Knock Out

By Michele Mannon

Logan Rettino never imagined she’d fall so far. Dropped by her ex on national TV, she’s gone from prima ballerina to ring card girl, reduced to revving up the crowds before MMA bouts. However distasteful she finds her new job, it pays well...and she needs the money if she’s ever going to rebuild her life. Promised a huge bonus if she can convince a brooding, gifted welterweight to keep fighting, she’ll do whatever it takes to earn his trust.

Keane O’Shea is unbeatable in the octagon. A former marine, he fights with a ruthlessness no gym jockey can match. He knows his brutal strength is too much for the delicate ex-ballerina, regardless of how fascinating he finds Logan’s tight dancer’s body. But one private performance and he’s drawn to her in a way he can’t—or won’t—resist.

As Logan discovers the heartbreaking truth that lies beneath this handsome warrior’s rage, she’ll need to forfeit everything she thought mattered for the one thing that matters the most: saving Keane from himself.

89,000 words

Dear Reader,

It’s unbelievable to me that the holiday season is here already. I feel as though I was just stuffing myself full of holiday cookies, spiced wine and all of the wonderful chocolates sent to me during the holidays. But here we are again in what some call the season of joy, while others call it “the season where I avoid all shopping malls for at least two months.” If you’re one of those avoiding all of the seemingly endless holiday tasks, preparations and shopping, let us help you procrastinate with another fantastic lineup of books. If you’re one who revels in the season of joy, not to worry, these books will only add to your enjoyment of the season.

This month, we have so many returning authors who are fan favorites, I’m not sure where to start. So instead, I’ll start with those who are new, either to readers, to Carina Press, or both. Beginning with debut author Michele Mannon, whose book first came to my attention two years ago during a cold-reads session at a meeting of New Jersey Romance Writers. During that session, I gave Michele some suggestions for strengthening her opening and she worked on it for several months before going on to win a few contests and eventually pitching it to me, at which point I acquired it with great enthusiasm. I hope you’ll check out her fantastic love story of a former ballerina turned ring girl and a brooding, sexy fighter in Knock Out, book one of the Worth the Fight trilogy. And don’t mind me while I claim partial credit for the opening line...

Joining Michele with a debut book is Timothy S. Johnston and his science-fiction thriller. It’s Agatha Christie meets Michael Crichton in The Furnace as homicide investigator Kyle Tanner travels to a remote space station to solve a mysterious death that may have enormous consequences for the human race.

Our third debut author makes her appearance in one of my annual holiday collections. These have become a tradition at Carina Press, and one that I love, since I get a chance to work with a new variety of authors every year. This year, we have four collections. Last month saw the release of two of them: Gift of Honor, a military holiday collection, and Season of Seduction, an erotic holiday collection.

This month we release the two contemporary holiday collections, and it’s in For My Own that Shari Mikels makes her writing debut with her novella Christmas Curveball. Joining her in this contemporary romance collection are new-to-Carina author Kinley Cade with her novella Kissing Her Scrooge, and fan-favorite Alison Packard with A Christmas for Carrie.

In the second contemporary romance holiday collection, returning authors Christi Barth, Brighton Walsh and Kat Latham join together to offer some holiday love and forgiveness in All I’m Asking For with their novellas Tinsel My Heart, Season of Second Chances and Mine Under the Mistletoe.

Also new to Carina Press this month are authors Keri Ford, Ann DeFee, T.C. Mill and Daryl Anderson, each offering up something different for reader entertainment. Keri Ford brings us a fun contemporary romance in Never Stopped Loving You, in which the heroine has to remind herself: don’t date your friends—and definitely don’t ever date your friend’s brother. Ann DeFee’s Beyond Texas is a fast-paced contemporary romance of mystical lights that dance across the desert as the hero and heroine, Cole Claiborne and Twinkie Sue Carmichael, discover love while thwarting an evil cult, giving new meaning to the old saying “Don’t Mess with a Texan.”

In T.C. Mill’s male/male fantasy novella, Gardens Where No One Will See, Nemaran’s gentle attentions inspire Renad to go beyond the boundaries he’s set for himself for so long—but can they help him break free of even crueler bondage?

And last in the new-to-Carina category, Daryl Anderson is on the scene in Murder in Mystic Cove. In this new mystery, a former Baltimore homicide detective thought she’d put murder cases behind her—until she discovered a resident in her father’s retirement community shot dead in his golf cart.

Returning to Carina Press with contemporary romance Love Me Not, Reese Ryan introduces us to struggling artist Jamie Charles, who finds refuge from the painful secrets of her past in her art and prefers living on the edge—without the complications of love—until she encounters charming ad exec Miles Copeland, who is harboring his own dark past and is determined to have her heart.

Fantasy romance author Shawna Thomas has the third installment in her Triune Stones series, Journey of Wisdom. It’s not too late to catch up before the series wraps up with the last book, Journey of the Wanderer, in February 2014.

If you’re looking to spice up your holidays with a BDSM erotic romance, The Dom Project by Heloise Belleau and Solace Ames will keep you warm, even when it’s cold outside. When buttoned-up university archivist Robin Lessing agrees to spend one month submitting to a sexy, tattooed colleague, she presents her new Dom with a firm set of rules. But once they begin their stimulating sessions, it’s not long before she’s ready to beg him for more—much more.

Also this month, we have three powerhouse fan favorites with new books. Shannon Stacey returns to the Kowalskis with the much-anticipated Love a Little Sideways. When Drew Miller had a casual rebound fling with his best friend’s sister, he thought she’d go back to New Mexico and stay there, but now Liz Kowalski has come home to stay, and Drew’s feelings for her might not be as casual as he thought.

After a two-year wait, Lauren Dane is back with Blade to the Keep, the follow-up to Goddess with a Blade. Rowan Summerwaite is no ordinary woman. With the power of an ancient goddess in her belly, she’s the perfect candidate to re-negotiate the fragile Treaty keeping the peace between the Vampire Nation and the last line of defense for humanity, The Hunter Corporation. And she’s got to do it as she attempts to manage a politically awkward romance during a trip back to a place she escaped nearly fifteen years before. No pressure.

Wrapping up this month is The Principle of Desire, the final book in the Science of Temptation trilogy from Delphine Dryden. 1 Sexy Switch + 1 Nerdy Newbie = A Master Class in Seduction.

Last, no matter what your religion, or what you celebrate, books are a common bond, so from all of us at Carina Press, we wish you a wonderful season of reading. May there be incredible books, stories and characters on your ereaders all year long!

We love to hear from readers, and you can email us your thoughts, comments and questions to generalinquiries@carinapress.com. You can also interact with Carina Press staff and authors on our blog, Twitter stream and Facebook fan page.

Happy reading!

~Angela James

Executive Editor, Carina Press

www.carinapress.com

www.twitter.com/carinapress

www.facebook.com/carinapress

Dedication

To my mother

For being the grounding force in a family of dreamers; for telling me at a young age to be fearless and that I could be whatever I wanted to be; for being such an amazing person; and for being more than just a parent, for being a true friend. Love you, Mom.

Acknowledgments

I’d like to thank my editor, Kerri Buckley, for her hard work, terrific feedback, encouragement, and for loving my story as much as I do. Thanks to my critique partners and wonderfully talented friends at www.thevioletfemmes.com, with special thanks to Joanna Shupe and Jenna Blue for their helpful suggestions and for drooling along with me over my hero, Keane. Thanks to the New Jersey Romance Writers for all the support and opportunities to grow as a writer.

Finally, a heartfelt thank you to our soldiers who risk their lives for our country, and who often arrive home with wounds deeper and less obvious than their physical injuries. According to the Associated Press*, one out of eight soldiers returning from Iraq and/or Afghanistan suffer from PTSD, but only half seek assistance. If you would like more information about how to help veterans suffering from PTSD, please visit http://www.homebaseprogram.org/general-information.aspx.

*(http://www.nbcnews.com/id/5334479/ns/health-mental_health/t/returning-soldiers-suffers-ptsd/)

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

About the Author

Copyright

Chapter One

OCTAGON GIRL: Responsible for announcing mixed martial arts (MMA) bouts by hoisting a numbered card overhead and walking around the eight-sided cage

Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania

“Yo, it’s the fuckin’ ballerina.”

The shout rang out from high up in the back row of the jam-packed arena.

Logan Rettino notched up her chin. No matter how many times fame reared its ugly head, no matter how many times a stranger’s eyes lit up in recognition, she’d never get used to her ever-growing notoriety and the steady chipping away of her private life. Her secrets.

A classic Van Halen song boomed out of the loudspeakers and the crowd went berserk. Sammy Hagar crooned loudly, prodding her onward toward the eight-sided cage they called the Octagon. She tried to shake it off, hoping she’d read the crowd wrong, that they still considered her just a half-naked ring babe with a sign. Step by agonizing step she headed down the ramp and into the main belly of the arena, until disbelief numbed her nerves and gave her pause. Inhaling sharply, she looked around.

Hundreds of widened eyes swung her way and, in one simultaneous swoop, lowered to her chest. Though no one gave voice to the words that followed, they didn’t have to—their broad smirks said it all.

The ballerina with the huge knockers.

Great, just great. If tonight’s raucous crowd was this thrilled about a notorious ballerina turned ring card girl, you could bet no place was safe.

Logan might have become the fan favorite since her debut as Octagon Girl a month ago, but she was also broke, desolate and weary from the endless media attention, which didn’t exactly make this job a cakewalk. Now that her ex Pierre’s vicious lies were prime-time news, and these MMA fans knew who she really was, all she wanted to do was hightail it back up the ramp and keep on running.

No, she couldn’t claim to be New York’s most promising ballerina any longer. But hell, the show must go on, right? That’s what she was being paid good money to do. Just walk around the edge of a cage and hold up a sign.

Ultimate Fighter fans were gathered at Pittsburgh’s Mellon Arena for what was being billed as “The Rumble on the Rivers,” a mixed martial arts match-up showcasing the best fighters around, along with a few amateurs striving to make a name for themselves.

Logan was somewhat familiar with boxing and wrestling but Muay Thai and Brazilian Jiu Jitsu sounded more like frou-frou drinks at a suburban chain restaurant than fighting styles. Hey, whatever floats your boat, as long as it pays the bills. Logan knew little else about the world of ultimate fighting, except it paid well for everyone involved. With four bouts under her belt, most of her overdue medical bills had been paid off.

Becoming an Octagon Girl was her ticket toward restoring some semblance of her prior life. Money earned to pay off debt, then save toward the bigger dream of opening her own dance school.

If she could just make it through this bout.

Her knuckles tightened around the Round One ring card as she braced it high overhead. Making her way up the stairs, her pink Nike sneaker caught, and she missed a step. Stumbled, really. Having one’s troubles aired in front of an audience had a tendency to do that, make someone falter.

Logan’s spine stiffened. As she climbed the final stairs to the cage, the crowd saw a radiant smile, plastered there on her face from years of practice. A dancer’s determination to never let them see the pain.

Just you wait, Pierre. Payback is a bitch. If it wasn’t for him sweet talking her into that ridiculous reality TV show, she’d be on stage at Lincoln Center right now.

This was not the type of fame she’d aspired to. Public perception of her had belly-flopped into something much uglier. Something of Pierre’s making. Infamy eclipsing her hard-won public admiration. All that commitment and self-discipline, blood, sweat and tears. For what?

Considering the crowd’s reaction tonight, “make Pierre suffer” shot to the top of her bucket list.

With a defiant toss of her curly blond hair, she leaped up onto the thick mat and positioned herself on the wide rim just outside the fenced-in cage.

The crowd burst out, chanting, “Luscious Logan, dance for us!” For a second, the nickname gave her pause. During her last—and final—ballet season, the audience had dubbed her “Lovely Logan.” Evidently, that woman was no more and instead, she had morphed into something more lewd.

Yes, this audience was unlike any she’d ever imagined. But they wanted a show. They wanted her to dance. It was all the encouragement she needed. Might as well give them something worth talking about.

At the next corner, she paused. Lengthening her body with arms stretched upward, she came up on her toes. Three perfect pirouettes caused the crowd to come to its feet.

For a moment, she was back on stage...a real one.

Encouraged, a genuine smile replaced her seasoned performer’s tight grin. She leaped sideways, toes pointed downward, and landed gracefully. A perfect landing near the ledge and a hair’s breadth away from her eager fans a few feet below.

She spiraled and danced across the narrow space to the next corner in perfect rhythm to Sammy’s crooning lyrics. Gracefully kicking out her legs, she arched backward. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught the appreciative nod of a well-dressed woman in the front row. Evidently, she wasn’t the only one out of place in this crowd.

No, this is my place. The present. A high-paying job I need to keep at any cost.

With masterful precision, her arms circled in a clean rotation as she made for the next corner. The ring card rotated as well, neatly missing the mat as it made its way back overhead.

“Luscious Logan, dance for us!” The loving audience fist pumped the air—another first for her, in a long, long list of them.

She danced toward the eighth and final corner, and cameras flashed. Blinking from the sudden burst of light, she spotted the flurry of activity flanking the steps, blocking the only exit. For a split second, she considered fleeing and turning back the way she’d come and well away from the unwelcoming clutches of a gossipy media.

Win them over, Logan, just like you’ve always done.

A determination ingrained in her as a young, aspiring ballerina, seasons of performing for sold-out audiences, and the fact that she’d not only fallen short of completing her last televised performance, but she’d actually fallen—been dropped, to be more precise—made her relish the moment.

She finished with flourish, her heart pounding deep within her chest. As the music faded, her legs bent into a perfect plié.

With eyes closed against the pumping fists and camera lights, she stole a moment to breathe in the long awaited, elusive applause. Though instead of sweet roses, it smelled stale and thick with sweaty testosterone.

“Hey, Octagon Girl, is it true you fell on America Gets Its Groove On?” Felix Dexter inquired into his mic, his voice resonating loudly from the direction of the broadcaster table running alongside the cage.

Felix thrived on narrating a bout’s play by play, most times well before a punch was thrown. How he imagined the fight would unfold, like a little boy boasting about a new video game yet to be opened.

Seemed he found something else to be the expert on.

Her eyes snapped open and she glanced his way. The dirty laundry was about to pile up. His question made her clutch the sign to her bosom, protectively. And not a moment too soon.

Felix waved a large notecard in her direction, and prodded, “Is it true Pierre LaFeur couldn’t catch you because of your big boobs? He was recently quoted as saying ‘It’s Logan’s fault, for her inability to shift her body so her partner can catch her...without interference.’”

My fiancé. She fought back a scream. Who cheated on me, dropped me on national television, shattered my ankle, and—as if that isn’t bad enough—is now blaming my average-sized breasts for his careless mistake.

Aside from destroying her career, the jerk had broken her heart and her ankle. Neither had mended without complications.

Sammy Hagar came to the rescue, rasping on and on about finishing what was started. A welcome segue. The crowd’s attention swung toward the top of the ramp, a reminder that the crowd wasn’t really here to see her, or the two other Octagon Girls. The real performer was entering the arena.

A welterweight, that much she remembered. Her boss Jerry had lit into her for missing the weigh-ins—all four of them. It wasn’t like she’d received a job description or a how-to guide when she signed on, but this weigh-in seemed to matter the most. He’d been anxious to feed the new fighter’s ego with a grand showing of press, pampering and pretty women. Yet from what Logan had gathered from Jerry’s nasty tirade, the weigh-in had not gone well, and she had borne the brunt of his anger.

“One more screw up, and you can forget the huge salary I’m paying you,” he’d threatened earlier. This man held her livelihood in the palm of his greasy hand. He could fire whomever he pleased because there was a constant stream of women waiting to be ring card girls, ready to steal her spot. She had to be more careful not to piss him off.

Though Logan had only been working for the slim, squirrel-faced bully a short time, it was clear to her that he’d sell his own mother for a dollar bill. And this particular fighter meant money. The deafening roar of the crowd confirmed it.

Seizing the opportunity, Logan tucked in her chin and descended. Tossing the ring card to the side, she hastened away from the Octagon cage. Rows of Pittsburgh Steelers defensive linemen, or so it seemed, flanked the pathway. She ignored them.

The object of their ear-shattering affection was making his way toward her. Or rather, toward the Octagon. A black sweatshirt framed his body, unzipped and exposing the muscled cords of his upper body, but its hood was pulled up, hiding his face. Camera bulbs flashed, and a chiseled chest, lean, flat stomach, and bulging pecs came into the light.

Unlike other fighters, whose bulk was larger than their frame, this man was proportioned like a fine piece of sculpted marble. A Michelangelo in the flesh, but more brutal, forceful. A beautiful synthesis of strength and physique. With a fondness for art himself, judging by the swirling tribal tattoo that began on the left side of his torso and spiraled down along his abs.

She moved toward the edge of the ramp, making room for him, his entourage and the media to pass.

Except in her preoccupation with the fighter, she’d forgotten the obnoxious fans lining the walkway.

A hand snaked out from the crowd and slid around her waist. Before she could guess his intentions, her back was pressed up against a big, broad chest. In one awkward movement, the rowdy fan lifted her high off the ground.

“Gotcha, Octagon Girl!” the animal snickered. A guy nearby laughed. Someone thumped him on the back as if to say well done for messing with her. No help whatsoever.

With a swift kick backward, the heel of her sneaker connected with his groin.

“Ah, the bitch kicked me!” he bellowed and tossed her away.

Once more, Logan was falling. Falling toward the ground, helpless to stop it. A professional ballerina knew how to fall, unless she didn’t see the fall coming.

You’ll never dance again. The surgeon’s final words still haunted her. The metal rods securing her ankle, the reason. Ballet had no room for a ballerina who couldn’t land gracefully. And an Octagon Girl who let herself be tossed around by the crowd would find herself out of yet another job.

She closed her eyes, twisted around, hoping to land with her good foot...and connected with a rock-hard chest. An arm wrapped around her back, securing her, as another reached beneath her bottom. She was yanked upward.

Breathless, she paused for an inhale of sweet air. Only to lose it in a long, rushed exhale as she found herself staring into a set of steel-blue eyes. Exquisite eyes framed by charcoal lashes that went on for miles. Eyes so striking her heart performed a pirouette. Unamused eyes that pierced her to the core. A lifetime seemed to pass before reality sunk in.

The welterweight had caught her. More importantly, he hadn’t dropped her—no matter her bra size.

She wrapped her arms around his muscled neck and at the same time, her bare stomach pressed against his. Her skin sizzled with awareness where they touched. An unfamiliar spark of energy that had her leaning in closer and wanting more.

With a soft gasp, she took in his rugged, clenched jaw. High, angular cheekbones led down to full, moist lips pressed together, uninvitingly. But his scowl did nothing to detract from his handsomeness. Beautiful. Much too beautiful to be a fighter.

She lost her breath. Perhaps it was the way he held her against him. Or her very physical response to him—the tightening of her nipples as sure as a snowy Pittsburgh winter.

His somber demeanor didn’t deter the giddiness fluttering about in her chest. All was not forsaken this time. The rugged warrior had caught her. Thank God. Thank you.

Ignoring the jeering crowd, his anxious handlers, the clicking cameras, and even the taut, guarded look of the fighter holding her, Logan angled her head. Awareness registered in his baby blues as she leaned forward. In a year full of firsts, this one was about to take the prize.

She pressed her lips against his with a heartfelt thank you.

The welterweight’s lips parted and, for a split second, moved beneath Logan’s own. He tastes like fresh mint, she noted before his strong arms gently, yet firmly, pushed her away and settled her back on the floor.

“Jesus, lady, save it for after the bout,” one of the handlers said as he tugged her away from the fighter, keeping a firm hold on her.

Over her shoulder, she caught the welterweight’s stare before his entourage swept him away.

“Let go,” she spat out at the ancient handler and yanked her arm free.

“Tsk, tsk, sweetheart. If you want more of a taste of that cynical devil, better change your tune now. He’s got more women lined up than a shoe sale.”

The old timer’s eyes skimmed over her as they reached the end of the ramp. “An attractive bit like you can do much better than that cold bastard. Unfriendly, somber type, only talks with his fists. Beats the hell out of me why the ladies love him so.”

“Listen, you’ve got it all wrong. I was just...” She stopped short as the handler reached into his pocket, pulled something out, and offered it to her. A card. His card.

“Like I said, some men know how to treat a lady.” His hands rose up next to his ear in a call-me gesture. Aghast, she could only stare as Grandpa Romeo headed back down the ramp toward the Octagon.

A bell rang, and the crowd began cheering, muffling the stream of curses she’d been holding in. The noise escalated, and so did her disgust at what had transpired tonight, what she’d done. She tore the card, tossed the remnants on the ground, and with the soles of her sneakers, she mashed the tiny pieces.

What on earth had come over her? She’d actually kissed him.

“Rettino!” a voice barked out from behind her. “What the hell were you thinking, pulling a stunt like that?”

Great, just twist my bleeding tights.

Logan drew in a breath and turned to face her boss, searching for the words to describe her uncharacteristic behavior. Or behaviors, rather, depending on which “stunt” Jerry was referring to. She bit her lip and prayed that whatever it was, he’d get over it once he’d verbally pinned her ass to the wall.

Gesturing wildly, all five feet of the balding, thinly built man moved in irritation as he closed the distance between them. His hand found her upper arm, and Logan tensed against him.

“Does this look like Rockefeller freakin’ Center to you? All you’re required to do is hold the damn ring card up over your head, stick out that huge rack, and prance around the cage. Know what? I think all this media attention has gone to that pretty head of yours. I’ve got news for you, girlie, no one is here to see you dancing around like some spoiled brat who couldn’t make it as a fancy ballerina. Now listen to me, one more stunt...”

A horn blared, cutting Jerry off. Logan gazed around as the crowd jumped to their feet.

“Holy shit, did you see that! Andy the Annihilator was just guillotined. He tapped out in seven seconds flat.” Felix Decker’s animated voice filled the arena as he shouted out a play by play over the loudspeaker.

“O’Shea is leaving the cage before the winner is announced.” Felix’s excitement was obvious by the high pitch of his tone. “He literally crushed Andy the Annihilator but isn’t waiting around to be crowned champion. A first, ladies and gentlemen, in MMA history!”

Logan glanced at Jerry. His mouth twisted into a smirk so bold it was comical. She shook herself free of his grip. The more she learned about her boss, the less she liked him.

Though she hadn’t bothered to learn all that much about MMA, this was not the case with Jerry. She made a point of asking questions about him, his nature being as horrid as it was. Better keep your enemies close, right? Especially if he was your boss at a job that earned you so much money in so little time.

Not only was Jerry chairman of something called the East Coast Xtreme MMA Federation, he sponsored and promoted high-profile bouts, and was actively recruiting the best fighters out there. It occurred to her that his new welterweight had just handed him a victory—and along with it, some serious money and some bonus publicity. A trifecta. If O’Shea agreed to sign on with Jerry, her boss would be a wealthy man.

In Logan’s mind, he’d always be a sleazeball promoter.

Given the abrupt uplift in his mood, Logan seized the chance to reassure him. With a tap to his arm, she drew his attention toward her and hastily began. “Jerry, I’d like to apologize for the shaky start. I need...um, want this job. I’ll strut my stuff. Whatever you expect me to do, I’ll...”

The mass of bodies on the ramp parted.

Logan fell silent at the sight of the fighter O’Shea. Shirtless and sweaty, the planes of his abdomen flexed as he moved. A sculpted chest, sprinkled with dampened hair, rose and fell with each rapid breath. His biceps tightened as he wiped a gray towel through his jet-black hair. An errant bead of sweat escaped and journeyed across a sharp cheekbone to pool onto lush lips.

Logan froze as awareness of his imminent proximity made her pulse race. Too late, she realized her mistake. She was standing smack in the middle of the ramp. And the fighter stalking toward her seemed preoccupied with drying himself off.

In that moment, she felt so small. Fragile, even. Though not quick enough to get out of the way of the raging bull who’d seconds ago destroyed his opponent and was now bearing down on her. Was this the same man she’d foolishly kissed? Anger reverberated off of him, seeming to fill the rampway.

She blinked as he abruptly halted several feet in front of her.

He looked up through long, wet lashes and narrowed crystal-blue eyes at her. With a final swipe of the towel to his head, he bunched it up in his fist.

The gray ball was sent hurling in the air, spiraled once, and hit her boss square in the face.

Jerry sputtered, and swatted away the offensive material.

How could she forget her boss, rooted in place next to her in the aisle? The indignant expression on his face, that was a keeper.

Perhaps it was the long build-up of tension from this problematic year, or perhaps it was the nervous flutter in her chest at her undeniable attraction to the fighter, whatever it was, Logan did the unthinkable—she laughed.

It wasn’t a short, sweet one. This laugh had been brewing for a long time, as if patiently waiting through her painful year of ups and downs—downs far outweighing the ups, that’s for sure—for one ridiculous moment to make its escape. It came from deep within the pit of her stomach and erupted out of her so hard her belly ached. Tears wet her eyes as she let go.

Jerry sputtered some more, this time turning a bright shade of red. Raging red. Blood hungry red.

She took a step away from him, inadvertently inching closer to the fighter. An uncomfortable moment lingered with her under the scrutiny of both men. One furious, and the other full of...intent. Watchful. Unreadable.

O’Shea’s gaze felt like a caress as it lowered to her chest, then downward to her exposed stomach, pink short-shorts, long expanse of leg, and hesitated on her pink Nikes. Until it shifted to her forearm, and his frown line deepened.

She jumped as two fingers lightly caressed her arm, running across the fingerprint marks Jerry had left. For a split second, something flickered across his pale blue eyes before they narrowed on her boss.

“That’s it. I’m done. My final fight. Meet me in the locker room in twenty—you owe me some money.” His voice was low and husky, and deadly serious.

The touch of his hands at her waist sent a jolt of excitement through her. Easily, with no effort at all, he lifted her and, pivoting at his waist, swung her around. Gently, he set her on her feet, off to the side and out of his way.

“What do you mean, you’re done?” Jerry squeaked, finding his voice as the fighter brushed past him. “You can’t just come in here, win one lousy fight and disappear.”

O’Shea grunted and stalked off up the ramp.

Logan couldn’t believe it. No one defied Jerry; she’d learned this fact the hard way this morning, when she’d dodged the weigh-in.

Jerry paced about furiously.

What have I done? Logan glanced around, hoping to find a hole to climb into or at least a massive body to tuck behind, before his full attention spun her way.

“Think I’m gonna let a set of tits like you get away with laughing at me? You’re fired!” Jerry roared. “Pack your locker and get out.”

She placed shaky hands on her hips to steady them. “Jerry, listen to me...” she began but the words dried up. There was no explanation for her carelessness. Her laughter had made him look like an idiot in front of his prize fighter.

Her eyes fell helplessly on O’Shea as he made his way to the top of the ramp.

Maybe he was her golden ticket? Someone Jerry coveted. Someone who’d make her boss a very wealthy man. Someone who was clearly capable of getting the job done. Would he agree to kick some ass and, in turn, save her own?

A chill ran up her spine, a kind of body-numbing awareness, reminding her of how mean, how fierce, this fighter was. How unlikely it was she could convince him to help her. She searched her mind for something that she could use in her favor, something that would make him agreeable toward fighting for Jerry.

Who was she kidding?

One kiss. That was their connection. She didn’t know him. And, let’s face it, what he probably knew about her didn’t help.

But that was what she had to do—persuade him to fight. Could she do this?

She had no choice.

“What if I make a deal with you, Jerry? If I get your fighter back, can I keep my job?”

His face pinched together like a rodent assessing a nut as her words registered. For a moment, she thought his temper, clearly visible within his menacing glare, might launch him into another tirade.

She hastily pressed on with her mind-boggling, irrational offer. “I’ll get you O’Shea,” she stated with a false sense of bravado, “if you keep me on as a ring card girl.”

“Ha! You think you can handle him?” he snorted, disbelievingly.

Drawing on the endless tide of humiliation she had endured—and still endured—Logan stomped forward and with hands on her hips, glared down at the little weasel.

For once, her troubles were rewarded as his eyes lit up, measuring her, as if noticing her for the first time. His brows pinched together, considering her proposal, then he relaxed. A good sign. He was going to give her a chance.

His eyes fixed on the swaying of her chest, his smirk broadened perversely, and bile rose up in her throat.

“Forget it, Jerry,” she burst out, “you misconstrued what I’m saying. I’m not promising to sleep—”

“Tell you what. The qualifiers are in a month. If O’Shea wins all six of his bouts, he’ll be headed to the granddaddy of all granddaddies, Tetnus, with a million-dollar purse. You get him to do this for me, you keep your job.”

It was hard to contain her excitement. The underlying dread at what she had just committed to, she’d deal with later.

All anyone talked about was Tetnus, the championship fight being held in Vegas in July. A series of qualifying bouts were about to begin around the country—Pittsburgh being one of the main events because of the quality of fighters Jerry had attracted. Only the best fighters within their weight class advanced. O’Shea was the whole package. Jerry knew it. And after tonight’s events, Logan knew it. A big-bodied package all right, she thought, remembering the feel of his muscled chest pressed up against her.

“You’ll get your fighter. I appreciate...”

Jerry held up his hand, Godfather-like. Not a good sign. Judging by the tightening of his mouth, he hadn’t forgiven her for laughing. “I have some conditions. For each fight he wins, you stay. Hell, if he wins all six qualifiers and makes it to Vegas, I’ll double your salary. But the first time he loses, so do you. Got it?”

Jerry stalked away without waiting for her reply.

Logan inhaled deeply, feeling like she’d bargained with the devil and lost, without an inkling of exactly how she was going to go about getting O’Shea to fight.

Grandpa Romeo. Frantically, she gathered up the remnants of the old timer’s card from the aisle, hoping enough pieces remained for her to make out his phone number. He’d help her, right?

By doubling her salary, she’d be on the fast track toward reclaiming her life. Medical bills paid off. A nest egg big enough to launch her dance school. And then, she’d knock Pierre off his toes. Hard. Give him an awful taste of what it was like to be infamous.

This opportunity was her make-or-break moment.

Her gaze narrowed toward the exit at the top of the ramp where the welterweight had disappeared from sight.

“Correction,” she said aloud, her determination growing stronger with every word. “You, O’Shea, are going to be my break-out moment.”

Chapter Two

CORNERMAN: The person a fighter depends upon to guide him/her during a bout

Logan tugged the neck of her black cashmere sweater up higher as a gust of frigid Burgh air chilled her to the bone. The only thing moving quickly this blustery evening was the snowfall—the South Side bus had been late, and her warm skinny latte from The Quiet Storm had slowly chilled just like the rest of her numbed body. Exhaling, she realized that she was going to be late as well, although she didn’t know if one could actually be late for a surprise ambush of an attractive welterweight.

Late because her best friend Sally had received several encores at tonight’s ballet performance, causing it to run longer than expected. Logan frowned in reflection. Backstage, their brief chat should have been about Sally’s recent promotion to the Pittsburgh Ballet’s principal dancer. Or how wonderfully loving Sally’s fiancé was. Kind, too—no way he would ever drop her on prime-time television. Granted, he wasn’t even a dancer. He worked as a chiropractor who happened to treat ballerinas. But even so, he wouldn’t have dropped her. As a matter of fact, he had gotten Logan her job in the Octagon cage, being Jerry’s chiropractor and all.

Instead, their discussion had centered on Logan. And the source of all her problems... Pierre.

“I heard your bitter bird of an ex on the radio, of all places. Clearly, he’s still pissed off about his precious painting. What did you say to him?”

My painting. No way was Pierre going to keep it, on top of everything else he’d stolen from her. “File an insurance claim, asshole,” Logan repeated the words she’d spoken that miserable day a few months back.

The fame pimp had done much worse than drop her on TV’s top-rated America Gets Its Groove On. He’d kept everything of value purchased for their ultra-modern Manhattan duplex, plus the Gramercy co-op itself. The apartment had been a surprise gift to her—one he’d purchased with her hard-earned money.

The sly bastard made sure to itemize everything on the homeowner’s insurance policy: the plush, Chippendale living room set, crystal chandelier, wine collection—the list went on and on. And the mortgage, the policy, everything was under his name.

It didn’t matter that he’d depleted her bank account to make a huge down-payment on that place instead of the uptown, pre-war co-op they’d agreed upon, and to purchase most of the furnishings. Without a lawyer, she had no chance of getting her life’s savings back.

Sally laughed. “I still can’t believe he called the police, like they’d believe you would steal your own stuff! But why haven’t you sued that jerk? I told you money isn’t a problem if you need it.”

