Got A Hold On You (Ringside Romance) (5 page)

“He’s dying, isn’t he?”

“Doubtful.” The paramedic checked his vitals.
“Probably a concussion. Won’t know how bad until he wakes up.” Gray foam blocks
framed the Black Jack’s head, which was held steady by a white strap.

She caressed Jack’s cheek with her fingertips. “You’ll
be okay,” she whispered. His skin felt so warm, so damp. “Are you sure he’s not
in a coma?”

“I’m not sure of anything, ma’am,” he said.

She stroked his eyebrow with the pad of her thumb. A
moan rumbled from deep in his chest, and he turned his head toward her touch.

“Whatever you’re doing, it’s bringing him around,” the
paramedic said.

“Shhh, it’s okay.” She placed her palm against his
cheek.

Black Jack’s eyes fluttered open, then closed again.

“Come on, wake up,” she whispered, stroking his cheek.

“Mmmm,” he moaned, turning his lips into her palm.

“Then again, maybe he’s having a good dream.” The
paramedic smirked.

The ambulance hit a pothole and she lurched forward,
her breasts smothering Jack’s face.

“Now I know he’s having a good dream.”

She crossed her arms over her chest and glared at the
paramedic.

Jack mumbled something about fur and duct tape.

“Wake up, Black Jack. Everything’s okay,” she assured
him.

“Everything…okay,” he repeated, opening his dark eyes.

He blinked twice, spotted Frankie and the blood
drained from his face. “Stop the ambulance!”

“Calm down, Mr. Hudson,” the paramedic said.

“Calm down? I’m here because of her. She clubbed me,
knocked me out. I’m lucky I know my own name. Jack, right?
 
My name’s Jack Hudson?”

Tiger Lady reached out, sympathy coloring her bright
blue eyes. He ripped the restraint from his head and tumbled off the stretcher,
landing on the bench beside the paramedic.

“Mr. Hudson, please lie down.”

“I don’t need to lie down. I’m fine except for this
damn headache. Judas Priest, what did you hit me with, a brick?”

She jutted out her chin. “It was a wrench, and I
didn’t hit you that hard.”

“The hell you didn’t.”

“Sir, you need to get back onto the stretcher.”

“I’m fine as long as she doesn’t come near me.” Not
only had the little tiger wench taken him out but he’d also lost the match
thanks to her.

Lost the match. Anger exploded in his chest.

“You cost me the belt!”

He lunged and the paramedic caught his arm. “Sir, this
is unacceptable.”

“No kidding!”

“You have to lie down so I can do my job.”

“With her in the ambulance? Are you crazy?”

She hugged her knees to her chest and looked at him
with frightened blue eyes. Right, like she was that fragile.

“I can’t believe you cost me the belt. I swear, if
it’s the last thing I do, I’ll...” He hadn’t a clue what he’d do, but he had
some pretty good ideas. “I’ll stuff you and put you above my mantel!”

He lunged across the stretcher to squeeze her pretty
little neck, but the paramedic grabbed his shoulders.

“That’s it. Ed, stop the ambulance,” the paramedic
called out.

“But we’re almost there.”

“I said stop!”

The ambulance screeched to a halt. Tiger Lady shrieked
as she flew forward, although not close enough for Jack to get a hold of her.

“Out!” the paramedic ordered her.

“What?” Her eyes widened with disbelief.

“I need to stabilize the patient before we get to the
hospital. That obviously isn’t going to happen with you here.”

She ceremoniously slipped on her gloves and smoothed
her red-streaked hair that sprouted from that ridiculous mask.

“I’m sorry you misunderstood my intentions, Mr. Black
Jack. I was only trying to help.”

With a snap of her wrist, she opened the door and
stumbled onto the pavement. It was comical, the sight of her dressed in that furry
bikini and black mask, standing in the middle of a moonlit street.

“Here.” Jack tossed her a thin, white blanket. “Cover
your-self up before you get arrested.”

She glared at him.

“Hospital’s three blocks north.” The paramedic pulled
the doors closed.

 
Frankie
stood there, watching as a relaxed Black Jack climbed back onto the stretcher.

The ambulance sped away, leaving Frankie alone on
River Road. She unfolded the white cotton wrap. Why not? Togas were all the
rage…in Ancient Rome. Walking along the curb, she analyzed the bed linen to
consider her fashion options. Truth be told, she was a bit chilled.

