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| All site contents are owned and copyrighted under Crystal Bright. Use of any content on this site without express permission of the owner is prohibited. But go ahead and test me. I don't spend enough time in court now as it is. © 2002-2008 |
:: Kissing Casanova ::
Chapter 1
A kiss.
A firm, surprising set of lips slammed against Soledad Monroe’s. The jarring gesture shook her to her
core, jerking the inside of her stomach like when unexpected firecrackers a foot away explode. It threw her
mind and physical state off balance.
She struggled against the uninvited, staged display of affection as she stood among the rowdy crowd of
well over thirty thousand professional wrestling fans in the packed Washington, D.C. arena. What a way
to end her day.
A simple hello and handshake from her interview subject, hopefully her last one ever, would have been
more appropriate, especially with all of the cameras looming around them.
Before, all she knew about this guy was his stage name. Casanova. Now feeling the gentle vibration
against her lips, she knew the man hummed when he kissed. Or maybe he did it for her.
Soledad’s shoulders unknotted and for a brief moment her eyelids lowered. A hazy feeling clouded her
head. A good kiss, the kind that started off sweet and then increased in intensity, always sank her
sensibility. A great one made her forget her inhibitions. Lord knows she’d allowed herself to melt in the
arms of a great kisser too many times.
When she remembered the whole world would be seeing this forced public display of affection, her eyes
popped open. She didn’t need another gossip story about her.
“Get off,” Soledad tried saying while his lips smothered hers. The demand came out like ‘Biff puff.’ The
wrestler probably thought she was humming too. Fuming was more like it.
Casanova’s goatee scratched her chin as his hand cupped the back of her head, his fingers entangled in
her hair. He kept his eyes closed.
Open your eyes! Soledad flailed her arms but he kept a tight hold.
Their bodies sandwiched the black foam-covered barricade intended to separate the crowd from the
wrestling ring. She kept her eyes open, glaring at the man in a white, sparkly bandanna and hoop
earring. When she cut her eyes to the right, she caught the camera lens positioned at the two of them.
Great. So if her mother watched this it would give her even more ammunition to say, “Oh, Soledad. Don’t
we have enough problems without you embarrassing the family again?”
Soledad tried pushing him away by putting one hand on his shoulder and bracing the other against the
barricade, but his steel beam arm clamped around her waist tight enough to keep her trapped.
The Altoid mint she’d popped in her mouth at the end of his match swirled over her tongue, stinging it, as
she kept her lips fixed shut.
The crowd chanted Casanova’s name as he finally broke the kiss. His hazel eyes glittered from the
camera flashes as he stared at her. His skin flushed pink in his cheeks.
Oh no. He wasn’t going to get over on her with a puppy-dog look. She’d handled bigger and better guys
than this shopping at Gucci.
With an open hand, she smacked Casanova’s face, a sight caught on large screens over the wrestling
ring. Adrenaline coursed through her like flame in a torch. She wouldn’t be fodder for late night talk show
jokes. Her hand covered her mouth, wiping away the offending kiss.
When Casanova stumbled from her, security guards rushed toward him. But with a wave of his hand, he
signaled he was all right. The way Casanova’s mouth had hung open after the kiss, he’d appeared
surprised or maybe shaken would have been a better way to describe him.
Had they been dating, to see a man look so awe-stricken by her kiss would have pumped Soledad’s body
with electric sparks. From the millisecond she allowed herself to be sucked into the spontaneous display,
she knew her toes hadn’t curled like this since, well, never. Working for nearly a year kept her out of
trouble…and away from the altar.
He snatched a microphone off of the announcer’s table by the ring.
Oh no. Not more humiliation to be broadcasted.
Soledad bit the inside of her cheek and fought the urge to stomp her behind out of the arena and home to
New York. A kiss from pro-wrestler would have tickled her former Gucci Girls, a nickname for the band of
party pals she used to hang with when Soledad club hopped.
But as her heart raced, she grabbed the barricade sitting in front of her front row seat, her fingernails
embedded in the smooth black leather, and set in her jaw. No way was she going to appear less than
dignified. And she definitely didn’t want to prove to her parents, especially her mother, that she couldn’t
make it on her own for a year. This would be her last job. She could do this.
Casanova brought the microphone to his mouth and said, “Baby, if I did it wrong, why don’t I just meet you
at your hotel room so I can practice loving you the right way.” He winked.
Soledad stood still, certain if she moved her lava-like blood would spew from her mouth and melt this
pompous jerk down into a pool of spandex and a hoop earring.
Did he just wink at her? How dare he do this drive-by kiss and then have the nerve to be cocky about it.
She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, leaving a slight, shiny trail from the remains of her gloss.
She hadn’t been this uptight about a kiss since Frankie Dunn had tried slipping her the tongue behind the
pool house at her parents’ home when she was thirteen. Except the wrestler hadn’t fumbled around and
done the goofy teenage boy giggle. He knew what he was doing. And Hoover Lips here had to be
stopped.
As the wrestling fans howled even louder, a smile crept up the corner of his mouth as he touched his
reddening cheek. Soledad ground her fingers in deeper into the only thing keeping her from this animal.
He grabbed his championship belt he’d placed on the barricade and tossed the microphone over his
shoulder, careless of where it landed.
The gods of irony must have been working overtime to have her be bussed on the job she’d
considered to be her kiss-off article for Vestige. Getting disrespected and now groped to prove to her
parents she could be responsible couldn’t be a rite of passage for normal people. She didn’t need to take
this treatment.
In the noisy arena, Soledad tried blocking the chants and screams by mentally reciting literary prose in her
head. Now the clamorous cheering rose to a deafening crescendo, assaulting her ears more than the
overwhelming smell of beer and popcorn had sullied her nose.
A young woman patted Soledad on her shoulder. “You are so lucky!” she gushed.
“He’s an arrogant, demeaning, self-centered snake with only one thing on his tiny mind,” Soledad said.
Clearly this fan recognized those traits.
The young woman smacked her gum, glanced at Casanova walking away and said to Soledad after
returning her gaze, “But look at his butt. Doesn’t he have the best ass in the world?”
Clearly not one of Gloria Steinham’s disciples.
Soledad glared at Casanova as he escaped to the backstage. The crowd roared as he held the belt in
the air like a gladiator bearing his shield. Her gut tightened. My God! Was sweat forming on her neck?
She didn’t mind getting involved in the story---as long it was mutually agreed upon. She’d tried
skateboarding when she’d interviewed a popular skater. She’d even tried surfing in shark-infested waters
of Hawaii. Now she was going to interview a wrestler whose claim to fame was kissing strange women and
beating people to please a massive crowd.
O Romeo, Romeo! Wherefore art thou Romeo?
Forget it. She could live with the harsh words and disappointed looks from her parents. What
happened to that unconditional love mumbo jumbo that had been forced down her throat from those new-
aged schools she’d attended? Didn’t her parents get the memo?
As she turned to retrieve her purse when the arena lights brightened, she felt a vise-like grip around her
wrist. Her heart pounded in a crazy rhythm, thinking Casanova had returned for a second kiss. When she
looked to see who or what had her she saw a stocky, tank-like man with a black and white bandanna
around his head and a black tee shirt with ‘security’ stretched across the front in white letters.
First Casanova and now this guy. What was it with bandanna-clad men grabbing women around here?
Neanderthal life was alive and well at Extreme Transnational Championship Wrestling Federation. Her
heart slowed but she kept her hand balled in a fist.
