She hadn’t gotten past the first page when she remembered she’d forgotten to ask Nikko about rescheduling his appointment to the afternoon. He was slotted into the first appointment of the day, so if she waited for Pen to call him in the morning, it’d be too late. She was going to have to call him. Crap . . . Vi took another swig of wine, because that was going to improve her decision-making abilities. Screw it. Better get it over with now.
She grabbed her cell off the end table and dialed the number on his demographic form. It rang a couple of times before he picked up.
“Hello?”
Oh, mercy, his rough, gravelly voice was sooo sexy. The butterflies in her stomach began pitching a fit.
“Nikko? Umm . . . this is Violet.” She winced. “I mean, Dr. Summers.” She pressed her palm to her forehead, mentally berating herself for the slip.
“Clover? How’d you get my number?”
“From umm . . . your file.”
Was he mad she’d called?
“You always call your patients from your personal phone?”
She didn’t miss the dig that he was calling himself a patient now or the edge of annoyance in his voice. Yep, he was still pissed. “I, umm—”
“Because if you do, no offense, but that’s pretty stupid. I’d change your number if I were you—especially in your line of work. You don’t want your private information getting out there. I’ve seen some of your patients, Clover, especially that whack job coming in after I left your office yesterday.”
“I’m not calling patients from my cell phone, Nikko.”
“Good to know, cuz that guy’s batshit crazy, I’m telling you.”
Was Nikko honestly giving her a lecture on safety? Was he worried about her?—because that was really . . . sweet.
“And then there’s that MMA fighter you’re seeing.” The tension left his voice, taking on a teasing tone that made her smile. “That guy’s nuts. The way he was looking at you tonight. I think he’s got it bad for you.”
Violet laughed. She couldn’t help herself. Nikko’s charming, playful banter caught her off guard. And charming was not an adjective she would have used to describe that man. Hard-assed, abrasive, and detached—definitely—but not charming. Did he feel as bad as she did about the way they’d left things tonight?
She’d gotten a glimpse of his sense of humor at the restaurant—a surprising discovery she hadn’t been expecting. And dammit, anyway, the last thing she needed was to find that man any more attractive. “I’ll umm . . . keep that in mind in the future. Thanks for the warning, and the advice. Since you’re the only one I’ve called from this number, please don’t stalk me, okay?”
He chuckled, the deep, rich sound like auditory foreplay to her senses. “Oh, all right, but only because you asked so nicely. I can’t promise I’m not going to save your number in my contacts, though. But I do promise to limit the heavy-breather calls to no more than twice a day.”
Was this guy seriously flirting with her? Wow, he just did not give up. As much as she didn’t want to admit it, she was enjoying this playful banter. Before her very eyes she could see the professional line she’d drawn in the sand blow away with the stiff breeze of Nikko’s charm.
“So is there a reason you called?—other than to give me your number?”
Shit, was that really what he thought? “That’s not why I called.” Was that why she’d called?
“Whatever you say . . .”
He didn’t believe her. “I called because I forgot to ask you something at the restaurant,” she rushed to explain.
“What’s that, Clover?”
His voice dipped, the husky cadence like sex to her ears, the prickle of awareness heating her blood, centered deep in her core. After their make-out session in the parking lot tonight, the rush of all those feelings returned with unexpected swiftness. She squirmed in her seat, trying to get comfortable.
“I was wondering if I could move your appointment to four tomorrow afternoon. I would have had Penelope call you in the morning, but there wouldn’t have been enough time to catch you.”
“Sure.”
Sure what? Sure like he didn’t believe her? Or sure she could move his appointment? “So it’s okay to move you? I was thinking we might need more time to go over your eval, so if we make you my last appointment—”
“Have you looked at it yet?”
“No, I was just going through your demographic information when I realized I forgot to ask you about changing times.”
“I don’t think you’re going to need any extra time—for the eval anyway—but if you still want me to come in later that’s fine. I’ll rearrange my training schedule.”
