No More Mr. Nice - By Renee Roszel Page 0,18
of his anatomy she’d collided with. She stuttered on, “Ball—that is…” She bit her lip. “I meant, foot—”
Because speech was difficult for him at the moment, he clutched her arm to stop her babbling. It worked. She went immediately mute, her eyes wide and fretful.
“Forget it,” he finally managed, hoarsely. “I’d planned on having myself gelded for Christmas, anyway.”
Her concerned expression eased slightly at his quip. “Are you—going to be okay? Should I call a doctor. Maybe get some ice?”
“Hell,” he muttered, wishing she’d get off it. “Have you ever seen a man with an ice pack on his…” He let the remark die, jerking his head toward the youngsters who’d gathered around. “Drop it before they start calling me Mr. Nice-Eunuch.”
“You sure?” she asked, hesitant, but a faint light had begun to twinkle in her eyes. “I could help you to the house, or something.”
“I said, drop it.” He released her shoulder. “Men don’t die from this. Now, go.”
She started to stand, then turned back, lips twitching. “This probably isn’t the best time, but we need to start gathering the kids for the awards ceremony.” Strangled laughter bubbled in her throat and she cleared it, straightening her face. “I’m sorry.”
“You must love a good plane crash.”
“Forgive me, but your ‘Mr. Nice-Eunuch’ remark struck me funny.”
He continued to frown at her, but his rancor had dissipated. That puzzled him, considering his lower gut felt as if it had been slammed by a wrecking ball. “Pain brings out the Jerry Seinfeld in me, I guess.”
She sat back, and with a tentative half grin, suggested, “Maybe you should be in pain more often.”
“I expect you’ll see to that.”
“All in the spirit of giving.” Her expression softened into an actual smile, unforced, even slightly friendly. “When do you think you’ll be able to—er—be mobile?”
“Give me five minutes.”
Nodding, she pushed up to stand.
As she walked away, Lucas let out a heavy breath, waiting out the throbbing in his groin. He decided that for all her pushy, puritanical faults, Jess Glen had a fair bedside manner. Too bad she had that liberal, bleeding-heart mentality—the type that lived for a good cause. She probably ran her life flying off on one emotional tangent or another, a bundle of feelings refusing to be reasoned with.
People probably couldn’t be significant in her life unless they were needy or in pain. She’d only really smiled at him when he’d been hurt. Leaning back against the rough tree bark, he found himself reflecting idly that any man who got Mrs. Heart-On-Her-Sleeve Jess Glen into bed no doubt had to bash himself in the head with a tire iron and lapse into unconsciousness, first. Lucas chuckled at his train of thought. What did he care what turned that woman on?
After a minute or two, he noticed Jack, still sitting under the tree. The boy was staring at Lucas and smirking. The way to that damned kid’s funny bone was through debilitating injury, it appeared. As the stinging in his gut ebbed, Lucas muttered under his breath, “Keep it up, little Mr. Marquis de Sade, and you’ll get force-fed a mug of cocoa.”
THE SUN WAS SETTING and the evening had brought with it a brisk north wind, so it was decided the announcement of the essay winners should be held inside. The kids were ushered into Lucas’s great room. While that was going on, the band of volunteers, Mr. Niceguy recipients of years past, or spouses of recipients, were whisking the kitchen and garage clean.
Jess and Lucas, being in charge of the awards, were inside with the kids. The stand-in Mr. Niceguy stood before the window-wall, talking on his cellular phone. Behind him, the glowing sky tinted the room’s white walls and ceiling a soft magenta. The kids, in awe of both the opulence of the house and the grandeur of the sunset, had grown quiet.
Jess helped usher stragglers to empty spots on the carpet—even Lucas’s huge living room, containing two eight-foot couches, twelve dining chairs, a wide brick hearth and various other scattered seating arrangements, couldn’t accommodate forty-three fourteen-year-olds.
As she was trying to coax Jack out of his sullen stance near the kitchen door, Jess risked a glance at her host, clad in faded stone-washed denims. He was finally off the phone, and was leaning against one of the glass-paned doors that led to the terrace.
Shed of attire more suited to his high-powered business persona, Lucas exuded a virility that was hard to ignore. She knew exactly how hard, for she’d