“You’re the reporter, right?” he asked with a thick Brooklyn accent.
Reporter. Soledad had been called many things before. Socialite. Wild child. Marrying Monroe. But
being called reporter actually made her exhale with some relief.
“Yes, I am.” She tried wriggling her wrist from his grip, but he held onto her the way Norman Bates held
onto the idea Mother was still alive.
The guard pulled her behind him. “I’m taking you backstage. You still doing the interview, right?”
Actually Soledad’s stomach jumped at the idea of going to meet Casanova. Growing up as a Monroe,
she’d met world leaders, Pulitzer Prize winners, designers. No one rattled her. But this guy. She felt the
infamous interview ditch king had plans to walk. Good. If he walked then she would have a perfect out
and she wouldn’t be blamed.
Although Casanova made a living taking lumps in the ring, being pummeled by an interviewer paled in
comparison. But he would have ignored her heart-felt argument of how he should respect women.
Thirtysomething female fans fawned over him like teenage girls at a boy band concert.
She hiked her purse onto her shoulder and nodded to the security guard. Soledad would offer a quick
apology to this half-dressed, macho man bent on tempting fate that he would have to accept. Then she
can go to her regular life of shopping, sleeping late and traveling.
She scuttled through a hallway. She lost her footing a couple of times, slipping on the beer spilled on the
floor. Fortunately the gum wads and the stickiness of the beer itself, aided in maintaining her balance.
The bottom of her sandals smacked with each tacky step.
The tank turned to her but didn’t stop his trek. “You know, he doesn’t do interviews.”
“What?” She scurried to keep up and hear him over the screaming fans.
“Casanova. He’s like private, you know. Hell, I don’t even know the cat’s real name.”
Neither did she. She’d tried finding it. Soledad researched all about the man who made professional
wrestling entertaining again…and sexy. But he kept his personal life well-guarded. She wished she could
do the same in her life.
With an interest in getting a jump on the interview, Soledad asked the guard, “And how long have you
been with the company?”
“Long enough to know not ask too many questions and leave the talent alone.”
The tank must have been warned to be just as secretive. Interesting. Made her wonder what Casanova
hid behind his persona.
But as sweaty men tempting fate went, Casanova epitomized an awesome specimen of a man. Tall, a
sleek nose, and a light brown goatee. His pictures from her research didn’t do the real thing justice. Of
course the pictures were all posed publicity shots, which made him look handsome and charming. He had
a side-of-the-mouth smile that spelled trouble and bordered on arrogant. And his intense eyes could bore
a hole through a battleship with its gaze.
She ran Casanova’s statistics through her head. Six foot three. Yes, he did look tall. Two-hundred-sixty
pounds. Under the ruffled shirt, it was hard to tell what his body looked like.
However, his black tights showed he had incredible legs. Long, powerful. She imagined his arms, chest
and stomach rippled with delicious muscles.
Soledad shook her head. So what if he was attractive. A model with some athletic ability best
described him. He was an actor with a bad agent and even worse, bad writers.
How could her parents expect her to get a story by working with an overgrown pampered, oversexed kid in
a man’s body?
What a quest. Standing between her year anniversary of working seriously and a trip to Fiji stood a man
in Batman tights and a ‘Pirates of Penzance’ shirt.
She needed to take control of this interview. Now if she could only convince her jumpy heart and quaky
knees she would be perfect.
# # #
Tyler Randolph burst through the heavy black curtain to the backstage. His fans chanted, matching
the pounding in his head. It would have been nice to come down from the match-high by listening to the
symphony of cheers. But instead he had a bone to pick. He thought being in this business would have
prepared him for the unexpected.
He didn’t mind the smack. The planted woman had hit him hard but he had been hit harder, including the
whacks he had gotten when he was growing up. He hated being left out of changes in the show, and this
was a big change.
When he saw Wayne Lucas limping up to him, Tyler wasted no time in getting to the bottom of things.
“You know I am all about spontaneity, Wayne,” Tyler began. “But could you at least let me in on what’s
going on out there especially before it happens?” He waved his hand in front of his nose in an attempt to
cut down the sulfur stench of the pyrotechnic explosives still wafting in the air. “Do you run this show or is
the show running you?”
“I-I-I’m sorry, Cass.” Wayne held up his hands like a robbery victim, but in his burgundy polyester
jogging suit with thick white stripes, he resembled an old school breakdancer.
“Since when does Casanova get slapped?” He hated referring to himself in the third person but it was
easier to talk about his character as someone else. No way in the world would he wear the white ruffled
shirt and tights. But Casanova would.
Damn. Someday he would need therapy to understand all of this.
Wayne shook his hands in the air. “You-you-you weren’t listening to me. You ka-ka-kissed the wrong
woman.”
Tyler shook his head. “You told me the one in white, didn’t you?” He had to get his head into work. Too
many distractions in his life weren’t helping him to concentrate. The other night he’d missed his cue, and
now tonight he’d embarrassed some poor woman who wasn’t prepared to be a part of his act.
His stinging cheek throbbed even more than the constant ache in his back. He owed that fan an apology---
unless she was already running off to an attorney to sue him for sexual assault. His stomached knotted
when the brief thought crossed his mind he could be a sexual predator like his father.
“N-n-n-no. You see, sh-sh-sh---”
Tyler cut in. “Geez, is she still out there? I got to make things right with her.” He wiped his forehead
and ran his fingers down his goatee.
The bad part about the woman’s kick-butt move was the slap had worked. The crowd had eaten it up as
though it was a part of the show.
Actually, the worst part about the kiss was he’d enjoyed it, at least the start of the kiss before she clamped
her lips so tight he thought she was going to suck his into the trap. Her soft, curvy body stiffened almost
immediately. Almost.
He should have known something was wrong then. Most of the plants eagerly opened their mouths and
tried shoving their tongues down his throat. They would press their breasts against him like he was a
walking mammogram test machine. With all the bumps and bruises on his body the last thing he wanted to
do was feel for any lumps of any kind. Tyler needed his work taken seriously. A stint in Japan would be a
nice boost to his career.
Wayne tried to stammer an answer. “The wo-wo-woman in all white is a--is a--is a---”
“Hey, Cass.”
Tyler turned. Behind him stood the woman from the audience who had slapped him and she was with
Kevin Lucas, Wayne’s son and co-owner of the company.
In the full light she looked worthy of Tyler Randolph breast, body and even dental exams. A tall black
woman with the creamiest light brown skin he’d ever seen. Shoulder length curly golden blond hair with
brown streaks. He remembered how soft it was considering its brassy look. When he rubbed his finger
under his nose he caught a whiff of a sweet, honey scent. What a great relief from inhaling smoky pyro.
Her eyes were wide and she had full lips. He wiped his, removing the remaining traces of whatever it was
she had had on hers that was smooth, sticky and sweet. She looked so familiar to him even before he’d
kissed her. Maybe because she was such a dream woman.
He fell to his knees in front of her and said with arms outstretched, “Marry me.”
The woman folded her arms and glared at him while the crowd backstage laughed. Normally he didn’t
associate or talk to the women Wayne and Kevin planted in the audience. He understood they were doing
a job just like him, and they probably felt as awkward as he did.
And now that he really looked at her, her mouth turned down, dragging the rest of her face with it, she
appeared still upset about the kiss.