And angry.

And hurt.

“Where on earth did that come from?” she muttered,
adjusting the sheet around her body. “I don’t care what that jerk thinks of me.
I certainly don’t care if he hates me.”

Reality stopped her mid-step. Not good to have WHAK’s
biggest superstar come to the negotiating table hating the chief negotiator.
Her job was to persuade him to stay with the company, not drive him into an
early retirement.

She swung the tail end of the blanket over her
shoulder and stumbled up the curb, still mastering her balance on the spiked
heels. She was quite the sight. Hopefully a police officer wouldn’t happen by.
She hated to think how she’d explain her way out of this one.

“Uncle Joe, when I get my hands on you…”

She should have known she’d end up like this, or
worse. You never knew what would happen when Uncle Joe waltzed into your life.
Like the time he crashed Thanksgiving dinner with Maxine and four wrestlers in
tow. Frankie was only nine, but she’d never forget the horrified look on her
mother’s face.

Uncle Joe’s line of work was not something Emma McGee
approved of, to say the least. It was violent and barbaric and none of it was
real. Nothing like the stable and homey atmosphere her mother struggled to
provide to make up for Frankie’s deadbeat father’s absence.

She ambled down the sidewalk stabbing a hamburger
wrapper with her heel. Her mother had taught her strength and determination.
Emma didn’t let her husband’s irresponsible behavior ruin her life. She carried
on, accepted his failures and raised her daughter to be a proud and classy
woman.

Frankie jerked the corner of the blanket out of a
puddle. “Real classy.”

If his outburst were any indication, Black Jack would
recover. Whatever pain he suffered certainly wasn’t preventing him from getting
all worked up. Okay, so she’d miscalculated when she’d swung the wrench. It
would have helped if she’d kept her eyes open. But mistakes happen, even to
someone as careful and meticulous as Frankie.

The image of his swollen face tangled her insides with
regret. She felt truly bad about bashing the man’s skull. And yet he seemed
more upset about losing the make-believe championship than suffering from a
serious head injury.

“I’ll never make sense of this,” she said, slipping
the mask off her head. Nor should she have to. Her job was to swoop in, perform
a financial miracle, and disappear back to her calm, sensible life. Oh, how she
yearned for Bradley’s broad shoulders to lean on as they sat together on his
couch and watched the stock market numbers float across the television screen.

She missed the scent of Bradley’s “Manly Man”
aftershave and the feel of his starched white shirt as she rubbed her cheek
against his chest. She missed her two-bedroom condo, her imported hot cocoa,
and Herb Alpert CDs. She even missed that horrible coffee Stella made every
morning at the Smith and Barnes office.

Frankie missed her normal life.

An ambulance whizzed by, pulling up beneath the blue
emergency-room awning. She slowed her step and collapsed on a metal bench some
thirty feet from the hospital entrance.

Why had she even headed in this direction? She’d only
make matters worse. If Black Jack caught sight of her he’d probably rip the IV
out of his arm and run screaming from the hospital. Still, she felt
responsible, and unlike her dad, Frankie McGee faced her responsibilities.

She slapped the mask on the bench beside her and
cradled her chin in an upturned palm. This was a challenge like any other. She
would identify the goal, meet her objective, and finish the job. Whatever it
took. That was her motto. And it had served her well.

So consumed by her thoughts, she barely noticed a pair
of black, crepe-soled shoes hesitate in front of her. Then she heard a “clink.”
Someone tossed pocket change into her mask. She glanced up into the concerned
face of a mid-twenties, blond paramedic.

“Do you want me to call someone?” he offered.

She considered Bradley’s horrified expression if he
found out she’d been moonlighting as a half-naked, ferocious feline, and her
mother’s disappointed scowl at Frankie’s involvement with “Silly Sully.”

“Um, no, thank you.” She attempted a smile.

He nodded and climbed back into his ambulance.

“A bag lady. He thinks I’m a bag lady,” she muttered,
burying her face in her hands.

The sound of screeching tires echoed off the pavement,
followed by the slam of a door, then another. Certainly was a busy night at the
emergency room.

“Frankie!”

She recognized Uncle Joe’s voice but didn’t look up.
Time for him to taste a little guilt.