Logan shook her head. “Focus on Fiji. Save your money for snorkeling and parasailing and having the perfect honeymoon. Stop worrying. I’ll take care of Pierre once my dance school is up and running.”

It had been her second trip to the co-op when Pierre had come home, caught her with a Waterford lamp in each hand, and had called the police, resulting in nearly everything being moved back inside. The cops wouldn’t let her take anything she couldn’t provide proof of ownership for.

But some select pieces, such as an expensive oil painting—a commissioned reproduction of a Renoir piece showing two novice ballerinas en pointe for the first time—had mysteriously disappeared.

Despite Pierre’s temper tantrum on the city sidewalk—that painting had been his pride and joy, the object he bragged about most—there wasn’t really anything he could do about it. The police had caught on to her money-grubbing ex’s number rather quickly. One officer had even arched his eyebrows at Logan, as if saying “You got off lucky, kiddo, dumping this guy.” Fortunately, Pierre’s complaint was added to the precinct’s pile of petty cold cases, those they wouldn’t waste their time or manpower resolving.

“You constantly amaze me. I wish I had your self-assurance. Your strength.”

My stubborn pride.

Sally’s comment had made Logan laugh and reminded her of the plaque her mother had hung on the wall over the kitchen sink so many years ago. It had read “Pride cometh before the fall.” Talk about ironic. One source of comfort was knowing that pride didn’t turn tail and hide after the fall. Along with hurt, humiliation, defeat...pride was the Band-Aid holding it all together.

She inhaled deeply, the cold air sharpening her senses. Her conversation with Sally had reinforced her courage. It was time to rip off the Band-Aid, and peel away this prideful paralysis holding her back from her plans for the future.

The qualifying bouts began in three weeks and she was feeling desperate. She palmed Grandpa Romeo’s pieced-together card in her pocket and quickened her pace, anxious to reach Finnegan’s Pub and get this deal locked and loaded. Snow blanketed the narrow, winding street and slowed her progress, until at last, she made it to the top of the steep hill. She paused to catch her breath, smoothing a stray lock of hair behind an ear as she glanced back at the city lights below.

“What took you so long?” Grandpa Romeo, also known as Sal, demanded, his breath forming a cloud in the cold air as he came out to greet her. He must have been waiting at the window. “O’Shea’s inside, in the back. But I’ve got to warn you, he’s in a piss-poor mood.”

Logan straightened. “Great. Do you know why?” Without waiting for a reply, she headed inside, the old fox hot on her tail. After all, it really didn’t matter why; all that mattered was the welterweight agreeing to fight.

“Nope. But I’d say it’s in his nature. Take me, for example. I’m a friendly guy, wake up with a smile every morning. That’s why I’ve agreed to help you. I’ve even ordered you a Ying-i-ling.” Sal pointed to two tall amber bottles on a small table by the window.

She resisted rolling her eyes, more so from his funny pronunciation of Yuengling than from his assumption that a ballerina would drink a beer. Ring card girl, she corrected the mental slip. “Why aren’t you sitting with him? You said you guys had plans to ‘chew the fat’ over a few beers.” She slipped off her alpaca knit coat and set it over the back of her chair.

Sal cleared his throat loudly, causing the couple at the next table to look over at him. Did he have something caught in there?

“That’s the get-up you’re wearing to lure him into bed?”

“What? Who said anything about...I’m not trying to—”

“If this don’t beat all,” Sal continued, mindless of the reddening of her already flushed cheeks. “A big black turtleneck and leggons. Hate to be the bearer of bad news, sweetheart, but you’ve got some stiff competition.” He ducked, peered under the table at her black riding boots, and shook his head.

“What’s wrong with my leggings?”

Sal motioned to the naked midriffs and bare legs of the women at nearby tables. Finnegan’s inconvenient location didn’t deter the local ladies from partaking in a few Friday night beers...and then some, it would seem. Most of the women were dressed more appropriately for a night out at a club in Cabo than a cold Burgh winter. Not that the sight of half-naked women was anything new, given her chosen profession—professions, she corrected. Their attire was just...unexpected. Logan peered around the pub, needing to find the welterweight and get this over with. Finnegan’s Pub wasn’t exactly her kind of scene.

“Should have worn one of them Octagon outfits. A shame to hide a body like yours.”

The lustful wink Sal shot her was too much to bear. Tossing his balled-up card on the table, she reached for the Yuengling and took a deep sip. She winced at the bitterness but forced down another long gulp. When in Rome...

“I’ve got a plan. What do you have on under that tent you’re wearing?”

“Listen, Sal, I appreciate your help in tracking down O’Shea. But I’m just going to have a conversation with him—explain my predicament.”

“One of them sportsy bras, I hope. You’ll fit right in.”

Logan frowned but continued, “This isn’t a big deal, really. He’s a fighter and I need him to fight. If someone asked me to dance again...”

“You wouldn’t happen to be wearing a pair of tight boxer shorts like I’ve seen in them Victor’s Secrets magazine? With them little hearts?”

Logan choked on her Yuengling as Sal stripped her naked with his lecherous eyes. What had possessed her to ask him for help? “Please, watch my stuff.” She stood, grabbing her beer, and worked her way to the back of the pub before Grandpa Romeo could stop her.

Entering the lounge area, her eyes were instantly drawn to the fighter. Her throat went dry at the sight before her.

He was sprawled on a bench in a back booth, one knee bent and legs splayed apart. A hand rested on a powerful thigh and the other held a near-empty bottle. More than six feet of raw male splendor in repose. Head resting against the wall, he moved a black-labeled bottle to his lips and took a long drink, eyes closed.

And Logan drank him in, every rugged male inch of him. He was too sexy for words. Sexy and, judging by the shot glasses scattered on the table, very, very drunk.

She nearly lost her nerve but stepped toward him before she could change her mind.

Like Logan, he was dressed head to toe in black. A simple tight T-shirt, soft, faded jeans, and black leather boots. His fingers clenched and unclenched by his side, a sign he was at least not completely loaded.

Hesitantly, she stood at the foot of the booth. “Can I...” she began.

Frosty blue eyes pinned her to the spot. A glimmer of recognition—or so she thought—flickered, before his lids lowered and shut her out. As if tempting her to finish, he took another swig from the bottle.

Instead of asking permission, she slid onto the other cushioned bench.

“Following me?” His dismissive manner indicated this question was rhetorical, as if women constantly chased him. Hordes of them probably did.

She’d seen the MMA groupies hovering by the arena exits, not unlike her former fans had waited for her after a performance. Except the fighter’s fan club was entirely female and these women weren’t looking for an autograph, not unless it was emblazed on their naked bodies.

She stiffened, ignoring the flex of his muscles as he shifted, and pressed on, “Um...yes. Sal told me you’d be here. I need your help.”

“Sal,” he muttered and took another drink before setting the half-empty bottle to wobble next to her beer on the table. “My help? I’m the last person you should be asking for help.” Swinging his legs off the bench and under the table, he leaned forward and closed the distance between them.

The act was abrasive and intimidating but his eyes wandered around the room, restless and unfocused. “What I want is to be left alone.” Harsh, sharp words coming from pink, plump lips.

Logan sat up straighter in her seat.

“We met a week ago, actually twice, on the ramp at Mellon Arena.”

He snorted. Acknowledging they’d met or the quick lip lock they’d exchanged? Both? Or neither? She wasn’t sure but given his compromised condition, she’d better reintroduce herself. “My name is Logan Rettino. I’m a baller...a ring girl. Like I said, I need your help.” She paused. Why did this have to be so difficult? Just ask him. He’s a fighter, so ask him to fight.

He pushed his bottle toward her, a look of pure challenge in his blue eyes, but she was uncertain whether it was an offer of friendship or a sign he’d had enough. What harm could one sip in the name of camaraderie do?

Besides, she’d been nursing her Yuengling as if it were the finest Chardonnay. She wasn’t about to back down now, germaphobic or not. Alcohol was the great neutralizer, right?

Logan raised the bottle, pressed her lips to the warm glass and took a swig of unfamiliar hard liquor. A blaze of fire ripped across her throat and burned a path into the pit of her stomach. Tears formed in her eyes. “What is this?” she coughed out.

“All you’re gonna get...or maybe not.” The last bit was said in such a deep, throaty voice, she strained to catch it. It sounded naughty, like he was contemplating tangling his fingers into her hair, pulling her head back, and covering her mouth with his own. Oh sweet pirouette. She felt a little bit breathless at the idea. The booze didn’t help.

Needing something to do with her hands besides reaching across the table and testing out his “maybe not,” she fiddled with the hem of her sweater. Her cheeks warmed, nevertheless.

She came here for a reason, she reminded herself, and taking a roll on a mattress with him wasn’t it.

“I’m asking you to agree to fight. Jerry wants you to qualify for Tetnus. From what I understand, it pays really well. And, it would help me smooth things out with him. You can’t imagine how challenging he is to work for. It’s a win-win situation. You’d be paid for a few nights what most fighters make in a month.”

Grunting, he avoided eye contact. Instead his gaze rested on her lips. Self-consciously, her tongue darted out and licked off a smidgeon of sticky sweet liquor.

Better sweeten the pot, she thought. “Perhaps there is even something I could do for you in exchange?”

“Maybe.”

She gasped as he reached out and ran his thumb along her bottom lip. But when he placed it between her lips so the tip pressed against her tongue, she nearly shot up off the seat.

“Tempting,” he murmured.

If her cheeks had warmed before, they were on fire now. Perhaps I could do something for you? She’d said the words—a blatant invitation for sex—without thinking.

Perhaps it was her subconscious speaking. Show me the time of my life. Show me how a real man gets down and dirty. Make me forget about my egotistical, limp petunia of a dance partner, who got off more from looking at himself in the mirror than with me.

God knew, she wanted to lick that digit, run her tongue along its expanse and keep going. He was rugged maleness exemplified. Oh, yeah! Just part your lips a little more and...crinkle my camisole.

Her indecision cost her.

He withdrew his thumb, shifted back into the position she’d first encountered him in, and rested his head against the cushioned wall of the booth. His eyes closed.

Moments passed. Until it became clear she was being dismissed.

Her thoughts shifted from “oh, yeah” to “oh, no” in ten seconds flat. She wasn’t about to let him blow her off her like some overeager MMA groupie. She jumped to her feet, skirted the table and kicked his shin.

His eyes snapped open and struggled to focus on the offending foot. She still hadn’t gotten his full attention, it seemed.

Leaning forward, she placed her hands on his shoulders and gave him a sharp push.

With a gasp, she found herself gripped at the elbows, lifted up and yanked forward. Then, he let go. Her legs fell open to straddle his and her breasts firmly connected with his chest. She inhaled in surprise, catching the clean, heady scent of his cologne mixed with the smell of the alcohol on his breath.

He shifted, forcing her closer still, so close she could see her startled reflection flickering within his deep, dark pupils. A face-off—except his crotch rubbed up against her...

For a moment, she forgot everything. Finnegan’s Pub, her agreement with Jerry, and even The Fall. Desire stirred, blatant and pure and in shocking abundance. Beneath long, dark lashes, he sat perfectly still, watching her.

She got the impression he was waiting for something. For her to decide what she was going to do with him beneath her. For her to jerk away or lean in, angle her head and grab a taste of him.

Until a loud, piercing whine—the kind someone made when air was constricted within their windpipes as they tried to form coherent words—interrupted them. The source, in all her spandexed glory, stood glaring at Logan.

“Un-freaking-believable. I leave for a few minutes to use the restroom and some whore dressed for a barnyard tries to steal my guy. Get off him, bitch!”

Logan launched herself off the welterweight in one swift movement, prompted not only by the woman’s demand but by the hardened length of male anatomy that had been curved against her ass. He surprised her with a fleeting smirk. Oh yeah. At least her response to him hadn’t been one-sided.

She turned to face the irate woman, Miss Easywrap in the tight tube dress. “I’m not finished...speaking with him. Give us a second, please.”

“Speaking, my ass. I’m gonna count to ten.” Rosie—Easywrap’s name, according to the enormous necklace perched on her cleavage—pointed to the bar. “If you’re not out of here when I come back with a drink, you’re gonna be sorry.”

Logan put her hands on her hips. She opened her mouth, then closed it. What was she going to do, fight the woman?

Easywrap gave her a talk-to-the-hand gesture and stalked off.

Logan felt fingers on her arm. “You’ll lose. Let’s go.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” she muttered as the welterweight led her into another, more private room, one with a band playing and, hopefully, fewer disturbances. She needed a cold mental shower and to keep her eye on the objective: convince this silent, guarded man to fight.

He gestured to a booth in the back and slid in after her, sandwiching her between the wall and his big body. For several moments, that’s how they sat, quietly listening to the band thanking the audience for coming.

“About the qualifiers—”

The waiter approached and cut her off. “Last call. What’ll it be?”

“Another Johnny, and a white wine,” O’Shea replied, leaning back. His bare arm brushed her cashmere sleeve. A soft, subtle caress.

“Yuengling,” she corrected his order. No sense in switching drinks at this point. And more liquid courage was out of the question. Which reminded her how ridiculous this whole scenario was. She should have closed the deal and been long gone by now.

Well, she would have been if the man wasn’t so closed off. And if her heart didn’t flip-flop at the very feel of him brushing up against her. Close, far too close for comfort.

She sat straighter in her seat as a muscular arm wove its way behind her. Talk about sensory overload—it was too much to bear.

He raised an eyebrow but that was all.

Logan sipped her beer and, beneath her lashes, studied the man next to her as he drank deeply from his glass.

Getting involved with an MMA fighter wasn’t like swapping Chardonnay for Yuengling, she reminded herself. It wasn’t like he’d ever fit into her world. Besides, tonight was about convincing him to fight so she could keep her job. Nothing more, nothing less.

“Jerry says you’re the guy to beat.”

He muttered something under his breath. “Bar’s closing. Need to find my ride. Tell me, is Jerry...bothering you?”

Drunk or not, the man was perceptive and quick. Should she tell him her job as Octagon Girl was on the line? Quickly, she decided against it. Foolish pride, whatever.

Just do it, Logan.

“Like I said, he wants you to fight in the preliminary bouts coming up next month and qualify for Tetnus. There’s a million-dollar purse for the winner.”

He moved his arm out from behind her and rested it on the table. His fist flexed.

Logan gasped.

His poor knuckles were bruised and swollen to the size of golf balls. After the break and subsequent surgery on her ankle, she’d never again underestimate the pain someone might be suffering, even from minor injuries. His hands must be killing him.

“Tell Jerry I’m done. No more fights. No matter how many gorgeous women he sends to crawl between my legs.”

Logan’s temper exploded before she could bite back her words. “We’re having a conversation—that’s all. I’m sick to my stomach wondering why everyone thinks I’d sleep with you to get you to fight!”

Because you’re acting like you would, moron. No denying she wanted this drop-dead gorgeous man and was so freakin’ attracted to him her blood sizzled. But this crazy desire for him had overshadowed her objectivity. Sleeping with him to get her way, now that would land her on the disgusting list, right beneath Pierre.

He smirked, appeared unfazed by her outburst. As if to say, “Right, like I couldn’t have taken you on the pub bench in the other room.”

“I don’t get it. It’s ridiculous—a fighter who won’t fight. If it’s one thing I’ve learned these past few months is that there is always someone waiting in the wings to replace you, even if they suck. I can do that, you know, find a sucky fighter for Jerry and replace you.”

Desperation was one small step away from irrationality, and as her angry words came spilling out, Logan didn’t just walk across that line. She pole vaulted. The chance of Jerry accepting another fighter was as likely as winning the Mega Millions jackpot.

“Thanks for the drink,” she snapped.

She dodged his attempt at grabbing her leg as she stood up on the bench’s cushion and climbed over him to let herself out.

“Shit,” she heard him mutter but she kept on moving, away from the booth, out of the room, and back to the front of the bar. To the table where she’d left Sal to watch her belongings, which was now occupied by a new couple. Her stuff—and Grandpa Romeo, it would seem—had apparently taken a walk.

Bleeding leotards. She caught her stupefied expression in the front window until movement outside broke the image apart.

Her expensive alpaca coat was making its way into a double-parked car, clutched against Miss Easywrap’s obnoxious chest. “You...bitch,” Logan cried as she sprinted out the door after the blonde. But it was too late. The old Camaro had some pep in it and was halfway down the hill by the time she hit the curb, the only gift from Pierre that hadn’t been hauled off to Goodwill along with it. Worse still, her Louis Vuitton wallet and cell phone were secured in the inside pocket.

She tugged the neck of her sweater higher. If she’d learned anything this year, it was how to manage in difficult situations. In this case, she’d simply track down Grandpa Romeo and ask him for his jacket and some money.

Before she could head back inside, people began filing out of the pub—all at the same time. “Sal,” she called, searching the crowd for his white head. A cacophony of car engines drowned her out and the snow had picked up, fed by the wind off the rivers far below. With her hands on her hips, she moved undeterred up the sidewalk and back, searching for him.

A white-haired driver passed in a red Chevy pickup, without so much as a glance in her direction. “Sal,” her voice rang out weakly, knowing he’d never hear her, but feeling like she had to do something. Run after the pickup? As if that would do any good. She brushed her hands together for warmth. Surely someone down in South Side Flats would help her? If she didn’t freeze to death walking down the hill on the way there.

The door of the pub swung open one last time. Six foot two of taut, muscled male sporting a beaten-up, deep green coat—the kind someone in the army might wear—and a woolen bean cap pulled low over dark hair, exited. The welterweight glanced her way, turned and strode a few feet uphill to a black Jeep Wrangler.

Less than a minute later, Finnegan’s went dark.

Now what do I do?

She blinked as a horn rang out, invitingly. The Jeep Wrangler flashed its lights, which meant...

Resigned, she walked up the short distance to the Jeep.

“Can you drive?” a deep, husky voice demanded through the rolled-down crack of the passenger-side window.

O’Shea sounded slightly annoyed, but his words defrosted the chill from her body. Everything about the man made her blood run hot—except for his closed-up personality. That was unsettling.

She nodded.

“Get in.”

She moved her frozen limbs around the Jeep and climbed into the driver’s seat. The vehicle hummed, the keys already in the ignition.

As blessed warmth blew from the vents, she glanced at him beneath half-frozen eyelids. And gasped when once again he flexed swollen, purple knuckles.

“Planning on walking home?”

“No. Your friend Miss Easywrap made off with my coat, cell and wallet—seemed to think they were hers,” she shot back, mimicking his sarcastic tone. “How were you planning to make it home? Driving drunk is a stup—”

“You chased off tonight’s ride.”

An image of the trashy kleptomaniac spread-eagled across his lap—much like she herself had been earlier—came to mind.

Her body hummed in harmony with the engine, acutely aware of how fully he filled the passenger seat beside her. Logan weighed her options. After all, she knew nothing about him and what she did know wasn’t very comforting. Still, the Jeep was warm, she was in the driver’s seat, and most importantly, she’d been given another opportunity to persuade him. Life was full of chances. She decided to take another one by leaving with him.

“Look, I’m not going to bite you. Where to?” He seemed exasperated.

“The East End, Friendship. I’ll have to break in to my apartment, though, because my keys are in my stolen coat.” She pressed her lips shut, realizing how bitter she sounded.

“Hmph,” O’Shea grunted. For a second, he sat there, running his gaze over her features. A rush of heat spread up into her cheeks at his appraisal. Opening the glove box, he pulled out a napkin. Reaching across the seat, he gently dabbed it on her damp cheek.

“There,” he said, showing her the dark smudge of mascara.

Great, just great. She must look worse than a Pittsburgh coal miner after a long shift.

They remained silent as they drove north. Snowflakes danced across the windshield, growing in numbers and force as they crossed the Monongahela River into the Golden Triangle, where all three rivers—the Allegheny, Ohio and Monongahela—converged. There, the snowfall grew so heavy it dimmed the bright lights from the skyscrapers downtown.

“Looks like we’re in for some storm,” she commented, not knowing what to say but feeling the need to break the silence.

It didn’t work.

She searched for another topic to get a conversation going, hopefully one leaning toward the topic of him fighting. “I don’t even know your name. Just O’Shea.”

“Let’s keep it at that.”

The storm brewing outside was minor compared to the one sitting next to her. Why did he have to be so damn difficult? She bit her lip hard, forcing her thoughts on the slight physical pain, and away from the abrupt swell of emotion within. Falling apart right now wouldn’t help her in the least.

He pointed left. So typically male, giving directions from the passenger seat, though there was nothing typical about him. “Okay, O’Shea,” she commented mockingly, but followed his direction nevertheless.

His low laugh filled the Jeep. She felt his eyes on her, but kept her own on the roadway.

“It’s Keane.”

Keane O’Shea. Go figure. Short name, short response. Narrowing her eyes, she shot him a look—which he ignored. Instead, he gestured toward an exit sign. Without comment, she carefully slowed the Jeep, exited and headed downtown—away from her neighborhood. A few blocks in, he signaled to turn off onto a side street lined with row houses.

“Number twenty-one.”

She stopped the Jeep in front of a rather dilapidated house.

Did I just drive myself to a one-night stand?

Uncertain, she studied the certifiably hot mystery of a man from beneath her lashes.

As if sensing her apprehension, Keane turned and cleared his throat. “Relax. Just a pit stop.”

Before she could say another word, he jumped from the Jeep, climbed the cement stoop, and, after someone answered his rap on the door, disappeared from view.

The snow made it hard to see and as the minutes passed, her uneasiness grew. Finally, the door flew open and Keane emerged with a bundle in his arms. A man and woman followed behind him, gesturing wildly.

Twist my tights. What was going on... Did he just rob this couple?

Keane climbed back into the passenger seat, the irate woman right behind him. Oh my God. It was Rosie, with the poor fool who’d gone home with her now struggling to stay clear of her flailing limbs. She’d forgotten him already as she tried to claw her way up Keane’s body.

Something flew across the center console and landed in a black pile on Logan’s lap. A soft, familiar alpaca pile. Searching inside the inner pocket, Logan found her wallet, cell phone and keys. He’d retrieved her coat.

“You son of a bitch! You’re taking her home tonight?” Rosie screeched, her tone like nails on a chalkboard. “After all the...”

Logan’s mouth fell open, and Easywrap struggled to keep the passenger side door from closing, despite the accumulating snow and the parting of her dragon-embroidered silk robe.

“Everything they say about him is true. He’s a heartless bastard. A great fuck—that’s all you’ll get out of him. Commitment phobia, that’s what he has. The only thing he’ll commit to is sticking his big dick in—”

Keane slammed the door shut. Rosie continued her tirade outside the window as they drove away.

Logan was speechless on the drive to her Friendship neighborhood. As was Keane—no surprise there.

Everything about him, from his tight, clenched mouth to his strong build to his dour personality, said run for the slate hills. Yet, perhaps underneath that hard, muscular shell lurked a warm-hearted man? After all, he’d gone out of his way to retrieve her coat and house keys. Dare she approach him once more about fighting?

The Jeep ambled down Friendship Boulevard, fighting snowdrifts all the way. Fortunately, the rooms she rented in the back of an old brick house were close by. Her landlady, Mrs. Debinska, was a widow with an early-to-bed, early-to-rise philosophy. Logan barely saw the reserved, frail Polish woman, though she went out of her way to make sure the old lady had groceries in the house. She hoped Mrs. Debinska was a sound sleeper. Getting busted climbing out of a stranger’s Jeep at this hour might upset the conservative elderly woman.

As she turned the Jeep onto her street, the wheels lost traction. In slow-motion, the vehicle spiraled in a circle and a half, before coming to rest backward, in a snowdrift, on the side of the road. Logan pressed the gas, but the wheels spun uselessly. Unless he lived nearby, Keane was stuck until morning.

Shaken by this realization as well as by the accident, Logan blurted, “So, I guess this means you’re sleeping over.”

He shifted his big body around in his seat and looked right at her. Steady, ice-blue eyes captured her own. She felt the heat creep up in her cheeks at the intense scrutiny.

“Wait, that didn’t come out...” Her mouth fell shut as he reached over, turned off the ignition and pocketed the keys.

His eyes continued to study her until he nodded. “I guess so.”

With that settled, she reached for the handle to her door but stopped when he rested a hand on her arm. Surprised, she turned back his way.

“Everything that happened back there, everything Rosie said...” he began.

Logan jumped in, feeling the sudden need to reassure him. “The woman stole my coat. Do you think for one second I’d believe anything she had to say?”

He shook his head. “Listen...” Pausing, he adjusted his knit cap over his ears, flexed his swollen knuckles and then glared down at the gloves he’d placed on his thigh.

“I have a package of frozen peas in the freezer. Not that you want something cold on you on a blustery night like this—” Did she really just say that? “Um, I’ll warm some port. It’s a habit I picked up during my trips to Paris. So, I’m offering you peas and port.”

He didn’t so much as crack a smile. Rather, he frowned. She felt like sliding under the seat.

“Logan.” Her name rolled off his tongue like sweet butter. “Just so you know, everything Rosie said...is true.”

Chapter Three

ANKLE PICK: A wrestling move, where a fighter uses a foot or hand to sweep an opponent off his/her feet and onto the mat

Keane thought it was only fair to warn her. Something about this woman, Logan, appealed to him on many levels. It was best she understand exactly what she was in for because he fully intended to take her up on her invitation. Hell, the high from his fight a week ago had long worn off. Another physical release sounded really good right about now.

Logan brought her finger to her lips in a shushing gesture and motioned him inside. Yeah, fucking her was just the thing he needed, and he’d start with those lips.

Wooden floorboards creaked beneath his weight as she led him down a long hallway. The keys jingled in her hand as she unlocked the door on the end.

“You can hang your jacket there,” she whispered, pointing to the coat rack next to the door. “I’ll be right back.”

Keane hooked his coat over a knob and glanced around. The small room was dominated by a worn leather couch, with a glass coffee table in front and low end tables at each side. An old, oak hutch holding an enormous outdated television was against the opposite wall, and on the shelf above it sat a neat stack of photo albums. An expensive-looking painting of young ballerinas dancing and two fancy lamps seemed a little out of place, but what did he know about decorating?

He picked up a miniature china figurine, a ballerina with her leg stretched up to the side of her head. With a slight squeeze of his fingers, this little dancer would easily crush. He set her back in place, and settled himself onto the couch. Closing his eyes, he listened to Logan move about.

“Here we go, just as I promised. We need more light. Would you mind turning on the one on the side table for me?”

The small movement of twisting the light’s knob reminded him how his knuckles hurt like hell.

Temporary relief came in the form of the tall cup of warmed red wine Logan placed in front of him on the coffee table. Later, he promised himself, he’d forget everything, except the feeling of being buried deep within the attractive female next to him. Resting a hand on his pocket, his fingers wrapped around the bottle of pills inside. After, when he was spent, if it hadn’t been enough to quiet his mind, he’d medicate.

“Here you go. Let me see your knuckles.” She grabbed his wrist, brought it over to rest on her thigh, and arranged a Ziploc bag of frozen peas over the swelling. “Secret of the trade. An icepack won’t wrap around your fingers the same way. I can’t tell you how many nights I sat with these homemade packs on my feet. Didn’t help the blisters much but nothing beats it for bringing down the swelling.”

At the mention of her feet, a memory of her on the ramp in those ridiculous pink Nikes made him frown in confusion. What was a woman like her—dressed in a fancy sweater and classy boots, conservative—doing strutting half-naked in the ring? She brought her legs up Indian-style on the couch and turned slightly to better face him.

Tonight, clothing covered almost every inch of her, from thick, wool socks, to tight, black pants, and on to a large, soft sweater. Effectively hiding the shapely body he’d felt pressed up against him. The memory of her hot little body, her nipples pebbling up hard against him, that tight ass flexing beneath his arm, caused his cock to stir. Those layers did nothing to dim how freakin’ sexy this ring card girl was. Fuck, every red-blooded male in Pittsburgh had been talking about this Octagon Girl.

For some unknown reason, the thought annoyed him.

Women threw themselves at him all the time, though he hadn’t expected an Octagon Girl to hurl herself into his chest in a full body slam. Or block his exit from the arena. This woman was determined, he’d give her that, tracking him down at Finnegan’s and maneuvering Rosie out of bed, so to speak.

“You certainly don’t like to mince words,” she said sarcastically.

He liked that. She had spunk. He shifted and the movement of the cushion forced her closer. Yeah, she was just what he needed—a temporary distraction from all his problems.

Logan had done something to her hair, pulled it up into a loose bun. Blond wisps escaped and settled around her face. She was prettier than he remembered. Attractive, and eager.

Picking up on the heat within his stare, she flushed a pretty pink. He waited for her to act on it. A few seconds passed, and then she spoke. “You knocked Andy the Annihilator out in ten seconds. You’re a champion, that’s why Jerry wants you on his fight team.”

“Seven seconds, in a guillotine.” He flexed his fingers. This conversation was going nowhere. The raw insistence in her voice pissed him off. Not at her, at whatever caused it. Shit, he could relate. But him fighting, that wasn’t gonna work out for him. Or her. A good fuck—now that would help.

His hand found her thigh and shifted upward. The spark of hunger in her green eyes made his cock thicken. No surprise there, yet he was tempted to smile.

Man alive, she was willing. He leaned further back onto the couch and stretched out his legs. Better if Logan initiated things. Less drama that way, by making her work for it, having her be the aggressor. Someone who’d enjoy exactly what he was offering. Someone who wouldn’t break into tears if he didn’t talk to her afterward. Or ever again—which he tended to do more often than not.

He relaxed, and waited for her to make good on her earlier invitation.

* * *

Keane’s smoldering glances—heated I-want-to-get-into-your-panties kind of looks—were getting more frequent and hotter by the minute. Sprawled on the couch next to her, he didn’t say much. Yet he more than made up for the lack of words with the bold caress of his eyes. Not that Logan minded. In fact, she found herself wanting more. But aside from the whisperlike feel of his finger, he hadn’t moved to touch her at all. Sharing her albums had been a bad idea.

Twist my tights. Why did she let him open the damned thing in the first place?

An hour had passed while he looked at the photographs, newspaper clips and programs from her most treasured scrapbook, arranged chronologically to showcase the best moments of her life—the story of a dedicated ballerina who had taken Lincoln Center by storm.

“So?” His question made her jump. The port made her mind slow and dumb as she turned over the possibilities of that one word in her mind... So, what are we waiting for? So, take off your sweater? So, let’s take this into the bedroom?

With a shake of his head, Keane flipped the page of the album balanced between them on his thigh.

Her breath caught. The headline “Ballet’s New Royal Couple” was centered on the front page of the New York Times. And there they were. A close-up of her beaming like a new mother and Pierre looking at her with loving stars in his eyes. The lying jerk was as smug as could be.

Logan grabbed the offensive scrapbook, snapped it shut and tossed it to the floor. She’d forgotten she’d saved a few photos and articles from the Pierre bonfire. Leave it to her asshole of an ex-fiancé to put in an unexpected appearance and do the one thing he was great at doing...ruining everything.

Just when Keane seemed relaxed and reasonable. And so damned sexy her mouth felt dry. Just when she’d been building the courage to approach him again about helping her, about fighting, Pierre resurfaced. Just you wait, she promised, and braced herself for the forthcoming questions.

“So?” Keane prodded, unaware of how everything she’d ever wanted was lying there, in the album, on the floor. How all the pain from the past year simmered just below the surface, primed and ready to burst. The port and her hopelessly heightened libido didn’t help, either.

Stupid. One glance in a mirror would verify it—the ridiculous expression on her face as she stared blankly at Mr. Few Words next to her.

“You’re a dancer, a ballerina. So, dance,” he stated.

“I broke my ankle,” she said, and studied her hands in an attempt to mute the frustration in her voice. “I spent years training, hours every day, since I was a little kid. I’d finally landed a spot in a major dance troupe, a chance at fully living my dream, and now...”

“Let’s see,” he said, his voice throaty, whiskey-toned.

“Let’s see what? You want me to dance right now?”

Without responding, he grabbed her legs and brought her feet over to rest on his calves. With big, sure hands, he rolled down one long wool sock and then the other.

Stunned, she tried to pull away.

“Tsk, tsk,” he mouthed, his beautiful lips pursed together.

She’d imagined a fighter’s nose would be notched and crooked. Instead, Keane’s was straight and perfectly proportioned to his face. With the exception of a square jaw, his features were surprisingly delicate. The sexual tension rolling off of him, however, was pure male. And her reaction was all female, with the way she itched to run her fingers along his high cheekbones.

He tossed her socks to the floor, and arranged her bare feet upon his knees.

