The Wild Side

Ick.

No way. She couldn’t do this. What were the odds that he would be attractive to her? How many men did she pass in the street, and how many of them were? Really attractive? Enough to want to touch? Hardly any.

So Rose thought he was sexy. Rose dated men old enough to be her father, who had paunches and horrible taste in clothes and probably bad breath and erectile dysfunction.

What the hell am I doing?

The traitorous clock now said 7:58. Melissa took a shaky breath and moved her shaky body over to the dresser. She picked up the key with her shaky hand, her shaky brain still not sure if she was actually going to use the key. But she had to. She couldn’t stand him up. She couldn’t bear the curiosity for the rest of her life if she never even got a peek at him. And she wasn’t going to stoop to peering through the doorway and only coming out if he was cute.

For one thing, she didn’t want him to know she even lived in this building until she decided whether he was someone she’d like to…get to know.

She opened her door and raced across to Rose’s apartment, managed to fit the key into the lock and went inside, trying to take deep breaths into lungs that had developed some kind of weird stuttering problem. She would have loved a small drink—say, a fifth or so of Scotch—but she didn’t drink that much, and wouldn’t want him to smell it on her if he got close enough to.

Oh, God. What was she doing? What if he was totally wonderful? How could she stop herself from falling in love with him? What made her think she was emotionally equipped for intimacy without feeling?

She went over to the window and opened it, thankful for the cool night air that flowed into Rose’s apartment. If it was humid and oppressive, she’d probably pass out. She looked down into the street, hoping to catch a glimpse of the guy so she could at least get a preview.

No studs. All she saw was that parked TV repair truck, which must belong to someone who had recently moved onto their street.

The knock on the door was perfect. Not loud and insistent. Not timid. Not silly and overly rhythmic. Confident, firm-knuckled, let me in.

Oh, help. Let him in.

She took a huge deep breath, which her lungs suddenly allowed her to have, and went to open the door.

He was perfect.

He was so perfect she wanted to laugh. He was so perfect she wanted to cry. He was so perfect she just stood there and stared and thought about how perfect he was until it occurred to her she was being totally ridiculous.

“Hi, Tom. Come in.”

He nodded. Even his nod was perfect. Up and down of his head, with his firm jaw starting it and his high forehead following. Dark, dark hair, slightly wavy and thick, dynamite brown eyes surprisingly light in color, long lashes, nice mouth, a sexy groove running down one cheek.

She moved back into Rose’s overdecorated apartment and gestured him in, then closed the door and watched as he walked into the room and looked around.

Perfect. Tall, not too tall; built, not too built. Jacket and tie, respectable, well-groomed. Perfect.

And the most perfect thing of all was that he was so perfect, there wasn’t the slightest chance she’d fall in love with him. Who the hell wanted to stare at someone that perfect for the rest of her life? Talk about feeling inadequate.

He swung around and met her gaze, a faint smile deepening that groove in his right cheek. His eyes were penetrating, his expression slightly cynical, totally exciting. She found herself beaming back in breathless, idiotic, hopeful happiness. This could actually work.

“Call me Riley.” His voice was perfect, too, of course. Deep and rich, the kind of voice that went through you and curled your toes. “It’s my middle name. Only my mom and Amanda call me Tom.”

“Riley.” She nodded and stood there. He stood there, too, and she started feeling a little uneasy. He didn’t seem the type for polite small talk. And now that she thought about it, his stare was making her uncomfortable. There was something sort of speculative in it, something almost…disdainful.

Then it hit her. He didn’t find her attractive.

In a scene out of an alchemist’s nightmare, the gold excitement in her chest turned to lead misery and sank into her stomach. Of course. Mr. Perfect would want Ms. Perfect. Rose probably had told him she was Demi Moore’s double to get him to come.

“Do you want a drink, Riley?” Because she sure as hell did. “Scotch okay?”