“He’s kidding,” Kevin said to her with a slight laugh. “It’s part of his bit to ask a woman to marry him and
then turn her down in front of the fans. I guess the slap threw him off of his game tonight.” He turned to
Tyler. “She’s the journalist who’s going to write the story about you, the company, and Wrestlebowl.”
Tyler ran his hand down his face and sighed. A sickening feeling rolled in his stomach. A whispered
curse oozed through his lips.
“Come on, Cass. You promised,” Kevin said as though he read Tyler’s mind. Tyler had almost
forgotten about the interview, the one Kevin pressured him into doing.
He stared at the statuesque woman. “Guess I can’t get out of this now.” His tone lowered.
Kevin put his hand on Tyler’s shoulder. “Please, not this time.”
The necessary evils of the world. Cutting promos for the show would have suited him better than to
have his life analyzed by some reporter.
“Guess you no longer want to marry me now,” she said coolly.
Tyler touched his face. “I like my women and my reporters a little less hostile.” Not that he’d had either
recently. The media called him the devil in tights. Didn’t help he’d accidentally made a popular talk show
host pass out when he’d applied a sleeper hold on him. How was Tyler to know the guy was sensitive to
the slightest pressure? Had he really sunk into the submission move, that host’s ostrich-like neck
probably would have snapped in two.
And the woman from his last serious relationship came after him with a knife. Okay, so it was a plastic
butter knife. But the intention was still there.
Kevin continued. “The woman you were supposed to kiss was---”
Before he could finish his statement, a tall redhead stormed through the curtain. Her lips were a rich
blood red color with matching blush streaks going up her cheeks. Her bright blue eye shadow contrasted
her red patent leather pants, and her white tee shirt strained against her apparently augmented breasts.
In the patented angry-woman look, she tapped her strappy black stiletto heel on the floor.
The redhead pointed to the journalist. “She stole my kiss!” She screwed up her baby doll face.
“Wow. And she talks, too,” the journalist said. She looked at Tyler. “What a bargain.”
Her voice was rich and commanding. Part Lauren Bacall and part Angela Bassett. Articulate. Strong.
Sensual. The sound sent a shiver up Tyler’s spine, shaking him even more than hearing the pop, the
initial scream from the fans each time they saw him.
The journalist held out her hand to Tyler. “I’m Soledad.”
He accepted her solid handshake. How in the world could a soft hand like hers hurt so much when she’d
slapped him? The touch sent a tingle down his fingers and arm. The ache he’d felt earlier miraculously
disappeared.
She pulled her hand from his grip and stared at him as though he must have been holding it way too long.
Worse than forgetting his cues, he lost his cool.
Still on bended knee, Casanova turned to Wayne. “You know I get into a zone before a match.” He
turned to Soledad. “But you’re so beautiful, it’s no wonder I got off track. You could make a referee lose
his place in a three-count.”
Soledad remained expressionless. Tyler had at least hoped for a smile, maybe a little color in her
cheeks. Nothing. He had lost his touch.
His mind had fixed on the dull ache in his lower back and wondering if it would subside long enough for him
to complete his match. The pressure Kevin and Wayne placed on him to be showier, flashier and over-the-
top wore on Tyler’s body. But he had to hold out for a while longer.
Japanese pro-wrestling affiliates wanted either an established name in the business, which Tyler had, or
they wanted wrestlers who didn’t give a damn about their health but instead put on a great show at the risk
of their bodies. Tyler wanted to be a perfect combination of the two concepts. Wrestle hard. Retire
early. Sounded good. Besides, playing up to the increasingly rich masses was not his style.
“She stole my kiss! I was supposed to be kissed! I was!” The redhead pouted.
Tyler was surprised the planted woman’s whining didn’t break glass within a five-mile radius and cause
dogs to howl. He liked his women strong, assertive, take charge.
“I didn’t steal your kiss,” Soledad finally said to her. She glanced at Tyler. “If anything a kiss was
stolen from me.” She smirked.
Tyler jerked to his feet. The way her chin jutted forward, Soledad looked more like she expected him to
grovel at her feet. Not going to happen.
“You know most women would find it a privilege to receive Casanova’s kiss.” He found the Casanova
persona easy to slip in and out of that most times he didn’t even realize the transition. Fifteen years into
the business and he was losing himself.
“I’ll be sure to mention that in the article.” Soledad nodded. “But I’ll leave out the slap.” She flipped her
hair off her shoulder. “You caught me off guard.”
So did Soledad’s smile and cute hair flip.
Okay, buddy. Get it together. She’s the enemy.
“I’m normally not so irrational.” She craned her head to get a peek at his cheek. “I’m aware of what you
do in your act. I just didn’t expect to be a part of it.”
“Apparently.” He touched his face. “You got some right hook. But ol’ Cass can handle the rough stuff.”
He winked at her.
Maybe by acting truly repulsive she would want to bail out of the interview. He could always hope. So he
turned up the jerk factor.
“You’re very funny.” Soledad put her hands on her hips like a gunslinger preparing to duel. Then she
lowered them.
“Should have known you weren’t the one.” Not that he’d minded.
“Why?” Soledad turned to the redhead who busied herself by admiring her manicured fingernails.
“Because I don’t look like her?” She turned to Tyler.
He smiled. “Exactly. The white skirt and top is way too conservative for this place.”
He didn’t want to mention although Wayne and Kevin were also black, they had never paired him with a
black woman. He’d always wondered about their reluctance since he’d never personally objected to
kissing any woman. A kiss was a kiss. At least he thought so before his lips touched perfection.
“And since when does Casanova, an Italian soldier, have a distinctly southern accent and dress like a
pirate?” she asked.
He waited for Kevin to bail him out since it was his idea. But he wasn’t talking.
Tyler answered. “Don’t you know? Casanova is from southern Italy.”
She pursed her lips but didn’t laugh. He smiled and winked at her again. He could feel the sweat
rolling between his shoulder blades.
After taking off his bandanna, exposing his shaved head, he wiped his forehead. Her gaze went from his
head to his eyes. But her expression remained blank so he couldn’t tell if she liked what she saw or was
repulsed. Tyler took in a deep breath to purposely pump out his chest.
“Your fans must find your character… amusing.” She fished through her trash bag-sized purse and
retrieved a digital recorder.
Amusing? A new word to describe him. Most female reporters used words like sexy, mysterious,
passionate. Tyler exhaled, deflating his chest. At the moment, he felt tired, sweaty and nervous.
“What do you think about me?” He had to know how she would try to pursue him.
She looked over at Kevin, not like she wanted to be saved but more like she wanted to see if he was
listening. Then turned to Tyler. “I think it would be better if we concentrate on how to showcase you and
the XTCWF in the article.”
“Sounds like a great idea,” Kevin said with a grin as big as shady car salesman’s.
Soledad was a rock. But even rocks crumbled under the right pressure. Tyler just had to find the
weak spot.
“Are you sure you don’t want to concentrate on something else?” He opened his ruffled shirt and he
watched her gaze move down to his chest then up to his eyes.
“The photographers should be here Sunday, the day of the show.” She pointed to him. “If that’s the
image you want your fans to see, then I’d say go for it.”
Her cool demeanor took Tyler aback. He blinked hard and it made her smile.
“Will I still get paid at least?” the redhead asked.
Kevin sighed loudly. He pointed down a hallway filled with people to a woman at a table who would pay
her the kissing money.
Soledad pointed to the retreating redhead. “Shouldn’t you give her your hotel room key before she
goes? I would hate to ruin your---” she watched the redhead wiggling down the hallway, waving at some of
the wrestlers and crew members, “---planned evening.”