Tiny jolts of pleasure rippled through her at his touch. Her feet had never been sensitive—years of dancing had hardened and calloused them. She jumped with surprise when the tender skin on her sole yielded beneath his thumbs. Not dancing professionally had one advantage, it seemed.

His thumbs moved up to the indentation between her ankle and heel.

“Hmm, this one,” he remarked as a finger ran along the raised scar tissue crisscrossing her ankle. Instinctually, she pulled away. Having him touch her there—it felt like he’d skimmed over a vulnerable point deep inside her, the ugly scars hiding the pain within.

He tugged her closer, nudging her bottom upward so that she was balanced on his thigh. Ignoring her gasp, he hoisted her leg straight up in the air, causing her to fall backward onto the couch. Before she could guess what he was about, warm lips pressed against the spot of her injury.

Her hips arched up off his thigh involuntarily.

“No one’s ever... What are you doing?” she gasped, as the first flick of his tongue rasped the sensitive flesh of her ankle.

“Relax,” he murmured against her tingling skin. Logan’s senses had shifted to high gear and she gripped the upholstery beneath her, desperate for something to hold on to.

His tongue swirled over the sensitive skin beneath her ankle bone, over the peaks and valleys of her scar. A light, moist caress, causing a warm tingling sensation to shoot up her leg and burst to life between her thighs. Sweet heaven. Keane’s wicked tongue laved at her skin. Right on the very spot that had brought her career and her life to a screeching halt, shattering all of it.

Her thoughts spiraled like fireflies on a hot summer night. She wanted to let go. Let her body take over. Forget the agonizing year she’d been through. Give in to just feeling...good.

How could so much pleasure cause so much pain?

His tongue. Him. Her messed-up psyche. She bit back a frustrated cry. It was too much to bear.

She shimmied backward and yanked her leg away.

A low grunt of displeasure was his only response.

Thankfully, her bottom connected with the remote, and the TV clicked on, breaking the awkward silence. Even better, a commercial advertising the qualifying bouts for Tetnus filled the screen, capturing Keane’s attention.

She imagined herself a wallflower at the prom, one too embarrassed to dance with the hottest guy in school. The foolish feeling was exactly right, even if she had missed her prom for a ballet recital.

The commercial ended and Keane rose from the sofa. Apparently, he was leaving.

“No! You’re in no condition to drive, the roads are a mess, and I still haven’t talked to you about fighting...”

He glared down at her. “You can forget that. I’m not fighting anymore.”

Logan felt like kicking herself. She’d sidetracked, so focused on him, his wicked tongue and her neurosis, she’d hadn’t yet convinced him to fight. And now, she’d not only chased him off, but ruined her chances of reasoning with him.

“Look, you seem like a nice person. But I’ve gotta go. Brave it on foot.”

He bent over and retrieved something—a small orange container—from the floor. Then, he moved toward the door.

She jumped up. Her head spun from the port.

With a snatch of his jacket, he put his hand on the doorknob. “Thanks for the ride,” he muttered, sliding his arm into a sleeve.

“You can have the sofa. I’d really feel better if you stayed.”

His glanced at the couch and back at her. His eyes narrowed with displeasure.

“It’s comfortable—if you want, you can sleep in my bed and I’ll take the sofa. Really, the idea of you leaving during a major snowstorm is ridiculous. There won’t be a cab. What else can I possibly say to convince you—?”

“Nothing.” He held up a hand in a farewell gesture, and her eyes fell on the small canister in his palm.

“What is that?”

“None of your business. It’s been...interesting.” He turned to leave but Logan slid in front of him and blocked the door. Close enough she could smell the sweet wine on his breath. Close enough to read the label on the prescription bottle in his hand. Oxycontin. Not only had he been drinking all evening, but he was taking pain killers. She’d taken a few of them during her recuperation and knew how they dimmed the pain. And everything else.

“I’m not letting you leave in your condition.”

He grunted. “Little too late to be passing judgment, honey.”

“You’re on medication. Ever read the small print on the bottle? The print that says don’t use with alcohol? The same print that says it’ll make you groggy?” She gestured toward the door. “A blizzard is coming down out there. You’re likely to end up like the Jeep, ass planted in a snowdrift.”

He snorted. “The pills—didn’t take any. As far as drinking, I’ve barely begun...”

“Are you always this unreasonable?”

The glare he shot her said it all.

Still, she tried one more time. Stomping her foot in frustration, she demanded, “What do I have to do to convince you to stay?”

He ran a hand across his forehead and up through his cropped hair. “Nothing. And forget about me fighting. Not going to happen, no matter what you say...or do.”

“Forget. Isn’t that easier said than done? Look around you, this is all I have—which isn’t saying much. My Mazda isn’t running because I can’t afford a mechanic. I have big plans for this money.”

“Hey, you’re not the only one with problems.”

Logan grabbed his hand and gave a firm squeeze, as if the gesture might stir something inside him, some note of empathy. Hell, at this point, she’d even take sympathy.

“What if the answer to your problem was standing smack in front of you?”

“What if she was?”

“Would you ignore the chance to persuade her to help you? Or would you fight for the chance to climb out from the miserable hole that’s swallowed you up? If I can’t perform as—”

“Shit,” he muttered, interrupting her. He shrugged off his jacket, placed it back onto the coat rack, and moved whisper soft across the carpet.

Turning, she swung the door shut with a resounding thud and snapped the two locks into place. The action gave her a second to process that he was indeed staying, rather than reassurance that he wouldn’t leave. Two locks wouldn’t stop a man like Keane.

“Common sense prevails.” She hoped the satisfied note in her voice wouldn’t piss him off.

“Hardly.”

The Road to Tetnus commercial came on again, noisily blaring away in the background. Leave it to Jerry to advertise the heck out of these qualifying bouts. Keane’s back was to her, yet she could see him balling his fingers into a fist. Guess fighting was a subject best avoided for the time being.

She grabbed him by the elbow and tugged, giddiness mingling with apprehension as he allowed her to lead him into the adjoining room. Her panties were still moist from the job his tongue had done on her skin. She felt herself moisten further at the mere thought of how close they’d come before her freak-out. But recommencing what had been started on the sofa was a bad idea. The emotions caused by his simple, gentle touch on her ankle, on the most broken part of her, were too overwhelming.

Weakness was something she couldn’t afford. Multiple times tonight, she’d blown her chance. The scrapbook was a blatant reminder—she wanted all the good parts of her former life back. Pierre would be a bad dream hidden within the pages of her past. Her future was going to be golden, just like she’d always hoped it would be.

But her winning ticket hovered a few feet away, tight lipped and mean. No, Keane was going to fight. There had to be some way of gaining his cooperation, of convincing him how desperately she needed her job.

Her arm nearly came out of its socket when he didn’t move along with her next tug. She released her grip and allowed him to follow her into her bedroom of his own accord.

Her sanctuary. She caught Keane scanning the large room and grinned. Bet he’d never been in a bedroom of this scale and size.

Five enormous floor-to-ceiling mirrors were secured along the length of a wall. She’d salvaged one from the trash and the others she’d purchased on credit from Sally. Eventually, she’d add a barre to match the floorboards and construct a wall to quarter off a sleeping area. For now, the bed was situated mid-room, the headboard pushed up against the wall. Armoires for her clothes and costumes dominated the far wall, leaving a long expanse of floor by the mirrors for dancing.

“Nothing you do will change my mind.” His warning was accompanied by a fierce, foreboding scowl, one that questioned her motives and assumed the worst.

Don’t be so sure, she thought, but instead replied, “Why don’t you take off your boots and sit on the bed?”

Ignoring his sour mood, she slid open an armoire door and carefully selected an outfit best suited to the job ahead. The creaking of the hardwood floors, followed by those of the old bedsprings, spoke volumes. He’d complied, making her feel more confident. More daring.

She glanced in the mirror at the big brute of a man sprawled out on her bed, his back up against the headboard. By giving him a sense of what she was about, maybe he’d be more likely to help her. She thumbed the tulle on her tutu.

“I’m going to make staying over worth your while,” she stated calmly, drawing on every ounce of port-induced bravado still within her.

His only response was to raise his eyebrows, daring her. The thumping of her heart was almost enough to send her running from the room, clenching the red-and-gold costume tightly in her hand.

* * *

If this doesn’t beat all, Keane thought. Classical music tended to grate on his nerves, his preference leaning more toward rock or heavy metal. Though the lovely, rollercoaster wreck of a woman dancing around on her tippy-toes with those long, bare legs kicking in perfect rhythm to the music might just change his mind. Each time she spun around, the frilly white lace on her red mini skirt-thingy vibrated and lifted, revealing her ample tight ass, displayed in something that resembled a Brazilian bikini. Only smaller.

A striptease, of sorts. Keane had had his share of dancers. Male bonding time, his friend Jimmy used to say as he’d dragged Keane into every strip club from Rome to Nagasaki to Ft. Lauderdale. Surprisingly, Afghanistan was a serviceman’s paradise; Jimmy’d had more fun there than anywhere else. War did that—scared the shit out of you, which made the time away from fighting seem unnaturally enjoyable.

So why did Keane’s itch to fight—a no-holds-barred, full-blown-brawl kind of itch—persevere like a troublesome hangover?

Keane flexed his fingers. Fuckin’ Jimmy.

Logan’s arms snaked over her head, demanded his full attention. There’s more than one way to scratch an itch. One faced him now, with an odd, dreamy look on her face. Innocent and seductive as hell.

She bounced, exchanging one bent knee for the other. The little skirt bounced along with her, and his eyes shot to the V between her legs. Nothing visible, yet the idea of what lay hidden beneath that wisp of red material had his cock straining against his jeans.

He shifted on the mattress, adjusting his pants, and not a moment too soon.

Her next move was sexier than any stripper on any pole. Three little spirals and she was beside the bed. Her legs bent, her body lowered, and his breath caught as she pulled one leg straight up alongside her head in a sideways split. Three complete circles followed, her leg held upward all the while. The Brazilian briefs were on full display, much like waving a red flag in front of a bull. A surge of lust grabbed hold of his balls.

And just like that, Logan unknowingly sealed her fate.

The music intensified and her movements followed the tempo as she danced around the oversized bedroom. A half circle and her back arched in a perfect horseshoe. She moved away from him, but not before her lids closed and a satisfied smile spread crossed her face.

A clear challenge there, to ensure that smug, contented look remained while his cock thrust into her or, better still, when he made her scream his name. Keane wasn’t the kind of guy who ignored a challenge.

Slowly, he swung his legs off the bed and stood. She didn’t notice. Instead, her arms fluttered out to the sides and fingertips wiggled, caressing the air. Slight, quiet movements complimenting the mellowing beat of the music.

With a few long strides, he narrowed the distance between them, coming up behind her. Her chest was flushed a sweet shade of pink, its reflection in the mirror rising and falling with every breath. Heat rose up off her skin. Her hair was a mess, partly still swept up in a knot of sorts but mostly falling onto her shoulders in disarray. One part of her neck was bare, exposed, and to his liking.

The music began to crescendo. In response, she came up onto her toes. As the rhythm built, her bounces changed to small jumps with arms elongated over and upward. The tiny tutu fluttered as he stepped closer.

Hell, he’d been waiting all night for her to make a move, not pull away like she’d been nipped in the ankle by the devil. Her performance was both surprising, and flat-out stimulating.

Also, it was about to end.

On the next jump, his hands found her waist and caught her mid-flight. Her toes pointed downward and her body came to a fluttering halt as she dangled in the air.

“What...?” she gasped and stared at him, wide-eyed, in the mirror.

He let his hands reply, slowly lowering one of her legs to the floor. He hooked the curve of his arm behind her other knee, lifting higher and higher until her leg was back up beside her head. Returning her to this position made his blood run hot all over again.

Gently, he pressed his body against her back, bumping her up against the mirror. Their eyes locked while he waited for an invitation to continue.

She blinked but didn’t look away. A myriad of emotions appeared in her somber, green eyes. Uncertainty, nervousness...but, thank God, no fear. Desire flared deep within their depths.

Inch by inch, Keane lowered his head, breaking eye contact. Her back stiffened as his lips found the warm, exposed skin of her neck. He sucked, and her calf muscle twitched against his arm.

“Wouldn’t it be...easier on the bed?” she whispered.

He nipped at her neck and worked his tongue in an upward trail to the back of her ear. “Yep,” he breathed.

She ground her ass into him. He shifted her foot in his hand. Beginning at her ankle, he ran his fingers downward, over the raised skin of her scar, and still lower, over her bare calf. His other thumb moved in unison, massaging small circles across her inner leg.

Her tight muscles flexed beneath his digits. She liked it all right. A pleasant surprise, those muscular legs of hers. Long, endless legs, with skin so fucking soft, it felt like the fine chalk powder he poured into his fighting gloves.

He returned his tongue to what was becoming his favorite spot on her neck as thumb and fingers journeyed lower still. Flexing his abdomen into her back, he pushed her against the mirror.

His thumb shifted lower and, with fixed intention, rubbed over her panties, right between her legs.

Moving his tongue along the dewy trail to her ear, he whispered, low and deep, “Flex your leg higher.” Seeing her dance, that taut, limber body of hers moving, had given him ideas.

She gasped, and for a moment, he fought for control. The urge to unbutton his pants, part the red material between her legs and bury deep inside of her was that strong. Instead, he followed through on what he’d planned on doing since the first time she’d pulled that lovely leg up alongside her head.

He ran his thumb along the elastic band on the scant piece of material covering her center and, with a slight nudge, slid it beneath.

A shiver ran up her back and against his chest as he found her moist cleft.

“Oh my God,” she groaned.

He kissed her neck as his thumb pressed deeper, pulled away, and coated her nub with moisture. The movements were repeated, quick and urgent.

She was close. He increased the pressure and felt her shudder. Removing his thumb, he worked two fingers inside her wetness, loving how her inner muscles greedily contracted around him. Tighter and tighter, as he withdrew and, just as quickly, slid his thumb back inside.

It had been a long time since he’d enjoyed bringing a woman to climax with his fingers. Moving his tongue along her neck, he once again licked his way behind her ear. A few nibbles, with his thumb smoothly sliding in and out, had her trembling and ready.

But she had one more move to complete, a prelude to another type of completion. “Dance for me,” he growled, before swirling his tongue and darting it into her ear. His thumb mimicked the action.

“Now? Later. Oh, please, Keane,” she cried out. She felt so fucking hot around him. He promised himself that his rigid cock would find some warmth as well. Sooner rather than later.

“I want you on your toes,” he demanded.

For a split second, she hesitated. He slowly withdrew his digit until the pad of his thumb rested on her folds. With a thrust, he buried it back inside.

“Dance. Do it.”

“Okay, okay. But please... Oh, my God.”

She rose onto her toes of her left foot. The slight shift upward caused his thumb to slide downward, and downward still. Her back arched against him, her leg flexed tighter, and with a throaty moan, she shattered.

* * *

Logan’s legs turned liquid as Keane lowered her onto her feet and broke contact. She rested her head against the mirror and fought for equilibrium. A drunken headiness washed over her, assisted by the louder-than-Beethoven’s-”Ode to Joy” hum running throughout her body, distorting her ability to think.

Keane leaned into the mirror as well, his hands to the sides of her head. Big hands, with long fingers, she noted beneath her eyelashes. Hands she wanted to feel run over every inch of her body. Another rush of warmth spread to the juncture between her legs. God, it had been so long since she wanted someone with such savage intensity.

She’d never imagined dancing could be sexually satisfying. A deliciously titillating kind of foreplay. A naughty overture to what was coming her way. With Pierre, dancing was always work and only enjoyable in front of an audience. The rare occasions where she’d danced solo for him had been anything but pleasurable—especially when his habit of criticizing her ruined her desire to ever perform for him. The egotistical jerk. Hell, he’d turned her off, never on.

Pierre had assured her other dancers experienced the same hang-ups. Strict diets, strenuous dance rehearsals and the stress of being a prima ballerina were the reasons sex with him was bland, as non-descript as eating a bologna sandwich. What a bunch of bologna.

Come to think of it, since meeting Keane, her libido had shifted from dormant into overdrive.

She couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt so incredibly...fulfilled. Unsettlingly so. And to think, this was the appetizer before the main course. All six foot two of muscled fighter.

Opening her eyes, she caught his smirk in the mirror. A quiet invitation. She swallowed hard.

He nodded toward the bed.

“How about...” she began, her voice hoarse with desire. How about I take a beautiful swan dive onto the mattress, you join me and we go at it?

He tilted his head and arched an eyebrow, waiting for her to continue.

“...I bring us some water?”

He stared at her for a second. “Okay.”

She stepped away from him, instantly missing the warmth of his body but at the same time needing an intermission to find her breath.

“Logan.”

Hearing her name roll off his tongue made her want to sprint to the kitchen, then back. “Yeah?” She stopped and glanced over her shoulder.

“Once we’re in it,” he gestured toward the bed, “don’t count on leaving anytime soon.”

Her body flushed from head to toe. Hell, buckets of water wouldn’t quench the thirst she had for him.

“Be right back,” was all she could muster before stumbling into the living room.

Late-night host Sophie Morelle’s voice filled the silence. The cocky darling of cable television was Logan’s favorite after-hours host. Tonight, she was listing reasons why some washed-up actor should star in a new sitcom—something about more strippers in the prime-time line-up.

In the kitchen, she filled two tall glasses, not really paying attention to Sophie. For the first time in months, Logan was eager for what might come next. Starting with the surprise waiting for her in the next room.

It wasn’t until she headed back into the living room that she realized who Sophie’s guest was. That someone landed an invisible sucker punch and knocked the air out of her.

She dropped the plastic glasses, the water showering her legs and bare feet, the glasses landing hard then rolling in opposite directions across the wooden floor. Not that Logan really noticed, as she grabbed the remote off the couch and turned up the volume. There was no mistaking that smug voice. Pierre.

Logan glared at the TV. The fame hound sat on a chair across from the host, as arrogant as could be, while three buxom women in tight tube tops and tutus were paraded in front of him.

“Pierre LaFeur, a favorite to win America Gets Its Groove On, is with us tonight. Pierre, some people think you’re callous for not taking any responsibility for what happened on last season’s finale, where you so famously dropped your former partner. Come on, Pierre, her average-sized tits interfered with you catching her?”

“Well...er...for a ballerina—”

“I understand that several other male prime-time hosts—not saying any names here—have called you an expert on female anatomy. In the spirit of joining the boys’ club and trash-talking women, tonight we’re asking you to vote for the biggest set of hooters.”

The women pranced across the stage, each stopping to pose in front of Pierre.

When the camera zoomed in on the awkwardly ridiculous expression on his face, Logan attempted a laugh. But her throat constricted tightly.

If the world knew the truth. How Logan had made it through three months on a reality show she’d had no desire to be on. How four weeks before the finale, she’d been basking in the warmth of a standing ovation from her performance before the Queen of England. How one week after Pierre had fumbled his catch and dropped her on the show’s finale, she’d caught him in a pretzel position with her understudy, Anya, in her bed.

She felt Keane come up behind her. Pimp my plié, the humiliation never ends.

Sophie Morelle continued on relentlessly. “Personally, I find the buzz about your former partner’s breasts offensive. But hey, viewers are eating it up—as you well know, Pierre. Clearly, the network is thrilled to have you back this season. But what you might not know is not everyone agrees with you. Her knockers don’t seem to be an issue for this hunk of sin...”

A picture filled the television screen. Logan let out a dry, inaudible rasp and her eyes darted toward Keane, who was silently towering over her. His eyes shifted from curious to narrowed and pissed-off. The lines around his mouth pulled tighter.

Fearing the worst, her attention swung back to the offensive image on the screen. The paparazzi had really gone all out, bulbs blazing. There, decked out in full, fluorescent pink Octagon Girl regalia was Logan. Shot from the side, they’d captured her pressed up against a sinewy mass of male. Keane, no mistaking him. No mistaking either of them. Or the leering faces in the background.

His hands cupped her bottom and back. Her head was angled toward his. And their mouths were lip-locked in what appeared to be a toe-curling kiss.

“Fuck,” Keane growled in her ear.

Sophie continued on, oblivious to the tension building like molten lava in Logan’s living room. “A girl after my own heart. Looks like she found a profession that appreciates a shapely woman.”

Again, the camera panned to Pierre. A tight fake smile was plastered on his face.

What she’d give to wipe that expression off his lying lips. Before she could muster an explanation for Keane, the photograph disappeared.

Abruptly, one of the women stepped onto the small chair, spread her arms overhead, and leaped forward, aiming for Pierre in a less-than-perfect Logan imitation. Pierre jumped to his feet. His arms circled around her as they connected. He wobbled for a split second but found his footing.

“See,” Sophie stated gleefully, “I proved my point. You can catch someone with a rack the size of watermelons.”

Having Sophie on her side did not make Logan feel any better.

An oh-so-familiar irritation washed over her. Just you wait, Pierre.

Keane moved past her and clicked off the TV. “Your ex? From the newspaper?” He didn’t seem the type to appreciate the attention either. Not one bit, judging by the tone in his voice.

What could she say? Even if she could speak—which she couldn’t, as a fistful of rage lodged the words within her throat—how could she discuss the depths of despair that sucked the life out of her every time her ex lied about that damned dance?

Oh, she was going to get even with Pierre, that much was certain. Once her life was in balance. Once she was back on her toes again.

“I’m gonna fight, all right.”

Her mouth fell open as she stared at him. Perhaps something good had been salvaged from tonight’s wreckage.

His thumb caressed her cheek. Something crossed his face. Compassion. Sympathy. Just as quickly, his finger was gone.

“Not for the title,” he ground out through clenched teeth.

He headed into the bedroom, marched over to the bed and grabbed the folded blanket lying across the foot of it. Moving past her frozen in the doorway, he tossed the blanket onto the sofa. “Better get some rest.” His actions were abrupt, but his tone was kind.

Still, it didn’t matter. Pierre had ruined the evening.

Her eyes shifted from the pile on the sofa to the Renoir-style painting above it. Revenge was going to taste even sweeter than taking his prized possession.

Just you wait, Pierre.

“Logan.” The way Keane stressed the a in her name in that deep, gravelly voice of his soothed her irritation. “We’ll see how quick your ex-partner is on his feet. Pretty boy LaFool is gonna eat his teeth.”

As Keane spoke, his voice changed. Less kind, more menacing. So much so that shivers ran up her spine. His threat said it all.

The market on revenge wasn’t exclusively hers.

Chapter Four

FOOTWORK: How a fighter moves his/her feet to best maintain balance, mobility and striking power

Bam, bam, bam.

The steady thump of someone pounding on the oak door of his Victorian home seeped into Keane’s semi-consciousness. He awoke with a jerk, sprang to his feet and immediately reached for his gun. Only his hands came up empty. Shit. The Afghanistan/Pakistan border was a world away but at times like this, it felt so real. Realizing his mistake, he rubbed his palms over his face in an effort to wake up. There it was again, loud enough to clear away the last of his drug-and-booze-induced stupor.

The digital alarm read 10:00 a.m. Who the hell was looking for him this early?

His neighborhood, Shadyside, was nice enough, with its Victorian mansions and well-maintained apartments. For the most part, people were polite but kept to themselves. Which suited him fine—he didn’t want anyone nosing into his business. Less wise-asses looking for trouble, too. It was the anonymity of this posh neighborhood that made him spend a bit more cash on the place.

Keane made his way downstairs to the foyer and without pausing, threw the door open.

“Dude, did you see yesterday’s Pittsburgh Post? Your ugly mug is front page news, though the real reason I picked up a copy was because of that Octagon Girl...Luscious Logan.”

Keane glared at Stevie through throbbing, tired eyes.

Jesus. Her again.

The memory of Logan’s long, firm leg flexed against the mirror plagued him like a frustrating hangover, in spite of how his cock stirred each time he thought about it. He wasn’t one to dwell on past hook-ups—hell, getting a ballerina off with his thumb two nights ago hardly rated at all. But something about her stuck with him.

The 6:00 a.m. cocktail hadn’t relieved his pounding head, and this unwanted publicity made him want to pound someone else’s head.

He moved to close the door in his friend’s face. Stevie’s reflexes were quicker—it sucked to have sober friends—and he shoved his foot in the doorjamb. “Shit, man. I haven’t seen you in a year and this is my welcome?” His friend pushed his way inside.

“Ever hear of a phone?” Keane asked, his tone harsh, but relented by stepping back a few inches. One thing he knew about Stevie: the man was stubborn, with a stiff back that rivaled his own. A trait that had served them both during their third tour together in the Marines.

“Nice place,” Stevie commented. He tugged off his jacket and tossed it on a chair, making himself at home as if a year hadn’t passed by. The kid was fit, had slimmed down some, and seemed...happy.

“But you, Coach, look like shit.” Stevie was joking, but Keane caught the concern in his eyes.

“Don’t call me that.” Scowling, he changed the subject. “Why the visit?”

“Can’t I look up the only friend I have in Pittsburgh? I’m headed to New York City. They want me to train personnel at a new recruitment center. Thought I’d make a stop to see your sorry ass on the way from Ohio.”

Clearly, Stevie had overcome his driving issues—the constant searching of the roads for booby traps, the ball-clenching fear you’d experience in everyday situations that flared up when least expected. At least there was hope for one of them.

“So, what’s up? You fighting again? Thought you gave that up after...”

“Nice seeing you, Stevie.” Keane grabbed him by the arm and muscled him back toward the door. But not without resistance.

They took it to the floor and grappled for positioning, Keane quickly gaining the upper hand. Stevie was an amateur fighter—always had been, always would be. He pinned his friend to the ground and a few seconds later, Stevie raised his hand in surrender. An MMA fighter would have tapped out, proving yet again why Stevie should stay far away from the Octagon ring.

Both men stood, breathing hard. Blood trickled out of Stevie’s mouth and despite having been pissed off by him bringing up the past, Keane felt remorseful. Shit, even though his heart hadn’t been in the fight, if you could call it that, he’d hurt his friend.

He nodded toward his leather couch. “Sit. I’ll get some ice.”

“How about a pot of coffee? Looks like we could both use some.” His friend’s ability to forgive and forget made Keane feel even worse.

Moments later, Stevie was situated on the couch, an odd expression on his face as he held a package of frozen peas to his lip.

Keane touched his knuckles. The ballerina had been right, the swelling had subsided. For a second, he thought about how she’d carefully wrapped his fist with the Ziploc bag, then pushed the memory away.

At least the peas gave Stevie something to do other than yak at him. Keane welcomed the silence, but not the company, given the present circumstances.

In the privacy of the kitchen, Keane plugged in the coffeemaker, then studied the newspaper he’d retrieved from the floor. They’d gone to the extra expense of publishing a color photograph of that damned kiss. Frowning, he read the headline: Buxom Ballerina Gets Down and Dirty.

Scanning the text, the paper crinkled in protest as he clenched his fist and forced himself to read more slowly. If the assholes had dug into his past...flashbacks, nightmares and late night visits from his dead buddy were reminders enough of his time in the service.

His name was mentioned, but other than that and the freakin’ photo, the accompanying paragraph focused entirely on Logan. Shit, judging by the indelicate way they’d dragged out every slanderous detail about her—even daring to praise her dick of an ex, part of this season’s favored duo on a lame-ass reality dance show—it wouldn’t take long before they focused on him. A sliver of anxiety mixed with anger worked its way up his spine.

He knew that ring girl was trouble the moment they locked lips. A publicity stunt? Doubtful. He shook his head, remembering her reaction to her ex’s boob bash on the television. But damn, if he’d known this was what he was in for, he would have dropped her on her ass and there wouldn’t have been a photograph.

His life was already fucked without this invasion of privacy.

Tossing the paper into the trash, he ran the kitchen faucet before dunking his head beneath. The cold water, a few cups of coffee and some Advil might do the trick. Preferably before Stevie started asking more questions.

What the hell could he say about returning to fighting, anyway? That a daily dose of booze and pills weren’t nearly enough to drive away the demons in his head? That a parade of women and one-night stands wasn’t enough of a physical release to satisfy him?

Not that he’d had a woman since his overnight stay with the ballerina. What a debacle of an evening that had been—a restless night on an old couch, an early morning escape through the snow-covered streets of Pittsburgh, and a cock in need of some serious attention.

More thoughts of Logan, this time twirling about in that skimpy outfit, had filled his mind yesterday afternoon. But when his fingers grabbed his hard-on, the fucking evening played over in his head and ruined the pleasure. Not that he didn’t get off, fast and furious, but he felt cheated out of having those long legs of hers wrapped around his waist while he pumped into her. Probably for the best, really. Considering her baggage and notoriety, he planned on keeping way the hell away from her.

Stevie wasted no time with his inquisition as Keane returned and handed him a cup of coffee. “Care to tell me what’s going on? You look like hell frozen over. And a fight? I thought you said...”

Keane grunted. It seemed his friend hadn’t learned his lesson. In a low voice, he warned, “Not now, Stevie. Change the subject.”

His buddy gave him a long look but must have read his expression. “Okay, I’ll drop it. That’s...uh....not the reason I stopped by.”

Keane ran his thumb across his temple, picking up on Stevie’s nervous tone. Whatever the cause, it wasn’t gonna be good.

His friend grew more reluctant with each second passing, until he at last blurted out, “I’m seeing a shrink...a lot of the guys are.”

“Good for you.” Keane was careful to keep his tone neutral, knowing the angle Stevie was taking here and not wanting to give anything away. This discussion was dead as far as he was concerned.

“No shame in it, you know. It’s helped to work out some issues, and stuff.” Stevie held out his palm in a let-me-finish gesture. “Something to consider, that’s all.” He dug a card out of his wallet and tossed it onto the table by the couch without further comment.

Keane drank his coffee and ignored it. He felt his friend’s eyes on him, but he ignored those too, until the subject changed.

“Well at least you’re getting laid. She’s hot, too. Great body. Nice rack.”

Oblivious to Keane’s anger, Stevie went on and on about the fucking article. And judging by his enthusiastic response, the newspaper’s attempt to ridicule Logan had failed. If Stevie was any example, every sex-crazed stud out there, including her wimp-ass ex, wanted a piece of her.

Damn, it was going to be a long morning.

* * *

Pulling the hood of his sweatshirt over his head, Keane’s legs picked up speed as the ground flattened out. Ten miles was for amateurs, yet he struggled to make it through the windy, hilly streets of Pittsburgh. He was losing what should have been a winnable battle. A string of sleepless nights had made him surly. Mean. And regretting his quest for sobriety.

Last night had been hell.

He’d woken up in a cold sweat, the smell of gunpowder and burning flesh in his nostrils. It had taken several seconds to realize it had been night terrors. That he wasn’t in the desert of Afghanistan, on the lookout for roadside bombs and worse, covered in blood after finding one.

It had taken twenty minutes for his hands to stop shaking.

Something had to change.

How hard could it be? No booze, no pills and no women—a cleaner way of living?

Stevie seemed to have conquered his demons. His visit had Keane rethinking his own bad habits. Damn. He wanted the days back when he’d been fit and full of life, both physically and mentally. Days long gone by.

Five miles into the run, he knew it was a lost cause. He needed something more...physical. To jab a punching bag or kick some ass in the cage. Something brutal, where his muscles ached afterward. Where the restlessness within was muted. Running was fine for building endurance. It was the mindfuck jogging around in his head he couldn’t endure.

The Pittsburgh Fight Club was within running distance, and in the much flatter neighborhood of Squirrel Hill. Sal might be able to hook him up with a sparring partner. He changed direction and picked up speed.

In under an hour, Keane was dropping punches down on a fairly decent fighter, Frank Tupps. He had to give Tupps credit, the man had a thick skull and even thicker heart. At three minutes and five seconds exactly, Tupps tapped out.

Keane stalked to the corner, stripped off his thin fighting gloves, and ignored the appreciative murmurs of the other fighters. Annoyed that the relentless itch within him still needed scratching, that the fight hadn’t done the trick. If the uphill run home wasn’t enough to exhaust him, his choice of sleeping aids would be a no brainer.

Turning to exit the cage, he nearly plowed Sal over.

“Aw, come outta there, Keane. These other fellows aren’t too happy with me messing with their sparring time. Some fighters are looking to qualify for Tetnus, you know. And they’re not going to spar with you—won’t risk getting hurt. Not every fighter is a mean bastard like yourself.”

Keane ignored the insult—or compliment, depending on how you looked at it. He didn’t want the old man prying into his business, so he did what needed to be done. Shut him out.

Unfortunately, the old-school trainer had no sense of self-preservation and followed him across the cage.

When Keane moved to step around him, Sal blocked him with surprising swiftness. “I’ve set you up for cage time with Jaysin Bouvine in thirty minutes,” the trainer offered. “I’m counting on you to give him a run for his money and make him see the light. Show him I mean business.”

