Section I: Change is good… Real good
AW, HELL, what was it about her?
Michael Romero absently rubbed the back of his neck with
his palm and eyed where Kyra White sat two tables away at
the Tampa, Florida bar and grill frequented by employees
of neighborhood businesses, including the architectural
firm where he and Kyra both worked. Aside from being co-
workers — he was one of four partners while she did the
bookkeeping — they were best friends. A relationship that
had been cemented when she'd first hired on at Fisher,
Palmieri, Romero and Tanner four years ago. The first week
on the job, she'd made a number of nervous mistakes and
his partners had wanted to let her go. Instead, Michael
had realized where the problem lay — her fear that she
wouldn't live up to the job — and had befriended her. No
big sacrifice. She'd turned out to be one hell of a
bookkeeper. And the status of their relationship quickly
escalated to them becoming best friends and led him to
where he was right now. Essentially lusting after a woman
who was off-limits to him.
Well, maybe "lusting" wasn't the word. But there was
something about Kyra that jumped up and nipped him on the
butt whenever he wasn't looking. Scratch that. Whenever he
was looking at her, while she didn't have a clue about the
direction of his thoughts. A strange kind of gravitational
pull that made it virtually impossible to think about
anything or anyone else.
Of course it didn't help that Kyra was sitting with the
latest in a long line of short-term boyfriends, guys who
would rate high on anyone's moron scale. His gaze skimmed
over Kyra's long, shiny chestnut-brown hair, her oval
green eyes, her clean, girl-next-store features, and her
slender form beneath a long, loose-fitting khaki skirt and
boxy white blouse. Funny, he never much thought about her
in sexual terms whenever they were face-to-face, trying
out a new restaurant, playing on the firm's softball team,
or watching the latest video. Then she was his best
friend, full of enthusiasm and challenging ideas, ready to
laugh at his lamest jokes, constantly carping about his
poor diet and his need for a woman deserving of him.
At times such as these, however, Michael wondered if the
guy she was with knew how lucky he was that he could press
his mouth against her soft pink one. Fan open her blouse
to expose her elegant throat. And then, Michael pondered
whether any of Kyra's boyfriends had a clue how to handle
a woman like her. Touch her in just the right way. Stroke
her slick heat until her breath came in quick gasps and
her body tensed in climax.
Aw, hell.
Michael stared at jerk number — Hell, he'd lost count over
the past four years, stopping at somewhere around number
ten, though he suspected there had been a few more since
then. Thirteen. He'd label this one Thirteen just because
it felt right. Aside from being a very smug, up-and-coming
attorney, Craig Holsom was attractive and he knew it. Kyra
had been dating him for three weeks. A record even by her
standards. Holsom's gaze wandered to a passing waitress,
making no secret of his interest in the girl's generous
physical assets. Michael stared down to his lap, where he
was scratching his palm, and realized he was filled with
the sudden urge to knock the grin straight from Holsom's
face.
He grimaced, then took a long chug of his beer. He should
have gone home instead of dropping by Lolita's for a brew
with Kyra. Especially since he knew Kyra was meeting
Craig. He was incapable of saying more than a semicordial
hello to any of her dates before begging off with one
excuse or another to settle at another table. Tonight's
excuse had been a nonexistent date that was supposed to
meet him there. It had become nonexistent as of two hours
ago, when Jennifer Polasky had called him at work and told
him she had to work late and was turning down his dinner
invitation. She'd wanted a rain check, but Michael wasn't
that interested and told her he'd call to reschedule
sometime next week. He didn't bother to write a note to
himself because he knew he wouldn't be contacting her.
Michael's mind ventured back to the object of his gaze.
He'd already figured out that some of what he felt for
Kyra stemmed from his need to protect her. He took great
satisfaction in knowing that he knew her better than any
other person alive — her sister Alannah aside — including
all of the men she dated put together. He admired her
strength when she'd told him she'd grown up in a two-room
shack in a small town outside Memphis, Tennessee. He was
equally as appalled when he'd learned she'd been working
since she was ten, baby-sitting, pet walking, newspaper
delivering, then graduating to fast-food joints so that
she and her older sister Alannah could eke out a living
after their parents had died. And he was even strangely
proud that he'd been able to help her help herself when
she'd flubbed up a receivables report and was almost
dismissed from her job at the firm. Now she practically
ran the place, keeping everything and everyone in line,
proving to be the glue that held them all together when
things got rough.
She was a breath of fresh air to a man who had grown up in
a confused family environment. And she was a harsh
taskmaster who refused to let him feel sorry for himself.
"Remember…things could always be worse," was one of her
trademark sayings.
And she was living proof that they, indeed, could be. But
why she continued to prove the point by dating men who
didn't have a clue about her true worth ceaselessly
mystified him. Whenever he brought it up, she laughed,
waved her slender hand, and told him that she was
attracted to whichever guy she was attracted to, simple as
that.
And Michael had been there to help pick her up whenever
one of the jerks dumped her, as they all eventually did.
Kyra's face turned suddenly ashen. It was only then that
Michael realized he'd been staring at her nonstop. He
looked at Holsom, the way he held his hands, palms up, the
elevated state of his brows as if explaining something
Kyra wasn't equipped to handle.
