Page 28 of Roughing the Player
“No!”
He stares at me, a puzzled look on his face. “Why not?”
“Because—because”—think fast, Ellie— “You don’t want anyone to know you’re living here, do you? You’ll be mobbed by fans as soon as they find out.”
His gaze swims with suspicion. “Eleanor, what’s going on?”
“Nothing. I’ll get it.” After freeing my hair from his grasp, I rush to the door and open it no more than an inch. “Yes.”
“Hi there.” The man standing on the other side is in his forties. Although he must have been fairly good looking in his youth, he’s gone to seed. He’s now sporting a slight paunch and a comb-over that does nothing to hide the fact he’s going bald. If he’s hoping his loose silk jacket camouflages his less-than-svelte physique, he’s dead wrong. All it does is bring attention to his flab.
“I’m Warren Sheffield.” He gestures down the hallway. “I’m your neighbor three doors down. Ten-D.” He flashes a smile that reveals all of his teeth. Not a pretty sight.
“What can I do for you, Mr. Sheffield?”
“Well, thought I’d come over and introduce myself.” The leer on his face tells me he’s exactly what I feared. He spotted the furniture and the whips and chains and he thought he would come over and play. As if.
I stick out my hand. “Martha . . . Washington.”
He lets out a belly laugh which makes his stomach quiver. Ugh.
“That’s not your real name.”
Granted, I should have come up with a better moniker. But how does he know it’s not real? “It’s not?”
“No.”
“Why do you think that?”
“Because no creature as beautiful as you could have such a prosaic name.”
I take umbrage to that. Martha Washington is a perfectly good handle. “It’s been handed down through generations.”
“All right,Martha. Have it your way. Guess we all must have our little secrets.”
Sheesh. Patronizing much?
“Yes. Well, I have a lot of unpacking to do, so goodnight, Mr. Sheffield.” I start to close the door, but he jams his foot into the opening before I can do so.
“Don’t rush off, darling.”
“I’m not your darling.” What is it with men?
“Well, you could be. I saw some of your things. And I heard what was in one of the boxes.” He smirks. He winks. He waggles a finger at me. “You naughty girl.”
Where’s a hole to crawl into when you need one?
His voice drops a couple of notches to almost a whisper. “We have a club of sorts in the building. You know, the kind that swings.” He winks again. “We get together on Fridays. Evenings, of course. We’d love it if you would join us. Feel free to bring some of your . . . toys. Unit Twelve-B at eight. Don’t be late. Toodle oooh.” Waving his fingers, he slinks off.
Yeah. Sure. I’ll be there. Not. I turn and run right into Brock’s chest. His big, broad, hard chest. He smells like a fresh pine forest, one I’d like to roll around in while he did wild, naughty things to me, while I licked every long, hard inch of—
“What was that all about?”
Ellie. Get a grip. You’re here to do a job. Not drool over the man. Struggling to regain my wits, I mumble, “Umm. A neighbor from two doors down. Warren Sheffield.”
“Three doors.”
“You were listening?”