“You were marvelous!” He slipped his arm around her
shoulder. “Princess, you’ve made your uncle proud.”

“Proud?” She glared at him. “Proud? I made a fool of
myself and nearly killed the superstar, the guy you need to save your stupid
company. I tried to apologize and you know what he did?”

He grinned and shook his head.

“He kicked me out of the ambulance and threatened to
have me stuffed.”

“Oh, sweetheart, you’re my special princess, you know
that?”

She jumped up and paced five steps away, suddenly
balancing very well on the stilettos.

“I’m going home. I don’t belong in this, this lunacy.
I looked so pathetic that someone threw spare change at me.”

“It’s not that bad.” He got up, put his arm around her
shoulder and guided her back to the bench. “I’m sure if we explain things to
Jack he’ll understand.”

“He wants to mount my head above his mantel.”

Uncle Joe giggled.

“It’s not funny.”

“No, but it’s the answer to our prayers.”

“I’m an atheist.”

“No, you’re not. Now, hear me out.”

She crossed her arms over her chest and stared beyond
him at the Methodist church across the street.

“Tonight was explosive, emotional, high stakes drama!
You did it, Frankie. You got the fans more worked up than I’ve seen them in
months. I guarantee we’ll draw an even bigger crowd at tomorrow night’s show.
By the time the Rompin’ Stompin’ tour starts next month we’ll be selling
tickets like hot cakes!”

“This was a one-time special, remember?”

“And you did a fabulous job.” He winked. “Let’s go
talk to Jack.”

“He’ll strangle me on sight.”

“He’ll strangle Tatianna, not Francine McGee, my niece
and WHAK contract negotiator.”

“In case you haven’t noticed, I’m not looking a lot
like myself these days.” She flipped the corner of the white blanket over a
bare shoulder.

He snapped his fingers and Bill Billings rushed
forward with a garment bag.

“We thought you might need your clothes,” Uncle Joe
said with an apologetic smile.

She snatched the bag from Bill’s hand. “I can’t do
this tonight.”

“Strike while the iron’s hot, my dear.” Uncle Joe led
her into the hospital and down the hall to the bathroom. “Hudson needs money
and we need Hudson. It’s a match made in Heaven.”

“More like Hell.”

“Think positive, Frankie, positive.”

“I’m positively never going to forgive you.”

“Of course not. Now go change before you get arrested
for exposing yourself.”

She swung the bathroom door open and dropped the bag
on the counter. Ripping open the zipper, she glanced at her reflection in the
mirror above the sink. Black mascara smudged her eyes, and her red-streaked
hair stuck out in twenty-five different directions.

With her usual efficiency, she went to work washing
the war paint off her face and rinsing the temporary color from her hair. She
wound her wet, shoulder-length hair into a conservative bun, brushed her
eyelashes with a quick stroke of mascara, and drew a thin line of “Perfect
Peach” gloss across her lips. Uncle Joe brought the navy suit she’d worn
earlier, along with her half-inch pumps and tortoiseshell glasses. This felt
better, much better. A crisp cotton blouse, wool-blend suit and practical pumps
would make everything right. She removed the uncomfortable contact lenses and
placed the glasses on the bridge of her nose. Everything was almost back to
normal.

Almost.

She shoved all evidence of tonight’s fiasco into the
garment bag and zipped it shut. Glancing into the mirror, she studied her pale
but passable reflection. She might not be ready for a boardroom, but she looked
good enough to negotiate with a barbaric wrestler. She flung the door open and
spotted Uncle Joe hovering a few feet away.

“Afraid I’d sneak off?” She shoved the bag at him.
“Burn it.”

With a brisk business stride, she aimed for the
admitting clerk’s desk. “Black Jack Hudson, please.”

The middle-aged woman eyed Frankie over her reading
glasses. “Black who?”

“Jack Hudson. He was just brought in.”

The clerk leafed through a stack of papers. “Here we
go. Jack Hudson. Head trauma. He was unconscious when they brought him in.”

“Unconscious?” Her stomach flipped.

The door to the examining area swung open and the
paramedic who’d attended Jack walked out.

“Excuse me. Weren’t you the one that treated Jack
Hudson?” Frankie asked.

“Yes, ma’am.” He eyed her with suspicion, not
recognizing her as the feline femme fatale he’d kicked out of the ambulance.