One Wild Wedding Night_ No Way Out - Leslie Kelly [4]
“Sit your sorry ass down,” she snapped. “Before you make a bigger fool of yourself.”
“I don’t think so….”
“You don’t recognize me, do you.” Her eyes were narrowed, that chin up higher, those crazy-sexy lips pursed.
“I meet a lot of people,” he explained, wondering if he could possibly have picked up this stunning woman somewhere, had a wild night with her and then walked away. As he used to do.
Often.
“How many of ’em whupped your butt at T-ball every single game?”
And that was when he realized the truth. When the eyes became familiar and the cheeks as recognizable as his own. When he remembered that sassy voice, those lips—always curled up in laughter—and that stubborn jaw as she struggled to keep up with the boys in the small southern town where he’d spent a large part of his childhood.
All the memories of all the long, lazy days and the sweet summer nights poured into his brain and his heart took a hit harder than any he’d ever taken on the field.
“Vanessa McKee,” he whispered, breathing the words more than saying them, as if her name was something sacred, something too painful to voice out loud for all the regrets and could-have-beens that would come with it.
“That’s right,” she said. “And now that you remember…this is for taking my virginity, humiliating me and then disappearing out of my life forever.”
Giving him not one second to prepare, she swung her arm back, fisted her hand and slammed it right into his jaw.
Chapter 2
Vanessa hadn’t really thought about the fact that she was assaulting someone until she felt her knuckles connect with the block of granite disguised as Stan Jackson’s handsome head. But once it did, once the crack sounded in the bar—sending the whole place into utter silence after one quick, shocked gasp from a nearby table—she had to admit it felt good. Damn good.
She’d been wanting to do that for twelve years.
“You hit me,” he said, sounding completely astonished.
Too bad he wasn’t saying it from the floor, all bloody and stuff. Landing a punch like that on almost any other man would have sent him down. But not this one. He simply stared at her in disbelief, rubbed his jaw and shook his head. “I can’t believe you hit me.”
“You’re lucky I’m not armed.”
“That’s gonna bruise.”
“Good.” Banging up that strong face would serve another purpose, beyond causing him a few minutes’ worth of pain. Maybe it would bring him down a peg. Because no man should be that handsome and that sexy and a rich, gifted athlete on top of it.
Stan Jackson was a six-foot-two solid wall of muscle wrapped in creamy chocolate skin that every hot-blooded woman in America wanted to taste. His soulful brown eyes usually held laughter—at least when he wasn’t in pain, like he was now. And the man had a killer smile, as many billboards around the country could prove. His high cheekbones and square jaw would have made him just as suited to a modeling career as to one in sports and the completely bald head just emphasized the stark, masculine beauty of his face.
Too bad all that prettiness was wasted on one lying, cowardly bastard.
The bartender, who’d come running over, huffed and puffed as he grabbed Stan’s arm. “Mr. Jackson…do you want me to call the cops?” He swung his attention toward Vanessa. “What’s your problem, lady, are you crazy? Don’t you know who this is?”
“Hell, yes, I know who this is,” she snapped back. “And if you knew him as well as I do, you’d want to punch him in the face, too.”
“You’re looney!”
“It’s okay, I’m fine,” Stan said, waving the bartender away. He focused all his attention on Vanessa, adding, “She hits like a girl.”
Vanessa’s fingers clenched again, until she saw Stan’s body tense in preparation for it. He’d intentionally egged her on, like he’d always done when they were kids. If she went after him again, he’d be ready for her. And his piercing