very own little diner. A real live celebrity, right, Frankie?”
Frankie froze, tightening her clutch on her purse. Her cheeks flushed while her feet refused to make a move for the nearest escape.
“You sure that’s her?” Ralph asked, his slender, wrinkled face clearly unsure.
Chloe nodded, waving her hand in Frankie’s direction. “Come say hello to Ralph, Frankie. He’s a big Mitch in the Kitchen fan.”
Burning Down The Spouse (Ex-Trophy Wives Book 2) Page 9