“All right. Well, thank you. I umm . . . really appreciate it. I’ll see you tomorrow, then?”
“Clover?”
“Yeah?”
“In case you were wondering . . . you taste exactly how I remembered.”
Before she could babble an intelligible response, Nikko chuckled, “Good night, Clover,” then disconnected the call.
Nikko was right; it hadn’t taken Violet very long to go through his psych eval, but by the time she was finished, she was good and mad. And after simmering on a low boil all night and then all day, by the time four o’clock rolled around that afternoon, she was pushing furious. Did he think this was a joke or that she was stupid? Either one was an accelerant, fueling her flame. Perhaps he didn’t realize this, but right now she was the only thing standing between him getting banned from the CFA. She’d thoroughly read his file before he’d walked into her office that first day, and she’d talked to Dean, the president of the CFA, more than once. She knew there were people who wanted Nikko out after what he’d pulled last weekend. They thought he was a publicity risk and too damaging for the image of the CFA. Dean disagreed and so did Marcus, Nikko’s coach and manager. Both men were counting on Violet’s assessment and psych eval to prove them right. She resented like hell the situation Nikko had just put her in.
Vi’s intercom buzzed and Pen’s voice intruded on her thoughts. “Nikko Del Toro is here to see you.”
“Send him in, please.”
A moment later, the door opened and in walked the source of her irritation, looking as gorgeous as ever. He must have come straight from the gym because his hair was still damp, leaving the short crop of dark hair spiking up in a sexy disarray. His white T-shirt had black CFA lettering stretched across his broad, muscular chest. His jeans hung low on his hips. Every time she saw the man, she swore he’d gotten hotter.
“Hey, Clover.”
Nikko closed the door behind him and walked toward the empty chair across from her desk. The way he moved seemed to defy nature. No doubt he fought with that same fluidity and grace. She hadn’t watched any of his reels, but just looking at him, she could believe he was every bit the powerhouse Dean claimed—it was no wonder they were worried about losing him, and she completely understood why they were fighting so hard to hang on to him. If only Nikko would fight as hard for himself. He said he wanted to save his career, but until he started taking this seriously and got real with her, she wouldn’t be convinced.
“Nikko . . . You’re late.” She glanced at the clock, then back at him. It was only five minutes after four, but that was five more minutes she’d had to sit here and stew.
“I texted you that I was running a few minutes behind. Got a late start weight training today, thanks to Regan’s inability to tell time, and I had to shower. Didn’t think you’d appreciate me sweat-soaking your chair.”
The image of him dripping wet and wearing nothing but a pair of workout shorts flashed through her mind. Determined not to let him see the effect just being in the same room with him had on her, she leveled him with a scowl and folded her arms over her chest.
He raised a brow, looking completely unimpressed by her ire. “What’s this really about, Clover?—because busting my balls over five minutes doesn’t really seem like your thing.”
She sat there a m
oment and counted to ten. It didn’t help. “How many times have you taken these tests?” She picked up his psych eval and tossed it across the desk toward him.
He shrugged, meeting her eyes with that steely look of impassivity she hated, the look that said she wasn’t getting anything out of him—that she’d never break him. Ha . . . they’d see about that.
“How many, Nikko?”
“A few. Why?”
“Because the man in this profile is not you,” she snapped, drilling her finger into the paper.
“I hardly think you know me well enough to make that kind of a judgment, Dr. Summers.”
Oh, now it was Dr. Summers, was it? What the hell kind of game was he playing? Vi wasn’t sure, but she was just pissed enough to take off the gloves and find out. Whatever he was trying to pull, she wasn’t going to let him get away with it. The CFA had hired her to do a job, and she wasn’t going to let him make a mockery of her or her career. “Well, for starters, the guy in that profile wouldn’t be sitting across from me right now because he knocked out his coach during a CFA press party,” she snapped.
