Kelly Minton hides away in a Manhattan apartment building, amusing herself by striking fear in the hearts of the other residents and especially the lazy superintendent. When she's not slicing into someone with her merciless tongue, she's writing erotic stories on her faithful computer and listening to Frank Sinatra at all hours, much to the irritation of her neighbors. Since her father owns the building, no one dares stand up to her notoriously frosty temper.
But all that is about to change for Kelly when the mailman delivers to the wrong box and she finds that the sexy new resident in the apartment below is not about to let her reputation as "The Shrew in 4C" stop him from getting to the root of her issues, as well as into her panties. And under her skin.
Be Warned: anal sex, sex toys, public exhibition.
The door opened and there she stood, one angry-looking brunette, flourishing a baseball bat and wearing a faded, baggy t-shirt that reached just to her thighs. No roller-skates, he noted. But she was definitely doing something on wheels in there. It looked as though she’d been in a struggle of some sort. Her hair was a wild mess and the seam was torn at the shoulder of her t-shirt.
A thin gleam of sweat shone on her face as she scowled at him around the door. “Who the Hell are you? And why are you thumping on my door?”
Her eyes, if he was not mistaken, were purple. Or maybe it was just because they were smoking hot with a fiery rage and...guilt? He’d seen that look before on defendants with something to hide. Usually it was accompanied by a really, really bad alibi.
“Rucchio,” he snapped. “Moved in below you. Would appreciate it if you could decrease the noise level at night and....whatever else it is you do in there. Keep it down.”
The violet color grew stronger as her eyes widened and then she blinked. Was that a flush, or was it simply the heavy heat making her face darken? “Whatever else I do in here? What’s that supposed to mean?” He saw her fingers tighten around the bat and he flinched, but stood his ground.
“I have no idea, Ms. Minton. You could be cutting up a body for all I know.” Definitely serial killer potential. She hardly ever came out of her apartment, as far as he could tell, and no one in the building knew much about her. They didn’t even know how she made her living, or how long she’d been there. He was only surprised she wasn’t wearing a frayed woolly hat and fluffy slippers, and holding a dead cat.
Shadows flickered across her eyes. “You know my name?”
He handed her a pile of mail. “Ms. K. Minton. Apt 4C. Apparently the mailman got lazy and dumped your mail in my box today.”
She hesitated, still eyeing him angrily. Eventually she lowered her baseball bat, stuck it under her other arm and made a grab for the mail. The door opened wider and a wave of heat blew into his face.
“Hot in there,” he nodded toward her apartment. That would explain her state of undress and the sheen on her skin. Her t-shirt was sticking to her curves and two perky nipples stood to attention through the worn cotton.
As she leafed through her mail, he noticed for the first time a slender scar on her forehead, but his gaze quickly drifted back down again to a pair of perfect breasts under that thin drape of cotton. “Air-conditioner broken,” she muttered reluctantly.
“I see.” Trying not to admire her nipples, he wasn’t having much success. “Cooler one floor down,” he stuck a finger under the knot of his tie to loosen it, “in my place.” His gaze trailed a tiny bead of sweat as it trickled down the side of her neck.
“How nice for you,” she snapped, not looking up. “Better go back there and stop banging on my door, disturbing my peace.”
“Disturbing your peace? What about Sinatra blasting at all hours?”
“I’m not blasting anything.” She moved back now, preparing to retreat inside her apartment, but her baseball bat caught on the doorjamb and she fumbled, mail falling from her grasp.
“An interesting selection,” he muttered crisply, watching it tumble to the hall floor. A catalog of sex toys, another featuring rubber wear and one boldly entitled Modern Bondage. Earlier, he’d actually opened a small package before he noted the address on it and although he’d hastily stuffed the contents back the moment he realized the error, he hadn’t re-taped the end of the box. Now, when the package fell between them, a pink dildo in clear plastic casing tumbled out into the hallway.
She bent down and grabbed it, just as he crouched to help.
“I was expecting a package myself, so I opened it without looking,” he explained.
Ms. Minton of 4C shot him a blistering glare that would have given Donald Trump pause for thought before he dared fire her. “It’s research,” she snapped, stuffing the dildo under her chin and retrieving the rest of her mail from his hands and the floor.
She stood abruptly, treating him to a close-up of her long, shapely legs. “Research.”
Her skin smelled of coconut oil and sex. It wafted over him, a hot, spicy cloud of her musk, as she spun around and went back into her apartment. He also caught a flash of blue silk panties and a tight, toned ass under her t-shirt.
One hand on her door, she paused a moment while he scrambled upright, his motion delayed by a sudden, inconvenient arousal. Damn it, this was not what he needed right now. He was off women. Sworn off them, after the last disaster. “Research?” he muttered again, his tongue too thick for his mouth suddenly.
“I’m a writer, Dickwad,” she exclaimed.