Keane dodged right, but Sal followed. Why did the old timer seem so anxious for him to fight this guy?

“How about a hoagie and some protein shakes while we—”

“See you later.”

In a full belly slam, Sal hurled himself up against Keane and forced him to stop in his tracks. “Wait...uh...you can’t leave. Come on, Keane. I’ll order us a roast beef with the works on it. And about Bouvine, Jaysin’s been asking for some time with you.”

“Look, Sal. Another day. Gotta go.”

Glancing over his shoulder at the clock on the wall, Sal looked nervous. He shifted to the right, preparing for another body block.

Keane was ready for him. Faking a right, he sidestepped left and, with a few long strides, got out ahead. He was on the last step when Sal caught up with him.

“I want to talk to you about something.”

Keane grunted. It wasn’t hard to imagine what the trainer had to say, with Tetnus’ preliminary fights just two weeks away.

“Didn’t you hear me? I want to talk to you. It’s about the girl...Logan.”

Keane slowed his pace. Deep down, he was mildly curious about how she was doing—if she’d recovered from her douchebag of an ex’s nighttime slander-fest. Having his mug plastered on front page news still pissed him off, but he wondered how she was dealing with the negative coverage. Annoying or not, no one deserved that kind of treatment.

“What about her?” Keane heard himself say. Damn, why head down this path? The woman was nothing but trouble.

“Bouvine’s bad news. He’s obsessed with Logan, he followed her home last week. She hates the guy but won’t rat him out. Thinks Jerry’s gonna buy into replacing you with him. Come on, Keane. Why don’t you fight?”

Keane ignored the sudden desire to slam his fists into Bouvine’s kidneys, repeatedly. But Lord knew, he had his own shit to deal with. “Forget it.”

“She’s a real nice girl. Too good for the likes of—”

“She’s a pain in the ass. Later.”

“Um, Keane, she’s...” Sal’s voice was an octave higher than normal. Keane turned slowly.

“The pain in the ass is right behind you, alive and well,” Logan said, her hands planted on her hips, glaring at him from a hair’s breadth away.

* * *

Keane exuded sex—pure, raw sex. He must have just tugged on his black sweatshirt, a section of hem was caught beneath his T-shirt. Black sweats hung low on his hip. One hipbone and the chiseled cut of stomach muscle just above it were exposed. The teasing glimpse of skin made Logan flush.

He’d disappeared from her couch over a week ago, though thoughts of him remained. A monumental evening she’d relived over and over; the thought of his fingers on her—in her—still sent tiny shivers down her spine. She narrowed her eyes further, fearful her lusty thoughts were written all over her face. Keane shifted and glared back. Scowl or no scowl, the man was sex on legs.

Sal was the first to buckle. “He’s all yours,” the old fox muttered, and hurried off toward the opposite side of the gym. No help there.

Keane’s lips tightened as he realized this meeting was far from coincidental.

With a mixture of awareness and uneasiness, Logan’s temporary bravado faltered. Her breath caught as she opened her mouth, ready to speak, but he cut her off.

“N-O, not doing it,” he snapped, stalking off to the beverage booth in the corner of the gym. Logan paused. It didn’t make sense. Clearly he had just battled it out with someone. If he didn’t want to fight at all, then why was he fighting here?

Logan leaned against the counter, blocking his exit. “When Sal texted me that you picked up a bout, I thought you’d had a change of mind. Why else would you be here?”

Keane grunted. The man behind the counter slid over a plastic container filled with a protein shake, and Keane snatched it up.

“Look, I was a little tipsy and emotional the last time we...talked. And I’m sorry about Pierre, the photograph and the newspaper. Little did I know becoming an Octagon Girl would re-spark the media’s attention. Pierre’s really working the press, he’s determined to keep the obsession alive...”

Logan’s cheeks warmed at her flimsy words. Keane’s gaze ran the length of her body then back up, slowly coming to rest on her chest. Beneath her bulky cable-knit sweater, her nipples perked up in memory.

His features softened, briefly. A hand crossed his temple, then it was gone. “Look, I don’t want trouble. When the time’s right, that asshole of yours is gonna wish he never fucked with me, you can count on that. But I’m not looking to go beating the shit out of someone I don’t even know. All I want is to be left alone.”

“Okay, I get it. Truth is we’re looking for the same thing. Don’t you think I want to be left alone? This isn’t the kind of fame I expected, all about my boobs and how I ruined Pierre’s chance at winning last season’s show. I’m a—was—a ballerina, for God’s sake.” She paused, and swallowed hard. “But I can’t run and hide. Look, I didn’t know that being an Octagon Girl was going to be like this. And Pierre is making it ten times worse; the fans, the press, the public persona...but it’s my job. And it’s the only one I’ve got.”

The V between his eyebrows deepened. At long last, maybe he got what she was saying. She pressed on, hoping it was true. “All I’m asking for is a favor—even if you don’t make it to Tetnus, I’ll have a few more solid paychecks.”

“Like I said, we’ve all got our own shit. Nice chatting with you.” Keane tugged the hood of his sweatshirt over his head.

She stood, studying him. Noticed him rubbing a hand over his temple and wincing. Noticed how his knuckles were swollen once more. Noticed him shifting on his feet, the way he wouldn’t meet her eyes, anxious to be on his way. Perhaps if she offered him some help with whatever his shit was? It was worth a try.

“Maybe we can make some kind of agreement here. An exchange of goodwill. You fight in the qualifiers, and I’ll help you sort out your problem. If it’s that obnoxious alpaca-stealing thief, I’ll gladly help you get rid of her. If it’s swollen knuckles, I’ve more than just frozen peas in my first-aid kit. A rose hip tea blend is a much healthier way of dealing with pain than Oxycontin. When I was injured, after a few pills, I flushed the rest and replaced them with a homemade remedy.”

Despite his frown, Logan could see his interest was piqued...or at least he was still listening to her. She pressed on, “I guess you’ll have to train, isn’t that what fighters do? Whatever you need, I’ll help you with it. I spent countless hours dancing every day, for years. I’m extremely disciplined when it comes to practicing. Whatever you need.”

Keane shook his head and rubbed his temple once more. “I don’t care about you, your wholesome remedies, your training experience, or your guy problems. What I want is to be left in peace.” He smacked the thick plastic cup against the Formica countertop, and strode through the front door without another word.

That went wonderfully well, Logan thought as she made her way around the Octagon cage in search of Sal. She wasn’t about to chase after Keane, though something didn’t quite add up with him. He said one thing, but did another. Hadn’t she just caught him red-handed—literally—fighting? But instead of the pumped-up energy most fighters had after slamming fists into each other, Keane seemed weary. Tired, even.

Logan sighed. The pirouettes performed by her raging libido every time he was in the room didn’t help matters. Time was running out. Jerry wanted a championship fighter. Logan wanted cash, her school, and revenge, in that order, and to get out of this hellish life and move on to a real one. And Sal...well, it was too disturbing thinking about what that old rascal wanted. But, he was her only hope right now. The man with a plan, or so he said. A newly hatched Plan B—one Sal promised to be foolproof.

Chapter Five

STALEMATE: When two fighters are unable to move forward in a bout

It was becoming increasingly obvious that Plan B was a dud. Jaysin Bouvine couldn’t fight his way out of a room full of stuffed animals. Yet he had managed to piss off enough fighters that they apparently lined up to kick his obnoxious, loud-mouthed ass. Such was the case playing out at the Pittsburgh Fight Club between Bouvine “the Braggart” and Frank Tupps.

Logan winced as, once more, Tupps lifted him up over his head, raced across the mat, and hurled him into the metal caging. Bouvine slid down onto his back and tapped the mat, signaling defeat.

Twist my tutu. She had planned to meet with Jerry tomorrow, to introduce him to another ultimate fighting hero, the next winner of Tetnus. A man who Jerry’d probably never even heard of and, judging by the outcome of today’s series of fights, likely never would.

A week of hoping for the best, that somehow her replacement fighter would stun them all with a surprise Jiu Jitsu move or a lethal front kick, left her with a week to find someone else to foist on an unsuspecting Jerry.

Sal mouthed “I’m sorry” from across the cage and Logan rewarded him with a forced smile. The trainer had a good heart—no gift for training, but a good heart. His kindness, at a time in her life where she’d had very little, mattered.

Every day for a week she’d met Sal at the gym to watch Bouvine strut around in his too-small spandex shorts, mouthing off to anyone who’d listen about his prowess in the cage and elsewhere. He had a scorpion tattoo on his shaved scalp, and he found it funny to swivel his head and arch his eyebrows, as if the scorpion was looking to strike. Or at least that’s what Logan thought the silly gesture meant. By the looks of things today, the scorpion had a mouthful of Octagon mat.

When he wasn’t fighting, Bouvine was on her like glue. She couldn’t shake the guy. If Sal hadn’t interfered and warned him away, who knew how she’d get rid of him.

Frustrated, Logan shrugged into her jacket and departed. The only thing she could count on was the bitter winter weather. She tugged up the collar of her alpaca coat as a damp wind kicked up off the rivers below. The weather made her think about getting a mocha latte at The Quiet Storm. Something to cheer her up and pull her spirit out of the dumps.

Despite the blustery afternoon, she chose to walk the mile to the coffee shop instead of catching a bus. Exercise always helped reduce her stress levels, and since her operation, her daily physical routine was improving. Yet at this rate, she’d need to walk around the clock to relieve her anxiety. What would she do if Jerry wouldn’t give her another chance?

Her father had remarried and relocated with his wife and two youngsters to San Diego. Prior to that, he’d lived in the home Logan had grown up in, forty-five minutes east of Pittsburgh. But she couldn’t bring herself to move west, to show up on her father’s doorstep with a shitload of problems. Call it pride, or fairness even, for a father who deserved a second chance at happiness since her mother had passed away. He didn’t need her neurosis or the drama Pierre was intent on keeping fresh in the public eye.

Once at the warm coffee shop, she purchased her drink and settled into a table not far from the barista station. But the coffee did little to ease her earlier disappointment with Jaysin. And that led to her thinking about an older, more painful disillusionment.

“A surprise gift for my beloved and talented fiancée,” Pierre had boasted when he’d presented her with the co-op. He’d bought it last March, after they’d become the darlings of America Gets Its Groove On. Logan had been overwhelmed, scrambling to balance ballet with the show’s taping. Her final engagement was in London—though little did she know it’d be the last performance of her career.

Pierre had taken full advantage of her absence. He’d bought the co-op on the sly, then acted as if it was what she’d wanted all along. Just like he’d done with the damned reality television show. After a two-week trip to London, Pierre had picked her up from the airport and, pulling the mother lode of bold-ass moves, had driven her straight to their new home. Logan had blinked back her astonishment—and annoyance, too—as their network of friends came out of the woodwork, clearly in on Pierre’s surprise.

What their friends didn’t know was that where she and Pierre would live had been an ongoing debate. Logan was adamant about Manhattan’s Upper West Side. The hubbub of cultural goings-on, it made sense, with Lincoln Center and other major venues within walking distance.

Also, Logan favored older, more spacious buildings. They offered more room than more modern buildings, and she’d spent months finding the perfect apartment for them to remodel together. She’d imagined one room would be her own private dance studio, complete with wooden floors and mirrored walls.

Their friends also didn’t know how Pierre had duped her, how he’d depleted her savings from their new joint bank account for a down-payment on the classic pre-war co-op of her dreams. Only to surprise her with an ultra-modern, high-rise apartment with windows for walls and chrome accents everywhere, including the kitchen countertop. The only wall in the place separated the living space from the kitchen. With only one lofted bedroom, it had been listed at eight hundred square feet and double the price of what they’d discussed. Gramercy Park was posh, expensive and thirty blocks south of Midtown.

Logan shook her head. Though they’d split the mortgage payments, she’d still been outraged he’d made such an important decision without consulting her.

Turned out, he’d been consulting someone else—her understudy Anya—the entire time. Something their friends did know, evidently, but neglected to fill Logan in about.

Logan took a deep sip of coffee, trying to wash away the bitter taste the very thought of Pierre had left in her mouth. But as she set it down on the table, she heard him. With a gasp, her eyes fell on the television hanging over the barista’s head.

It was Pierre, no mistaking his relentlessly self-satisfied voice. “We hope everyone, and I mean everyone, runs out and buys a ticket for our tour. In my opinion, it’s a show not to be missed. I’ve never danced better and it’s such a privilege to be selected, along with my partner Anya, for the roles of a lifetime. I’ve never been happier. And hey, America, don’t forget to tune in to watch us on America Gets Its Groove On.”

Logan felt like snatching her latte off the table and tossing it up at the two pompous faces smiling down on her. The fame whore was using that stupid show to build his career. She knew first-hand how much he sucked as a dancer. He knew it as well. Probably why he was dragging her good name through the dirt—he was bitter about all those years she’d outshone him on stage.

How long was this going to continue?

Since its inception last January, America Gets Its Groove On had swiftly become the top-rated reality show on the air. Pierre had often boasted that they were the reason for it. Back then, she’d taken her fame and newfound exposure in stride. Par for the course; dancing was all that mattered, after all.

Now, four weeks into season two, the network was still making a huge production of Pierre’s return and Anya’s debut. It seemed the fools at the network were counting on Pierre to keep them at the top.

And being the lying, thieving, freeloading mooch that he was, her ex had found a topic for discussion that everyone was interested in. Her. The Fall. Her chest. His lies, she added, feeling the burn from the piping-hot coffee trapped in her throat.

Hadn’t Sally warned her that he was jealous of her fame? He seemed to be relishing in her popularity now that he’d twisted it into some kind of sick notoriety—where he came out smelling like roses. Where she’d been left to muck about in the dirt. She had to hand it to him, he was right about one thing—a person’s dirty laundry was somehow more appealing than their hard-earned success.

The barista approached her, and Logan took a deep breath.

“Thirty-two C cup. I’m tall but my small frame makes them seem gargantuan,” she said, her tone mocking, which she immediately regretted. It wasn’t the barista’s fault her ex was a prick.

The girl didn’t seem to catch the sarcasm. Instead, she thrust a napkin toward Logan, followed by a shy request, “Can I have your autograph?”

Logan choked on her latte. “What? You want my autograph?”

Star-struck, the barista nodded. But as Logan complied, not knowing what else to do in this appalling situation, the girl leaned forward, smiling broadly, and whispered, “Are you going to attend the performance the end of May?”

Puzzled, Logan frowned. “The finale for America Gets Its Groove On is in April.” Though I’d rather be choking on a Quiet Storm panini than tuning in to watch it. The struggle to forget last April seemed never ending.

“No, silly,” the girl said. A wave of dread washed over Logan as she put two and two together. “I’m talking about La Syphilis...you know, the Metropolitan Ballet is coming to Pittsburgh in May.”

“La Sylphide,” Logan corrected. “Think I’ll pass.” With shaky legs and a heart ready to split in two and fall out of her chest, she grabbed her coffee and headed home. The tail end of Pierre’s announcement now made sense. Her former company was coming to Pittsburgh, with Pierre in the part of the romantic Scot, James Ruben. And Anya, her former understudy, in Logan’s dream role—Sylph, the forest spirit.

But Pittsburgh? Pierre must have rigged it with the director. She didn’t have to think too deeply about his motive. A chance run-in with her...man, the fame whore had no shame.

Never had she felt so alone, so defeated. She wanted to crawl into bed and stay there. Since the age of five, she’d wanted to dance. Her mother had sacrificed so much, ensuring Logan had the best dance teachers and access to the top schools, first in Pennsylvania and then in Manhattan. Her mother had been so proud of each and every accomplishment. And the focus on Logan had kept her sane, her daughter’s dreams a welcome distraction from side-effects of her chemotherapy treatments. At least she’d seen Logan’s successes and not her failures, especially The Fall.

How she missed her mother, her wise ways, gentle spirit and comforting arms. How she missed the dreams they’d shared together.

A gust of wind whipped around the corner of her block and she buried her face within her coat. As if to add injury to insult on an already horrific day, a news van took the corner at breakneck speed, nearly clipping her. Logan felt like flashing them the bird for airing Pierre’s lying mug. She dug deep, and resisted. No way was she sinking to his level. If the press couldn’t see through him, if they couldn’t treat her with respect, then she refused to engage them. Hell, she was bent on avoiding them.

Polishing off her tepid latte, she quickened her pace up her front walkway, unlocking the door and stepping inside.

She’d survive, just like she’d managed to the past few months. There had to be a solution. A way out from beneath the pile of problems. Maybe Boscov’s was hiring and needed a sales clerk?

With a firm push, she closed the door behind her.

It bounced back open. A worn, semi-white Nike appeared, wedged in the doorframe.

She bit back a scream and threw her weight against the solid paneling, ineffectively stopping the person from entering.

And here I’d been thinking my day couldn’t get any worse.

He slid quickly inside, quietly pushing the wooden door shut behind him.

Logan pulled her fingers into tight fists, ready to defend herself, as her gaze swept upward. Navy sweatpants, a matching sweatshirt, full but tightened lips, and a pair of piercingly familiar winter-blue eyes. Her breath hitched. Keane had tugged a skull-hugging navy beanie cap low over his forehead, like a movie criminal dodging the police.

She stepped back, both nervous from the fright he’d given her and excited by what his presence meant. Before she could demand an explanation, he moved a finger to his mouth, signaling her to be quiet.

“What a bad freakin’ idea,” he muttered. “How about we head inside? The reporters are back and looking for parking. Stupid time to go on a coffee run.”

You can say that again, she thought. Instead, she whispered her frustration. “So what? I have bigger fish to fry tonight than worrying about what my neighbors are up to.” She heard him snort from behind her as she unlocked her apartment door. Too bad, he wasn’t coming inside.

“Shit.”

She wasn’t certain what that one word was all about but didn’t have time to wonder as he scooped her up, stepped over the threshold, and kicked the door closed behind them. With agonizing slowness, he lowered her to the floor, letting her body run along his as he did so. A warmth spread through her at the contact.

She took a second to regain her balance, and her wits. “What are you doing here? I thought you’d had enough of me and my problems. Well, they’ve only gotten worse. You know how you told me you wanted to be left alone? Guess what? I want to be alone.”

“I was wrong,” Keane stated, in a low, calm voice. “I want to take you up on your offer.”

For a moment, anger made her doubt she’d heard him correctly. With an open mouth, she peered at him.

“We need some ground rules. None of this bullshit. No press, no publicity, no drama.”

Logan snorted. Did he think she enjoyed the attention? Still, hope sprang up within her, but given her recent history of failure, she had to be sure. “What are you saying, Keane?”

The heavy cloud that had made up her day lifted. His lazy grin confirmed it.

“I’ve decided to fight.”

* * *

One week was all Keane had to prepare. Logan was undaunted; no way was this opportunity going to pass her by. Nothing would interfere with his fighting in the qualifiers. A profound sense of relief made her feel giddy. For the first time in months, she had something to smile about.

“Pack your things. You’ll move in with me.” He prowled around her living room like a hungry, caged tiger.

Her smile nearly dropped to the floor. “What are you talking about? I didn’t say anything about...”

“I want peace and quiet. No surprises—hate them. No reporters.”

She pointed toward the small waste can in the corner. “That’s where I tossed the remote after you left. Do you think I’m trying to become the next best thing in reality television? This buzz about my...me, it’s not my fault. Why—”

“A Channel Nine news truck nearly plowed me over when I got here.”

“A news truck? Oh my God, I walked by it—”

“Interviewed the landlady.”

“Mrs. Debinska? She doesn’t speak a word of—”

“English. Figured that out myself. Suppose they did too.”

“How did they know where I live?” Wringing her hands, she paced about the room and tried to absorb this new bit of information.

“Internet. Don’t know.”

“Pierre was on television exactly an hour ago and a news crew is interviewing my landlady?” Bleeding leotards, this was worse than she could ever have imagined. “I’ve got to get out of here before more show up.”

“Way ahead of you, babe.” Keane folded his arms across his chest. “Is there a back door? My Jeep’s around the corner.”

“Through the basement. This is all going down way too fast...”

He grunted. “Do you want to do this or not? If not...”

“Yes, I want to do this,” she said hastily, “but I have some ground rules, too. And I plan on holding you to them. We’ll even shake on it.”

She swore his lips twitched before he responded, “Let’s hear ‘em.”

Logan moved into the bedroom and began tossing clothing into a suitcase, not paying too much attention to her selections. Keane dominated her thoughts just like he did the bedroom. It didn’t help that when she dropped a red lace thong, he scooped it off the floor and thumbed the elastic briefly before tossing it into the suitcase. She never expected to be envious of a thong but that thumb of his was magical. Her body flushed in memory.

“Spit it out. Let’s hear these conditions.”

“You begin early tomorrow morning.”

“Agreed. Next.”

Logan relaxed. Perhaps this wouldn’t be difficult, after all. “No drinking, and no pain killers. I’ll bring my medicinal teas. They’re much better, healthier.”

She glanced up and caught his slight nod.

“I’ll help you train however I can. If you are going to fight, I...um...need you to win.”

“No sense in fighting otherwise.”

The tension in her shoulders relaxed, knowing they were both on the same page. Six winning fights, and the subsequent salary Jerry promised her, would make all the difference in the world.

She pressed on to a more sensitive subject. “If I agree to move in with you, temporarily—not that I’ve another choice now that the paparazzi have found where I live—you’ll have to contact your girlfriends. Note my use of the plural girlfriends, as I don’t believe for one second that flighty, blonde kleptomaniac is your only one. Tell them they can’t come over. It would be awkward, to say the least.” All this was said on a long, rushed exhale.

But having her concerns about other women aired was a relief. It would be unbearable if an ongoing stream of women came parading out of his bedroom. And just like that, the thought of another woman in his bed, satisfied and grinning like a cat on cream, made her frown.

“That’s it?”

Well, there was one more thing that needed to be said. Logan had had her quota of problems for the year. And as difficult as it was to say, it was best put to it all on the table now instead of later. With a deep breath, she began, “I, um, don’t think a repeat performance of our night together is a good idea.”

An unidentifiable expression crossed Keane’s face, though it wasn’t anger. His eyes seemed brighter beneath those long, dark lashes. His tongue darted out and swiped at those plump lips as if moistening them for his reply. Or for something else. Did he do that intentionally to throw her off track?

Her eyes narrowed and her cheeks grew warm. His massive body shifted closer as his lips curled up, causing her inner thermostat of pent-up lust to spike, sizzle and warm her from the top of her head to the tips of her toes. So much for demands that I’ve no chance of keeping, she thought, and was fairly certain Keane had arrived at the same conclusion.

He tilted his head and silently studied her. Like her words were a load of bull, like he could prove it by tossing her to the mattress and finishing what he’d promised the last time he was in her bedroom.

He looked away, breaking contact. “The Jeep’s parked outside. How long will this take?”

“Almost done.” Logan refocused her attention on the suitcase. Besides packing, she needed to check in with Mrs. Debinska, let her know she’d be gone for a few days, and make sure the old woman’s refrigerator was stocked. Maybe call her son, who lived in the suburbs, to make sure he checked in on her.

Her mind raced, so when Keane’s fingers touched her arm, she jumped. Gently, he tugged her closer. And closer still. Leaning forward, his husky whisper sent tingles down her spine. “Did we shake on it yet? You know, seal the deal?”

Dumbly, she shook her head no.

“Good. This doesn’t count, then.”

Before she could guess his intent, he yanked her up against him, angled his head, and pressed his lips over hers. He gave her a toe-curling kiss that made her knees wobble and thoughts swim. A kiss that erased away the day’s bitterness and replaced it with something more alive. Something special.

Chapter Six

SWEEP: When a fighter changes positioning, from being on the bottom to being on top

“Oh my God,” Logan exclaimed. Keane had barely put the Jeep into park, and she was out the door and up his sidewalk. “This is your house?”

He lifted her bags from the trunk and followed. Having a housemate was going to take some getting used to. Usually it was way too dark for his short-term—very short-term—guests to make much of a stink about his home. Plus, he kept them occupied with more important and pleasurable things.

Keane paused on the bottom step and watched Logan follow the wrap-around porch from one end to the other. The night was young. Still time for this houseguest to nose her way right back out the front door. Low key, quiet, and non-meddlesome, that’s how he liked to keep things. Logan’s antics made him feel uneasy. Once again, doubts about this idiotic plan plagued him.

He unlocked and opened the door, allowing her to enter ahead of him, and almost barreled into her as she stopped short inside the foyer.

“You own this house? And here I imagined you living in a fratlike apartment. No offense.”

Without responding, he nodded toward the living room.

“Um, can I have a tour?” she asked him, her voice breathless like she’d been dancing or something. “Afterward, you can tell me how I can help you out with training. I want to be useful, plus I’m not one to lounge around, unproductive.”

Hmm, he’d like to see her do that, lounging around. Preferably naked. That would be a great help.

He led her through his home and in brief, clipped sentences, answered her prodding questions about his plans for each room. Shame made him hesitant and irritable. Technically, all his renovations could have been completed by now, if his life hadn’t gone to hell.

Yet Logan didn’t seem to mind the partially sheet-rocked walls or the unvarnished trim in the doorways. Instead, her enthusiasm bubbled as she gushed over the potential in every unfinished project. An enthusiasm reminiscent of Jimmy’s. The person who, for the better part of the year, he’d been trying not to think about.

The minute she’d started in about the place, he’d had visions of Jimmy doing exactly that. He would have loved the challenge of it. Of renovating the Victorian back to its glory, then flipping it for a profit. Fuck, what was he doing, moving her in here?

An hour later, Keane found the knot in his stomach tightening as he still played reluctant tour guide and revealed small bits about the plans for the house: the re-sanded and re-stained railings on the winding staircase in the foyer, the built-in cherry-wood shelving that matched the window trim in a bedroom, and how the largest room, upstairs and at the back of the house, would make a great—though modern—gym.

His head throbbed like it had been hit by a two-by-four by the time they’d reached the already renovated living room. His stomach rumbled, demanding satisfaction.

“I heard that,” she laughed, oblivious of the tension building within him. “Let’s talk about tomorrow and then I’ll leave you be. I’d like to tag along if you don’t mind? A little exercise will do me good. So, what do you think, should we head down to the Pittsburgh Fight Club? There’s a boxing bag and plenty of weights for you to use.”

“I have weights,” he muttered.

“But Sal says alternating various-sized weights give muscles a burst...wakes them up, I guess.”

Keane raised his brows. “Sal had you lifting?”

“No, I heard him telling this to another fighter after you...refused me. There’s nothing to it, so Sal says.”

“Is that right? Seems I’ve been going about things the wrong way.” His tone was sarcastic. Did she think he was a friggin’ amateur? He caught her eyes wandering over his chest, assessing the measure of his words. Until she looked away, and a lovely, rosy flush colored her cheeks.

“That’s what Sal told me...” she replied in a low voice.

His patience was running thin and his stomach demanded nourishment. He cut her off mid-sentence. “You hungry?”

“Not really. It’s kind of late to be eating...”

Keane frowned. When he’d agreed to this insane idea, the thought of someone monitoring his food intake, and even what foods he ate, hadn’t crossed his mind. Neither did hours of discussion about his home, his private life, refurbished or not.

Stalking to the foyer and picking up her bags, he barked, “Follow me.”

“Yes, sir.” He heard the sarcasm loud and clear. At least the woman had a backbone, he’d give her that.

“The bedroom with the wood-burning fireplace is yours for the duration.”

“Really! Can I make a fire? Or rather, would you help me with it later?”

He shrugged. If a fire is what it took for him to find some peace, so be it.

Five minutes later, while Keane wolfed down some leftover boiled chicken and brown rice, his mood lightened. Truth be told, his exasperation with Logan was minor compared to the frustration he felt within. Kicking the booze and pills was a lot harder than he’d anticipated, especially after a series of sleepless nights and the nightmares plaguing him.

It was common knowledge that war veterans experienced extreme mindfucks, where the harshest moments of combat replayed in their dreams like a DVD menu screen before you hit Play. But the adage “misery loves company” didn’t help much. Which is why Logan’s comments about homemade remedies, those herbs, had caught his interest.

Yep, he did it for the herbs, not because it pissed him off thinking about that asshole Bouvine following her home. Or how he signed on to kicking Pierre’s ass for her. So he tried to convince himself. What did he have to lose? Tossing back a few herbal teas might replace his self-medicating habit. It was worth a shot. Worth a nosy, distracting housemate. And hell, if the herbs didn’t work, there was one more way to ease his pain—a method proven on more than one night.

The irony of the situation made Keane’s mood lighten further. He liked how she liked his home. Hell, he liked her. Looking at her. Touching her. Making her come hard on his fingers. He liked her spirit, the grit it took to pursue him like this. And, fuck, he related to her on a deeper level. Her pain.

Why not keep a smile on those luscious lips of hers?

If her pain was his burden right now, then so was her pleasure.

Hell. Maybe the opposite was true. A heavy dose of pleasure in his life might be just what the doctor ordered.

Logan had had a grand tour of his place, yet there was something he hadn’t shown her. Something about the house all his late-night visitors—who were, let’s face it, confined to one room in particular—commented on. The old tin ceiling in the master suite. Yep, if those herbs failed, he’d pencil that in on Logan’s ways-to-help-him-train schedule. Time on her back viewing his tin ceiling, him between her thighs. Considering her eager response to his kiss earlier, she’d likely be presented with the view, even if the herbs did work out.

* * *

Later that night, it was Keane on his back, studying the ceiling. Alone. Awake with a pounding migraine. Trying to keep the demons at bay. Having Logan take such a liking to his house stirred up memories best forgotten—ones that persisted like a bad toothache.

All his buddy Jimmy had talked about doing after his tour ended was flipping properties in good neighborhoods. A partnership, with the work and the reward split right down the middle. But Jimmy had picked up another tour, and Keane had returned to Pittsburgh alone. The seed had been planted in Keane’s head, though. When presented with the listing for the old Victorian home in need of some TLC, he bought it as their first flip.

For a while, the physicality needed for renovating made for a solid night’s sleep. The spare bedroom, along with the master bedroom and living room, had been gutted and remodeled his first year back from active duty. All was going okay. Until word that Jimmy’s fourth tour had come to an abrupt end—as did his life. The autopsy report was issued. Then, everything went to shit.

He rolled out of bed in need of something to quiet his mind. Her door was open and he tapped the wooden frame, skeptical yet willing to try one of those damn teas she’d packed. No answer, not even a murmur. Why would she be awake at this hour?

He turned to leave but the crackle of the red log smoldering in the hearth drew his attention. The room was cold, the fireplace the only source of heat. Swiftly, he strode over to it, grabbed two logs he’d brought in earlier, and banked the fire.

Firelight cast an amber glow on her. She’d showered, he could tell by the damp curls on her pillow. He caught a whiff of sweet vanilla cream; it suited her personality—all proper and feminine. She was a naturally attractive woman, wholesome and clean. He liked that, too. Waking up next to a raccoon-eyed woman, and a trail of lash prints crossing the pillowcases, was a huge turn-off.

The logs took, and he made to leave. Logan shifted, unaware of her visitor. The comforter fell to her waist. His eyes followed but stopped short.

The focus of much debate and discussion rounded snuggly against the material of her large collegiate sweatshirt. A perfect set of tits. She always seemed self-conscious about them—he couldn’t blame her with all the buzz caused by her moron of an ex’s trash talk. Keane would make it his priority to show her, first with his hands, then with his mouth, and then...well, she’d discover soon enough just how pleasurable a well-developed rack could be.

A sigh escaped her, and his cock stirred at the sound. It was obvious Logan was a ball of unreleased sexuality. The way she watched him finger her in the mirror—man, that was hot as hell. One kiss, and he’d have her kissing her so-called rules goodbye. No sex? Yeah, right, like that was going to happen. If it hadn’t been for the paparazzi stalking her, he’d have taken her right there, standing up against her front door.

For a moment, he contemplated waking her with his hands and his mouth, envisioned her eager response as he ran his tongue from her ear to her neck, and lower. But a good fuck wasn’t why he’d invaded her privacy. He’d come for those damned teas.

Once more, she sighed. With narrow eyes, he studied her face for signs of awareness. Her mouth parted slightly but she slept on like the dead. She’d last a day—tops, as a Marine. He was about to reach over and gently shake her awake when he noticed the lift of her mouth. His cock lifted too, and thickened at the sight of her smiling in her sleep.

Shit. Whatever she was dreaming about was doing it for her. As troubled and ornery as he was, he couldn’t do it, couldn’t wake her. At least Logan’s dreams were pleasurable.