Uh-oh.
Michael's fingers tightened on his beer bottle as Kyra
reached out and rested a hand on Holsom's sleeve. Michael
wished he hadn't sat so far away. If he were closer, he'd
be able to listen in on what they were saying. Then again,
he didn't have to hear the words to translate their
meaning.
"I…don't understand," was written all over Kyra's pretty
face.
Holsom plucked her hand from his forearm and put it down
in front of her, then patted it patronizingly. The bottle
in Michael's hand nearly shattered. "It's over," Jerk
Number Thirteen mouthed.
Here we go again.
Michael started to get up from the table. It was getting a
little old, this playing the knight-in-shining-armor bit.
Especially since he never earned the princess's
traditional gratitude.
Kyra urgently said something to Holsom and he coiled back,
staggering to his own feet.
Double uh-oh.
Michael forced himself to leave his beer where it sat on
the table and began to make his way toward his best friend.
But he was afraid he was too late. "Oh, yeah?" Holsom
said, his face turning an unap-pealing shade of
purple. "Well you're about as lively in bed as a dead
fish."
Oh, boy.
KYRA WAS CERTAIN her jaw was stuck in the open position.
She gaped at Craig Holsom as if he had two heads. Which,
at the moment, he did, because the room suddenly swam in
front of her, not so much a fancy room in a trendy club,
but the fish tank Craig had just plunged her into the
middle of.
He was dumping her.
And he had just insulted her abilities in bed.
The problem was, Kyra wasn't sure what bothered her more.
Sure, okay, when he'd said it was over between them a few
minutes ago, she'd been unable to swallow the comment that
their relationship could have been clocked on an egg timer…
pretty much the same way sex with him had run. Then he'd
gotten up and compared her to a dead fish in front of
everyone.
Kyra let her eyes close and rubbed her temples. This
couldn't be happening. Not on top of everything else that
had happened today. First she'd awakened to hear her
landlady pounding on the floor, complaining her alarm
buzzer was too loud. Then during lunch hour, she found out
the dry cleaner had lost nearly every piece of clothing
she owned aside from what she had on. To top all that off,
this afternoon she'd stumbled onto an accounting error at
work that could mean her job if she didn't figure out what
amounts she'd added up wrong and quick.
She'd considered opting out of drinks with Craig
altogether, fearing what else fate had in store for her
that day. Instead, she'd figured things couldn't get much
worse.
Oh, how very wrong she'd been.
Quiet giggling from the club patrons penetrated Kyra's
distracted state. She blinked and stared up at Craig who
was wearing an all too satisfied expression on his face.
Kyra twisted her lips in contemplation. You know
something? Michael was right. Craig was a jerk. The only
problem was, Michael was always right. Which was
infinitely irritating.
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the man in question
moving in her direction. Dear, sweet, solid Michael. Good.
Because she'd need him to help her get out of here with at
least a modicum of dignity.
Kyra pushed away from the intimate table for two, her
knees wobbling so hard she was afraid she might knock over
her chair. Thankfully, she didn't. She glanced at
Michael's thunderous face, then at Holsom's smug
expression, half tempted to let Michael have a go at her
latest ex. But, strangely, she wasn't all that upset that
Craig had broken things off with her. In fact, she was…
relieved.
What did that mean?
It meant she should have walked away when he'd compared
her skin to a peach at the produce section of the local
supermarket three weeks ago. What a lame come-on line, she
thought now. And about as original as the guy himself. The
loser probably hung out at the supermarket to pick up
chicks.
Kyra glanced around the club, realizing that almost every
pair of eyes was on her, waiting for her response to
Craig's comment.
She tilted her head and smiled at her ex, satisfied that
he looked instantly afraid of what she might say. And he
had good reason to be. "Yes, well, Craig, better a dead
fish than a lost cause, even with Viagra."
She shoved her chair under the table, which in turn hit
his chair, knocking the back of it against one of Craig's
more strategic areas. He gasped and grabbed the vicinity
in question with both hands, while one of Kyra's own hands
went to cover her mouth.
"I'm so sorry," she said. "I didn't mean —" She felt
fingers on her arm. "Let's go," Michael said in that deep
baritone that always commanded her attention.
"You bitch!" Craig said, probably meaning to shout the
insult, though it came out as a high-pitched wimper. Even
with her genuine remorse, she felt the voice fit.
Michael slowed his step, and this time Kyra found herself
tugging him toward the door.
"Call her that again and you'll be eating your teeth," she
heard Michael tell Craig.
Thankfully there were no more exchanges in the few moments
it took them to get from the table to the door. Once
outside, Kyra blinked against the setting sun, then
collapsed against the closed door, the thick late-summer
Florida heat seeming to spray beads of sweat all over her
skin. She blinked up into Michael's glowering face. A lock
of raven-black hair hung over his brow, his natural honey-
colored skin looking darker yet in the waning light.
She glanced toward the door then found herself smiling. "I
really didn't mean to…well, you know, hit him with the
chair."
"That's a shame, seeing as it was so fitting." She blinked
and the side of Michael's mouth budged up in a grin. He
really was devastatingly handsome when he grinned.