His jaw tightened, blanching the pale scar on his cheek. Something flashed in his eyes that looked a whole lot like remorse. Unfortunately, victory wasn’t nearly as sweet as she’d imagined. She watched him a moment longer, waiting for him to give her something more—anything more.
Softening her tone a touch, she said, “You didn’t mean to do it, did you?”
He didn’t respond, not that she expected he would. But he didn’t need to. She could see the pain that flashed in his eyes, feel his shame descending on him like an oppressive blanket of contempt and self-loathing. She stood and walked around to the front of her desk. Sitting in the empty chair beside him, she reached over and laid her hand on his.
“How long have you been experiencing rage blackouts?”
When his eyes shot to hers, they were hard as steel—cold as ice. She resisted the impulse to move back to a safer distance. It was hard to believe this was the same guy who’d charmed and flirted with her last night. She’d been given a rare glimpse of the man behind all this pain and suffering. Without intending it, he’d solidified her connection to him, investing her more deeply in the wounded Marine turned MMA fighter, making her more determined than ever to help him.
“How do you know that’s what happened?” he demanded.
“Because, Nikko, they’re common with people who are struggling with severe cases of PTSD. I know you don’t want to talk about what happened to you, but if you’d let me, I think I could help you.”
He uttered a curse, ripe with disgust, and jerked his hand out from under hers. Standing, he began pacing the length of her office, reminding her of a caged animal. She watched him in silence, giving him time to process his thoughts and work through his internal struggle. Abruptly, he stopped and leveled her with a stare that made her breath catch in her lungs. “You think I want you knowing how fucked up I am? Believe me, ‘help’ is not what I want from you, Clover.”
She didn’t have to ask what he wanted. She could see it in the way those liquid-silver eyes dragged over her with blatant intent, hear it in the seductive rasp of his voice. She knew what he was doing, and still she couldn’t deny his effect on her. He was deflecting the conversation and trying to distract her from what was clearly an uncomfortable, taboo topic.
With that same practiced cool he so often laid on her, she said, “It’s all I have to offer you, Nikko. And if you value your career, I suggest you take it.”
His brow quirked in surprise, and wry amusement tugged at his top lip. “Are you threatening me, Clover? Because if you’re trying to scare me, it’s going to take a hell of a lot more than a woman half my size to do it.”
“I will not sign off on this psych eval.”
Now he scowled. Perhaps the gravity of the situation was finally dawning on him. “Why the hell not?” he barked.
Violet exhaled a frustrated sigh and her temper snapped. “Because, Nikko . . . it’s a lie. I will not enable your avoidant behavior or be complicit in your denial any longer. You need help. I tell you what”—she stood and snatched the papers from her desk and shook them at him—“you find me the guy in this profile, and I’ll get married again.”
Nikko froze. Those silvery eyes locked on her like a heat seeking missile. “Again . . . ? Were you married before?”
Holy shit, did she really just say that out loud? How embarrassing . . . how totally and utterly unprofessional. “It doesn’t matter, Nikko. My point is this guy doesn’t exist.”
He stood there a moment studying her, and her jaw nearly hit the floor when he said with dead-calm seriousness, “I used to be that guy.”
Foot, meet mouth . . .
Ho-ly fuck! So his little four-leaf clover had been married. And by the blush staining her cheeks right now, he’d be willing to bet she hadn’t meant for that little nugget to slip out. Well, touché, because he hadn’t meant to say what he had, either. She wanted to know how he’d passed that psych eval with flying colors? Easy, he just answered it like he would have before his whole world went to shit.
He wished he could say this little discovery didn’t bother him. Hell, he was hardly one to judge, since he was divorced himself and had a fourteen-year-old daughter. But still, the thought of someone else having claim to his clover twisted his gut into a knot. The bitter emotion tightened in his chest. He recognized it for what it was—jealousy. It wasn’t a welcome feeling, nor was it one he seemed able to control. It didn’t matter that he was being a hypocritical dick.