Quietly, he made his way back to his bedroom. And resumed his prior activity—examining the tin ceiling.

Hours later, he was up and dressed, but anxious and in desperate need of release. He flicked on the lamp next to Logan’s bed and flooded the room with light. “Let’s get going.”

Logan rolled to her side. Blinking, she struggled upward, suddenly aware of her surroundings.

“What time is it?” she demanded, groggily.

“Time for a run.”

She rubbed her eyes, then looked at him. “Run? What run? The sun isn’t even up. This wasn’t what I meant when I said I’d tag along. Why don’t you go pump some weights?”

Keane grunted. Power wasn’t exactly his weakness, never had been. Endurance was what mattered. The only way to survive fighting two different opponents each night for three nights was by getting the old ticker pumping.

“Meet me in the kitchen in five. Wear layers of sweats.”

He ignored her murmur of irritation and went to put on some coffee. Caffeine might help somewhat. A vigorous run, possibly. Still, he regretted not waking her last night, and asking about those natural herbs she spoke so highly of. Regretted not waking her earlier, and seeking relief within her body.

Shit, better keep these thoughts to himself until he was less strung out. Time enough for Logan to find herself flat backed and studying the architectural wonders of his ceiling. That is, after he’d had his fill.

* * *

By daybreak, Logan was ready to call it quits. All she wanted was a cold Evian and a comfortable bed to fall into. Exercising to this extreme wasn’t normal. Yet, as she turned the corner and spotted Keane on the sidewalk, her thoughts remained just that—thoughts.

No way was she going to piss him off and ruin a chance at reclaiming her life. Even if she’d run miles more than any reasonable ex-ballerina would run in her right mind. She could do this.

Dancing had made her lungs strong and stamina high. And if anyone cared enough to notice the truth, she didn’t have two black eyes from her gargantuan breasts knocking her in the face.

At least today’s weather was reliable. The sun had melted the blackened snow mounds lining the city’s roadways and sidewalks. A few blocks back, she’d even walked past a carrot and a hat on a patch of lawn.

The sidewalk ended and she caught sight of Keane working out in one of their designated meeting spots off in the distance. With a deep inhale, she sprinted off.

Reaching him, she stood panting while he completed an insane amount of pushups. Her eyes fell on his biceps, and how they tightened beneath the snug arms of his sweatshirt with each upward push. If it hadn’t been so damned early, rush-hour traffic would be backed up for miles from the heart-skipping sight.

At first, she’d thought this was his everyday drill, run three miles and pump out some squats or sit-ups, run three more and stop for push-ups or boxing thrusts. Until she realized it was his way of waiting for her. Oh, she tagged along, all right, falling far back and jogging along at a comfortable and reasonable pace.

Unable to keep up with his intense running regimen, she tried to make herself helpful in other ways.

“How many was that?” she rasped, still searching for breath.

“Hundred twenty.”

The trouble with keeping count of his repetitions was she kept losing count. Too focused—and oh-so aware—of his every movement: how the muscles in his forearms flexed while jabbing, the way his sweatshirt rose up off his abs during sit-ups, and even the fine, set line of his jaw as he pumped out a few final push-ups. Transfixed, she could only watch, wait and admire him. If it wasn’t so dang cold, she’d be drooling like a puppy over a fine, meaty bone.

Keane jumped to his feet, and belatedly, she realized he’d spoken. Wide-eyed, she stared at him, hoping his intense focus prevented him from picking up on the fact she was turned on—so turned on she felt like running her hands beneath his sweatshirt to feel the warmth of his abdomen from all those sit-ups. Or touch the bulging arms, thick with muscle. Or...

“Ready?” he asked while jogging in place.

Am I ever. Logan wanted nothing better than to sprawl out on the sidewalk, preferably with him cuddled up next to her—but Keane was a machine in motion.

For a split second, she thought he was going to hit the ground and pump out a few more. God, yes, please.

With a brief, quizzical look, he said, “We’ll take it slow. Cool down.”

Take it slow. Cool down. The sexy innuendo had her heart doing push-ups. If they weren’t standing on a crooked concrete sidewalk on a soon-to-be-busy street...

Keane stood with his head angled to the side and his hands on his hips, studying her.

Fearing he’d guessed her thoughts, she hurried to reply. “Ha, who are you kidding? Your slow is like Manhattan during rush hour. As I said much, much earlier, don’t wait for me. I’ll either catch up or meet you back at your house.”

“No need. We’re done for the morning.” He nodded toward the roadway and waited for her to jog ahead. Yet, true to his word, this time he ran next to her at a comfortable speed.

“Time to refuel. Are you hungry?”

“Uh-huh.” Yes, but for a taste of you. How in the heck was she going to make it through the week with him? The man was sexy as sin, and as she spent more and more time with him she discovered that beneath that heart-dropping body, lay a humble soul.

She’d come to that conclusion last night during his house tour. He’d painstakingly answered her barrage of questions with short, concise explanations—no surprise there. But something had been playing out within him, an intangible tension she couldn’t put her finger on. He seemed almost uncomfortable. Modest about his renovations. Which Logan couldn’t quite understand.

His old Victorian house was the home of her dreams. She itched to pick up some sandpaper and scrub off the chipped windowsill paint in the guest room. Paint an eggshell cream color for the plywood walls and fix a new mantel for the fireplace. And she had told him so.

Painfully embarrassed, that’s what his reaction last night seemed like. Clearly, he felt funny about owning such a magnificently dainty house. And this show of fragility made her want to tug him in close.

They jogged through Market Square, side-by-side, passing a woman cleaning a For Sale sign on the window of Rachel’s Antiques, and other early-risers preparing for the day.

“Here we are,” Keane murmured. He had stopped in front of a small luncheonette with warped marine-blue siding and a crooked neon sign in its window. The word open flashed brightly.

She shot him an arched eyebrow. “I’m a mess, even for a place like this. When you said breakfast, I thought we would be eating at your house. I haven’t showered.”

The appraising look he gave her stopped her short. He likes my just-rolled-out-of-bed-and-sprinted-the-Pittsburgh-marathon look.

He opened the door and ushered her inside.

The place was packed. The aroma of fresh coffee and sweet buttery pancakes caused her stomach to pull a plié. With all the exercise, she was famished.

A kind, old Irishman greeted them. “Keane, my boy. It’s a mighty fine day when you come strolling on in here. It’s been too long.”

In typical Keane style, he didn’t say much but Logan saw him soften beneath the older man’s greeting. “Is there a table, Joe?”

“For you, me bucko, there’s always a table. Especially when you’ve such lovely company.”

Logan smiled at the elderly man, whose heartfelt greeting was like a warm hug.

Joe led them down the narrow aisle to a back booth. She was surprised how cozy and clean the place was, with its old-fashioned table-top jukeboxes and red-checkered linen tablecloths.

Settling into the seat across from her, Keane pulled off his cap, lowered his hood and unzipped his sweatshirt. The black shirt layered beneath hugged his pecs but hung more loosely over his abdomen. Logan fiddled with her own layers as she imagined his naked torso beneath.

She had thought her favorite part on a man was his biceps, having grown used to Pierre’s strong, firm ones—which in retrospect seemed like ant hills to Keane’s Mont Blanc. Yet, the breath-catching glimpses of Keane’s bare abdomen each time his shirt rose up...nope, she was a certifiable abs-aholic, wanting more and more.

“Need something?” His eyebrow raised, and damn, if his eyes weren’t twinkling. Totally aware of her perusal.

She looked down at the checkered napkin and fiddled with the brass ring. Wishing her embarrassment would steal away with her lustful thoughts. If Pierre could only see her now, all hot and bothered. She wanted to laugh, thanks to the handsome man across from her. A virtual stranger responsible for saving her job, her livelihood and her sexuality.

Joe returned and distributed the menus, along with a pot of coffee and some cream.

Chancing a glance up, she nearly dropped the menu. Keane wasn’t even looking at it. Instead, he’d put a toothpick in his mouth, sprawled back in his seat, and with something that looked like a predatory grin, was studying her.

Not knowing what to say, she muttered the first thing that came to mind. “Do you know what you want?”

“Yep. Sure do.” His reply was immediate, and given in such a low, sensual voice, that this time the menu did slide from her grasp.

“Ah, hum,” Joe cleared his throat, breaking the moment. “What will it be this morning? The usual for you, Keane?”

“With a glass of water, too.”

“And you, young lady?”

The heat rose in Logan’s cheeks. She’d been so busy devouring the man-candy across from her, she hadn’t any idea what was on the menu. “Um, how about a grapefruit sprinkled lightly with sugar. And a Greek yogurt. If you don’t have Greek, any old regular yogurt will do, I’m not too picky.”

Joe chuckled, and kindly remarked, “What does this look like, the Ritz? Me dearie, you’re in an around-the-clock meat and potatoes type of place. However, let me see if I can whip up something more refined for a sweet lass like you.”

“No, I don’t want to be any trouble. Whatever Keane is having will do for me.”

A few minutes later, she was regretting her decision. Joe placed not one, but three dishes in front of Keane. One was a steaming plate full of vegetables, mostly broccoli mixed with carrots and a sprout that looked like alfalfa. The second plate had a tower of buckwheat pancakes—Joe had informed her of the special batter he made just for his boys. But the thick sirloin on the third one, rare enough to jump off the plate and bite you back, made her glance around nervously. No way was she eating an enormous slab of meat. Steak was reserved for special, once-in-a-blue-moon splurges.

Frowning, her eyes shot toward Joe, who was watching her reaction with merriment. The same in-on-the-joke look was etched into the raised corners of Keane’s mouth. Joe’s laugh, when it finally came, was a loud burst of pleasure. Keane’s, however, was a low, melodic rumble which caused her heart to thump wildly.

Logan rolled her eyes. “Very funny, you guys. I almost had a heart attack thinking I’d have to eat all that.”

To her relief, a plate of cottage cheese, mixed fruit and Canadian bacon was set in front of her. Her stomach growled out a hello.

“I’m thinking you’ve been in me place before,” Joe commented, studying her thoughtfully. “You look familiar.”

She glanced around nervously and spotted the television on the wall over the counter.

“Food’s getting cold.” Keane’s comment sent Joe on his way.

Logan tried to convey thank you with her eyes, but Keane was looking at his plate while stabbing at the vegetables with his fork.

They ate in silence. He wasn’t one for long conversations, that was as clear as day. But it wasn’t an awkward silence. It was more like a contented lull between two people who’d spent an active morning attaining endorphin buzzes from well-worked bodies. His well-worked body.

Logan grinned at the thought.

“That good?”

God, she would have to stop doing that—the object of every fantasy she’d ever had was sitting right in front of her, and wouldn’t you know it, she was blatantly eyeballing him with the same consideration that he’d given the steak.

“Really good. The cottage cheese melts in your mouth,” she said sarcastically. “Now, how about you fill me in on this week’s plan. From what I understand, you’re expected to fight two different opponents in two different bouts each night, for three nights straight. That’s six consecutive fights.” She paused, thinking how crazy it sounded. He must have read her expression.

“It’s not like championship boxing. You’re in for twelve rounds if you’re lucky, and done. In MMA qualifying bouts like these, the fights end quicker. You win and move on until you’re the last guy standing. That’s how you make it into the big event. That’s what getting to Tetnus is all about.” His tone had lost its playful quality and she gave herself a mental kick for turning their light-hearted morning into something heavier.

When it came to the topic of fighting, Keane was all business. Instantly serious, more somber, and downright surly at times.

Right now, she was hoping for the least of the three evils—serious.

“Is it enough time for you to get ready?” she asked casually. “You have to win...”

“So, you’re suddenly an expert on training fighters?” He chewed a piece of meat and stared at her. A bit of juice coated his full lips and instead of feeling intimidated, she felt...warm.

“Why are you giving me such a hard time about this? You agreed to fight—which I really appreciate—but I don’t want to see you lose. Or get hurt. Sal said the key to winning a fight was something about the right balance of technique and strength when grappling on the mat.”

Keane snorted, then licked at the pool of juice in the corner of his mouth.

Joe cleared his throat from his spot by their table. “If this doesn’t beat all. You’re riding me boy about his training? Not to butt into your conversation or anything, but you don’t know who you’re talking to, lass. He wadna have any problem grappling, boxing, or with anything else. This boy’s a MCMAP, a Marine Corps martial arts teacher with a fourth-degree black belt. He trains the other blokes how to fight. Jimmy, me nephew, was always brimming with wild tales about Keane, and how...”

Drop it, Joe,” Keane rasped in a hoarse, raw-sounding voice.

Logan straightened in her seat, wondering at the change in him. Seconds earlier, he’d been devouring her with his eyes. But now, in a blink, his gaze had narrowed and his body was tight with tension.

Joe stopped, his mouth wide open. “Your gal, she doesn’t know about Jimmy?”

“We’re on a need to know basis. And she’s not my girl.”

Logan felt a rush of breath escape her. Keane’s words, and the brutal way he said them, cut like a knife. Not my girl. It was like he’d grabbed hold of their sweet morning rapport and mercilessly crushed it within his fist.

She wasn’t the only one shaken by his abrupt change in demeanor.

Joe folded his arms across his chest. “But you brought her in me place. I haven’t seen your mug in months, maybe a handful of times since Jimmy’s funeral. What else was I to think?” The Irishman’s eyes filled with sorrow. “His death...it wadna something you could control, lad. How were you to know?”

Keane shot to his feet and the plates on the table rattled. “Holy fuck, Joe, shut up.”

Logan sat back in her seat, and gaped up at Keane.

He’s lost a friend.

Sympathy welled up inside her, overshadowing her own hurt. She wanted to wrap her arms around him and comfort him. Ease the pain that had unexpectedly surfaced from somewhere deep inside of him. That’s what this was, right? Keane’s way of dealing with his friend’s death? Yet his rough manner made her think twice about consoling him.

Keane wasn’t a hug-loving type of guy. Especially now.

His abrupt shift in personality made him downright mean, uncharacteristically so, with the way he was glaring at Joe.

The Irishman looked wretched, wringing his hands and wavering on his feet, and studying Keane intently, as if he was looking at a total stranger, too.

Logan unclasped her numb fingers from the tight knot she’d made on her lap.

And Keane...oh my God. He seemed both furious, and devastated. Like someone who’d just found out about a close friend’s death. But hadn’t Joe said the funeral had already taken place?

This warrior, this handsome male with a strength and fortitude that was mind-shattering, this private man whom she’d stalked and pestered into fighting in the qualifiers, had some serious issues of his own.

Deeper issues than those she’d already picked up on.

The internal struggle playing out in him spoke volumes—his troubles reached way beyond the booze, the pills, the hard living. Issues that would take more than a few sips of herbal tea to resolve.

Would she be able to help him? Had the teas, exercise, even her companionship, been a source of relief for him?

Or not at all?

Keane stared down Joe, and the Irishman fixed his gaze on Keane, until in the unspoken way of men, they came to some kind of nonverbal accord.

“Let’s go. We’ll sprint back.” His voice was deceptively calm. Normal. She wasn’t fooled. Still, relief washed over her. Whatever had played out in Keane’s head, he’d gotten a hold on it.

“Another time, Joe,” he said abruptly. Keane patted the old Irishman on the arm and softly added, “Sorry.”

She followed him out into the bright, Pittsburgh sunlight. With a nod in the direction of home, he took off running. She watched him sprint away, as if the devil had nipped him on the heels. With a sigh, she started after him.

Chapter Seven

FIGHT CAMP: The time leading up to a bout, when a fighter is rigorously training

The next few days were more grueling than boot camp. It was like Jimmy’s ghost rode around on his shoulder, fueling his guilty conscience. One wrong punch is all it took, buddy. The constant reminder was bad enough. But bearing down on his other shoulder—even more relentlessly—was Logan. The woman had more willpower than a Marine in basic training. Even in the face of a mean, sleep-deprived bastard like himself.

She’d gotten too close. Thanks to Joe, she knew too much about him for his liking. He didn’t need her sympathy. She seemed like the type who dreamed of “saving” a guy...little did she know he was beyond help.

Every time Jimmy came up, he found himself striking back, until his message was clear—this topic of conversation wasn’t up for grabs. Not that she didn’t try. Despite being verbally lambasted, he still caught her looks of concern. Her pity.

Which is why he pushed himself hard, and dragged her along for the ride. Two goals to accomplish: shape up fast and wear her ass out. No, his routine provided little room for discussion or prying, and left them both exhausted by the end of the day.

The streets were quietest at daybreak. A few miles added on to his daily run, broken up with intervals of strength training, ate up the better part of each morning. He made a habit of stopping in the same spots so she could, every so often, catch up to him. He respected her for not idling around somewhere while he hit the pavement. Grudgingly, he liked how she took every hill, obstacle and deterioration in the weather in stride. And for a ballerina, she had a strong set of lungs.

If he wasn’t so fucking tired from the nightmares plaguing him, he might have found humor in her following a fighter’s diet. She had taken over the task of grilling steaks or sautéing a mixture of chicken and vegetables served over brown rice. No complaints about their bland, lean protein and whole grain diet, eaten for breakfast, lunch and dinner. With the substitution of grapefruit for steak, she followed the regiment wholeheartedly.

Each meal was accompanied by one of her teas. The verdict was still out on if they helped, though his headaches seemed to be less frequent. Her constant brewing and straining seemed to say, “You’re not getting rid of me so easily.”

Smart woman. She’d caught on to his game.

It was a pain in the ass having someone eyeballing him twenty-four/seven. But he had to admit, she’d given him something to keep his mind on—her.

Two hours of weight-training came after breakfast. The first day, after they had returned from Joe’s place, he made it clear her company wasn’t needed. The idea of her standing nearby and counting his reps would be a distraction that might get them both killed, which is what he informed her in an abrupt, less-than-gentlemanly manner. She’d stalked out, all stiff-backed, from the bare-bones gym situated between his bedroom and the guest room.

He’d thought about how he’d barked at her earlier and felt a twinge of guilt, remembering the crushed look that had fallen across her features. Which is why he hadn’t chased her away when she’d suddenly sauntered in wearing a tight little body-skimming number.

“This is the only room with a mirrored wall. You don’t mind if I practice, do you? There’s plenty of space.”

He had begrudgingly grunted in response. Hell, just because he was a miserable bastard didn’t justify hurting her. Letting her stay was an unspoken apology. Or so he had told himself.

Ten seconds into lifting, the real reason had become apparent.

The black tights and low-cut leotard hugged every tight curve of her long, magnificent body. Her muscles flexed as she completed series of squats. Her arms circled up over her head and then back out in front of her. The reflection of her satisfied smile in the mirror had made him add an extra weight onto the bar, prolonging the pleasure of watching her move.

At present, he found himself lifting more repetitions than planned but it wasn’t enough. Reality sank in as she pivoted on her toes...nothing but a beautiful distraction was to be had here. Besides, his home gym wasn’t equipped to meet his needs. He needed the punching bag, and would force himself to pick up a sparring match or two. “We’ll head over to the gym.” Like it or not—and who was he kidding? He struggled with this contradicting yin-yang of emotion daily—he was stuck with her.

“Sal is going to be—”

“Just change.” His gaze ran over her outfit one last time. “Wear the turtleneck.”

* * *

They drove in silence to the Pittsburgh Fight Club. Inside, Logan headed off with Sal, leaving him to go about his business without disruption. Or so he thought, until two bouts later when he exited the cage and caught sight of who was bothering Logan.

“Come on, honey. What’s he afraid of, the scorpion’s strike?” Jaysin Bouvine taunted.

Keane stopped next to a punching bag, gave it a solid jab, and counted the seconds before he had to head over there. The fighter was making weird gestures with his head, swiveling it around and side to side. Probably ate paint chips as a child, with that kind of pick-up strategy. Yet the thought of the guy hitting on Logan pissed Keane off.

He pulled a punch, pausing to glare at Bouvine as Logan turned her back on the asshole and moved over to the Octagon stairs, putting distance between them. Knowing she didn’t return Bouvine’s interest didn’t make it any better. It took every ounce of discipline he had not to pound the smirk off the jerk’s face.

Pulling his arm back, Keane thrust it forward with all his strength. Envisioning Jaysin’s head. The fact that he’d followed Logan home that time made Keane consider fighting him. Give that bug on his head a solid pounding.

“Call that a jab? The bag is about all you can handle, O’Shea. What’s keeping you from a real bout? Come on, man.” Bouvine’s voice took on a begging quality, like a small boy demanding someone play with him.

But when he swiveled his head and winked at Logan, Keane snapped.

“Let’s go.”

Bouvine jumped, thinking Keane had just invited him to spar and suddenly looking very nervous. His face fell as Keane walked over to Logan and touched her arm.

“You’re leaving? You chicken shit.”

Keane caught the look in Logan’s widened eyes. She assumed he was stupid enough to jump at Bouvine’s bait. Could she see beneath his rigid self-control to the wild, uncontrollable turmoil buried within? The thought made him angrier. He wasn’t about to put a beating on this idiot, to have Bouvine’s subsequent hospitalization weigh him down even further. Without comment, he nudged her ahead of him.

“We’ll be back tomorrow, Sal. Schedule him for a few bouts...with the same fighters as today. Not Jaysin, okay?”

“Anything for you, my love,” Sal hollered back with admiration in his voice.

On the run home, Keane sprinted out ahead of her. He heard her shout out, “Wait up!” but ignored it. Bouvine, Sal and every other fighter in the place would have waited. Hell, they’d have given her a piggy-back ride home. Or, more likely, a ride of another kind. What was it about her that made him feel so responsible? So freakin’ protective? So close to forgetting about training in favor of beating the living shit out of that worthless ass?

Fuck. Man-oh-man, images of her riding him hard were like relentless punches, stirring his blood up past the boiling point. If he was gonna be back in the cage again, he needed to get a grip, and fast. He picked up his pace.

Once home, he headed for the back room, locked the door, and began a series of grueling lifts. Until some semblance of sanity returned.

* * *

Keane emerged from the back room so abruptly the bath towel nearly toppled off of her. They were both wet, her from a well-deserved shower and him from a marathon session of lifting. He scowled at her, an all-too-familiar look. She didn’t mind, knowing his growl was worse than his bite.

“Sweet Mother of Mary. Put some clothes on,” he barked, stepping past her.

For the life of her, she couldn’t figure out why his mood had soured sometime between the gym and working out at home. Surely Jaysin and his taunts weren’t responsible for the sudden change? Something else was bothering him. Something she wanted to put her finger on so as to better understand him. Keane’s muscled chest rose and fell from overexertion, as if he’d tried to physically push away his troubles. A cold draft from the hallway caused her to shudder and for her focus to resharpen on his attire—or lack of it.

“Look who’s calling the kettle black. You’re showing a heck of a lot more skin than I am.” To prove her point, she grabbed the waistline of his sweats and tugged them up a notch. Her thumb connected with the warmth of his abdomen and suddenly, she felt hotter than the shower she’d come from.

He smelled all male, a mixture of Ivory soap and sweat. Beads of perspiration coated his bare chest and dampened his hair. She itched to reach out and run her fingers along the inky, moist path of his tribal tattoo. She shifted, and the movement accidentally caused her to release her grasp on the towel. In one fluffy cascade, it fell to the floor.

She heard his sharp inhale as a flush spread over her body.

Time was suspended, until his hands found her chest. Scooping from underneath, he cupped the weight of her breasts within his palms. His thumbs found her pert nipples. Gently, he pressed, circled and stroked them, then moved lower around her areolas.

The warmth of his fingers sent shivers down her spine. But it was the note of desire in his voice that caused her heart to burst.

“See how you feel in my hands? So soft, so damned beautiful. So perfect in every way.”

She melted. The tenderness in his tone and in his touch gave her goose bumps. She leaned in to him, her entire body trembling with want.

Fickle fate interfered as the invasive sound of the knocker on the front door interrupted the moment between them.

“Finish this later,” he stated, his tone rough like whiskey, then broke away.

Logan exhaled a long, disappointed breath. Her breasts still felt warm from his palm.

Quickly she headed for her room, where she pulled on a new set of underwear, a long, loose pink sweatshirt and tight black pants. Running a comb through her hair, she heard Keane’s sharp greeting and the murmur of voices echo up from the foyer. Whoever was at the door was uninvited. Yet, it sounded as if Keane knew him. She crept to the stairwell and peered down.

“You back? What happened, no one show up for training?”

“Very funny. I told you it was a brief assignment. Decided to check in on you on my way home. When I left here, I was worried. You seemed...well, hello.” The handsome man in the foyer grinned up at her. A familiar, semi-fanatical smirk. One filled with recognition. He glanced back at Keane appreciatively. “You have company. Luscious Logan...”

It was all he got out before Keane tossed him on his back in one, smooth move. The man’s hand shot out and tapped the wooden floorboards.

“Damn Keane, let me up. I’ll apologize. Stupid thing to say. I get it.”

Logan hurried down the stairs, worried for the apologetic man. “Keane, let him up. He didn’t mean any harm.”

“One more word, Stevie, and you’re outta here,” Keane warned, and removed his foot from his friend’s chest. With a nod toward the sofa, he left them and headed to the kitchen.

Logan frowned as Keane returned with three beers. Drinking wasn’t part of their exercise routine. But before she could open her mouth, Keane shot her a look that said “suck it up.”

“So, are you two a thing? That kiss was something—a worldwide event. I hear even Prince Harry has commented on it.”

Logan just about choked on her Yuengling. Clearly, Stevie had no filter and the incident in the foyer had been dislodged from his very short-term memory bank.

“Stevie—”

Logan cut him off. “I heard Keane mention a recruitment center. Are you in the military?”

Thankfully, Stevie was more than happy to discuss himself. “Yep, I’m home for good. Served three tours as a Marine, one in Iraq and two in Afghanistan. I’m helping a few recruitment centers get up and running. Came from New York and decided to check in with Coach here before I return to Ohio.”

Keane drank deeply from his beer.

“Coach? Did Keane train you to fight?”

Stevie laughed and gave his friend a shamefaced smirk. “He tried, but mixed martial arts isn’t part of my arsenal. Pretty much sucked at it. Not that this guy wasn’t an exceptional coach, he was. Taught some of the best fighters in the Marines some mad skills. I’ll never forget the time our friend Jimmy pulled a Kimura in the championship round...”

Stevie trailed off. For a moment, something passed between the two men. Logan searched Keane’s face but was met with only an intense scowl. Typical Keane. Memories had a way of doing that; one person’s fond remembrance was another’s nightmare.

She inhaled sharply. Jimmy was Keane’s nightmare.

Hadn’t she witnessed it at the luncheonette? Keane had visibly flinched when Jimmy’s name had been brought up. Now Stevie’s story was evoking the same dark response from Keane.

Whenever she’d overstepped the boundaries, pushed the issue, Keane had shut her out with his sharp tongue. The threat of him sending her packing if she persisted loomed unspoken between them.

And she couldn’t afford it—not with Jerry dangling that money at her. Not with the paparazzi monitoring her every move. These few days were a godsend, despite Keane’s mood swings—or rather steadfastly clinging onto one mood, that of sourpuss. Case in point was the tension rolling off him now.

“How about I get dinner ready? I’ll leave you guys alone for some man time.” Logan didn’t wait for a reply and headed into the kitchen, fearing Keane might send Stevie packing if she didn’t get food on the table soon.

As she seasoned two huge steaks for the stovetop grill and rinsed off lettuce leaves for a salad, her ears were tuned in on the conversation in the next room. A one-sided conversation. No surprise there.

“Did you call that number I gave you?” Stevie whispered in an impossibly loud voice.

Logan pictured Keane shaking his head in the silence.

“I wish you would, Keane. There’s no shame in it. A lot of guys experience—”

“Shut up or get out.”

Turning the flame up high, she tossed the steaks on. No shame in what? she wondered.

She took out a bag of edamame and arranged the green pods to steam over boiling water. Tossed with a dash of sea salt, the high in protein and vitamins soy beans were a better treat than starchy French fries. But Stevie’s turn in conversation made her clench a pod so tightly the seed turned to pulp.

“Logan seems real nice, down to earth. Not what I expected at all for a celebrity. Are you two a thing?”

She’s not my girl. Keane’s comment from Joe’s lingered in her mind. Funny, how a few days in his company had changed a simple attraction into something deeper.

There was more than a physical chemistry at play now. An unspoken bond of sorts had formed. Granted, he was as complex as a Manet painting, the sum of many complicated parts. A whirlwind of colorful dots, some small, some large, and for the most part unpredictably placed, but fitting together beautifully as a whole. These glimpses of the real Keane, though few and far between, were the little moments she treasured most.

A shared smile, rare but genuine—which made it all the more special. How his eyes followed her as she practiced her positions. The quiet companionship after a physically grueling day where she’d read on one end of the couch and he’d rest his head back on the cushions and close his eyes, awake but relaxed.

Which is why Keane’s response to his friend’s probing...mattered.

Still squeezing pieces of edamame between her fingers, Logan braced herself.

Keane grunted. An unhelpful, non-descript sound that could be interpreted as either a yes or no.

Considering her year, Logan should have felt happy his reply was so damned vague. But, she wasn’t happy. It mattered. He mattered.

For the second time this month, Logan felt as if an invisible fist punched her in the stomach. A fight-changing punch, the kind that made record books. The kind discussed, reviewed and analyzed for years to come.

Somehow, in the midst of the dismal debacle that was her life, she’d fallen for this MMA fighter.

Chapter Eight

REAR NAKED CHOKE: A common maneuver where a fighter catches hold of his/her opponent by the back

“It all started with a wicked sand storm,” Stevie began, leaning forward to place his empty beer next to hers on the coffee table. Keane lounged next to him on the other side of the sofa, deep in thought as he swirled the last of the amber liquid around in his bottle. Stevie had been entertaining her with stories about his and Keane’s days as Marines. Entertaining her—not Keane, who seemed more distant with each new story and who had been slowly withdrawing from the conversation. The last few anecdotes included a third man, a wickedly sly prankster. Jimmy.

She stretched out her long legs and leaned back in the kitchen chair she’d relocated into the living room, smiling encouragingly at Stevie.

“Another time, our boy Jimmy was out for revenge. Someone messed with his alarm clock. He was late for roll call, but even more annoyed by the sand.”

“Why would the sand bother him? Isn’t Afghanistan mostly desert?” Logan asked. She took another sip of her second, and last, beer. Tomorrow’s training schedule would be hellish with a hangover—not that Keane seemed worried, with his four to her two.

“The Hindu Kush, on the border with Pakistan, is one huge cluster-fuck of mountains. In the 1980s, the Russians found out how desolate and wild they were when they were fighting the Afghans. We didn’t figure this out until much later. The hard way...”

Stevie fell somber for a second, and Logan waited, hoping he’d reveal more. Tonight had given her a glimpse into Keane’s otherwise guarded past, and she hadn’t fit all the pieces together to form a perfect picture of him. Not yet, anyway.

She glanced at Keane. His demeanor was like a storm brewing, anything but approachable; a subtle stiffening of his body like he’d thrown up an invisible wall and dared her to breach it. Something troubled him, and made her want to wrap herself around him and pull him in close. As if sensing her eyes on him, he looked up. His gaze held hers briefly, before he looked away.

“However, we were stationed smack in the middle of the Rigestan, which in Persian means ‘country of sand.’” And I’m talking Sahara Desert-like sand, the kind that creeps into your pores and never leaves. Logan, have you ever been in a desert during the night?”

“I spent a few nights on tour in Phoenix two summers ago.”

“Well, the Rigestan Desert is a sand trap and if the wind gusts up, sand storms are common. Just so happened, one hit in the middle of the night while Jimmy was catching some shut-eye.”

“I thought you slept in barracks or tents.”

“Most times, we do...did. Anyway, the sand has a mind of its own. Bent on defeating you, just like the Taliban—though I’d take a mouthful of sand, any day. Isn’t that right, Keane?”

Keane simply nodded and took a swig of his beer.

“The entire day, Jimmy picked sand out of his ears, nostrils, you name it. Good-humored sport, he was. Joked about how the sand exfoliated his body so it was nice and smooth for the ladies.”

Logan giggled. Back when she had money, a day at the spa exfoliating was common, though most patrons were female.

“It’s getting late, Stevie.” Keane’s tone was low, but firm.

“Okay, let me finish my story and I’ll be off.”

“I’ll hold you to it.”

“Jimmy found out that it was Serge, one of the bosses who trained with us and one of Keane’s fighters, who messed with his alarm clock, making him late. He rode him all day long about setting up a bout until Serge couldn’t take it anymore.”

“Was Jimmy a strong fighter?”