“Jealous?” Tyler asked.
“I don’t think so.”
But she looked jealous. Her head tilted making all of her curly hair rest on her shoulder, and her lips
squeezed together the way Jenny Snodgrass’ lips had when he’d told her he was taking someone else to
the prom. Ah, things were much simpler in Gates High School in North Carolina where he was just another
skinny kid in the crowd.
Tyler said, “Your mouth says no but your eyes say---”
Kevin cut him off. “Cass, lay off the act, okay?” Kevin stood between them.
No, Tyler was determined to give her more of his act. It would keep Soledad from getting to know the real
person behind the persona.
He stood nose to nose to Kevin. “If I have to do this, I’m doing it my way.”
Kevin grabbed Tyler’s arm and pulled him away from Soledad so she couldn’t hear them. “So long as
you do it. This is it, Cass. Don’t mess this up or it’s your ass. Thanks to your reputation, no other major
magazine is knocking down our door to interview you and we need the publicity. Do you know what this
magazine has done for other off-the-wall sports?”
He snatched his arm from Kevin’s grip and started down a hallway to his dressing room. Even though he’d
won his match earlier, at the moment he felt defeated.
“Where are you going?” Soledad asked.
He turned to her. “I got to get changed so I can get out of here. It’s going to be hard to leave soon
with the fans waiting outside.”
Tyler could have sworn he saw a flash of fear snap over her face. Her eyes grew wide and darkened
like a scared cat. She blinked enough that she looked like she was caught in a windstorm.
When her face relaxed, she said, “Then I’ll go with you.” She stomped toward him. “It’ll give us an
opportunity to---”
“What?” He smiled salaciously at her. Knowing that she could be broken, he wanted to play with her. It
wouldn’t take her long to tuck her tail between her rounded cheeks and run.
“Talk,” she said.
Joan of Arc without the stake and flames epitomized this aggressive woman.
“You’re going to come with me to my dressing room?” he asked.
She nodded. “I’m supposed to be with you for the full week. But if you don’t want me in there because you’
re hiding something, then---”
He didn’t even give her a chance to finish. His actions would either going to scare her away or intrigue
her. Putting his hands at the band of his tights, he said, “I might be hiding more than you want to see.”
“I’m interested in what’s in your head, not what’s in your…tights.”
Quick and unflappable. What a dangerous combination.
Tyler continued down the hall, maneuvering around thick, black cables and steel packing crates littering
the floor. Soledad followed him inside of his room.
Lockers decorated the walls and benches sat in front of each group. The stark white walls brought out the
red carpeting. He slammed the door behind himself and locked it.
This locker room wasn’t so bad. At least it was carpeted and had the shower stalls in the actual locker
room. He had been to venues where there were only two shower stalls for about fifty wrestlers and no hot
water.
Soledad stood by the door as he sat on the bench and unlaced his boots. “It’s interesting, the
profession you’ve chosen.” She adjusted her shirt on her shoulders. Maybe it was to hide her incredible
cleavage popping out at the vee of her top. She probably caught him staring.
“I could say the same for you.” He wasn’t about to make her job easy.
“I’m only doing this until something better comes along.” Soledad gazed around the stuffy locker room.
“Spoken like a true woman.”
Soledad rolled her eyes. At least she didn’t try to hit him again.
Did all women follow the same handbook for relationships? Bail out when the going got tough. No woman
was worth the trouble of risking another heartbreak. At least his job kept him too busy to worry about
anything else but wrestling. But damn, there were days his body ached for the company of a good woman.
She sighed then tugged on one of her curls. “It must be hard on your body.”
He furrowed his eyebrows, a reaction he hoped she didn’t catch. He thought about his mannerisms. Did
he walk hunched over like usual? Did he wince when he sat down? He’d been successful so far in hiding
his steadily increasing pain from most of the staff at XTCWF. He would have to disguise the throbbing
ache from her for a full week---well, if he decided to let her stick with him. If she wrote about his health in
her magazine, it would be goodbye Japanese affiliates. Damn, he had to get rid of her, quick.
He turned up his persona. “Being with so many women is never hard on my body.”
She took a deep breath and wrapped her arms around herself. She looked away. Even he was disgusted
by his own bad bravado. But as long as it kept her at bay, it was fine.
As though she read his mind, she continued. “Please stop making pig-headed remarks about women. I
don’t mind slapping you again.” She took a step closer to him. For some reason, it made him step away
from her but not out of fear but more to lessen her temptation.
He slammed his bag onto the floor making her stay in her position. He wouldn’t open any old wounds for
her. “Doesn’t matter what you think of me. Maybe your hatred will fuel an interesting article.”
“Aren’t you interested in showing another side of you beyond your character, beyond what the general
public thinks of you?” she asked. Her expression softened into something almost human, almost normal.
The way she cut her eyes down to the floor, looking more pensive than the question seemed to suggest,
Soledad appeared to have a different meaning behind her question. Could the Ice Princess actually have
a heart?
Tyler took a step closer to her then stopped. No. She had to be acting even more than he had in the
wrestling ring. He laughed as he pulled down his tights revealing a jock strap underneath. “Lady, I think
my fans have seen every side of me.”
If she was a real reporter and hanging out with him for a week, she had to take the good with the bad,
which included the bad locker rooms and his naked behind. And he hoped what he thought was good and
bad matched her ideas, but he was pretty sure their perceptions weren’t the same.
She kept her eyes on his. “The magazine wants the man behind the hero.”
He walked up to her, standing mere inches away. “You’ll take what I give you.” Even at her statuesque
height, he still towered over her. He smelled a honey scent coming from her hair and noticed she had a
small freckle on the side of her nose. He swallowed, cut his eyes down then retreated. “Do you know what
Wrestlebowl is at least?”
She cleared her throat then answered. “From what I understand it’s a large show featuring all of the
XTCWF wrestlers.”
Feeling guilty for his caveman attitude, Tyler softened. “I know the company name has a lot of initials. But
call it what we all call it. Ecstasy. If you say XTC kind of fast it sounds like that, doesn’t it?”
“Are you sure that’s the only meaning behind the name?” She clicked on her digital recorder and had it
ready for his answer.
He retreated to his locker without answering her probing question. “It’s the Super Bowl of wrestling. The
show is done every July and this year we’re doing it in Virginia Beach, kind of close to where I grew up.”
He bit the inside of his lower lip. Maybe she wouldn’t pick up on his slip about where he grew up.
Soledad said, “Do you really think you should be undressing in front of me?”
“Do you really think you should wear low-cut shirts?” He stripped off his jockstrap and stood completely
naked. “Besides, you’re the one who invited yourself in here.”
“I’ll wait outside until you’re dressed.” She unlocked the door and flung it open.
He heard the rising frustration in her voice. He’d broken her. His heartbeat slowed and he felt
strangely calmed this forced interview would end soon.
“Why don’t you do one better and keep walking? Won’t hurt my feelings.” He wasn’t trying to shock her.
Or maybe he was. He’d been testing her since they’d met. Either way, she folded like that sad, little tree
house he and his brothers had made when he was twelve.
Soledad turned to Tyler. An easy smile graced her perfect face. “I’ll just be outside. But when you’re
dressed, we can talk about your women.”
“My women?” He cackled.
She continued. “And the prescription bottle in your gym bag.”
