Bootscootin' Blahniks (7 page)

“Kind of like your tomato fetish. Odd. But also tolerable. Wouldn’t you say?” Roxy followed the dig with a groggy yawn. “But hey, lucky for you, Manolo’s also into Nubian Folk music.”

“Nude-been, what?” Damn, maybe he needed rest too. After working both the farm and the dance floor, his eyes felt as if free weights were racked on his lids, but he’d thought his hearing was still decent. Although, it wasn’t often this farm boy received stimuli at two a.m.

“I said, New-be-un Folk Music,” she articulated. “From what I’ve read, that type of music was the early root of bootscooting. Something, I’d think you’d already know.”

“Hmmm, never heard that before. And here I thought it came right out of
Urban Cowboy.
” Maybe he should read more, trying subjects not found in his dad’s, dog-eared
Farmers’ Almanacs
. Like he had time for recreational reading with the damn Tomato Festival.

Zayne removed a pile of design books from the end of Roxy’s couch as well as several DVDs and Country Weekly magazines then sat by her feet. He removed her surgical boot and ice pack, placing her bad ankle on his leg to give it extra elevation. He ran his hand over the swollen and bandaged surface, careful not to stray above her knee cap. Purplish-red and green-blue bruises spread outside the edges of the wrap. His heart squeezed imagining her pain.

Roxy tensed-up from his initial touch. But the longer his hands lingered, the more her body relaxed.

“Am I hurting you?” He asked, pulling a pillow from behind him and settling her foot on it, re-securing the Velcro straps of the cold pack.

“It’s not you,” she jerked as he finished tightening the straps, then relaxed into the pillow. “It’s throbbing. That’s all. But I’m the stupid ass who fell.”

“You said that,” he said then chuckled as her dark chestnut eyes fought the urge to close.

“You should probably take this pain medication before you go to sleep.” Zayne pulled the prescription bottle out of his shirt pocket. “Where’s the kitchen in this place? Let me guess…the third floor?”

“Shit,” Roxy sat up with a jolt, her eyes wide with apprehension.

“What? The builder forgot the kitchen?” Zayne chided then laughed. “Or is that in the garage too?”

“No, asshole, I have a kitchen on the second floor,” Roxy flopped back into a pillow and covered her forehead with her hands. “You said water. That reminded me I need to let the dogs out. Actually you do. Unless you’re interested in carrying me to my bedroom to get them. Then cart my lame ass back down again.”

“Okay. Relax. I’ll take care of your dogs. But first, take this medicine.” Zayne handed her a large white pill, its size and shape similar to a piece of Mike & Ike candy. Although he doubted the taste would be as enticing. Reading the directions on the bottle, learning two was the max dose, he took out another one. “You’d better take two.”

“Are you sure?”

“No. I’m going to drug you then take advantage of you.” Talk about distrustful and paranoid, he thought. If he was still hanging around after what she’d put him through in the last twenty-four hours, she could probably safely assume he was a fairly decent guy.

She raised her eyebrows as if considering the possibility.
Damn her eyes were beautiful
. His groin drew taut.

“Right, Jack Ass. There’s this incredible chemistry between us.” Popping the pills into her mouth, she reached behind her on an end table for a half empty water bottle. Washing the pills down, she set the bottle on the floor next to the couch, tossed her head back and laughed.

“Yeah, that’s it…chemistry. Can’t you feel it? It’s…” he said, catching himself in another yawn before he could complete his thought. Six a.m. was going to hit mighty damn hard.

“Oh, yeah, we’re so hot together, neither one of us can stay awake,” she said, her eyes about to give-in to dreamland.

She stretched on the couch, awkwardly varying her position, eliciting his sympathy. Scrunched from end to end, she looked uncomfortable as hell, her neck and head at a bizarre angle against the sofa’s armrest, a Goldilocks in the wrong-sized bed.

According to the nurses, she should sleep off the pain but continue the ice therapy. She didn’t need him causing her grief, which he seemed to do just by breathing. Since she’d cajoled him into being her dog handler, though, he’d take care of them, refill her ice pack then head home. The sooner he got out of groin shot of their potent chemistry, the better off he’d be.

“So where are Dipstick and Darling? I’ve missed them.” He loosened the straps of the now tepid cold pack and removed it from its cover.

“Th…”

“Third floor,” he finished the thought for her. “I’m on my way.”