“The best, except for Keane here.”

Keane drained the last of his beer and the bottle rang out as it wobbled around on the coffee table.

Despite his darkening mood, Logan laughed. The news of his accomplishments in the cage gave her hope. Everything was going to work out this time. Jerry would get his fighter. Keane clearly knew how to handle himself and win, without getting hurt.

She smiled. A year ago, she wouldn’t have been able to imagine herself in this situation. Being an Octagon Girl, never mind one shacked up with a surly fighter with a set of guns bigger than her neck. A man whose world was more foreign than the Hindu Kush.

A big brute of a guy now glaring at his empty beer bottle like it had grown two heads. There was a tightness to his finely sculpted cheekbone and around those firmly pursed lips. Lips most of her ballerina friends would die for. Fascinating lips she wanted to feel pressed on her—every inch of her.

Despite being at odds with her thoughts—not that they noticed, with Keane absorbed in his beer bottle, and his visitor popping edamame beans into his mouth like it was his last supper—she listened as Stevie continued. “Jimmy’s last fight—well, really his second to last fight—was one for the record books. I’m sure Marines will be talking about it for years. Unorthodox, to say the least. God, I get a stomachache from laughing just thinking about it.”

“Let’s have it then. Make me laugh,” she prompted, her words lightening her spirits and clearing her head.

“Let’s have it so you can be on your way,” Keane added, sharply.

Stevie ignored him. “First, Jimmy covered himself in suntan lotion an inch thick, from head to toe. Everything except his fighting briefs. Then, he pulled the ol’ tar and feather routine, except instead of feathers, he used...”

“Sand!” she exclaimed, catching on to the joke. “What did Serge do when he saw him?”

“That’s the gem in the jewel case. He didn’t notice until it was too late. Every time he touched Jimmy, his hands, legs, chest—everything was smothered in soggy sand. He couldn’t get a grip on him. The match was over in the first round. I’ve never seen two more sorrowful figures in my life. Super Sand Men, that’s what we called them.”

Keane stood, and waved to his friend. “Nice of you to stop by. But, it’s late...”

Logan jumped up as well, sensing Keane was going to pounce and not understanding why. “I’ll walk him to the door, Keane, if you’ll take the plates into the kitchen. Leave the left-over edamame on the kitchen table. I’ll wrap them up for later.”

Clearly, the idea of her walking Stevie out did not settle well with him. He frowned down at her, then turned and gave Stevie a sinister look. Logan wondered, not for the first time, how they were even friends.

“Got it, Coach. No need to worry on my account.”

Now it was Logan’s turn to scowl. They’d effectively eliminated her from their conversation by using man code. With a loud sigh, she headed off toward the foyer. Stevie’s footsteps on the floorboards told her he followed.

“So, you live here now?” he questioned.

“Yes.” She ushered him onto the porch, not wanting Keane to catch wind of their discussion. “Stevie, I know he’s generally pretty gruff. But there’s more than that going on, there’s something bothering him. I want to know what it is.”

“Listen, Logan, he’s changed. Didn’t use to be so mean, so quick-tempered. A lot of the guys...” He stopped, and rubbed his jaw. “Keane always did say I have a big mouth.”

“Don’t let some stupid man code keep you quiet now. Come on, Stevie. I want to help him.”

“Jesus, why do you women think a man can be fixed like repairing a car, or something? Sometimes, the troubles are so deep, so internalized, no one can help.”

“I know you know the answer, Stevie. Is it...Jimmy?”

Stevie looked down at the sidewalk, out into the street, up at the night sky—everywhere but at her. Tight-lipped. No help there.

Logan tried another approach. “We’ve a few more days of training and then he’ll be fighting in the qualifiers. Do you think he’ll be okay?”

Stevie snorted. “Does a grizzly eat bunnies for breakfast? Don’t worry about him fighting—he’s a warrior.” He retrieved his wallet and handed her his business card. “Listen, keep in touch, okay? Keane’s not so great at it.”

“I probably won’t be around that long.”

Stevie’s gaze swept over her from head to toe. Then, his lips curled up, as if he’d discovered a secret he wasn’t about to share. With a wave of a hand over his head, he headed down the stairs. But something he’d said earlier had stuck in her mind and begged for clarification.

“You said Jimmy’s second to last fight. Who was his last fight with?”

Stevie’s shoulders seemed to slump as he turned. Even with the distance between them, Logan spotted the sadness in his eyes. She clenched her fists together, knowing the answer before Stevie even opened his mouth.

“Keane.”

* * *

Deep in thought, Logan returned to the kitchen and, scrub brush in hand, went to work on the grill.

Keane had already washed the plates and utensils. He stood quietly by, with his hip angled against the sink and his arms folded across his chest, watching her.

A warm flush heated her cheeks. With a damp hand, she shifted the neckline of her sweatshirt higher on her collarbone and recovered a shoulder. The material had a mind of its own and slid back off. Self-conscious, she scrubbed the grill with renewed vigor.

“What did Stevie have to say at the door?”

“How much he enjoyed your sweet disposition and laughter. I don’t know how you are friends, given the way you treat him. The evening started out rough, and despite his attempts to lighten your mood, it ended tense and uncomfortable. I can tell he’s a good friend, and a nice guy.” She bore down on the grill brush while her point was being made.

Keane snorted. “Nice guy. Just your type, too.”

Logan halted the grill brush mid-circle. What was going on in that thick skull of his? He almost sounded...

“Tomorrow, we’ll sleep in.” His deep, low voice—sexy as hell—caused her to drop the brush. It clanged against the grill irons.

“Sleep in? Saturday’s the first two qualifiers.” She turned, ran her eyes over him, and wanted to lick her lips. Keane was built better than a model in a physical fitness magazine. But was he prepared for the fights? “Why the change in routine?”

“I’m ready.”

“It wouldn’t hurt to squeeze in two more days of practice.”

“What I need is sleep. A night of solid, dreamless bliss.”

“Okay, a nice cup of rose mint tea—”

“Not on the menu.”

Logan frowned and stomped her foot. Jeez, three nights until the qualifiers, and he wanted to go on a bender.

“Fine. Drink yourself silly. But remember, you promised me you’d fight and win. I’ve lived up to my end of the bargain. I’ve invested a lot of time here and tonight, all you’ve been is a rollercoaster of nasty and irritable.”

Keane shifted off the counter and sauntered toward her.

She continued, undaunted by the powerful man closing the distance between them. Her temper spurred her on. “Mr. Steak-For-Breakfast—remember him? The guy with the wry humor and shit-eating grin? Where did he disappear to? Hell, the times you smile are getting fewer and farther between. I really don’t like the way you treated Stevie. Or me.”

As he came closer, she sidestepped, moved toward the center of the room, and collided with the kitchen table. With nowhere to go, she folded her arms across her chest. She turned and rested her bottom back against the table.

Tension filled the space. A mixture of her anger, his physical presence, and something else. Arousal?

Still, she pressed on. “You told Joe that I’m on a need to know basis. Well I have news for you, here’s something you need to know...”

Keane moved in closer. With an unreadable expression, he looked down at her. She lost her train of thought, along with her nerve.

One more step forward caused her legs to tangle together, one knotted vine of clumsy.

“Here’s what you need to know.” His fingers caressed her bare shoulder blade and his eyes narrowed with intent. “Tea isn’t what I want, Luscious.”

Hearing her new nickname roll off his lips was a game-changer, that’s for sure. Leaping leotard. The way he said it made her think of all the sexy things her overeager imagination had dreamed of doing with him, in various positions and multiple times, the past few nights. She felt his hands on her hips, lifting her up and setting her on the wooden tabletop.

“This bit of skin has been driving me nuts all night.” A thumb retraced the hot path his fingers had left on her shoulder blade.

“Keane, I...”

He slid his body in between her dangling legs, swooped forward and captured her lips, effectively silencing her concerns.

He tasted of Yuengling, not that she minded, as his tongue wound around hers in a sensual twist. So tender, so perfect was his kiss, she felt every muscle in her body fill with music—a heady sensation similar to the rush she always got after a performance. But better. Then, he withdrew.

“Open wide,” he demanded.

She hesitated, feeling shy and wanton at the same time, though the latter won out. Parting her thighs, she leaned back onto her arms.

The corners of those plump, pink lips turned up. Logan felt breathless, as his ruggedly handsome features transformed by a jaw-dropping, make-me-yours-tonight sensual smile.

“Your lips, Luscious. Open your lips.”

God, she’d just spread her legs wide, and he was talking about her mouth!

Her lips parted as she closed her eyes and gasped. Something salty touched her lower lip and her embarrassment was forgotten. Slowly, Keane caressed her mouth with the smooth edamame pod he’d plucked from the bowl on the table, using it as an erotic toy. Her tongue darted out for a taste and he offered up the bean. She devoured it as if it were an oyster, or some other rumored aphrodisiac.

He slowly ran a finger along the moist seam of her lips, making her knees weak. Withdrawing it, his tongue ran along the same path, licking up the salty trail.

Her lips parted invitingly.

This time, his invasion was more aggressive and she found herself breathless from a kiss that made her blood sizzle and skin hot.

He pulled back and caressed her shoulder. “Couldn’t take his eyes off this either, ol’ Stevie.”

Her heart did a perfect cartwheel as she opened her eyes. “I doubt he noticed or even cared about a bit of shoulder.”

His mouth moved across her collarbone and over one shoulder, turning her legs into wobbly liquid Jell-O. Then, everything seemed to happen at once.

With a gentle tug, he lifted the sweatshirt from her body and over her head. His eyes smoldered, catching sight of her red lace demi-bra. Thank God their earlier encounter had made her toss the tan support bra back into the drawer and dig out this bit of flimsy material—one of several sexy yet unused bras she’d bought after Pierre had proposed. This particular bra hoisted her boobs up as if offering plums to the gods.

He pulled back. “All night, I wanted another look and taste—no more. You’re sexy as hell but too nice. Too freakin’ good for the likes of me, not my type. Too complicated. And I don’t do complicated. Understand?”

Logan tensed. Complicated? He was a poster child for complicated. Sexy and sweet one moment, and snarling deep in his throat and ready to pounce in the next. As for not being his type—just who did this mass of muscle think he was? Mikhail Baryshnikov? He was not even close to being her type...which made her falling for him all the more irrational.

His fingers contradicted his words. They ran upward across her sides, finally angling in for a smooth caress of her breasts.

Her body hummed with need, even if his words still bristled. No strings attached, huh? The liar. Looks like Keane wasn’t going down without a fight. I’ll show him nice. In the recesses of her mind, a familiar horn sounded, like the kind used to announce a mixed martial arts bout. Her opponent stood just inches away, challenging her with his narrowed eyes. She bit her lower lip. Now was not the time for hesitation. Time to strike out and humble her cocky opponent. Reveal the weakness he all but handed to her on a silver platter, one engraved with the words You’re mine. For once, she was thankful for her tall, thin build and how her average-sized breasts appeared gargantuan—or so she’d heard. Might as well put these babies to good use.

Locking eyes with his, she thrust her chest forward and moved a hand to the bra’s clasp. His eyes flared as the demi-bra snapped open and she shrugged it off and onto the table. She shifted back onto her elbows.

Her breath caught, and her breasts jiggled. That was all that was needed. The horn had been sounded. Round one was about to commence.

With a low growl, he shifted back, ripped his sweatshirt over his head, muscles rippling up and down his sculpted torso with the movement, and tossed it on top of hers.

All the breath she’d been holding inside escaped in a sudden rush at the sight of the dark snaking lines of his tattoo. She wanted to run her tongue along its path, along his hills and valleys, and further south. Keane had another plan.

He swooped in, gently grasped her arms and tugged her up, moving her forward to perch on the edge of the table. “Wrap your legs around my waist.”

She did as commanded. Her thighs flexed against his warm firm body and she felt herself hoisted higher, their bodies closely connected and his arms secure behind her back. His head lowered, bypassing her lips so his mouth could capture one full nipple. Gently he sucked and rolled his tongue. The wicked man.

Arching forward, she pushed her breast further into his hot, wet mouth.

“Oh, my...”

A few seconds later, his mouth released its prize.

Her nipple pebbled in protest. He pursed his lips and blew. A warm breath of air trickled over her wet areola. Moisture heated her core.

Their eyes met. Hers full of wonder, and his with a sensual, knowing gleam.

He adjusted her position, bouncing her against him as if she were a feather rather than a strong, fit woman. Her erect nipples skimmed along the length of his warm chest, skin pulling on skin—turning them swollen with want.

He maneuvered her onto the table with little effort. This time as she reclined backward, he followed, moving with her and over her. A bowl rattled an instant before his mouth devoured her own.

Time felt suspended. Her emotions ran wild. Nervousness gave way to desire which, in turn, led to disbelief. The tingling of her breasts, the rush of lust through her middle and down between her legs caused her to shudder. Her libido shot into overdrive as he fitted his body over hers. Oh, yeah.

She felt the rigid length of him press against her belly. Instinctively, she wrapped her legs around his waist, inviting firmer contact. His growl was absorbed by her mouth.

A quick flicker of self-satisfaction shone deep inside her. All those unsatisfying years with Pierre...what a waste. The heat rolling from deep inside down to the juncture between her thighs wiped away any lasting thoughts of that jerk. Suddenly, it didn’t matter whether Keane was her type or vice versa. Nothing mattered more than having this fighter inside her.

Running her hands down his sides, she hitched her thumbs beneath the elastic of his sweatpants and boxer shorts. Before losing her nerve, she tugged them down, over his hips and ass.

His back stiffened along with his cock. Long and thick, and pressing against her mound. Her eyes almost rolled back in her head. She spread her thighs wider.

“A girl could get used to this kind of treatment,” she muttered, her tone ripe with need, and awe. Hell, she had years to make up for, starting now. All Keane had to do was look at her and moisture coated her panties.

His lips left hers. Her eyes snapped open to see his mouth tightened into a fine line. She had the impression he was going to pull away, a second before he did.

“Where are you going? I thought you wanted this.” Her declaration sounded lustful, and desperate.

Yanking up his clothing, he moved off the table.

“Fuck.” He ran his hands across his temples and back over his hair.

“Keane...?”

“I thought I could do this. But you’re gonna end up hurt.” He offered her his hand. Her legs swung around and her bottom scooted across to the end of the table as she let him help her down.

Once her shaky legs were planted firmly on the ground, he stalked over to the refrigerator, opened it and took out another beer. With a quick pop of the cap, he brought it to his lips and drank deeply.

“But...you weren’t hurting me. You’ve been nothing but gentle and considerate.”

“Fuck. That’s not what I’m talking about. You’re too fuckin’ nice,” he murmured the last part, then took another swig of beer. “We’re done here.”

She was in a constant state of confusion with the wild mood swings of his—and this time, her frustration found a voice. “What is your problem? You know, everyone said you were a mean bastard with a heart as hard as steel. But I didn’t want to believe it.”

The bottle tilted as he swallowed another mouthful. He finally turned to look at her. “Look, Logan, what do you want, for me to nail you on the kitchen table?” He placed the near-empty beer bottle beside the sink, like he was ready to pick up where they’d left off now that he’d had his say.

His communication skills sucked.

Logan laughed, the hollow sound filling the kitchen. “Is that why you stopped? Mr. Man-Of-Few-Words is now worried about his bedside manner?”

Keane snorted.

“What do you think I wanted, a marriage proposal?” He’d awakened something inside her, a sexual hunger she hadn’t known existed. A taste of what she’d been missing. Then he’d abruptly snatched it away, leaving her with that empty feeling she’d felt far too often of late.

An odd expression crossed his features but vanished in a snap. “Nothing’s changed. It’s just like you’ve heard, I’m a moody, mean prick. If it’s sex you want, no problem. But don’t get used to it. Like Rosie said, I don’t do relationships.”

Rosie. Hearing Easywrap’s name was like falling into a bed of thorny roses. Black ones. “You are so infuriating. What do I have to do, mail you an invitation? As if yanking your sweats down wasn’t enough of one.” She stomped her foot and her bare breasts bounced, reminding her she was topless. Her arms crossed over her chest protectively.

Great, just great. Logan had to hand it to herself, she was a seasoned expert on falling for men who only thought about themselves.

The lines around his eyes softened, but Logan was too furious to care. She grabbed her sweatshirt and tugged it on. Peep show is over, buddy.

“Since we’re on a need to know basis, and you’ve been so considerate in enlightening me about your own concerns, I have news for you: you’re miles from being my type.” She stalked over to him and poked a finger at his bare chest to prove her point.

He stared down at her intently. “Shit.” With another muttered curse, he wiped a hand back and forth over his cropped hair.

“Once our agreement is fulfilled, I’ll leave you to the thieving blondes...more your type,” she added, before marching out of the kitchen and heading upstairs.

Moments later, the front door slammed. Logan had no doubts about where he was headed. She punched a pillow. Smooth move, Rettino. Way to chase him right into the arms of that spandex-clad airhead. His type of less-complicatedness.

Chapter Nine

DOUBLE UNDERHOOK: When a fighter swings his/her arms beneath an opponent’s and knocks them off balance

No more yoyo-mojo, Logan vowed, as she rolled over in bed and turned on the light. If anything, she’d learned over the past year that tomorrow was another day—one she would survive, with or without Keane.

From now on, it’s hands-off the merchandise, buddy.

Bad enough her newfound sexuality was like an itch begging to be scratched. But the man she wanted, that infuriating, fickle, unpredictable man, held her at arms’ length when all she wanted to do was crawl up within them. And if all that wasn’t enough, her newly developing feelings for him weren’t reciprocated.

Shifting her sweatshirt back up her shoulder, she tread barefoot downstairs. A cup of chamomile tea might help calm her mind. Hell, she’d drink an entire pot if it’d numb the effects of the emotional rollercoaster she’d been on.

She sighed, and folded her arms across her chest to keep warm against the chill of the living room.

The house was dark and quiet as she followed a path of moonbeams into the kitchen. She poured fresh water into a kettle and set it to boil on the stovetop.

With a sigh, she headed to the living room to wait, and plopped herself down on the sofa. Instead of a soft cushion, her bottom met a solid wall of muscle.

“Holy crap,” she cried out, as she lost her balance and tumbled back across the body sprawled out there.

“Persistent, aren’t you, Luscious?” Keane’s deep voice breathed into her ear.

She squirmed on his lap and tried to sit up, but Keane wrapped an arm around her ribcage, just beneath her breasts, and refused to let go.

“You’re back. I didn’t see you. What are you doing? Didn’t you get what you wanted?”

Keane leaned in, his breath hot against her ear. “What I wanted...” He snorted, tugging her tighter. She felt the heat of his body against her back, all the way from her ankles to the top of her shoulders.

“Keane, you smell like a brew pub. Let me go. We tried this once already, and you weren’t interested. Or is that your thing, get hammered and then get it on?” The words came tumbling out, thick with irritation.

“I’m bad news,” he said, softly. His hands shifted and cupped her breasts over her sweatshirt. “But I think about you and this,” his finger caressed a nipple, as he continued, “all the fucking time.”

Despite the rush of lust triggered by her highly sensitive nipples, she halted his exploration. His rejection still stung.

She decided on the truth. “Keane, what I was offering is no longer on the table, so to speak. You made it clear where we stand.”

A long exhale of breath said he’d heard her.

“Let’s call it a night. Time to sleep it off. Tomorrow, you’ve got another ungodly day of training. I’m holding you to our agreement, no matter what happens between us.”

The arms around her didn’t relax. She wasn’t going anywhere until he let her. Why was he here in the dark living room, clearly plastered, and not asleep in bed?

Perhaps if he talked about whatever was bothering him, he could put his sorrow to rest. And focus on the fight. Focus on...her.

“What’s up with you? Maybe I can help. Do you want to talk?”

He stiffened beneath her. “Shit...no.”

Logan sighed deeply. Nothing but a headache, trying to help someone who didn’t want it.

“Listen, Logan. Everything I said before is true. It’s not you—fuck, a few years back when I was a different guy, we might’ve had a chance.”

“You are rather intimidating, but there is a softer side to you that shows up occasionally.” Her voice was sharp, and took on a sarcastic quality as she added, “A shame tonight wasn’t such a night.” Good, she’d give him a humble taste of you-can’t-have-me pie.

“Hmph, you don’t know me. You don’t want to know me.”

“How much have you had to drink?”

“Not nearly enough.”

“Well, that’s one too many in my book.” She shifted and he held on tight. Quietly, she offered, “I’ve had my share of problems this year, as you know. Some days, it was hard to get up out of bed, and not just because of the paparazzi. My whole life is broken. Everything I dreamed about is shattered. Yet, I get up every day and try to make the best of it.”

“You are so naïve,” he replied, but his voice sounded hoarse.

Still, his bluntness pissed her off. “Naïve? Maybe, though I’m not about to drown my misery in liquor. Or take my irritation out on other people. If you ask me, that’s the cowardly way out.”

There was no mistaking the tension in his body beneath her. Yet his actions surprised her. He let her go. She climbed up and out of reach, to the far end of the couch.

But Keane wasn’t finished, and what he said next froze her in place. “Cowardly, huh? I’d say it’s preservation. Of self and of others.”

He sounded downright miserable. Perhaps it was the booze, or a guilty conscience, but Logan sensed he was on the verge of talking—really talking—to her. Whatever it was, it was on the tip of his tongue. She couldn’t let him swallow it back.

“Are you having trouble sleeping? Is that why you’re here on the sofa?” she asked, a soft invitation for him to confide in her. Better he be on this sofa than in a bar, or in Rosie’s bed, she reminded herself.

He grunted.

“Why don’t I make you some chamomile tea? Relax you so you rest. Even sober you up some.”

Keane sat up on the couch, swinging his long legs onto the carpet. Silence followed his movements, and he was once again a large, dark shadow lounging next to her. “I’m going back out for a while.”

Logan’s heart raced in her chest. Given the time—almost 3:00 a.m.—his business wasn’t at a bar. This time, a woman waited for him. It irked her. She’d literally spread her legs for him, and he’d turned her down flat, yet he desired a woman’s company. It didn’t make sense. Helplessly, she added, “What about training?”

A long exhale sounded beside her. “Look, I’m not backing out of the fight. No need to worry about that—hell, bashing heads in sounds damn appealing.”

While his words should have been reassuring, she wanted more from him than the assurance he’d fight. His earlier comment rang out in her head, something about Stevie not being able to keep his eyes off her. Keane had been annoyed. A feeling that showed he was affected by her in some way. Hmm. She squared her shoulders. There was more than one way to tame a fighter.

Sliding closer to him on the couch, she pressed her legs against his. In the dim light, she saw him hunch over and brace his arms on his legs, as if preparing to stand. Quickly, she held out her carrot. “Your friend Stevie was funny. Nice guy.”

“Fuckin’ Stevie,” he grunted and shifted, ready to stand.

“Is he dating anyone?”

In one swift movement, he was on his feet. Facing her, he thrust his hands to his sides and flexed his fingers. The moon cast a cool highlight on his furrowed brow, twilight on a desert canyon.

The teapot’s whistle sang out, ruining everything.

Logan clambered off the sofa and, without looking at him, moved into the kitchen and turned it off. Listening for the sound of the front door closing behind him. This is what she wanted, right? Her hands-off-Logan approach to dealing with him.

As she sat down in a kitchen chair, she felt his presence in the door.

He hadn’t left.

Feeling reckless, and unsure of the outcome but oh-so-sure she was proving a point—especially being they were back in the kitchen—she continued, “Well, is he?”

He shifted, a big, shadowy puma preparing to pounce. At least, that’s what she thought he looked like with the tension rolling off of him there in the moonlight.

She lowered her shoulder, hoping there was enough light. The uncooperative sweatshirt cooperated and plunged deeply, revealing a pale, naked shoulder and a good portion of her collarbone. She angled her head and swung her hair, offering an unobstructed view of the side of her neck and a good portion of the top of her arm. Just a taste of what he’d passed up.

The only warning she had of his next move was his sharp inhalation of breath.

In four long strides and one swoop, he scooped her up in his arms. Without a word, he carried her out of the kitchen and living room, up the stairs, down the hall, past the guest room, and then the temporary gym. A well-placed kick and his bedroom door flew open. The vibrating wood echoed the sound of her heart pounding against her chest. Common sense screamed out caution but she ignored it.

He stalked inside and over to his bed. With one bounce, she landed in the center of it.

Before she could even mutter the word yoyo, he crawled across the mattress and in an instant, his mouth claimed hers.

The kiss made her forget everything. Nothing mattered except his seductive, urgent tongue. She was overwhelmed first by his tenderness, then by a raw, all-consuming sexuality that made her toes curl. It was an endless, drugging kiss.

Until he broke his lips away. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

He’d made the same comment earlier. He was trying to communicate something important. Something emotional.

Talk about size. For whatever reason, this was a huge issue for him. She certainly didn’t want a repeat episode of their kitchen table dance. “Are you really that...big?” Logan questioned, hoping he’d believe the quiver in her tone was from excitement. Well, part of it was.

His massive physique took up most of the center of the mattress as he knelt before her. Of course he was big.

He snorted. “That’s not what I mean. You’ll be prepared to take me, I promise.”

Prepared to take me... All the nerve endings in her body tingled at his words. But instead of jumping on him, Logan crossed her legs on the mattress. The air needed clearing, and Keane’s troubles needed to be addressed.

“I’m tougher than I look. You don’t want a permanent relationship. Fine. Six fights is all you need to win for me to get back on my feet. Then, my life will be back to normal. And I’ll chalk up our time here together as a necessary transitional stage.”

Her declaration sounded hollow. She wasn’t the kind of woman who took things lightly—especially mind-blowing sex, which was the only given here. Especially mind-blowing sex with this hunk of a man, someone who, judging by the tightness in her chest, she’d come to care for. Who am I kidding?

“You can’t help me. No one can.”

“Help you with what?”

“Forget it.” He stood and quietly undressed.

Her mouth went dry at the sight of him. His erection was beautiful, so strong and masculine, just like every other part of him.

“Take off your clothes, honey.”

Whatever he’d been trying to say was lost as his eyes flared, his hands fisted in her hair and, with a gentle backward tug of her head, his lips captured her own.

* * *

Logan’s eyes seemed greener, bright and shiny. A passion-filled oasis from the turmoil in his life.

A long-overdue reprieve with her fist wrapped around his hardened cock. Fuck, and he’d thought that kiss—the one he’d ended seconds ago when her hand slid into his pants—had been hot. With each long stroke, she broke down any lingering twinges of conscience that reminded him once again how this was a bad idea.

“You’re so...um...” she whispered, her tone husky with desire.

He grunted as her palm moved along his length.

“Does this feel nice?” she murmured sweetly.

Nice. That word grated on his nerves, reminding him just how nice he wasn’t. He felt like rolling her over and fucking her six ways to Sunday, with no regard for how many bruises she’d find tomorrow morning. Instead, he’d settle for smashing his fist into the pillow. Safer for both of them that way. Time to get the fuck out of Dodge before it was too late.

Yanking his leg free, he rolled onto his back. Her grasp on him stayed firm, unbroken. He let out a long, frustrated exhale.

She came up onto her knees. “What is it with you? For the record, I’m not buying it.”

“Don’t push me. Nice isn’t what you’ll get with me.”

“Bleeding leotards,” he heard her mutter. “We’ve got to do something about this pillow talk. All this yoyo-mojo because of one silly word.”

She cocked her head, narrowed her eyes at him and hesitated for a second before speaking in a low voice, laced with desire. “Then, nice isn’t what you’ll get.” In less than a heartbeat, she took the length of him in her mouth.

“Jesus.” His hips came up off the mattress. The warm, wet pressure felt so fucking good. He’d tried pulling back, both physically and emotionally, but Logan just wasn’t getting the message. Better off with someone who knew very little about him, someone who wouldn’t be prying into his business, making him talk about things better left unsaid. But for the life of him, he couldn’t get her out of his mind. Well, the persistent minx had dug her own grave.

Her head bobbed. He couldn’t get enough of her. Weaving his fingers into her hair, he resisted the urge to plunge deeper. Instead, he massaged her scalp with the calloused pads of his fingertips.

Minutes passed and the tension grew as she sucked him hard. Closer, and closer. Finally, the wicked woman withdrew with a loud smacking sound. Keane made a low noise deep in his throat.

“Hmm, Mr. Few Words wants more, does he? Can’t remember ever being so turned...oh!”

In one smooth sweep, he flipped her up and over onto her back and pinned her legs open—wide open. His mouth moved between her thighs, his tongue licked and swirled at her core, then plunged deep.

It was her turn to shoot her hips off the mattress. “Oh, my...” she moaned. Seconds later, her thighs began to tremble and he knew she was close.

“Couldn’t leave me in peace, could you? I’m going to take you hard and fast. You understand?” He reached for the nightstand drawer where he kept condoms. Tearing the foil with his teeth, he rolled the latex over himself. He moved on top of her and rubbed his cock against her moist juncture.

“Yes, hard and fast.” Her legs shifted on the mattress, spreading her wider. “Please.”

Tucking his hips back, he flexed and his cock parted her folds. Inch by inch, he glided into her until the thick tip was fully embedded. Despite his warning, he didn’t want to hurt her or, truth be told, frighten her with the fierce extent of his lust. She was tight, so fucking tight, and her inner muscles pulsing around him caused him to harden even more.

“God, more. Please... Is this your hard and fast?”

He flexed his ass, driving in another fraction of an inch, and her hips tilted up to take him in further. “Please...”

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you, Luscious,” he groaned. And with one long thrust, he slid all the way inside her until he was fully seated.

“Oh!” she cried out, shaking. Her legs wrapped around his waist and her hips bucked upward. Butterfly-light convulsions fluttered around his cock, moist and warm. Even in his drunk, lust-fueled haze, he understood her response. A short, sharp orgasm.

Bewildered and pleased, he relaxed and waited for the glow to subside before resuming his thrusts.

“You know, the room isn’t that dark, Keane. I can see you smiling,” she muttered, throaty and deep from her release.

Sexy, satisfied minx. His lips twitched.

“Are you going to grin all night? Or are you going to move...you know, hard and fast?”

His laughter rang out, foreign and carefree. Until she withdrew her hips and gave his cock a long, firm stroke.

He hunched over, his chest pressed on top of hers. His mouth found her neck and with a quick jerk of his ass, he plunged deep, once, then back out. All sense of time and place were lost as he soon found the perfect rhythm.

She sought his mouth and sighed deeply. Her nails ran along his back and her hips thrust up to greet him. Her luscious tits rubbed against his chest in tune with his movements, causing his cock to pulse and swell.

“Oh, my God...”

Her sweet cry brought him to climax along with her.

* * *

He must have fallen into a deep sleep, with Luscious as a body pillow pinned beneath him. Either the early morning light filtering into his bedroom had awoken him, or the sinking of the mattress beneath him.

Squinting, he peered at Logan’s lovely ass as she bent to retrieve her clothing from the floor.

“Where are you going?” he demanded, without thinking.

She jumped. Holding her clothing to hide herself, she looked over her shoulder at him. “Um...I thought I’d head back to—”

Whether it was alcohol or the fact he wasn’t fully awake, whatever it was caused him to spring from the bed and stand before her.

Despite her gasp, her eyes greeted him with a lusty perusal of his body. The effects of her attention jutted out proudly between them.

Reaching, he grasped her waist, stepped back toward the mattress, and sat down, maneuvering her so she stood straddling his legs.

“Put your knees on the mattress.”

The look on her face was priceless, a mixture of surprise and excitement.

He quickly rolled a condom onto his rigid length. With one hand, he positioned his cock between her legs and with the other, he tugged her down onto him.

“Your turn to be fast and furious, Luscious.”

Her eyes sparkled gently until she took his words to heart. Then, they sparkled brighter than stars in a desert night.

* * *

When Keane woke again, her head was nestled on his pillow and her legs were twined with his. Even in sleep, Logan was sexy as hell. Her lips were pink, and plumper than usual—swollen from his kisses. She smelled like sweet vanilla mixed with the scent of their passion. When was the last time he’d studied a woman after sex?

He should feel ornery. Mean. His typical morning reveille. But this wasn’t a typical morning. Despite the hangover, he was well-rested and satisfied. The light filling the room said it was midday. Maybe later.

Logan blinked her eyes open, and he glanced back down at her. “You’re not getting rid of me now, you know. I could lie here all day.”

Warning bells went off in his head. Damn, he wasn’t a cuddling, romantic kind of morning guy—even being well-rested.

“If you could see the look on your face. Boy, it’s a good thing you established the rules ahead of time or I might be heartbroken right now. What I meant was...” She motioned upward with her thumb.