He turned and saw the bottle’s white cap poking out of the side of his bag.
“Viagra?” She closed the door behind herself.
Now he felt naked for a whole different reason.
A kiss.
A firm, surprising set of lips slammed against Soledad Monroe’s. The jarring gesture shook her to her
core, jerking the inside of her stomach like when unexpected firecrackers a foot away explode. It threw her
mind and physical state off balance.
She struggled against the uninvited, staged display of affection as she stood among the rowdy crowd of
well over thirty thousand professional wrestling fans in the packed Washington, D.C. arena. What a way
to end her day.
A simple hello and handshake from her interview subject, hopefully her last one ever, would have been
more appropriate, especially with all of the cameras looming around them.
Before, all she knew about this guy was his stage name. Casanova. Now feeling the gentle vibration
against her lips, she knew the man hummed when he kissed. Or maybe he did it for her.
Soledad’s shoulders unknotted and for a brief moment her eyelids lowered. A hazy feeling clouded her
head. A good kiss, the kind that started off sweet and then increased in intensity, always sank her
sensibility. A great one made her forget her inhibitions. Lord knows she’d allowed herself to melt in the
arms of a great kisser too many times.
When she remembered the whole world would be seeing this forced public display of affection, her eyes
popped open. She didn’t need another gossip story about her.
“Get off,” Soledad tried saying while his lips smothered hers. The demand came out like ‘Biff puff.’ The
wrestler probably thought she was humming too. Fuming was more like it.
Casanova’s goatee scratched her chin as his hand cupped the back of her head, his fingers entangled in
her hair. He kept his eyes closed.
Open your eyes! Soledad flailed her arms but he kept a tight hold.
Their bodies sandwiched the black foam-covered barricade intended to separate the crowd from the
wrestling ring. She kept her eyes open, glaring at the man in a white, sparkly bandanna and hoop
earring. When she cut her eyes to the right, she caught the camera lens positioned at the two of them.
Great. So if her mother watched this it would give her even more ammunition to say, “Oh, Soledad. Don’t
we have enough problems without you embarrassing the family again?”
Soledad tried pushing him away by putting one hand on his shoulder and bracing the other against the
barricade, but his steel beam arm clamped around her waist tight enough to keep her trapped.
The Altoid mint she’d popped in her mouth at the end of his match swirled over her tongue, stinging it, as
she kept her lips fixed shut.
The crowd chanted Casanova’s name as he finally broke the kiss. His hazel eyes glittered from the
camera flashes as he stared at her. His skin flushed pink in his cheeks.
Oh no. He wasn’t going to get over on her with a puppy-dog look. She’d handled bigger and better guys
than this shopping at Gucci.
With an open hand, she smacked Casanova’s face, a sight caught on large screens over the wrestling
ring. Adrenaline coursed through her like flame in a torch. She wouldn’t be fodder for late night talk show
jokes. Her hand covered her mouth, wiping away the offending kiss.
When Casanova stumbled from her, security guards rushed toward him. But with a wave of his hand, he
signaled he was all right. The way Casanova’s mouth had hung open after the kiss, he’d appeared
surprised or maybe shaken would have been a better way to describe him.
Had they been dating, to see a man look so awe-stricken by her kiss would have pumped Soledad’s body
with electric sparks. From the millisecond she allowed herself to be sucked into the spontaneous display,
she knew her toes hadn’t curled like this since, well, never. Working for nearly a year kept her out of
trouble…and away from the altar.
He snatched a microphone off of the announcer’s table by the ring.
Oh no. Not more humiliation to be broadcasted.
Soledad bit the inside of her cheek and fought the urge to stomp her behind out of the arena and home to
New York. A kiss from pro-wrestler would have tickled her former Gucci Girls, a nickname for the band of
party pals she used to hang with when Soledad club hopped.
But as her heart raced, she grabbed the barricade sitting in front of her front row seat, her fingernails
embedded in the smooth black leather, and set in her jaw. No way was she going to appear less than
dignified. And she definitely didn’t want to prove to her parents, especially her mother, that she couldn’t
make it on her own for a year. This would be her last job. She could do this.
Casanova brought the microphone to his mouth and said, “Baby, if I did it wrong, why don’t I just meet you
at your hotel room so I can practice loving you the right way.” He winked.
Soledad stood still, certain if she moved her lava-like blood would spew from her mouth and melt this
pompous jerk down into a pool of spandex and a hoop earring.
Did he just wink at her? How dare he do this drive-by kiss and then have the nerve to be cocky about it.
She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, leaving a slight, shiny trail from the remains of her gloss.
She hadn’t been this uptight about a kiss since Frankie Dunn had tried slipping her the tongue behind the
pool house at her parents’ home when she was thirteen. Except the wrestler hadn’t fumbled around and
done the goofy teenage boy giggle. He knew what he was doing. And Hoover Lips here had to be
stopped.
As the wrestling fans howled even louder, a smile crept up the corner of his mouth as he touched his
reddening cheek. Soledad ground her fingers in deeper into the only thing keeping her from this animal.
He grabbed his championship belt he’d placed on the barricade and tossed the microphone over his
shoulder, careless of where it landed.
The gods of irony must have been working overtime to have her be bussed on the job she’d
considered to be her kiss-off article for Vestige. Getting disrespected and now groped to prove to her
parents she could be responsible couldn’t be a rite of passage for normal people. She didn’t need to take
this treatment.
In the noisy arena, Soledad tried blocking the chants and screams by mentally reciting literary prose in her
head. Now the clamorous cheering rose to a deafening crescendo, assaulting her ears more than the
overwhelming smell of beer and popcorn had sullied her nose.
A young woman patted Soledad on her shoulder. “You are so lucky!” she gushed.
“He’s an arrogant, demeaning, self-centered snake with only one thing on his tiny mind,” Soledad said.
Clearly this fan recognized those traits.
The young woman smacked her gum, glanced at Casanova walking away and said to Soledad after
returning her gaze, “But look at his butt. Doesn’t he have the best ass in the world?”
Clearly not one of Gloria Steinham’s disciples.
Soledad glared at Casanova as he escaped to the backstage. The crowd roared as he held the belt in
the air like a gladiator bearing his shield. Her gut tightened. My God! Was sweat forming on her neck?
She didn’t mind getting involved in the story---as long it was mutually agreed upon. She’d tried
skateboarding when she’d interviewed a popular skater. She’d even tried surfing in shark-infested waters
of Hawaii. Now she was going to interview a wrestler whose claim to fame was kissing strange women and
beating people to please a massive crowd.
O Romeo, Romeo! Wherefore art thou Romeo?
Forget it. She could live with the harsh words and disappointed looks from her parents. What
happened to that unconditional love mumbo jumbo that had been forced down her throat from those new-
aged schools she’d attended? Didn’t her parents get the memo?
As she turned to retrieve her purse when the arena lights brightened, she felt a vise-like grip around her
wrist. Her heart pounded in a crazy rhythm, thinking Casanova had returned for a second kiss. When she
looked to see who or what had her she saw a stocky, tank-like man with a black and white bandanna
around his head and a black tee shirt with ‘security’ stretched across the front in white letters.
First Casanova and now this guy. What was it with bandanna-clad men grabbing women around here?
Neanderthal life was alive and well at Extreme Transnational Championship Wrestling Federation. Her
heart slowed but she kept her hand balled in a fist.
“You’re the reporter, right?” he asked with a thick Brooklyn accent.
