Even their boyfriends did as he told.
And not just because Nigel was merely the big brother.
He was just plain big.
By twenty, he was six-five, two-hundred-and-eighty pounds of rock-hard muscle thanks to his daily workouts and amateur wrestling schedule. The brave young men who dated his sisters were more than willing to let Nigel be the law of the land. If he said to have his sister home by midnight, the kid pulled up in the driveway at 11:50.
Speaking of time, Nigel glanced at the wall clock again. This shop for tall men, aptly named Tall Threads, had a clock on the wall shaped like a pair of extra-long pants, with suspenders for hands. The shorter suspender pointed at nine, the longer at three.
Nine-fifteen.
Maybe he could scare teenage kids into being on time, but apparently it didn’t work with Ms. Kimberly Logan.
Yesterday, he’d thought she was joking when, while escorting him out after his interview, she’d announced she’d meet him at Tall Threads at 9:00 a.m. the following morning. She explained it’d be their first “success coach” meeting where they’d shop for bad-boy clothes.
He’d laughed.
She hadn’t.
With a pinched “this is serious” look, she reminded him that twenty percent of his fee, as outlined in the contract he’d signed, was allocated for miscellaneous expenditures.
Which, in this case, meant clothes to build his bad-boy image.
He had the urge to ask if she shopped someplace special to build her uptight-woman image, but had bitten his tongue. Not only because his mother had drilled it into him to never insult a lady, but also because once he’d made a commitment, he stuck to it. His siblings had the same trait; the roots from witnessing their parents’ living commitment to their faith, their marriage, their children. They’d soon be celebrating their fortieth wedding anniversary, a milestone Nigel wished for himself, someday.
“Look like a bad boy,” he muttered to himself for the nth time. If his mother knew he’d gone to these lengths, she’d cross herself and say at least a dozen Hail Marys.
Through the store display window, he suddenly saw Kimberly striding purposefully down the sidewalk, dressed in a classy but strict-looking pantsuit. Bright red, which surprised him. She seemed the kind of woman to stick with cooler colors to match that attitude of hers.
Sunlight glinted off her hair, making the blond appear almost white. As she walked, she talked on a cell phone, the fingers of her free hand gesturing emphatically.
The woman was a whirlwind. He wondered if she ever relaxed…or even knew how to.
She glanced at her wristwatch, visibly jumped and quickly ended the call. Then she checked her reflection in the window, tucking a stray hair into another variation of that bun-thing she called a hairdo. After a quick adjustment to her jacket, she plastered on a smile and sailed into the store.
He shook his head. The lady has perfected her grand entrance. Having been a professional wrestler, grand entrances were something he knew a thing or two about and she certainly had hers down.
Blinking rapidly, she approached a salesclerk and began talking animatedly.
Taking in a fortifying breath, Nigel sauntered up to her. She did a double take, then replastered on that manufactured smile.
“Nigel! I apologize for being late. I had a morning meeting—”
“Let’s get this over with.” He’d already heard her “I had a morning meeting” speech yesterday. Just because he’d made a commitment to this shopping gig didn’t mean he had to be good-natured about it.
“Bad mood?”
“Goes with the bad boy.”
She looked surprised.
“It was a joke.”
“Oh. Right.” Scarcely missing a beat, she resumed issuing instructions to the clerk, a middle-aged guy with thinning hair and a cat-that-ate-the-canary grin.
“And some of those stretchy T-shirts,” Kimberly said, her voice rushing over words, “any color but pink. And you have leather jackets, right?”
“I’m not wearing a leather jacket,” Nigel interjected.
The clerk cocked an eyebrow at Kimberly as though to say “Do I listen to him or you?”
She gave him an authoritative nod. He sauntered away.
Kimberly leaned toward Nigel. “I’m only asking you to try a few on,” she said under her breath. “Besides, if you check out the price tags, this place is very reasonable.”
“That’s not the issue.” Nigel had handled his pro-wrestling earnings well. Tack on his subsequent earnings from endorsements and coaching, he never worried about money. He opened his mouth to say more about not wanting to drape himself in leather when her perfume snagged his attention.
He recalled the spicy scent from yesterday. But today, he picked up a trace of something extra. Something hot and languid, like a drop of summer.
The scent seemed too exotic compared to the rest of her strict look, which made Nigel wonder if she was like one of those hothouse orchids. Elegantly beautiful, but needing a humid environment in which to thrive.
“Vegas isn’t a leather-jacket kinda town,” he said, finally gathering his thoughts. “Men wear sport shirts, linen jackets.”
“Leather equates to sex. Besides, it’s only February. Still cool enough to wear one.”
Sex. Not that he hadn’t heard the word before. Or didn’t give it as much, if not more, respect than he did money. But to hear this exotic orchid say the word so matter-of-factly was like hearing Queen Elizabeth cuss.
“I thought…” he backpedaled, grappling to remember what he’d been thinking before “sex” entered the picture “…this was about getting a date, not getting…” laid. Maybe she could casually say “sex” as though it were a refreshing after-dinner mint, but he didn’t talk that way. Maybe it was a dying art, but a man watched his language and his behavior around ladies.
“Hopefully one leads to the other,” she added, filling in the missing blank.
“I like to wait for the…other.”
“Well, that’s certainly your prerogative,” she answered, raising one shapely eyebrow. “But my business is to sell you, and trust me, sex sells. And by that I mean, we’re working on you oozing sex, flashing enough testosterone to bring women to their knees. Figuratively speaking, of course.”
He stared at those red lips that uttered things like “sex” and “knees.” They were still moving but he’d stopped listening. Had he ever before seen such a perfectly shaped mouth? Outlined and glossed as though it was an art object and not a living, pulsing piece of her body. Funny, she talked so straightforwardly about bad boys and sex and “figurative” whatevers, but he didn’t detect the source of her own passion.
Had to be hidden deep somewhere under that fire-engine red suit.
“So what do you think?” she said.
He lifted his gaze to meet her gray eyes. “I’ve never worn a leather jacket before,” he murmured, fairly certain that the response would fit just about anything she’d been saying.
“You wore a leather Speedo.”
Not this again. “As The Phantom. Not me.”
“Like he’s not part of you.”
“Like he was a character, somebody I made up.” His voice hardened. “I’m getting tired of resurrecting The Phantom every time we meet.” If she brought up that commercial again,