The beautifully refurbished copper tin ceiling—one of his first renovations. He grunted, careful not to show the swell of pleasure rising up in him. She liked his ceiling.

“The former owner had them covered with drop-ceiling tiles,” he heard himself saying. Frowning, he wondered what else she’d be capable of prying out of him if he wasn’t careful.

“It’s beautiful, Keane. I almost had an amazing ceiling once, in a pre-war apartment I found on the Upper West Side. God, I loved that place. Good bones, you know what I mean?”

Her voice caught, and he studied her face. Sadness lurked behind the green depths of her eyes. “What happened, you sold it?”

She sat up in the bed and self-consciously adjusted the covers around her chest. He followed suit.

“I put up most of my savings toward it but it didn’t work out,” she responded, her words bitter.

Instinctively, he reached over and slid his arm behind her, cradling her head. “So, what happened?”

“Pierre happened. When we got engaged, we pooled our finances together—which really means he depleted my bank account—to buy an apartment. I’d been away in London, dancing. It was a high point in my career.” Her lips lifted but the smile didn’t reach her eyes. “When I returned, Pierre’d already purchased a place, and not the pre-war we’d been searching for but a modern co-op. He called it his big surprise, as if that justified his actions. Wasn’t the only surprise that jealous, egotistical jerk had for me, either.”

Mention of that asshole made him scowl. “You took his ass to court, right? Sued him for robbing you blind?”

She didn’t have to reply. Her expression said it all.

“Jesus, why the hell not? Is this why you need me to fight?”

“I don’t want to trouble you with more of my problems, Keane. And I want to talk about you fighting—”

“Let me guess. You still own the co-op.”

“Half. Well, more than half. But he put the mortgage under his name. He’s living there with my understudy. With the doctor bills, and everything, I haven’t been able to afford a decent lawyer. Not yet, anyway.” She said it so calmly, as if she was resigned to the fact that her ex had stolen money from her, and some other woman was reaping the benefits.

She moved off the bed, gathered her clothes, and gave him a quick, shy grin before leaving the room. “Shower.”

Keane watched her naked back as she exited the room. His bed suddenly felt empty.

“I’m going to bash his teeth in,” he said to no one in particular.

The first chance he got.

Chapter Ten

ROUND: A bout consists of three or five rounds—depending on the MMA organization—lasting five minutes each with one minute in between

Logan told Keane she had a few errands to run. A cowardly fib because she needed time to figure things out. First, recovery time from the toe-curling sex. Even thinking about what they’d done made her cheeks warm.

Second, time to reassess her feelings, and what she wanted from this relationship. Keane had made it abundantly clear he wasn’t the kind of guy to make long-term commitments. Was she okay with that? Her body sang out yes! oh-so-sweetly, knowing how she’d likely find herself in the horizontal position every night. A frightening, yet appealing thought.

She was falling for him, a fighter, so clearly not of her world, and so not her type. Yet, he threatened to be rough and was nothing but... Well, he did hold back when he thought he might hurt her. He’d actually smiled, an earth-shaking, lusty smirk, when she’d found her pleasure. And, the big daddy of all surprises—not only did the somber brute of a man have a copper tin ceiling in his bedroom but he was proud of it.

But last night was the first act in a limited engagement. Keane had made that crystal clear. As much as a repeat performance appealed to her, she knew it couldn’t happen. A simple fling, nothing more. Harden her battle-weary heart and mute her feelings for him. Besides, her priorities had shifted away from what mattered most.

She needed him to fight, and win. Getting too intimate—her skin warmed at the very thought of just how intimate they’d gotten—confused things. Blurred the lines between what she needed from him and what she wanted from him.

Logan quickened her pace. Sally was in town, the hometown stop on her Pittsburgh Ballet tour, and after it all ended, she’d be on her honeymoon. Her friend was living the dream and no way would Logan share anything but good news. Sally didn’t need a Debbie Downer dimming her spotlight.

She patted her coat pocket and the newspaper folded inside rustled. The rental space sounded like a dance school paradise in the ad. The perfect square footage, a desirable location downtown, and easy access to outside resources, like the Pittsburgh Ballet. Hopefully, there would be good news to share with Sally, if the rental space described in the ad was as good as it said.

* * *

An hour later, Logan was in her seat, in time for the opening of a sold-out performance of Giselle. Man, her morning with the Realtor pretty much reflected her year—it sucked. Turned out the potential dance studio was exceptional, and exceptionally unaffordable.

She bit back her disappointment and relaxed into her seat. The studio was a dance instructor’s dream, with a perfect layout and locale, except for the exorbitant $2,000 a month price tag. Double her budget. Sure, the deal with Jerry was lucrative—tentative, but lucrative—but realistically she was hoping to rent a large place with good flooring and plenty of wall space for under $1,000 a month, so as to save a bit more for start-up costs, renovations, advertising and marketing. She had to be frugal, and smart in her choice of studios in order to make it work long term.

Watching the ballerinas drift across the stage, the tension in Logan’s body lessened. As an audience member, ballet had that effect on her—when she could breathe in the poetry of their movements without the fear of being dropped by a lame-ass partner. Sally was breathtaking, and Logan found the sharp disappointment that had accompanied her into the theatre vanish.

Another rental space existed out there, somewhere.

At the end of act one, she heard her name as the dancers were exiting the stage. Turning her head, she scanned the crowd for a familiar face. A few strangers made eye contact before hastily turning away. The tiny hairs on her arms stood at attention, but Logan ignored the familiar sense of dread as the lights dimmed and act two began.

The tenderness between her legs as she shifted into the seat made her think of Keane. His touch, and the deep timbre in his throat when he groaned during climax. This morning’s smug grin had rivaled the one he’d had over the steak-for-breakfast incident and made her heart dance and her woman’s bits warm.

Keep your eye on the ball, she reminded herself. Six victorious bouts and you’ll be home free. Hadn’t Sal told her Keane was the man to beat? A trainer of other fighters—Marines being the toughest in the world and all, right?—yet he didn’t find pleasure in it. What had changed for him?

Thankfully, the ballerinas assembled onstage and the familiar routines took over her senses.

Afterward, she headed backstage to chat with Sally, sing her friend’s praises, and...oh, hell, who was she kidding? For the first time in months, Logan wanted to confide something in her trusted friend. Something monumental.

The second she entered Sally’s dressing room, her mistake became clear. All eyes swung her way. The door leading into the dressing room rattled on its hinges from being forcibly slammed shut. Cameras snapped and lights flashed.

“Logan,” Sally called out in surprise. But the swarm of press blocked her path.

“Are you still an Octagon Girl?”

“How do you feel about Pierre LaFeur’s performance on this season of America Gets Its Groove On?”

“Will you be part of the audience at his May performance of La Sylphide here in Pittsburgh?”

“How does that hunk of an MMA fighter like your tatas?” The last was asked by a five-foot slip of a woman, who was clearly a traitor to her gender, and whose breast size was flatter than Interstate I-70. Yet, it was her question that brought silence to the chaos.

Logan looked about helplessly, glad her alpaca knit coat masked her curves from the cameras, yet frustrated by the realization that she was trapped.

When it became clear she wouldn’t answer, another reporter piped up. “Our sources confirmed your romance with Keane O’Shea is on, and is hot and heavy.”

It was too much. They were too much. Notching her chin up, she demanded, “Your sources. Who might they be?”

“Your landlady, for one.”

Logan gasped. “Mrs. Debinska? She barely speaks English...”

Two younger paparazzi exchanged raised eyebrows. One reached into his pocket, pulled out a tablet, handed it to her, and then tapped the Play button.

Her mouth fell to the floor. A smiling Mrs. Debinska was on the front stoop of their house. The camera slowly panned in on the object in her hand. The audio kicked in, and a male voice enthusiastically narrated the clip. Stunned, all Logan heard him say was, “America’s New Sweetheart Reveals Buxom Ballerina’s Bra Size is a—wait for it—38DD.” The elderly woman held up her prize for the cameraman. A bra. An industrial-sized, no-nonsense, earth-toned bra. Her own bra.

“That’s not my—”

A reporter interrupted her. “Is there anything you want to say to your ex? After all, he’s been dissing you every chance he gets.”

Was there something she’d like to say to her ex? The question was as alluring as a slice of expensive Ahi tuna. But Logan bit her tongue. Throwing gasoline on a fire would only ignite it further. A foolish move. She’d get even with the jerk, in time. Instead, she brought the focus back to someone who deserved it. Sally. “My best friend Sally Jacklyn is on a world tour. I’ll gladly pose for a picture with her.” She smacked the reporter’s tablet against his chest, as if the action would erase that vile video. The way her year was going, it would likely go viral instead.

Moving forward, the reporters stepped out of her way.

“Oh my God, Logan. I’m so sorry. They’ve been at this all day. The dressing rooms are bursting with bodies. My director is thrilled with the media attention and is permitting it. I tried to warn you but your voice mail is full. Didn’t you get my text?”

Logan threw her arm around Sally and smiled for the cameras. “Is there somewhere private we can talk?” she whispered in Sally’s ear, quickly turning for another photo. Hard to remember a time when she didn’t mind having her picture taken.

“Follow me.” Grabbing her hand, Sally tugged her into the small lounge connected to her dressing room. “No one enters. Got it, Stanley?” she told the huge bodyguard who’d body blocked them a pathway out of there. The door closed.

Logan flopped down on a long, pillowed chaise, and Sally did the same next to her.

“Are you okay? I’ve been sick with worry about you. With my schedule, I haven’t had time to track you down and demand to know why you aren’t returning my texts. The Octagon Girl gig sounded so promising, a chance for a new start. How was I to know that Pierre would stoop so low? You must be mortified. Devastated by his betrayal.”

“Mortified, yes. Devastated...no, not anymore. Everything he’s done—ruining my life, my career, my future—has been to save his own reputation. All those practices where we’d worked on the positioning of his feet were a waste. You know he tends to keep them too close together. I really tried to help him correct that. Nothing helped. Bet the talk shows don’t know that juicy tidbit. All it would take is a slow-motion replay of The Fall and someone who knows what they’re talking about to run commentary on Pierre’s stance just before he drops me...”

“I can’t believe you’ve kept quiet about this.” Sally sounded appalled. “It wasn’t like you came at him bare-chested and lathered in butter cream, or something equally slippery. Women have a way of restraining these.” She gestured to her chest. “It’s called a bra. Are your boobs bigger than your standard ballerina’s? Probably. Are they so incredibly massive they’d blacken your partner’s eyes at ten feet away? Not a chance.”

“I should have stuck it out as a solo artist.”

Sally shook her head in silent agreement. Then, she added aloud, “What a jerk! You need to make a public statement. Immediately. How long are you going to let him get away with his lies?”

“I’ll get even with him when the right time comes. Going to the press, though, you can forget about it. I’m not giving him the satisfaction of acknowledging him, or an opportunity to publicly humiliate me again. Being famous is one thing, but notorious—that’s a whole different animal.”

“But Sophie Morelle loves that kind of thing. She’s been sticking up for you and your breasts the entire time.”

“Sally, that’s what Pierre wants—craves. He’s a media pimp. Dancing isn’t enough of a high for him anymore. He wants to be famous, at any cost. I don’t know why I didn’t see it sooner. What classically trained ballet dancer puts his career on hold for a reality TV show?”

“One who can’t dance,” Sally exclaimed.

“You know the expression ‘what goes around, comes around’? All this bullshit he’s dishing is going to swing his way. And I’m not going to be there anymore to prop him back up. That’s Anya’s territory now.”

“Jeez, I’ve been so busy. Is there anything else I missed?” Sally demanded.

Oh, yes. Her breath hitched thinking about it. About him. But how to begin?

“Guess what else? I’m not frigid. Not by a long shot.”

Sally’s pinched, pity-infused look dissipated. “Frigid? Who said you were frigid? I’ve known you since high school, know all about your first kiss, etcetera.” The question was rhetorical though; Sally knew as well as she did that the same jerk who was dragging her name through the mud had given her a complex. “Oh, my God! Tell me you got naked with the fighter.”

Logan couldn’t suppress a smile. “You know the feeling you get in your cells, your body and soul, when you lift up on your toes? How every muscle fills with music? That’s what Keane is like...maybe even better.”

“Holy shit! You’re a couple? That kiss did look pretty hot. And he’s gorgeous. Who would have thought someone who gets his face bashed in for a living could be so pretty? A real feast for the eyes...an eyegasm.”

“Mr. Eyegasm has proven himself the expert source of some mind-shattering multigasms.”

“Holy hell. Really?”

Logan nodded, reaching out to smack Sally’s hand in a high-five.

“Now we’re talking. Is it serious?” Her friend studied her face, reading her expression in the silent way that only best friends can communicate.

Logan spoke, needing to clarify things before her friend got the wrong idea. “It’s casual...a temporary deal.” In an attempt to keep the discussion positive, she added, “To think I might have spent my life with a man who doesn’t know how to make my body dance.”

“Wow, I don’t know what to say. I know that look. When you said his name, you were glowing with happiness. Good for you, Logan. It’s about time.”

Logan frowned. It had been such a long time since she felt happy about anything, the emotion was nearly unrecognizable. Which made her say, “Hopefully, you’ll be back in Pittsburgh before fall.”

The word fall startled them both. Yet, somehow it didn’t seem to sting as much as it once would have.

“Logan, I have to ask you something...personal.”

She sighed. If hordes of reporters had the right to demand answers, why shouldn’t she allow her best friend a shot? “Whatever you want to know, Sally. You are my best and dearest friend. I trust you completely.”

Mimicking the way one of the paparazzi had rolled his eyes over her, Sally asked in a stern, serious tone, “A 38DD? Did your seventy-something, Polish-speaking landlady—America’s New Sweetheart, Mrs. Debinska—just bamboozle the paparazzi with the mother of all lies and pawn off one of her granny bras as yours?”

The situation was so ridiculous—the whole scope of it was absurd—but Sally’s expression was priceless. Laughter welled up and out until the two of them crouched over with their hands on their stomachs. Just like old times.

* * *

Full of good cheer, Logan headed home after a lovely meal of fresh salmon and basmati rice with Sally at their old hang-out, McCormick and Schmick’s. In her haste to leave earlier, she’d forgotten her cell phone at Keane’s. Not that calling him was something she planned on doing—reporting in was such an I’m-your-girl type of action. But, she felt guilty that he might be wondering where she’d disappeared to.

Until she caught sight of the woman struggling with Keane’s front door. An obnoxious blonde Logan had hoped never to set eyes on again. She had a death grip on the door handle with one hand while the other clasped the sides of her leopard-print blouse together.

Logan halted dead in her tracks. Breathless from the invisible grip tightening around her windpipe and squeezing all the air out of her. With nowhere to hide, she tucked in her chin and prayed the woman wouldn’t spot her, frozen there on the sidewalk in front of the neighboring house.

A myriad of emotions washed over her—primarily anger. She had resigned herself to having a temporary fling with Keane. Temporary meaning a few weeks, even a week, not less than twelve hours. Despite his no-strings-attached warning, it hurt. And two women in one day? Too gross for words.

The alpaca thief didn’t see her, now too busy trying to keep the front door open with both hands and her right hip. Her chest heaved with her efforts. There was no missing it, with her blouse flying open every time her hip hit the door.

What the bleeding leotards was going on here?

“Come on, hon-eeey. I waited for you at Finnegan’s last night, but you were a no show.” Rosie’s whiney voice was so loud the current patrons at Finnegan’s could probably hear her from all the way across town. “Let m-eee back in.”

Logan wished she hadn’t heard. Or at the very least, had been at Finnegan’s and too drunk to let one woman’s long-winded wail crush the delicious daydreams she’d reveled in all day. A fool, that’s what she was. Hell, he’d warned her, but she’d gone ahead and wondered about an exclusive, if not long-term, relationship with him anyway. Now she had to worry how many other women would be showing up on his porch?

At last, Rosie gave up and was headed down the sidewalk, buttoning her blouse. The front door opened, and a goose-down jacket came sailing out and over the blonde’s head. She scooped it up, struggled into it, and gave the front door a stiff middle finger before stomping off down the street.

Mercifully unobserved, Logan stole up the sidewalk. With her hand on the doorknob, she moved to enter and proceeded to fall into the house as the door flew open.

“Jesus, go home.” Keane’s voice rumbled in anger.

The sight of his bare feet made her head snap up. Her mouth went dry. Keane stood before her with a white cotton towel slung low on his hips. Water matted the fine black hairs on his chest and head. She inhaled sharply and caught the clean soapy scent of him.

Recognition mixed with irritation filled those baby blue eyes of his. “Where the hell have you been?” he demanded. Nothing compared to the anger building within her.

“Why do you care? It looks like you found a way to amuse yourself today. Last night was nice and everything, but I’ll know better than to hook up with Mr. Can’t-Keep-It-In-His-Pants again.”

“You didn’t answer my question. Why did you disappear like that?”

“I don’t know what pisses me off more, the fact that you could entertain another woman less than twelve hours after our...whatever, or the fact that you did the deed with that disease-infested thief.”

“Shit, it’s not what you think.”

“Proof you’ll fuck anything—serves me right for sleeping with someone like you. A fighter! Six months ago, you wouldn’t have even registered on my radar. What was I thinking?”

“She just showed up.”

Logan had been down this road before. When she’d discovered Pierre and Anya in bed, she’d kept quiet. Dealt with the hurt silently, privately. Now, she felt like yelling, with so much pent-up anger the tin tiles would fall off his ceiling.

“She stopped by to see if I needed...anything.”

“Humph, like someone to wash your back in the shower? Guess you did need something, huh? Clearly, you’re okay now.” Despite the bite in her words, her eyes betrayed her with a full body scan, checking him out from head to toe. The damned towel angled lower on his hip, revealing a good portion of hipbone and the small indentation below it. She inhaled sharply.

“Look, if you’d been here seconds ago, you’d have seen me toss her out on her troublesome ass.”

Point taken. Logan felt her anger lessen but pressed on, “So that was why she was buttoning up her blouse on the way out?”

He shot her a piercing look. “She’s persistent. Hell if I know how she got in here. Picked the lock—”

“I know you said this was temporary, that you didn’t want a relationship. I’ve accepted that. But don’t you think it’s insulting—and gross—to roll from one bed into another? Or is it okay when you shower together afterward?”

“That’s not what happened. She threw herself at me. I wasn’t biting,” he said, clearly exasperated. “I’m not used to justifying myself, Logan. But nothing happened.” His body seemed to vibrate and the damned towel loosened as he moved.

Her gaze lingered on the unstable knot at his hip. If he swung himself ever so slightly, that sexy dimple below his hipbone wouldn’t be the only part of him on display. She clenched her fist, refraining from tugging the bit of cotton lower. Who am I kidding? He’s my type, all right. An upward trade, from Snickers to Neuchatel truffle—if you knew enough to lick your way through the hard, gritty surface.

Logan flushed. She’d known enough to do much more than lick.

“Hell, after last night—” He didn’t finish his thought. “I warned you. We keep things simple and uncomplicated. But I’ve been straight with you from the get-go and I’m being straight with you now. Nothing happened. Take it or leave it.”

Aside from the towel, he had nothing to lose. Maybe she was a fool twice over. She shook her head, struggling to believe him, and struggling to ignore the spark of desire flaring up inside. “I’ve been played before,” she confessed softly. “It’s difficult to trust again.”

“Trust is about all I’ve got to offer.” Keane shifted on his feet and the towel another fraction of an inch. She didn’t dare more than a quick glance or she’d be lost. He pressed on, seemingly unaware.

“Your ex Twinkletoes is an asshole. But, guess his type is more your speed...” His words sounded soft, wounded. Until his voice took on a sharper tone. “Last night was fun and all. But no more hook ups. No commitments, except for the fight. I want space and privacy. And no questions. We’re strictly business. Agreed?”

“Agreed,” she murmured, wondering if her instincts were right, that her comments had gotten under his thick skin. That somehow, she’d hurt him.

“Agreed,” she restated, a bit more firmly. Keane was a means to an end, after all. Last night—and this morning too—had been a mistake. She should thank him for refocusing her, reminding her of her priorities. A fun, unemotional, short-term fling with him worked in theory. But today’s afterglow and the way her heart churned at the sight of Miss Easywrap on the stoop should have sent warning signals to her brain. She’d been as unemotional as a surfer riding a tidal wave. Still was.

The dimple just below his hipbone made her heart turn a cartwheel. As if she’d ever give up running her fingers along that brazen display of flesh. He’d awakened something within her, and she was reluctant for it to be extinguished. Besides, she could see his body reacting to her inspection, his penis rising at attention just for her. Clearly he still wanted her.

What would he do if I reached over and tugged the bit of cloth from his hips? Instead, she inhaled sharply and made to turn away.

“Look at me.”

Her gaze lifted, and she wondered if he’d guessed her thoughts, conflicting as they were.

“Jesus, have you heard a word I’ve said?”

He shook his head as if he wasn’t sure what to do about her blatant assessment, or his body’s undeniable response to it. Let him deny the attraction that always sizzled between them, no matter their mood or topic of conversation. The elephant in the room she was struggling to ignore.

“We’ll focus on the qualifying bouts, and getting a good night’s sleep.” He moved past her toward his room. “That’s all,” he muttered.

Logan headed to her room, irritation fueling each step. Keane would fight, and she should have been overjoyed. He was doing her a favor. Her livelihood depended on it. But their exchange left a bitter taste in her mouth. Was it because he’d given voice to what she’d been struggling to say—that theirs was a business agreement? Probably. As if she was just another notch on his belt, forgotten and dismissed. She flopped onto the mattress and willed herself to be just as unaffected by him as he seemed to be by her.

Why did she feel like she’d danced her last dance?

Chapter Eleven

CUTTING WEIGHT: What a fighter does before a weigh-in to quickly drop pounds in order to meet the weight requirement

As if Jimmy’s nighttime visits weren’t enough of a pain in the ass, Keane was now haunted by a shapely form in a skimpy pink tutu. One moment he’d been dreaming of fireman-carrying his injured friend out of an ambush, the scent of blood and gunpowder strong and potent. Then quicker than a car bomb, the picture changed.

There was Logan, smelling like sweet vanilla cake and spiraling around on the tips of her toes. Her tiny skirt lifted with every turn, exposing flaming red panties. Worse still, she was topless, her full, luscious breasts bouncing freely. Keane ran his fingers along a brow bone. Nothing like waking up with a pounding head and a throbbing boner.

Take care of business and maybe the headache will stop, he hazily thought, kicking off the bedspread and readjusting his body.

A muffled noise came from his bedroom doorway.

Immediately wide awake, his eyes shifted toward his dream-lurker, now standing in the doorframe. The early morning light cast an innocent glow about her, especially with that deer-in-the-headlights expression on her face. His morning wood blatantly filled his white boxer briefs, as her eyes fixed on him, and, just as blatantly, looked her fill. For Christ’s sake, she was acting as if she’d never seen a semi-naked man before—never seen him naked before.

He flipped the covers off a leg, shifted on the bed, and looked away. But the damage was done. Her sweet yet naughty demeanor—a total turn on—was now imprinted on his brain. Damn, she was hot as hell. He liked that she wasn’t afraid to hide her desire for him. For a second, he contemplated getting her all fired up about something so her cheeks flushed pink and firecrackers sparkled in those green eyes of hers, and then tossing her onto the bed and sinking deep inside of her.

But yesterday, there’d been hurt in her eyes, which reminded him of their agreement. No sex. Strictly business. A relationship was the last thing he wanted. Blissful aloneness, that’s all he wanted, along with a good face-pounding. No prying questions or sympathetic shoulder to cry on. He’d avoided plenty of the nice ones in the past, since they tended to cling tighter and cause more drama. Logan fit into this category perfectly.

A shame. Besides his physical response to her, he liked her. There was very little not to like about her. Despite worming her way into his dreams and poking her nose into his business, he respected her for sticking up for herself, and demanding answers about Rosie—even if yesterday’s argument had triggered warning bells in his head. His sense of self-preservation said keep her at an arm’s length.

“I wanted to tell you I’m not running this morning. I need to head down to the gym early and soothe Jerry, if that’s even possible. Though, the fact that he now has his fighter should do the trick.”

Keane grunted and climbed out of bed. Ignoring the way her eyes widened, he opened a dresser drawer and pulled out clean sweats.

“We ended on a bad note yesterday. I just want you to know that I am really thankful you agreed to fight. A few wins and I’ll have enough money for my dance school. Then, I’ll be out of your hair.”

She fell silent as he pulled on his sweats and a clean, white T-shirt. He frowned, mulling over this new bit of information—a dance school? So the Octagon Girl job was temporary? He frowned. For some reason, the news did not sit well with him. In their short time together, he’d gotten used to her just like those bitter herbal teas of hers.

“That is, unless you want me to move back home to Mrs. Debinska’s sooner rather than later?”

Shit, why did she have to be so damned persistent? She was his until the preliminary bouts were over. “No,” he said, harshly.

She exhaled. “About last night—”

He shot her a look as he tugged on some socks. “A business agreement. Your herbs for my fists.”

“But you said the herbs didn’t help. That you needed...um...more.” More. His cock stirred at everything that one simple word contained, but he ignored it. Oh yeah, he needed more. More uncomplicated. Less likely to twirl around in his dreams in a skimpy costume. Less likely to fill his mind with images of her voluptuous body.

He grabbed his sneakers, slid them on and quickly tied the laces. Anxious for this conversation to end and for his solitary run to begin before he changed his mind.

Black—and pink-striped sneakers came into his line of vision. One stomped in front of him. He looked up. Her hands rested on her hips. “You are the most exasperating, closed-mouthed man I’ve ever met. A business relationship is exactly what I’m agreeing to. I know you don’t want sex, or anything. Bad idea going forward. But, this is awkward for me. Say something.”

Fuck. It wasn’t a good idea—not at all. But sex was exactly what he wanted from her at that moment, with her breasts swaying and her luscious lips slick from her tongue. Her blond hair bounced, and her green eyes glimmered as daggers shot out of them. Her lips parted slightly in a breathless sort of way. She was stunningly beautiful in her rage. Even as she stomped her foot again, madder than a drill sergeant.

He had to get out of there and fast.

Abruptly he stood and made toward the door. Peace and quiet was what he’d settle for. Time to calm his tired mind and ease his throbbing temples. “Later.”

“Jerry’s expecting you at the gym by noon for the weigh-in. I’ll see you there, right?” he heard her shout from halfway down the hallway.

* * *

Cameras flashed and Logan blinked. She forced her lips to remain frozen, twisted in an upward pose, as if scores of lenses and eager-eyed reporters weren’t fixed on her. At least Jerry had penned them in like sheep, corralled in the press booth at the foot of the stage.

“Looks like your boyfriend is a no-show. If he’s not here in five more minutes, you’re done. Not only will you never work as an Octagon Girl again, that skinny, pantyhose-wearing ballerina boy’s interviews are going to sound mild compared to the bullshit I’ll say about you.” Jerry smirked and gestured to the mass of media. Countless cameras clicked, snapping away at this prime photo op.

Logan inhaled a calming breath. No point in arguing with the man. Instead, she tried reasoning with him. “You changed venues, Jerry. Who knew you switched the weigh-in to the arena? Keane probably headed over to the gym. Be patient, he’ll be here.” She resisted rolling her eyes. Jerry’s last-minute change in venues was a real problem tonight, with fighters wandering in late and with two other Octagon Girls being no-shows. The new girl, Chloe, was hiding in the locker room, immobilized with a severe case of stage fright. Logan had been forced to handle the crowd single-handedly.

Another silent prayer was issued. When Keane realized the weigh-in was bound to be more frenzied than a Justin Bieber concert, he might not show. Logan couldn’t blame him. She’d been stuck on this stage, a high-definition screen blaring highlights from previous fights overhead as a steady parade of fighters stepped on and off the scale and Jerry paced around like a mindless, squirrel-faced chicken.

All fighters from every weight class weighed in tonight, in advance of the eighteen bouts to be fought over the next three nights. The winners of each bout would proceed on to the next fight, and so on, and so on, until the best fighters within their class battled it out to qualify for Tetnus. So far, twenty guys had stripped down to their boxers, stepped on the scale, and had made weight. Well, most of them had.

Four fighters had been disqualified for being too heavy. There had been a big hubbub over something about Jerry fiddling with the weight requirements. Outrageous. How could he get away with such a thing? Yet Logan wouldn’t put it past ol’ Squirrel Face to manipulate things in his favor. She needed to speak to Keane beforehand, give him a heads up. Plus, she needed reassurance that Keane could now make weight.

Where was he?

Everyone except the featherweight fighters and the two men pumped up to be tomorrow night’s showcase fight—Keane and his first welterweight opponent, Young Gun—had weighed in.

“Come on, man. We don’t have all day!” someone shouted from below. Logan kept her smile in place, even as Jerry shot her a scowl before heading for the mic.

“Keep your fuckin’ panties on. Young Gun Willie is already backstage. We’re waiting for the Guillotine Grappler, Mr. Tap Out Central, and the fighter to beat, our own...um...”

She felt like rolling her eyes. Some emcee he was, one too cheap to hire a professional broadcaster.

“Boom-Yay O’Shea,” a voice squeaked from somewhere up in the rows of bleachers. An area assigned to hard-core MMA fans who ventured out into the cold Burgh winter to bear witness to several men taking turns on a scale.

“Boom-Yay O’Shea,” repeated the crowd, easily pleased with the silly nickname.

Twist my tutu. No way was Keane going to like this name, nor the entire spectacle playing itself out here. Nervously, she glanced up the ramp toward the entrance, hoping he hadn’t arrived and overheard.

Jerry held his hands up, his palms facing the crowd, as if that might stop their chanting. Then, he spoke. “Let me remind you that tomorrow night Sunrise Sessions presents ‘MMA Monster Mayhem,’ an evening of tremendous, world-class MMA action. Doors open at seven and the first fight is at eight.”

He sucked in a deep breath, and continued, “The fights are winner-takes-all format, meaning if a fighter wins, he’ll fight again that same night. If he wins the second bout, he’ll move on to the next night’s fights, until a victor in each weight class is announced the third night, after bout six.”

She jumped as Jerry stalked up, his face lurching inches away. “Three more minutes,” he threatened. “Now get out there and entertain them.”

“You want me to what? Dance?”

“Dance? What the fuck...no! What I want is for you to parade your luscious body around the stage and keep these guys excited. Show off another one of the new outfits I bought you. Didn’t you see them in your locker? There’s one for each series of bouts unless I fire your ass. See, you’re an ass-set too.” He leered the last words, his humorless attempt at a pun. The creep.

The outfit in question wasn’t that flimsy. A bright aqua V-neck halter top was tied around her neck at the top and fell to mid-waist, covering her more effectively than some of the leotards she’d worn to ballet practice. Matching boy shorts hit the crease of her legs, but only in the front. The back was cut diagonally, so the bottom half of her cheeks peeked out. Clearly, the focus was on her ass-ets. Zippity-doo-dah.

Wanting to distance herself from the squirrel-faced creep, Logan squared her shoulders, put her blue Nikes in motion, and did what Jerry demanded. She marched across the stage, halted, and struck a pose. The clicking of cameras told her she had their attention.

Pivoting on her toes, she moved back across the stage and posed for the photographers on that end of the corral. Click. Click.

As long as the cameras did the talking, Logan was fine with this...performance. Years of being onstage had prepared her. As she added more sway to her second sashay across stage, the realization struck that she was more than fine with this. With the media focused on the present rather than her mangled reputation, Logan discovered that for the first time as an Octagon Girl, she was the boss. She was in charge of her own notoriety. The audience was hers to win over their attention and respect, hers to perform for like she’d itched to do, hers to enjoy.

Overhead, the television commentaries switched over to music videos. Bon Jovi’s “Livin’ on a Prayer” had the audience singing, and Logan smiling. If she had to pick an anthem for herself, this would be it. Sure, she’d been down on her luck. But life was on the upswing.

She hit the edge of the stage and pivoted smoothly on her toes, keeping her arms neatly at her sides, resisting the urge to stretch them overhead as she spun. Giving the press any reminder of her ballerina days would be a bad idea.

Halfway across stage, she glanced toward the entryway. Where was Keane? He’d given her a promise, albeit a reluctant one, and her trust was in his big, burly hands. Trust is about all I’ve got to offer, he’d said.

He’d be here, all right. Hopefully before ol’ Squirrel Face pitched a hissy fit.