From the way she’d talked yesterday, he never would have guessed she’d been married before, and he couldn’t help feeling like she’d deceived him by withholding the information. The thought didn’t escape him that she might have been testing his reaction to the subject, or trying to see how easily he’d scare off. If that had been her intention, he’d failed that test—miserably—because he hadn’t been able to beat feet out of that restaurant fast enough.
But before he’d unceremoniously bailed on her, she’d had more than ample opportunity to divulge her divorcée status back when she was busy confessing to paying her parking tickets and monitoring the expiration dates on fucking coupons. Apparently, her matrimonial experience hadn’t been traumatic enough to cure her of the notion, since she’d had no trouble blurting out that she wanted to get married and have children. Perhaps tagging on the word again to that tidbit of information would have been helpful.
“How long ago?” he demanded.
Her brows drew tight in a little frown at the growl in his voice. “Nikko, now isn’t the time to discu—”
He took a step toward her, stopping just short of arm’s length. He didn’t trust himself to get any closer. “How long, Violet?”
She hesitated in answering, and then exhaled a sigh of defeat. “Six months—the divorce was final six months ago.”
Six months . . . He quickly did the math in his head, remembering the woman sitting beside him on the plane crying her beautiful eyes out. Then it clicked, and the knot fisting in his gut clenched tighter. “That day on the plane . . . Holy shit, you’d just gotten divorced, hadn’t you? That’s why you were crying, why you said you’d had a horrible day. That’s why you were moving to Vegas, and that’s why you wanted to have sex with me. My God,” he growled in disgust. “That’s what I was to you? A revenge fuck? Seriously?”
Whether justified or not, he was furious. It was one thing to use him for pleasure, but retaliation? It cheapened what they’d shared together, twisted what had been an incredible memory for him. It made him feel like he didn’t know this woman at all. And the truth of it was he didn’t, really—not in the ways that really counted. Why did the fantasy always have to be so much better than the reality?
Violet took a step toward him, then must have thought better of it, because she didn’t take another one. The scowl on her face didn’t hide the guilt in her eyes, nor the shame and regret. “Nikko, we’re not doin
g this here. Not now. This is supposed to be about you—”
“You’re damn right it’s about me. It’s about how you used me to clean your slate. How was it, Clover? Were you thinking of him the whole time? Comparing us? Did it feel good to get back at your husband? Did he make you come as hard as I did?”
He knew he was being a prick, knew his words were cutting her deep, but he was too far gone to care—too caught up in the jealousy of knowing she’d belonged to another and the pain of his own failed marriage. The memories of Celeste’s infidelity ripped open and were spilling out faster than he could sort the past from the present and delineate the difference between his wife’s multiple affairs and Violet’s one-night stand with him—until Violet’s hand connected with his cheek. Hard. The sharp sting was a welcomed pain, far easier to deal with than the emotional shit. The burn helped banish the past from his mind, leaving him only in the present with a beautiful woman glaring up at him. Tears glistened in her eyes—eyes full of shock, anger, and heartache he was responsible for putting there.
Dragging his hand through his hair, he exhaled a sigh. “Fuck, Clover, I’m sor—”
“Get out!”
He winced at the raw anger resonating in her voice, so powerful and brave for such a little thing.
“I mean it, Nikko! Get out of my office right now! How dare you stand there and judge me. You have no idea what I was going through, and we were never supposed to see each other again! What happened between us was—you know what? Never mind. It’s not worth my breath, and I don’t owe you any explanations, any more than you owed them to me last night. Maybe you were right: I can’t help you.”
By the finality in her voice, and the look of utter outrage in her shimmery violet eyes, he knew she meant every word. Clover was nothing like Celeste. There were no waterworks, no hysterics, no manipulative techniques to try to get him to understand and stay. Nope. In fact, it was just the opposite. Clover was throwing him out. He’d let his temper get the better of him. His jealousy had overruled his judgment, and he’d shamed not only himself with his behavior, but her as well, and he could tell she wouldn’t get over it anytime soon.
Fighting for Control (Against the Cage Book 3) Page 9