He nodded. She moved to the tray she’d brought in earlier from her place, and poured out two stiff drinks. While she did this, Tom-now-Riley walked around the apartment, examining Rose’s clutter of knickknacks: her collection of still-life paintings, sometimes two deep on the red walls; the bowls of potpourri that made the room smell like some anonymous chemist’s idea of fresh.

Melissa crossed to him and handed him his drink. “Cheers.”

She raised her glass in salute, then drained half of it.

He lifted an eyebrow. “Thirsty?”

She smiled and laughed somewhat stupidly, which was very un-perfect of her. “Nervous.”

He nodded, which seemed to be his preferred mode of communication. That weird judgmental expression was still on his face. In spite of the fact that he was perfect, and mysterious, and sort of terrifying in a dangerous, wildly erotic way, she was also starting to find him a little annoying. If he thought what she wanted was so disgusting, why had he come? If he thought she was so disgusting, why didn’t he leave? He didn’t seem the type to worry about politeness.

“So.” She folded her arms across her chest and exhaled a short, forced breath. To hell with him. “How about those Red Sox?”

His grin was slow and surprising, spreading across his face and making grooves in both cheeks, a double in the right one. She couldn’t help smiling back. You couldn’t be in the room with a man who smiled at you that way and not smile back. Even if you sort of wanted to slug him in the gut.

“Think they’ll go all the way this year?” She opened her eyes wide and blinked repeatedly.

He actually chuckled that time. Then he took a healthy swallow of Scotch and put it down behind him on Rose’s mantel, without looking, as if he simply sensed it was there. He stood, hands on his hips pushing back his jacket, staring at her with an intimate I-know-what-we’re-going-to-be-doing-later look in his eyes.

Melissa drew in her breath. Her face turned cold and probably pale, then reheated in a flush of warmth that spread down her body and made her skin feel as if it was reaching out to be touched. Oh. My. Lord. The man could seduce a nun. Maybe he did find her the tiniest bit attractive, after all. Or maybe he’d promised Rose and felt he had to.

Whatever. Melissa wasn’t ready to get cozy yet, not until she’d figured out his strange attitude. And she had this thing about not kissing men until they’d uttered at least four complete sentences.

She backed away and gestured toward the couch with her drink, nearly spilling it in the process. “Would you like to sit down?”

He sat in the burgundy wing chair, the lace antimacassar looking idiotically feminine and out of place behind him.

Melissa gulped more of her drink, its tingly warmth adding to what she already felt from Mr. Perfect’s incredible sex appeal. Maybe if he’d actually talk she wouldn’t be so freaked out.

“Why are you nervous?”

She barely escaped choking on her Scotch. What the hell did he think? If she hadn’t seen the piercing intelligence in those eyes, she’d wonder about his brain power. “I don’t exactly do this often.”

“No.”

She snapped her head up and gaped at him. He kept his gaze level, unperturbed, slightly challenging. Something in the way he’d said “no” did what women had been fighting against for generations: it meant yes. It meant he thought she invited strange men over to explore her sexuality all the time.

“Excuse me?” She stood up, feeling slightly unsteady, beginning to be annoyed in earnest. “Would you mind lifting yourself above the four-word sentence and explaining that?”

He leaned back in his chair. “Do I need to?”

She came very, very close to flinging her drink in his lap. Instead she slammed it down on Rose’s brass table. What a total jerk. This was a major disaster. And he’d been so—

She wasn’t going to use that p word again. Not for a jerk, not even a perfect jerk.

She pointed furiously down at her shoes. “Flats, so you wouldn’t think I’m a tramp, and because I was worried you might not be tall. Knee skirt, plain navy, no sit-down wrinkles across the front—i.e., not too short, not too tight. Basic off-white top, normal makeup, plain old hair. All calculated during the last nearly sleepless twenty-four hours in an obsessive and carefully laid plan, to ensure that if you didn’t find me attractive, or if I didn’t find you attractive, the rejection would be minimal because I didn’t go all out for seduction.”