“Make it quick, Cowboy.” She finished off her water. “We’ll be lucky if they haven’t already pissed themselves.”

Zayne left her cussing on the couch and headed for the stairs. For some reason, he got a kick out of her foul mouth. She was harsh, a bit rough around the edges, but not in a mean way. He got the impression she liked to pretend she was a bad ass lot lizard. Her big and brown, hopeful but used-to-being-disappointed eyes betrayed her tough girl bite.

Little did she know, her rough edges soothed him. Being the son of Kat McDonald had made him tough, tough like an American Idol contestant swallowing and assimilating a Simon Cowell critique.

Zayne shook his head, once more in awe he’d let his mom cajole him into watching that drama with her every week. But it made her happy. And that’s all that mattered.

Hell, after thirty-five years, he had yet to learn how to handle his mother’s harsh honesty, let alone a woman who could meet her match-for-match. If he had to bet on Roxy Vaughn or Kat McDonald, he’d put chips on both their shoulders. Simon Cowell didn’t stand a chance.

Zayne had never been interested in a woman with Roxy’s kind of spitfire spunk, but the sparks she ignited were too colorful not to pursue.

Clear of the Manolo Mausoleum, Zayne ventured into the foyer, checking one more time to make sure the croc was permanently napping. Out of the beast’s reach, he took the stairs two at a time to the second floor of Roxy’s tri-level.

Reaching the landing, he entered an open, airy living space that included a gourmet kitchen, with custom, hand-crafted cabinetry. His friend Damian would give a testicle to build rooms for this much money. The workmanship was awesome. Zayne had been raised to recognize and appreciate quality when he saw it, and this spread wreaked high-class, spare-no-expense quality.

Pure upscale, sophisticated urban living in one of Nashville’s most sought after neighborhoods. Roxy knew how to live and live well. Not that he doubted her unique taste wouldn’t carry over from her clothes to her home. The woman possessed class and, in the not too distant past, must have had money to set up this pad. All the more interesting that she freaked out about his truck estimate. Didn’t chicks like her have trust funds to forever cushion their lives?

Scratching noises and whimpers from the third level interrupted his thoughts. Not wanting to wander uninvited throughout Roxy’s home and certain her dogs were in bad need of a potty break, Zayne left the ice pack in the sink and began his ascent of the final flight of stairs. He huffed and grumbled. Despite the craftsmanship, the layout of the home sucked.

But once he stepped onto the third floor, the view stopped him with an unexpected punch to his gut. Ten-foot ceilings and expansive windows filled one wall, framing Nashville’s downtown skyline. The picture-like setting begged him to step onto the outdoor terrace.

Passing a fireplace that separated Roxy’s bedroom from an ornate, yet comfortable sitting room, Zayne opened the French doors and walked out into the spring night.

At this height and location, an electrifying quietness blanketed the cityscape. He’d never looked at Nashville from this vantage point. If he lived in this house, he’d spend all his quality time here, watching the city sleep, dozing in the chaise lounge until the sunrise awakened him.

His mom would get a kick out of this.

Scratching noises broke the spell. He hustled inside, feeling bad he’d forgotten the reason for his sojourn.

Once back in Roxy’s sitting room, he found the dogs and their cages next to a drafting table. Dipstick and Darling looked out with their large, sweet-natured eyes. Zayne’s chest swelled as if a balloon filled with the animals’ joy took over his heart. Dogs socked him in the cardio muscle, creating irreversible damage.

Unlatching their cages, he noticed one-of-a-kind, jeweled labels attached to each. They could only have been Roxy’s handiwork. The girl certainly loved her bling. On polished silver, in decadently scrolled script, he read ‘Dipstick’ and ‘Darling.’ Dipstick’s plate was studded with some type of funky brown crystals and Darling’s featured large, pink sparkling rocks. He also wasn’t surprised, knowing Roxy’s flare for matching everything, that each dog wore a collar and tag coordinating with its crate label.

Zayne had no sooner let Dipstick and Darling free when both dogs and their loose-skinned, wrinkly-faces were all over him. They licked and sniffed identifying him as (a) dog-lover or (b) non-dog-lover. Quickly deciding he was the former or perhaps remembering he’d helped them in their snack sickness state, the dogs wouldn’t leave him alone. Maybe they also smelled traces of their long lost buddy Studley Pete.

Zayne sat down on the edge of an over-stuffed ottoman. Both dogs jumped up on him, competing for his attention as their curly-fry tails jiggled.

