Crazy Wild (30 page)
He wasn't a bona fide superhero, not like Hawkins, and he wasn't three quarters wild like Creed, but he didn't have to do much more than stand there and look at her to know he was still in love with Nikki McKinney.
God, what lousy news. And it didn't change a damn thing. It only made things harder.
He was going to have to keep his distance. Be professional. Stay cool. Play it smart. Get her back on a plane ASAP—and for God's sake not do anything stupid and spontaneous.
Like kiss her.
Or run his tongue up the side of her neck.
Or put his hand on her ass.
He took a breath, ran through the “don't” list one more time, and was good to go—up until she suddenly turned in her chair, startled like a bird taking flight, feathers flying, sequins shimmering, and looked straight at him. He saw the shock on her face, saw her mouth form his name, and his quickly laid plan started sliding out from under him like beach sand in a riptide.
In combat, “tunneling,” focusing on one thing and losing track of everything else that was going on around you was a good way to get killed.
Apparently, the same rule applied in love, because he was slain. The transvestites went into a butchered rendition of “La Vida Loca,” and he could barely hear it. The other hundred people were laughing, talking, singing along, their glasses clinking, their sequins shaking, and all they were was a blur. Loose feathers floated in the air, beer spilled, women squealed—and all he could see was Nikki. All he could hear was his heart beating, slow and steady and strong. He knew what he felt, and there were no words for it. Not this.
Her tiara caught the lights and glittered in her wild, dark hair. Pure bed head, pink feathers, and a couple of purple streaks, strands going every which way. It wasn't an accident. She fixed it like that, moussed it and blow-dried it all into an artful mess. He'd watched her do it, teased her about it, kissed her between the moussing and the blow-drying—and loved every second of it.
She had five earrings in one ear and three in the other, always, and none of them ever matched. She sang in the mornings, and he'd been her first man.
All of that made her his.
He started forward, and she rose from her chair, her cards falling to the table, her hand coming up to her chest—a delicate hand with paint under the nails. There was no Nikki without paint. She painted men. She painted on her photographs. She painted angels and demons. She painted her clothes, and once, for him, she'd painted herself—in chocolate and caramel.
Oh, yeah. He was in way over his head.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Of the mind that love truly is what makes the world go 'round, Tara Janzen can be contacted at
www.tarajanzen.com
.
Happy reading!
ALSO BY TARA JANZEN
Crazy Hot
Crazy Cool
AND COMING SOON
Crazy Kisses
CRAZY WILD
A Dell Book / February 2006
Published by Bantam Dell
A Division of Random House, Inc.
New York, New York
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved
Copyright © 2006 by Tara Janzen
Dell is a registered trademark of Random House, Inc., and
the colophon is a trademark of Random House, Inc.
eISBN: 978-0-440-33575-7
v3.0