Reporter. Soledad had been called many things before. Socialite. Wild child. Marrying Monroe. But
being called reporter actually made her exhale with some relief.
“Yes, I am.” She tried wriggling her wrist from his grip, but he held onto her the way Norman Bates held
onto the idea Mother was still alive.
The guard pulled her behind him. “I’m taking you backstage. You still doing the interview, right?”
Actually Soledad’s stomach jumped at the idea of going to meet Casanova. Growing up as a Monroe,
she’d met world leaders, Pulitzer Prize winners, designers. No one rattled her. But this guy. She felt the
infamous interview ditch king had plans to walk. Good. If he walked then she would have a perfect out
and she wouldn’t be blamed.
Although Casanova made a living taking lumps in the ring, being pummeled by an interviewer paled in
comparison. But he would have ignored her heart-felt argument of how he should respect women.
Thirtysomething female fans fawned over him like teenage girls at a boy band concert.
She hiked her purse onto her shoulder and nodded to the security guard. Soledad would offer a quick
apology to this half-dressed, macho man bent on tempting fate that he would have to accept. Then she
can go to her regular life of shopping, sleeping late and traveling.
She scuttled through a hallway. She lost her footing a couple of times, slipping on the beer spilled on the
floor. Fortunately the gum wads and the stickiness of the beer itself, aided in maintaining her balance.
The bottom of her sandals smacked with each tacky step.
The tank turned to her but didn’t stop his trek. “You know, he doesn’t do interviews.”
“What?” She scurried to keep up and hear him over the screaming fans.
“Casanova. He’s like private, you know. Hell, I don’t even know the cat’s real name.”
Neither did she. She’d tried finding it. Soledad researched all about the man who made professional
wrestling entertaining again…and sexy. But he kept his personal life well-guarded. She wished she could
do the same in her life.
With an interest in getting a jump on the interview, Soledad asked the guard, “And how long have you
been with the company?”
“Long enough to know not ask too many questions and leave the talent alone.”
The tank must have been warned to be just as secretive. Interesting. Made her wonder what Casanova
hid behind his persona.
But as sweaty men tempting fate went, Casanova epitomized an awesome specimen of a man. Tall, a
sleek nose, and a light brown goatee. His pictures from her research didn’t do the real thing justice. Of
course the pictures were all posed publicity shots, which made him look handsome and charming. He had
a side-of-the-mouth smile that spelled trouble and bordered on arrogant. And his intense eyes could bore
a hole through a battleship with its gaze.
She ran Casanova’s statistics through her head. Six foot three. Yes, he did look tall. Two-hundred-sixty
pounds. Under the ruffled shirt, it was hard to tell what his body looked like.
However, his black tights showed he had incredible legs. Long, powerful. She imagined his arms, chest
and stomach rippled with delicious muscles.
Soledad shook her head. So what if he was attractive. A model with some athletic ability best
described him. He was an actor with a bad agent and even worse, bad writers.
How could her parents expect her to get a story by working with an overgrown pampered, oversexed kid in
a man’s body?
What a quest. Standing between her year anniversary of working seriously and a trip to Fiji stood a man
in Batman tights and a ‘Pirates of Penzance’ shirt.
She needed to take control of this interview. Now if she could only convince her jumpy heart and quaky
knees she would be perfect.
# # #
Tyler Randolph burst through the heavy black curtain to the backstage. His fans chanted, matching
the pounding in his head. It would have been nice to come down from the match-high by listening to the
symphony of cheers. But instead he had a bone to pick. He thought being in this business would have
prepared him for the unexpected.
He didn’t mind the smack. The planted woman had hit him hard but he had been hit harder, including the
whacks he had gotten when he was growing up. He hated being left out of changes in the show, and this
was a big change.
When he saw Wayne Lucas limping up to him, Tyler wasted no time in getting to the bottom of things.
“You know I am all about spontaneity, Wayne,” Tyler began. “But could you at least let me in on what’s
going on out there especially before it happens?” He waved his hand in front of his nose in an attempt to
cut down the sulfur stench of the pyrotechnic explosives still wafting in the air. “Do you run this show or is
the show running you?”
“I-I-I’m sorry, Cass.” Wayne held up his hands like a robbery victim, but in his burgundy polyester
jogging suit with thick white stripes, he resembled an old school breakdancer.
“Since when does Casanova get slapped?” He hated referring to himself in the third person but it was
easier to talk about his character as someone else. No way in the world would he wear the white ruffled
shirt and tights. But Casanova would.
Damn. Someday he would need therapy to understand all of this.
Wayne shook his hands in the air. “You-you-you weren’t listening to me. You ka-ka-kissed the wrong
woman.”
Tyler shook his head. “You told me the one in white, didn’t you?” He had to get his head into work. Too
many distractions in his life weren’t helping him to concentrate. The other night he’d missed his cue, and
now tonight he’d embarrassed some poor woman who wasn’t prepared to be a part of his act.
His stinging cheek throbbed even more than the constant ache in his back. He owed that fan an apology---
unless she was already running off to an attorney to sue him for sexual assault. His stomached knotted
when the brief thought crossed his mind he could be a sexual predator like his father.
“N-n-n-no. You see, sh-sh-sh---”
Tyler cut in. “Geez, is she still out there? I got to make things right with her.” He wiped his forehead
and ran his fingers down his goatee.
The bad part about the woman’s kick-butt move was the slap had worked. The crowd had eaten it up as
though it was a part of the show.
Actually, the worst part about the kiss was he’d enjoyed it, at least the start of the kiss before she clamped
her lips so tight he thought she was going to suck his into the trap. Her soft, curvy body stiffened almost
immediately. Almost.
He should have known something was wrong then. Most of the plants eagerly opened their mouths and
tried shoving their tongues down his throat. They would press their breasts against him like he was a
walking mammogram test machine. With all the bumps and bruises on his body the last thing he wanted to
do was feel for any lumps of any kind. Tyler needed his work taken seriously. A stint in Japan would be a
nice boost to his career.
Wayne tried to stammer an answer. “The wo-wo-woman in all white is a--is a--is a---”
“Hey, Cass.”
Tyler turned. Behind him stood the woman from the audience who had slapped him and she was with
Kevin Lucas, Wayne’s son and co-owner of the company.
In the full light she looked worthy of Tyler Randolph breast, body and even dental exams. A tall black
woman with the creamiest light brown skin he’d ever seen. Shoulder length curly golden blond hair with
brown streaks. He remembered how soft it was considering its brassy look. When he rubbed his finger
under his nose he caught a whiff of a sweet, honey scent. What a great relief from inhaling smoky pyro.
Her eyes were wide and she had full lips. He wiped his, removing the remaining traces of whatever it was
she had had on hers that was smooth, sticky and sweet. She looked so familiar to him even before he’d
kissed her. Maybe because she was such a dream woman.
He fell to his knees in front of her and said with arms outstretched, “Marry me.”
The woman folded her arms and glared at him while the crowd backstage laughed. Normally he didn’t
associate or talk to the women Wayne and Kevin planted in the audience. He understood they were doing
a job just like him, and they probably felt as awkward as he did.
And now that he really looked at her, her mouth turned down, dragging the rest of her face with it, she
appeared still upset about the kiss.
“He’s kidding,” Kevin said to her with a slight laugh. “It’s part of his bit to ask a woman to marry him and
then turn her down in front of the fans. I guess the slap threw him off of his game tonight.” He turned to
Tyler. “She’s the journalist who’s going to write the story about you, the company, and Wrestlebowl.”
