The Bad Jokes #1: The Redhead

Chapter 1: It's Hard To Argue with Reality

Even in my wildest fantasies, I never imagined that the man of my dreams would look like a nightmare in black leather.

But it's hard to argue with reality when it was staring at me in the face. Or, more accurately, yelling at me in an up-close and personal sort of way.

Nothing about the man currently getting in my face matched the cozy little fantasy I'd woven ever since I was eighteen. No, since that night the psychic had ordered me to wait for the man with the scar, I'd imagined what he'd be like: Tall, but not too tall; nicely-built but not overly muscular; blondish-brown, neatly-trimmed hair; a discreet scar hidden mostly in his eyebrow. He'd be as smart as a professor, have a quick smile and treat me like a queen. He'd quote Shakespeare, admire my intelligence and write me poetry...in three different languages. All-in-all, he'd be the type of well-loved man surrounded by children and cute, cuddly animals.

I stared up at the dark man towering over me and couldn't imagine a well-armed platoon of Marines wanting to surround him. Unfortunately, I couldn't argue with the facts, and the fact was, this body-building, leather-bound giant was going to be my husband...if you could believe Madame Angelina.

And I did.

I just prayed that he wasn't going to burst a blood vessel before he proposed. It really was worrying me the way the veins in his neck were standing out so prominently. I wondered if his doctor had checked him recently for high blood pressure.

In his defense, maybe I had been preoccupied as I walked Killer, my shivering excuse for a Chihuahua, but that was no reason for the man to yell. Lost in my thoughts, I hadn't noticed quickly enough when Killer had pulled out the full length of his retractable leash to go sniff in the street. When I did notice, I darted out in the street to grab him -- right in front of the man roaring down the street on the motorcycle. He swerved a second before it was too late and Killer and I would have become road kill.  Only skill and sheer strength kept the man from laying down his bike, although it'd been way too close as he fought to control the powerful machine.

A miss was as good as a mile to me, since I tended to be optimistic. Apparently, my future husband tended to be a glass-half-empty kind of guy.

Appalled at my inattention, I cuddled Killer close to me, and whether he was trembling from fear or natural wimpiness, I couldn't say. Murmuring soothing words, I kept my eye on the man as he snapped out the kickstand on his Harley and stalked over to me where I stood under the streetlight.

"I almost killed you," he thundered as he emerged from the shadows into the harsh light. "What the hell were you doing? Did you even look before you ran out into the street?"

I never did respond to that. As the light illuminated his face, my gaze was drawn immediately to the jagged scar that ripped down his right cheek from temple to jaw. Five years I'd been searching men's faces for a little, tiny scar, and suddenly, here it was. No mistake, this is the scar I'd been waiting for. I was a little woozy with excitement...or terror. I wasn't quite sure.

With a start, I realized he'd wound down the tirade and seemed to be expecting some sort of response from me and I had no idea what the question was.

And then...

"You have a scar!" I blurted out. Yep. Just threw that right out there, in case he didn't know.

His eyes narrowed in fury. Perhaps that hadn't been the best opening line.

"Are you completely stupid? Don't you get it? I almost killed you!"

With a flash of intuition, I realized the man was feeling guilty, so I tried to soothe him. "Well, you were going really fast. But that's --"