A far cry away on the canine social scale from Studley Pete’s shelter-rescued, lab shepherd mix, Zayne had read about these designer mutts after his mom had seen them on the Today Show. She hadn’t let him forget since how much she wanted one. Yep, Dipstick and Darling were definitely Puggles — a cross between a pug and a beagle. And if he weren’t mistaken, their breed had first been discovered walking alongside Manhattan elite. No wonder Roxy had them. He couldn’t imagine a woman more uniquely elite and Puggle-worthy.

“What are you doing up there?” Roxy’s voice crackled, appearing to come right through the wall. “I’m sure the poor dears have to pee something fierce.”

Zayne looked in the direction of Roxy’s voice and found an intercom, its green light buzzing.
Damn
! He couldn’t get away from her, even two floors up — definitely the house’s biggest design problem yet.

“Do they look like…they…uh…missed me,” Roxy said, her slurred speech, signaling the pain medication must be working.

Not really, Zayne thought to himself, they just look like they have to pee. Thinking it best to ignore his sarcastic impulses, he pushed the intercom’s green talk button and changed the subject. “I’d been meaning to ask where did you get these dogs? I’ve looked online. No one seems to be able to keep them in stock.”

The intercom beeped. “I don’t know where they came from. My mom got them for me after she forgot my birthday last year. Head…upstairs…I mean downstairs. We’ll talk while we pee. There’s intercoms…in the…stairwells too, so you won’t lose me.”

‘We’ll talk while we pee?’ Something wasn’t quite right with that statement, but he’d better pass on it. Good thing he’d given her two pills. She’d be off his ass in no time.

He pressed the green button again. “By the way, how are you reaching an intercom from your office couch? You’re supposed to be off that ankle.” It’d be just like her to be walking on it when she was told not to.

“Relax, Dudley Do-Right,” she mocked him. “I happen…to have a reboat…remote.”

How convenient
. E
ven though she was immobile, he couldn’t dodge her medically-induced babble.

He rubbed Dipstick and Darling’s ears and massaged their elongated snouts, giving-in to their lap-loving personalities. Figuring he’d probably better get them outside, he located their leashes on top of Roxy’s drafting table and hooked them to each dog’s collar. Brown with the brown gems and pink with the pink. Roxy had to have been raised in Granimals. No wonder his mother loved her. When Zayne was a boy, she’d bought the entire line each season. He’d wanted Wranglers but always ended up with Granimals.

He followed the dogs down the first set of stairs. They raced around the side hall toward the second set. Damn. The steps were a bitch. Especially trying to hurdle dog leashes. No wonder he planned to keep his parent’s ranch-style home instead of building a modern multi-level dwelling. After working the fields then the saloon every day, stairs of any kind were an unnecessary aggravation.

On the second-floor landing, he found the intercom mount, painted the same canary yellow as the wall. He pushed the button, but couldn’t wait ’til Roxy responded as Dipstick and Darling made a mad dash for the first floor.

“You…rangggg…,” Roxy squealed into the speaker on his way down the final flight.
Yep, the drugs were working
.

Reaching the foyer, he yelled into the study. “And just where would your Highness like me to allow her royal Puggles to relieve themselves?”

“Out back. Follow the dogs…through the garbage…garage, whatever…,” she yelled back then laughed some more. “How did you know they were Puggles? I’m stressed…I mean…impressed, yeah, that’s it.”

Stepping into the two-car garage, he spotted Roxy’s cracked-up Mercedes and…her motorcycle?
Unbelievable
. The woman was a fascinating mystery. Who would have thought the fashion princess would also be a Harley Mama?
Unfucking believable
.

Lost in thoughts of taking her vintage Harley for a test-run on the back roads of the farm, Roxy seated behind him, he imagined the feel of her body against his. The idea drove him to new places, making him hotter than a bike’s exhaust pipe after a long ride.

Dipstick and Darling pulled at him, stopping his mind in its wistful tracks. He opened the back door of the garage, letting them tug him over a cobblestone terrace into a fairytale-like courtyard.

Surrounded by a brick privacy wall, Roxy’s backyard was cut straight out of the pages of his mother’s
Southern Living
then pasted here. He’d stepped into a honky tonk Garden of Eden. He unleashed the dogs and let them do their thing. Thankfully, the heady smell of roses and wild lilies, all in shades of pink, hit his nose ahead of the dogs’ number two.