Tyler ran his hand down his face and sighed. A sickening feeling rolled in his stomach. A whispered
curse oozed through his lips.
“Come on, Cass. You promised,” Kevin said as though he read Tyler’s mind. Tyler had almost
forgotten about the interview, the one Kevin pressured him into doing.
He stared at the statuesque woman. “Guess I can’t get out of this now.” His tone lowered.
Kevin put his hand on Tyler’s shoulder. “Please, not this time.”
The necessary evils of the world. Cutting promos for the show would have suited him better than to
have his life analyzed by some reporter.
“Guess you no longer want to marry me now,” she said coolly.
Tyler touched his face. “I like my women and my reporters a little less hostile.” Not that he’d had either
recently. The media called him the devil in tights. Didn’t help he’d accidentally made a popular talk show
host pass out when he’d applied a sleeper hold on him. How was Tyler to know the guy was sensitive to
the slightest pressure? Had he really sunk into the submission move, that host’s ostrich-like neck
probably would have snapped in two.
And the woman from his last serious relationship came after him with a knife. Okay, so it was a plastic
butter knife. But the intention was still there.
Kevin continued. “The woman you were supposed to kiss was---”
Before he could finish his statement, a tall redhead stormed through the curtain. Her lips were a rich
blood red color with matching blush streaks going up her cheeks. Her bright blue eye shadow contrasted
her red patent leather pants, and her white tee shirt strained against her apparently augmented breasts.
In the patented angry-woman look, she tapped her strappy black stiletto heel on the floor.
The redhead pointed to the journalist. “She stole my kiss!” She screwed up her baby doll face.
“Wow. And she talks, too,” the journalist said. She looked at Tyler. “What a bargain.”
Her voice was rich and commanding. Part Lauren Bacall and part Angela Bassett. Articulate. Strong.
Sensual. The sound sent a shiver up Tyler’s spine, shaking him even more than hearing the pop, the
initial scream from the fans each time they saw him.
The journalist held out her hand to Tyler. “I’m Soledad.”
He accepted her solid handshake. How in the world could a soft hand like hers hurt so much when she’d
slapped him? The touch sent a tingle down his fingers and arm. The ache he’d felt earlier miraculously
disappeared.
She pulled her hand from his grip and stared at him as though he must have been holding it way too long.
Worse than forgetting his cues, he lost his cool.
Still on bended knee, Casanova turned to Wayne. “You know I get into a zone before a match.” He
turned to Soledad. “But you’re so beautiful, it’s no wonder I got off track. You could make a referee lose
his place in a three-count.”
Soledad remained expressionless. Tyler had at least hoped for a smile, maybe a little color in her
cheeks. Nothing. He had lost his touch.
His mind had fixed on the dull ache in his lower back and wondering if it would subside long enough for him
to complete his match. The pressure Kevin and Wayne placed on him to be showier, flashier and over-the-
top wore on Tyler’s body. But he had to hold out for a while longer.
Japanese pro-wrestling affiliates wanted either an established name in the business, which Tyler had, or
they wanted wrestlers who didn’t give a damn about their health but instead put on a great show at the risk
of their bodies. Tyler wanted to be a perfect combination of the two concepts. Wrestle hard. Retire
early. Sounded good. Besides, playing up to the increasingly rich masses was not his style.
“She stole my kiss! I was supposed to be kissed! I was!” The redhead pouted.
Tyler was surprised the planted woman’s whining didn’t break glass within a five-mile radius and cause
dogs to howl. He liked his women strong, assertive, take charge.
“I didn’t steal your kiss,” Soledad finally said to her. She glanced at Tyler. “If anything a kiss was
stolen from me.” She smirked.
Tyler jerked to his feet. The way her chin jutted forward, Soledad looked more like she expected him to
grovel at her feet. Not going to happen.
“You know most women would find it a privilege to receive Casanova’s kiss.” He found the Casanova
persona easy to slip in and out of that most times he didn’t even realize the transition. Fifteen years into
the business and he was losing himself.
“I’ll be sure to mention that in the article.” Soledad nodded. “But I’ll leave out the slap.” She flipped her
hair off her shoulder. “You caught me off guard.”
So did Soledad’s smile and cute hair flip.
Okay, buddy. Get it together. She’s the enemy.
“I’m normally not so irrational.” She craned her head to get a peek at his cheek. “I’m aware of what you
do in your act. I just didn’t expect to be a part of it.”
“Apparently.” He touched his face. “You got some right hook. But ol’ Cass can handle the rough stuff.”
He winked at her.
Maybe by acting truly repulsive she would want to bail out of the interview. He could always hope. So he
turned up the jerk factor.
“You’re very funny.” Soledad put her hands on her hips like a gunslinger preparing to duel. Then she
lowered them.
“Should have known you weren’t the one.” Not that he’d minded.
“Why?” Soledad turned to the redhead who busied herself by admiring her manicured fingernails.
“Because I don’t look like her?” She turned to Tyler.
He smiled. “Exactly. The white skirt and top is way too conservative for this place.”
He didn’t want to mention although Wayne and Kevin were also black, they had never paired him with a
black woman. He’d always wondered about their reluctance since he’d never personally objected to
kissing any woman. A kiss was a kiss. At least he thought so before his lips touched perfection.
“And since when does Casanova, an Italian soldier, have a distinctly southern accent and dress like a
pirate?” she asked.
He waited for Kevin to bail him out since it was his idea. But he wasn’t talking.
Tyler answered. “Don’t you know? Casanova is from southern Italy.”
She pursed her lips but didn’t laugh. He smiled and winked at her again. He could feel the sweat
rolling between his shoulder blades.
After taking off his bandanna, exposing his shaved head, he wiped his forehead. Her gaze went from his
head to his eyes. But her expression remained blank so he couldn’t tell if she liked what she saw or was
repulsed. Tyler took in a deep breath to purposely pump out his chest.
“Your fans must find your character… amusing.” She fished through her trash bag-sized purse and
retrieved a digital recorder.
Amusing? A new word to describe him. Most female reporters used words like sexy, mysterious,
passionate. Tyler exhaled, deflating his chest. At the moment, he felt tired, sweaty and nervous.
“What do you think about me?” He had to know how she would try to pursue him.
She looked over at Kevin, not like she wanted to be saved but more like she wanted to see if he was
listening. Then turned to Tyler. “I think it would be better if we concentrate on how to showcase you and
the XTCWF in the article.”
“Sounds like a great idea,” Kevin said with a grin as big as shady car salesman’s.
Soledad was a rock. But even rocks crumbled under the right pressure. Tyler just had to find the
weak spot.
“Are you sure you don’t want to concentrate on something else?” He opened his ruffled shirt and he
watched her gaze move down to his chest then up to his eyes.
“The photographers should be here Sunday, the day of the show.” She pointed to him. “If that’s the
image you want your fans to see, then I’d say go for it.”
Her cool demeanor took Tyler aback. He blinked hard and it made her smile.
“Will I still get paid at least?” the redhead asked.
Kevin sighed loudly. He pointed down a hallway filled with people to a woman at a table who would pay
her the kissing money.
Soledad pointed to the retreating redhead. “Shouldn’t you give her your hotel room key before she
goes? I would hate to ruin your---” she watched the redhead wiggling down the hallway, waving at some of
the wrestlers and crew members, “---planned evening.”
