Page 42 of The Nanny and the Beefcake
“Raz-a-ma-taz?” Libby repeated.
“It’s what they liked to call me when they were little. I’m eleven years older than they are. I helped raise them with my granny. I can tell you this. It was easier when they were toddlers and could barely talk.”
He didn’t mention his parents. What had happened to them? But she wasn’t about to ask—not now. Then again, she’d rather eat broken glass than discuss her father.
She pushed the thought aside. “Your sisters seem great, Raz. The teasing means they love you.”
He nodded. “They’re studying to be schoolteachers and spending the summer in South Korea helping kids learn English,” he said, and in the glow of the dash, she caught the hint of a grin—and not the cocky, shit-eating grin he was so good at deploying. No, this expression radiated pride.
She understood the reaction.
A grin matching Raz’s pulled at the corners of her lips. “My brothers are abroad for school, too. They want to be—”
“Doctors,” Raz supplied. “Remember, Briggs knows—”
“Everything about me,” she finished as a chill ran through her.
Did he know about her father? Surely, a background check would have revealed more than his name and employment status.
“Libby, plum, I’m…” Raz began, then leaned toward the windshield and slowed down. “Bollocks,” he whispered.
“You’re,bollocks?” she asked, confusion marring her features before she caught sight of several vans parked outside a gated drive.
“Bloody press,” he mumbled as they pulled up to the gate. He looked her over. “Just smile and act…spiritual.” The proud big brother had disappeared as the vapid athlete took over.
Did he really think yoga and spirituality were an act?
Before she could protest, he rolled down the driver’s side window as beams of light lit him in a harsh blast of yellow.
“Lion, is it true? Does your training involve a guru?”
“Are you afraid you can’t beat the Snake without going to extremes?”
The questions came at Raz in sharp pops of sound. She ignored the jittery men calling out and focused on the boxer in the seat next to her. A muscle twitched on his cheek before he donned a cocksure grin.
Was this his mask, or was this the real Raz? Who was he at his core?
“You know better than to think that the British Beast is afraid of anything,” he boasted. “I crush whoever’s across from me in the ring. You saw me tonight, lads. Your girlfriends wish you were half as fit and jacked as I am.”
A few of the men chuckled, but Libby recoiled.
What a smug asshat!
“Are you planning on showing up for the fight? It’s a fair question, knowing your history,” called another reporter.
Raz clenched his jaw as angry energy tinged with bitter remorse built around him in invisible plumes of fury. Her chi may be off, but she couldn’t mistake his vibe. For the last seventy-five days, she’d lived it.
“Oh, I’ll be there,” Raz growled. “This is the fight of the century, mates. And you’re looking at the winner.”
Was she utterly disgusted with this egotistical version of the man?
That would be a Buddha-licious yes.
This creep wrecked her inner balance.
But she had questions.
What had happened to him? Why had he skipped out on his last fight? He didn’t seem like the type to back down from anything. And then she remembered the Derricks. This must be the fight they’d been talking about.