“Jealous?” Tyler asked.
“I don’t think so.”
But she looked jealous. Her head tilted making all of her curly hair rest on her shoulder, and her lips
squeezed together the way Jenny Snodgrass’ lips had when he’d told her he was taking someone else to
the prom. Ah, things were much simpler in Gates High School in North Carolina where he was just another
skinny kid in the crowd.
Tyler said, “Your mouth says no but your eyes say---”
Kevin cut him off. “Cass, lay off the act, okay?” Kevin stood between them.
No, Tyler was determined to give her more of his act. It would keep Soledad from getting to know the real
person behind the persona.
He stood nose to nose to Kevin. “If I have to do this, I’m doing it my way.”
Kevin grabbed Tyler’s arm and pulled him away from Soledad so she couldn’t hear them. “So long as
you do it. This is it, Cass. Don’t mess this up or it’s your ass. Thanks to your reputation, no other major
magazine is knocking down our door to interview you and we need the publicity. Do you know what this
magazine has done for other off-the-wall sports?”
He snatched his arm from Kevin’s grip and started down a hallway to his dressing room. Even though he’d
won his match earlier, at the moment he felt defeated.
“Where are you going?” Soledad asked.
He turned to her. “I got to get changed so I can get out of here. It’s going to be hard to leave soon
with the fans waiting outside.”
Tyler could have sworn he saw a flash of fear snap over her face. Her eyes grew wide and darkened
like a scared cat. She blinked enough that she looked like she was caught in a windstorm.
When her face relaxed, she said, “Then I’ll go with you.” She stomped toward him. “It’ll give us an
opportunity to---”
“What?” He smiled salaciously at her. Knowing that she could be broken, he wanted to play with her. It
wouldn’t take her long to tuck her tail between her rounded cheeks and run.
“Talk,” she said.
Joan of Arc without the stake and flames epitomized this aggressive woman.
“You’re going to come with me to my dressing room?” he asked.
She nodded. “I’m supposed to be with you for the full week. But if you don’t want me in there because you’
re hiding something, then---”
He didn’t even give her a chance to finish. His actions would either going to scare her away or intrigue
her. Putting his hands at the band of his tights, he said, “I might be hiding more than you want to see.”
“I’m interested in what’s in your head, not what’s in your…tights.”
Quick and unflappable. What a dangerous combination.
Tyler continued down the hall, maneuvering around thick, black cables and steel packing crates littering
the floor. Soledad followed him inside of his room.
Lockers decorated the walls and benches sat in front of each group. The stark white walls brought out the
red carpeting. He slammed the door behind himself and locked it.
This locker room wasn’t so bad. At least it was carpeted and had the shower stalls in the actual locker
room. He had been to venues where there were only two shower stalls for about fifty wrestlers and no hot
water.
Soledad stood by the door as he sat on the bench and unlaced his boots. “It’s interesting, the
profession you’ve chosen.” She adjusted her shirt on her shoulders. Maybe it was to hide her incredible
cleavage popping out at the vee of her top. She probably caught him staring.
“I could say the same for you.” He wasn’t about to make her job easy.
“I’m only doing this until something better comes along.” Soledad gazed around the stuffy locker room.
“Spoken like a true woman.”
Soledad rolled her eyes. At least she didn’t try to hit him again.
Did all women follow the same handbook for relationships? Bail out when the going got tough. No woman
was worth the trouble of risking another heartbreak. At least his job kept him too busy to worry about
anything else but wrestling. But damn, there were days his body ached for the company of a good woman.
She sighed then tugged on one of her curls. “It must be hard on your body.”
He furrowed his eyebrows, a reaction he hoped she didn’t catch. He thought about his mannerisms. Did
he walk hunched over like usual? Did he wince when he sat down? He’d been successful so far in hiding
his steadily increasing pain from most of the staff at XTCWF. He would have to disguise the throbbing
ache from her for a full week---well, if he decided to let her stick with him. If she wrote about his health in
her magazine, it would be goodbye Japanese affiliates. Damn, he had to get rid of her, quick.
He turned up his persona. “Being with so many women is never hard on my body.”
She took a deep breath and wrapped her arms around herself. She looked away. Even he was disgusted
by his own bad bravado. But as long as it kept her at bay, it was fine.
As though she read his mind, she continued. “Please stop making pig-headed remarks about women. I
don’t mind slapping you again.” She took a step closer to him. For some reason, it made him step away
from her but not out of fear but more to lessen her temptation.
He slammed his bag onto the floor making her stay in her position. He wouldn’t open any old wounds for
her. “Doesn’t matter what you think of me. Maybe your hatred will fuel an interesting article.”
“Aren’t you interested in showing another side of you beyond your character, beyond what the general
public thinks of you?” she asked. Her expression softened into something almost human, almost normal.
The way she cut her eyes down to the floor, looking more pensive than the question seemed to suggest,
Soledad appeared to have a different meaning behind her question. Could the Ice Princess actually have
a heart?
Tyler took a step closer to her then stopped. No. She had to be acting even more than he had in the
wrestling ring. He laughed as he pulled down his tights revealing a jock strap underneath. “Lady, I think
my fans have seen every side of me.”
If she was a real reporter and hanging out with him for a week, she had to take the good with the bad,
which included the bad locker rooms and his naked behind. And he hoped what he thought was good and
bad matched her ideas, but he was pretty sure their perceptions weren’t the same.
She kept her eyes on his. “The magazine wants the man behind the hero.”
He walked up to her, standing mere inches away. “You’ll take what I give you.” Even at her statuesque
height, he still towered over her. He smelled a honey scent coming from her hair and noticed she had a
small freckle on the side of her nose. He swallowed, cut his eyes down then retreated. “Do you know what
Wrestlebowl is at least?”
She cleared her throat then answered. “From what I understand it’s a large show featuring all of the
XTCWF wrestlers.”
Feeling guilty for his caveman attitude, Tyler softened. “I know the company name has a lot of initials. But
call it what we all call it. Ecstasy. If you say XTC kind of fast it sounds like that, doesn’t it?”
“Are you sure that’s the only meaning behind the name?” She clicked on her digital recorder and had it
ready for his answer.
He retreated to his locker without answering her probing question. “It’s the Super Bowl of wrestling. The
show is done every July and this year we’re doing it in Virginia Beach, kind of close to where I grew up.”
He bit the inside of his lower lip. Maybe she wouldn’t pick up on his slip about where he grew up.
Soledad said, “Do you really think you should be undressing in front of me?”
“Do you really think you should wear low-cut shirts?” He stripped off his jockstrap and stood completely
naked. “Besides, you’re the one who invited yourself in here.”
“I’ll wait outside until you’re dressed.” She unlocked the door and flung it open.
He heard the rising frustration in her voice. He’d broken her. His heartbeat slowed and he felt
strangely calmed this forced interview would end soon.
“Why don’t you do one better and keep walking? Won’t hurt my feelings.” He wasn’t trying to shock her.
Or maybe he was. He’d been testing her since they’d met. Either way, she folded like that sad, little tree
house he and his brothers had made when he was twelve.
Soledad turned to Tyler. An easy smile graced her perfect face. “I’ll just be outside. But when you’re
dressed, we can talk about your women.”
“My women?” He cackled.
She continued. “And the prescription bottle in your gym bag.”
He turned and saw the bottle’s white cap poking out of the side of his bag.
“Viagra?” She closed the door behind herself.
Now he felt naked for a whole different reason.