A guitar solo rang out. She catwalked across the stage in perfect rhythm, her back straight, arms swinging slightly, feet crisscrossing, feeling like the Gisele Bundchen of the MMA world. Training alongside Keane had sculpted her muscles in a curvy, more obvious way than the firm, tight lines she’d acquired from dancing. The new lift in her backside being the most notable—and most obvious in this get-up.

She stopped mid-stage, rose up on her toes, and twirled, landing to jauntily face the audience. They loved it—she could tell by the flashing bulbs and, smack behind them, from the grinning male faces in the first row. One bizarre guy in a Santa hat even blew her a kiss.

Why, I’m grinning too! Incredible.

With a toss of her head, she made a forty-five-degree turn, stretched one long leg forward, and continued along her imaginary runway. And mentally stumbled as she caught sight of the tall figure partially obscured by the temporary curtain hanging at the side of the stage. Fascinated, she watched a set of familiar yet furious blue eyes give her the once over. Keane. Jerry’s welterweight had finally arrived, as hardened and mean-looking as ever.

The smile fell from her face. His earlier dismissal still stung. How dare he stand there, one massive muscle of irritation, and burst her small, fleeting bubble of happiness. Yesterday’s confrontation danced around in her mind, too. Strictly business, he’d said. Well, she’d introduce him to her business, that of being an Octagon Girl. Whether he liked it or not. Give him a taste of her...assets, and show him what he’d be missing with her new you-can-look-but-don’t-touch policy.

The thought of his hands on her made her face warm, but pride spurred her on.

She shortened her steps. Channeling her inner supermodel, she swayed her hips from side to side and thrust her breasts forward, hoping to catch his attention. Her mind played over every naughty moment they’d shared that last, mind-blowing evening, fueling her movements. She hoped it was all there, reflected on her face for him to see.

Plastering a sultry smile on her lips, she turned first to the snapping cameras and then to the welterweight hidden offstage. Remember, this is just a business arrangement, dear Keane, she mentally scoffed, strutting closer and closer to him.

He shifted, and she wanted to believe that slight movement was her touchdown, a sign of her effect on him. But, she wasn’t sure.

She so wanted to be certain.

Prancing closer, she noticed the way his arms folded across his black zip-up sweatshirt and his legs angled down in an inverted V. A casual stance, except for the tight curl of his fisted fingers. She didn’t dare make eye contact.

Over her shoulder, she flashed the crowd another Cheshire Cat grin. Slowly, she stopped, pivoted on her toes, and twirled so she faced the audience. Just feet away from the sexy welterweight off in the shadows. Making sure her back was to him, she rose up on her toes and struck her best model pose yet. Boy, she’d give anything to see Keane’s reaction right now. Would he even notice the cut of her boy shorts?

The music ended and so did her impromptu time-to-torment-Keane performance. Now what?

Logan hesitated. She could exit toward Keane or walk back across the stage toward Jerry, who’d finished befriending the brunette and was back to shooting her dirty looks.

Thankfully, she didn’t have to make that decision. Jerry spotted Keane—she could tell because he threw his hands into the air in a my-prize-fighter-has-finally-fuckin’-arrived gesture, and was now hastily approaching the mic.

“Uh, hum...ladies,” Jerry’s neck pivoted toward the brunette, “and gentlemen. I’m Jerold Batelli, Chairman of the East Coast MMA Federation.”

“You said the same thing an hour ago, man! Where’s the welterweights?”

But not everyone was displeased. The brunette reporter had her camera fixed on Jerry, as if to capture every nuance of his handling—or mishandling—of the weigh-in. Enjoy the fleeting sunshine, Jerry. Logan knew full well how the press was a fickle friend. One moment showering you with praise, and the next leaving you floundering on your ass. And, if there was someone in need of a thorough lambasting, it was that weasel.

Jerry noticed the attention as well, and his chest swelled out like a baboon’s as he continued, “Welcome once again to Mellon Arena and to the event you’ve all been waiting for. This afternoon, we’ve been weighing in—get it, weighing in?—on our featherweight, welterweight, and heavyweight contenders.”

Two-months-too-late Santa rolled his eyes in disbelief. As if he had room to talk in that get-up. Though stand-up comedy wasn’t exactly Jerry’s forté.

Oblivious, he continued, “Let me remind you that in order to compete, featherweights must not exceed the weight of 145 pounds, welterweights 168 pounds, and heavyweights 265 pounds.”

Keane had told her that making weight was always a pain in the ass. That fighters frequently had to cut thirty to forty pounds to do so. And how, in days leading up to a bout, fighters did crazy things to slim down. Fasting, electrolytes, hours in a sauna—whatever it took. Logan frowned, trying to remember what he’d said about the maximum for welterweights. Wasn’t it one hundred and seventy pounds?

Unfortunately, she was certain that was it. Her mouth had dropped open when he’d told her his training weight and she’d wondered how such a wall of splendidly muscled man could be that light.

“Shit,” she heard Keane mutter behind her. Logan stiffened. How could one curse word carry so much meaning? Although she didn’t turn around, she could feel Keane’s movements through the vibration of the stage, as he jogged or jump roped or whatever he was doing to make the floor sway under his sudden exertions. The rest of the air sizzled out of her bubble. Oh, hell. He was worried about making weight...which meant big trouble.

She swallowed hard.

“Let me first introduce the pretty ladies of the MMA, our Octagon ring girls.”

Splitting leotards! Surely Jerry wasn’t planning on announcing her, being that she’d just spent minutes parading across stage.

“New to the cage tonight is the charming Chloe Morris.” A stunning, drop-dead-gorgeous girl in an Octagon outfit matching Logan’s own walked out on stage. Logan blinked, wondering if this was the same person who’d been curled over a bench and moaning uncontrollably back in the locker room. Chloe made her way to Jerry, her face brighter than a cherry on an ice cream sundae. Yep, still nervous—you could tell by the way she wrung her hands together—and shy. Poor thing. Logan felt her embarrassment. Yet, the crowd didn’t care one iota and fist pumped the air in greeting. It pays to be beautiful.

“Another newbie to MMA...Miss Rachelle Getz.”

No one appeared on stage. Logan had an ample view of the other side, behind the curtain. It was empty. Another one bites the dust, Logan thought.

“Rachelle Geeeeeetz,” Jerry trilled, craning his neck back toward the curtain. Chloe’s pink cheeks were nothing compared to the deep, crimson flush that spread across Jerry’s face in a blotchy webbed pattern. Yep, another one bites the dust. His Octagon Girl was a no-show. Logan could almost feel sorry for him, until she remembered how he’d treated her when she herself had missed weigh-ins. Rachelle was in big trouble.

Jerry must have remembered as well, judging by the look he shot her. So much for mending matters with the ketchup-colored Squirrel Face.

“I want everyone to stand up and put your hands in the air for the one, the only only...Luscious Logan!”

“Asshole,” Keane snapped but, except for Logan, it fell on deaf ears. The audience had begun to chant “Luscious, Luscious, Luscious!”

Logan was not about to join the red-faced party by the mic. Instead, she remembered Keane whispering her new nickname, how much she liked hearing it roll off his tongue in that sexy, low voice of his. The thought calmed her.

How you treat this audience and the press affects the impression they form of you, she reminded herself. Hadn’t she seen that moments ago during her quasi-modeling strut? Clearly, she was the most popular Octagon Girl. Granted, Jerry had fired nearly everyone else, so in a way, it was popularity by elimination. But nevertheless...she was in control here.

As she crossed the stage, another idea danced around in her mind. Keane needed to shed weight quickly. Maybe she could buy him a little time.

Her arm shot up. In a gesture similar to the Queen’s wave, but with her fingers rolled in tight, she motioned into the air.

The crowd loved it and fist-pumped back.

Raising both hands overhead, she began to clap until the entire auditorium mimicked her actions. Then she strutted her stuff, making sure to move as far away from Keane as possible. Away from Jerry and Chloe too; the first, was definitely not pleased by further delays in his schedule, and the second looked so shocked, her mouth gaped open.

“Luscious, Luscious, Luscious,” her fans chanted.

In a year full of firsts, this one was a keeper.

Chapter Twelve

HIP THROW: When a hip is used to first knock an opponent off balance and then to flip them onto their back

“Whoo, hoo! Loving them shorts, honey!” Sal hollered, coming to stand next to him. From his position behind the black curtain, Keane had a clear view of the events unfolding on stage.

He sent an uppercut flying toward the curtain, trying miserably to ignore both the old timer and the sway of Logan’s sweet ass on display for the entire arena.

“Look at her go. That’s my girl, working the crowd and all.”

Keane kept up a steady jog. Even from this angle on the side of the stage, he could tell his eyes weren’t the only ones fixed on her ass. He sent another fist flying.

“Glad I didn’t miss this.”

“Shut up, Sal,” Keane shouted. What the hell is she doing? There was no explanation for the scene playing out on stage right now. Jerry spoke into his mic several times but the crowd’s chanting—Luscious, Luscious—drowned him out. The chanting from this crew pissed Keane off, so much so that he wanted to grab the guy with the brightest smirk from the front row and grind his nose into the stage. Right next to Jerry’s, after he got his hands on him.

Jerry had intentionally riled these animals up. He was going to pay for it, too. Although, Logan seemed to be...what the holy hell was she doing?

“What I wouldn’t give to be you for a night,” Sal muttered.

Keane tossed another jab at the curtain and picked up speed. He wished the locker room had a sauna or even a hot tub, someplace to sweat out two pounds of excess water weight.

“Jerry might have an eye for girly wear but there’s not much else good I can say about the guy.”

“Is this even legal?” Keane demanded. Furious. So much so he wished the old timer would leave him alone before he did something he’d regret. Of course that asshole’s messing with the weight requirement was illegal, and stupid beyond belief.

Nothing Keane hated more than going into a fight riddled with surprises. He’d made a habit of being careful, of evaluating ahead of time the skill level of his opponent, of weighing the odds of what the potential outcome might be. How the fight was being managed. Shit, was an honest, well-run fight too much to expect?

Why cut the weight requirement by two pounds? It didn’t add up.

“God knows, it should be. Those hips in those shorts are definitely illegal. Makes a man forget all about fighting and turn the old heart a-thumping.”

What the fuck? Keane stopped mid-stride, barely holding off on turning the old timer’s head a-thumping, and glared at the irritating man. Sal shifted nervously on his feet as awareness of his mistake dawned on him.

“Eh...um...we’re discussing Jerry. Right. Did you know about his change in venues? Waited around for a while until the kid at the smoothie bar told me about the arena.”

“That fool lowered the weight requirement to 168 pounds,” Keane said, as he began a series of jumping jacks. Two pounds less than the standard UFC requirement didn’t seem like much. That is, it wouldn’t have been if Keane hadn’t hydrated with excessive amounts of Logan’s herbal teas to shake off a wicked headache. Dumb move. If he had known Jerry would be messing with the weight restrictions, he’d have waited until afterward.

“God knows why, but Jerry’s probably using DREAM or another MMA organization’s weight classes instead of the UFC’s,” Sal replied, surprised.

Keane jabbed in between jacks. Up-downs might do the trick but it was a risky move working out his muscles while trying to cut weight.

Sal moved off to the side, came back with Keane’s jacket, and tossed it to him. “Put this on, it will help you break a sweat. I’ve some experience outmaneuvering the scale. If all else fails, you can file a protest about Jerry’s screwball switch with the UFC execs. I’m itching to do so, no matter what happens.”

Jogging in place, Keane slid into his jacket. For once, the old timer’s training experience came in handy.

Feedback from a microphone pierced through the chanting and the crowd hushed. “You’re walking a thin line here, Logan,” Jerry threatened in a low voice, which the mic picked up and carried. “Stand over by Chloe at the back of the stage...now!”

“Aw, leave Luscious alone. She’s the only thing keeping me here while you get your fighters organized.” This came from a fan in the second row, an idiot wearing a Santa hat.

Keane exchanged punches with the air, a right hook promised for Jerry, and a left upper-cut for the smug Santa Claus and his lame attempt at scoring points with Logan.

Logan walked to the back of the stage, providing every guy looking to score with a full visual of her ass cheeks. She must have sensed his irritation because her eyes searched him out.

For a moment, they stared at each other. Then her lips moved, mouthing, “Are you okay?”

Damn how her concern bothered him. He turned away. Yeah, once Jerry’s nose bled from the face-plant he’d put on him after this whole debacle was over, then he’d be okay. Damn, why had that asshole changed the weight requirement?

No logical answer came to mind. Jerry announced the featherweights and two smaller fighters took to the stage. Another break in MMA protocol. A lucky one. Clearly the asshole was riling the crowd up for his fight with Young Gun by saving their weigh-in to the end. It’d be a major fuck up on his part if Keane couldn’t shed the two pounds.

One at a time, each man stripped down to his boxers and bare feet and stepped onto the scale.

Keane picked up his pace. It was a matter of minutes before he’d be called on stage. Luckily, a handful of reporters had been allowed out of their pen and were snapping close-ups as the featherweights struck a few muscle poses.

Jerry’s shrill tone filled the arena. Time was up.

“Now for the men to watch, the pairing you’ve all been waiting for. Two amazing fighters. Welterweights with equal ability but very different styles.”

Keane neatly alternated between a few quick jabs and a series of kicks. Every second counted.

“First up, introducing Willie ‘Young Gun’ Reynolds.”

He used the last few crucial seconds to beat out some high leg lifts. The weigh-in was going to be a crap shoot, a slight chance in hell he’d make it.

“The official weight for Willie is 156 pounds.”

“Where did he recruit this—” Sal muttered, but was cut off by Jerry. Not breaking pace, Keane shrugged off the heavy jacket and threw it at the trainer.

“And now I want to bring onstage his opponent and the fighter to beat. Introducing The King of the Guillotine, Mr. Tap Out Central, our very own Keane ‘Boom-Yay’ O’Shea.”

A fuckin’ circus freak show, that’s what this was. All he wanted was a good, clean and challenging bout. The kind of fight he missed. Keane gritted his teeth. For a second, he contemplated cutting out, until he caught sight of Logan on her tippy-toes, anxiously looking toward him. A less than subtle reminder of his promise.

Without breaking stride, he jogged out and over toward the group surrounding the scale at center stage.

A fist waved at him threateningly. A small, unfighter-like fist connected to skinny arms with barely any muscle tone. Those arms lead to a lean, tight chest shaped like a wannabe Marine recruit’s—one who Uncle Sam would send home packing within a day. And damn it all, wouldn’t you know the face topping it all off was...young. The kid wasn’t twenty, if that.

This was Young Gun Willie? His opponent in the showcase match-up?

He scowled at Jerry. The jerk simply shrugged his shoulders.

Right then and there, Keane knew the truth—the change in weights hadn’t been a mistake or a result of Jerry adhering to an alternate set of guidelines. Jerry had done it so this unsuspecting amateur could go up a class and fight as a welterweight. Lose as a welterweight, too.

Keane stopped jogging, knowing it was too late to dodge the inevitable. He wasn’t about to back out now, not in front of everyone. Not in front of Logan. He wanted to jab someone’s face in, anyone except the baby-faced sacrificial lamb Jerry’d recruited.

Resigned, Keane stalked up to the scale, ignoring Logan’s anxious expression.

Damn, the kid didn’t stand a chance. If Keane made weight.

* * *

Twist my tutu, what’s with him? Offstage, Logan had been trying to get Keane’s attention for the past few minutes. He’d briefly caught her look, then snatched his gaze away and blatantly ignored her.

At least he was taking the weigh-in seriously. Judging by his earlier actions, she was under the impression he was worried about it. Why else would he suddenly burst into exercising? Yet, now he appeared...calm. As if the weigh-in didn’t matter—which perhaps to him, it didn’t.

Logan and Chloe stood near the back curtain about ten feet behind Keane. The kid, Willie, stood off to their right, preoccupied with making odd, I-am-trying-to-look-mean-but-only-seem-ridiculous faces. Jerry had positioned himself off to one side of the scale, just out of Keane’s reach. Smart move. Keane looked ready to throttle ol’ Squirrel Face.

A raucous AC/ DC song, “Back in Black,” boomed overhead. An appropriate song, as Keane’s track suit covered his back in black oh-so-well.

He kicked off his beat-up sneakers and tugged his sweatshirt over his head, mussing his hair into a just-rolled-out-of-bed look.

Her breath caught when the tight dark T-shirt followed. This was a sight she’d never grow tired of; deliciously taut pecs and abs that made you want to run your tongue along their grooves. She blushed, thinking of how she’d done just that, remembering how his muscular chest pressed her down into the mattress, how strong he was—all over.

“He’s hot,” Chloe whispered. No arguing with her there.

Mr. Eyegasm slid his thumbs into the waist of his sweatpants and, with one fluid tug, yanked them down his legs. Stepping out of them, he presented her and Chloe with two perfectly shaped butt cheeks outlined by soft white briefs.

Despite having watched the other fighters strip down, Logan exhaled deeply, and an honest-to-God grunt came from the woman next to her. Keane was just...the total package, like caramel cream inside a bonbon. He tasted just as fine, too.

“Boom-Yay O’Shea!” the crowd began to chant. Keane’s rear end tightened along with the rest of the mass of muscles so amply displayed in front of them.

He shook his head, as if the slight gesture would stop the excited crowd. Raising one foot, he went to step up on the scale, hesitated, and stepped back. Placing his hands on his hips and turning slightly, his head swung around so he could look directly at...Willie. She shifted on her feet, wanting—needing—a sign of reassurance. Instead, he ignored her completely.

What the blazes was he doing? Why wasn’t he stepping up on the scale? Damn. His actions spoke volumes. He wasn’t going to make it.

He turned a fraction of an inch more, presenting them with a perfect profile as he assessed Willie thoughtfully. Raw restrained power reverberated off his chiseled form. Six foot two of sweaty, rugged male caused a surge of adrenaline to fire through her and her heart to thump wildly. The intricate tribal tattoo rolled across his body like a dark inky wave as his muscles flexed even with the slightest of movements.

Chloe shifted next to her but Logan didn’t care how her companion responded to Keane. How could any woman not react to such male perfection? His face was downright beautiful, with strong cheekbones, a well-proportioned nose—no knots or bumps from fighting there. Logan licked her lips, remembering the taste of his own full ones.

The fine sheen of moisture coating his chest drew her gaze lower. Still lower, she sought out that mouth-watering indentation above his hipbone, fully displayed just above the elastic of his low-hanging briefs. But even her favorite spot didn’t hold her attention long as her eyes continued downward, to the large bulge nestled within the thin cotton material. She felt drunk, lightheaded, giddy, knowing the full extent of what was barely concealed there. How so perfectly masculine he really was.

“Hold on there, Jerry. One more thing,” Sal called as he jogged across stage with a towel in his hand.

The spotlight overhead seemed brighter, the heat more intense. She needed a towel, a moistened one. Something to cool down her raging libido.

Sal snapped the material and tossed one end to Jerry. They stretched it out in front of the scale and formed a sort of barrier between the crew onstage and the crowd. Low enough that the audience and cameras could still see their faces.

Against her will, her eyes shifted, then quickly lifted. No one held a candle to Keane in briefs...not even Marky Mark in those Calvin Klein ads. Close but not close enough. Interesting how the only piece of clothing Keane wore that wasn’t black were snug, white briefs.

“Come on, Keane,” Sal urged, breaking the sensual spell.

She snuck another peek. But as she glanced up, her eyes collided with Keane’s bright baby blues. Something changed within them. The fine creases, so prominent when he was angry, softened. A hint of an oh-so-naughty smile tugged at his lips. He knew what she was thinking.

Then, without breaking eye contact, he stripped off his underwear.

The crowd picked up their chant of “Boom-Yay O’Shea!” Chloe let out a nervous giggle. And Logan, blushing furiously, tried her very best not to look. Not with the way Keane stood, studying her—almost daring her with his beautiful body.

A second later, his expression changed. He shook his head, turned and stepped up onto the scale.

“Whoa. For a second there, I thought he might wrestle ya down onto the stage,” Chloe leaned in and whispered in her ear. With that, the girl fell silent again, probably checking out the eyeful of ass standing there on the scale.

His upper legs were muscular, thick and corded. His hips narrowed, setting off a small, tight ass, white as baby powder compared to his darker skin elsewhere. Powerful buns.

“One hundred sixty...eight pounds,” Jerry shouted, pleased and excited. “We have a fight, everyone.”

Babyface stepped toward the photographers and struck a pose with fists up and legs bent.

Keane stepped off the scale, uncaring that his jewels swung about with his abrupt movements. Bending at the waist, he grabbed his clothes off the floor, stepped into his briefs and sweats, and swiftly tugged the T-shirt back over his head.

Jerry reached out to touch his arm but snatched it back, thinking better of it. Instead, he gestured toward Young Gun, muttering, “Picture time.”

Chloe gasped as Keane sauntered toward them. Barefoot, his sneakers dangled from his fingers and his sweatshirt and coat were swung over an arm. “Let’s go.” With his free hand, he lightly grabbed Logan’s elbow and nudged her to move.

“Piiictuuuure time, Keane,” Jerry repeated loudly, sounding more anxious and irritated.

Keane led her across stage toward the curtain as if he hadn’t heard Jerry’s order.

Logan forgot about Jerry, the audience and the reporters snapping shots from the corral. Her awareness shifted to the man at her side. The lingering warmth from the fingers that had just been on her elbow.

The surprising feel of his big hand, as it touched the bare skin of her backside and propelled her forward.

He led her along a small corridor in the underbelly of the arena. Once at her locker room, he stopped, his palm leaving her ass to hit the door open. He followed her inside.

“What’s wrong? You made the weigh-in. You were worried about it, right? I could tell by the way you were exercising. What else—”

“He’s a kid.” Keane hunkered down on a bench in front of the lockers. Dropping his gear, he braced his forearms against his legs. One palm ran across his face and his fingers skimmed over his brow bone.

“So, you’ll win the first bout easily.”

“You are so fuckin’ naïve. How many fights have you watched?”

Logan looked down at him. His hand cupped a cheek as he studied the floor. Something was drastically wrong. He wasn’t exactly angry...more pained. Upset.

“Huh?” Though rage simmered below the surface, judging by his prodding. He wasn’t going to like her answer. “Um...I’ve worked five bouts, including yours. They all ended quickly. There was no need to stand around, watching and waiting. Jerry’s so busy, he doesn’t care whether I stick around while the other girls work. Up until now, I never wanted to watch someone get his face kicked in or getting slammed into a mat. It’s not exactly my type of performance. So I usually keep to myself inside the locker room. But don’t forget, I worked with Sal at the gym and observed many sparring matches, mostly with Jaysin Bouvine. I suppose for an Octagon Girl this sounds odd—”

“Now what?” This word was muttered in a voice so low, Logan almost missed it. She’d rather have him angry...she didn’t know how to deal with this unidentifiable emotion. This wasn’t anger, but something more frightening. Something deeper, more tragic.

She reached out, wanting to comfort him, and touched his arm. He pulled it back as if burned, but his head swung up and his blue eyes shimmered with raw emotion.

“Can’t do it.”

His words felt like a jab to the solar plexus and left her breathless.

“What can’t you do, Keane?” she whispered, fearing the worst.

He wasn’t going to fight.

All the time spent cajoling, worrying, training and hoping. Just as she was growing into her Octagon Girl role. Just when her future seemed brighter...

She waited for him to finish, for him to say that one word that would crush her dreams... fight. But when a few heartbeats passed without further comment, she marched away. Her hand was still warm from where she’d touched him, yet her throat had tightened from his rejection.

“Fuckin’ Jimmy.”

Fuckin’ was right. And why bring Jimmy up now? It wasn’t like he was here, telling Keane not to fight.

Her locker was around the other side. The shadows from the broken fluorescent overhead fit her mood perfectly. She entered the combo and glared at the stack of Octagon Girl outfits in cellophane, neatly piled on the top shelf and labeled with the number of each bout. Outfits that now wouldn’t get used. Jerry was going to be pissed off at the unnecessary expense once he recovered from his coronary after learning Keane wasn’t going to fight.

She swallowed hard and listened for Keane, hoping he was still there. But what did she expect, his emotions on a platter? Not his style.

Hastily kicking off her other sneaker and tennis sock, she headed toward the end of the row of lockers and turned the corner. His big body stopped her dead in her tracks.

“Keane,” she breathed.

Time halted for a fraction of a second. Not a second after that, Keane was on her. She was grabbed, spun around, and pushed up against the hard locker by one hundred and sixty-eight pounds of tight-lipped male. His head angled and ducked in for the kill. He kissed her with such force her world tilted. Her body cried out for more. More. Forgotten were her pride, worries and any lingering sense of preservation. All she wanted was him.

His knee wedged between her legs. One arm slid around her waist. His free hand tugged at her top’s knot and yanked it free. A low growl vibrated against her lips. He stepped away and tore off his black T-shirt.

“Grab the bench.”

She shot him a look. His jaw was tight, mean. But the heat in his baby blues spoke volumes. There was need there, a desperation she felt to the bottom of her toes. She said a quick prayer that Chloe wouldn’t wander in, and then, as fast as her shaky legs could carry her, she did as she was told and found the bench.

He placed a warm palm on her back, bending her forward. She clutched the sides for support. Before she knew it, her boy shorts were sliding down her legs. She stepped one foot out of them, leaving her completely bare. A rustling of clothing behind her made her skin prickle with anticipation.

An arm wound around her waist, adjusting her. A hand ran along the length of her back. A knee pressed between her legs and widened her stance. His palm caressed her buttocks, one at a time. A slight slap caught her off-guard. She gasped.

“That’s for what you did earlier. On stage.”

His fingers fondled her moist folds. A shiver ran up her spine and continued, even though he broke contact.

He bent farther over her and reached around to grasp her breasts in his hands.

Feminine intuition took over. Her hips thrust back and connected with the hardened length of him. She wiggled.

Keane grunted.

His tip found her warmth. One smooth thrust and he filled her completely. A hand shifted from her breast to between her legs, his fingers expertly stimulating her nub. He slowly withdrew, plunged and massaged her until she was panting. He was everywhere at once: his wicked hands caressing her, his massive body surrounding her, his warm lips pressing against her skin, his careful handling making her entire body shake.

She wasn’t alone in her need. His mouth paused from suckling her neck as he made a sound low in his throat. His chest heaved against her back as he pressed her forward.

Nothing had ever felt so wonderful. So beautiful. So naughty.

On the next earth-shaking plunge, he grunted, “Condom.”

“Uh...”

“Shit, don’t move, hear me?”

She heard his sneakers on the thin carpet as he left the locker room. Her skin flushed pink. Splitting leotards, here she was, bent over a bench with her bottom in the air, more than ready for what was coming next, in the women’s locker room!

The door vibrated, and Keane returned.

“Lock it, okay?” She heard the metal lock snap into place.

“Told you to stay put,” he said from behind her. Every fiber of her being was on high alert. She heard his clothes rustle as he stripped off his pants, a box hit the carpet, and the condom lightly snap before he rolled it on himself. “Now you’re gonna get it.”

He tugged her upright, rotated them around, and sat on the bench, yanking her firmly down on his lap with her back to him. Her legs automatically spread as she took him in one smooth thrust. Her groan filled the locker room.

His legs spread wider as he lifted her upward and tugged her back down, his pace quickening.

Her body shook as pleasure rolled over her.

A slight shift of her hips caused him to hiss. His pace became frantic. Small kisses found an ear, cheek, until her head turned and her lips captured his.

Incredibly, her body welcomed every rough inch of him. Squeezing her thighs into his legs, she arched at his withdrawal and dropped down on his thrust. The fingers at her waist tightened as their rhythm intensified. Like the swirling path of his tribal tattoo, her release coiled up within her, beginning deep within her womb and snaking its way up into her chest.

He must have sensed it. Slowing his pace, he ground up into her and urged her on. She rose and crested in a huge tidal wave of warm, slick moisture.

“Logan,” he said, the low gravel in his voice resonating deep inside her. His arms wrapped around her body and he pulled her in tight. She felt his heart beating wildly as his chest pressed up against her back. He thrust up into her hard as his own wave followed her over and, together, they shattered.

* * *

Afterward, she felt his forehead pressed against her shoulder. His long, warm breaths caressed her skin. He wasn’t the only one breathless. Mindless. Speechless. No words could describe what had just happened. She had never felt more connected to someone, so in tune to their every movement, every breath. A euphoric feeling filled her senses. It was even better than a standing ovation. She’d never felt so desired, so thoroughly pleased.

He sat back, but the warmth of his body remained. She wanted him to hold her. What she didn’t want was for him to let go.

One hand left her hip. He’s going to pull away.

A good thing his back was to her. She feared her rush of emotions for this beautiful, troubled man were plastered on her face like a neon billboard. This is a business arrangement with benefits to him. Don’t get all adoration-eyed and...emotional.

Another rush of pleasure ripped through her as she stood and slid off of his semi-erect penis. How was that even possible?

His other hand fell from her hip. Yep, aside from the hard evidence to the contrary, he was done. His purpose—and passion—had been served. Better for her to be the first to move away. Distance herself before he did. Without looking at him, she crossed the small space and bent over to retrieve her shorts.

“Leave ’em, baby.”

He moved behind her, snatched the shorts away, and hurled them across the locker room. His arm snaked around her waist. He hoisted her up against his chest, and sauntered off toward the glass enclosed showers, grabbing a towel from her locker en route.

Logan had always believed that of all athletes, ballerinas possessed the greatest stamina. She was happy to be gloriously, deliciously, and oh-so-thoroughly proven wrong.

Chapter Thirteen

BUTTERFLY GUARD: When a fighter hooks both ankles inside an opponent’s thighs to prevent him/her from moving. Often used to get out of a Submission Hold and often followed by a Sweep

Three times. Three locations. Three positions. That’s what it took for his troublesome mindfuck to go away. Or so Keane wanted to believe. Except he was pretty sure the first time, with Logan bent over the bench, had done the trick. The other two times...well, he’d rather not dwell too deeply on the itch he couldn’t seem to stop scratching.

Logan winced as she brought the dinner plates over to the kitchen sink. He tensed, almost spouted an apology, until he spotted the satisfied smirk of her lips. He relaxed, only mildly disappointed that the source of his itch was too tender for a fourth round. Hopefully, that meant she was also too tired to probe further into his fucked-up psyche.

He’d put her off the first time she tried questioning him about the comments he’d made in the locker room. Silenced Miss Inquisitive right smack in the middle of his foyer, too. Jesus, the couch or a bed would have been more comfortable. Yet, Logan hadn’t seemed to mind.

Shit, how was he supposed to explain his mindfuck—the memories and guilt plaguing him—to her?

Since he’d gotten the news of Jimmy’s death, Keane had taken care when selecting sparring partners and opponents. Tough, brawny meatheads out for blood were preferable. Well-trained professionals. Hard-heads who could take a punch and recover from a knock-out.

“One day, I’m gonna kick your ass,” his reckless friend had joked.

Little did he know how his promise had played out in Keane’s guilt-riddled conscience. Every night since his friend had died, Keane had had his ass kicked all the way from Pittsburgh to New York City, and back.

Except, fighting was all Keane knew. Up until Jimmy died, it had been one of the things he most enjoyed. Now, it was a necessary release. Nothing more, nothing less. With carefully selected opponents, ones he couldn’t hurt too badly.

Jimmy wasn’t the only reckless one. Why had he promised Logan he’d fight with freakin’ Jerry picking his match-ups?

“Dessert?”

Logan had changed into that sweatshirt that drove him nuts, the one that fell off a shoulder. Her shoulder was bare, creamy and smooth except for the mark his lips had left on it. She waved the can of whipped cream in front of his face.

“Will this be too much sugar with the blueberries?”

He studied her and contemplated what he wanted to eat with that whipped cream. It wasn’t fucking blueberries. Something must have shown on his face, and her cheeks flushed pink.

Damn, she was an unexpected surprise. His renewed rush of lust was a surprise as well. And Keane didn’t dig surprises—hated them, as a matter of fact.

“I didn’t know if consuming processed sugars before a bout was good for tomorrow’s performance.”

Here we go. Her unspoken question was tactfully hidden there. Are you up to fighting? Shit, what was he going to tell her when he didn’t know the answer himself?

She pulled out the chair next to him and sat. He had to give her credit for the way she silently waited for his answer. The blueberries were carefully spooned out into two bowls, the canister shaken vigorously, and whipped cream painstakingly spiraled on top of each dish.

Still, he couldn’t keep his hand off her. Redirecting his attention away from that shoulder, he reached out for a piece of loose blond hair and curled the soft strand around his finger before tucking it behind her ear.

The air sparked brighter with unspoken passion. She looked at him, green eyes alight with desire, her lips parted and ready.

It would be so easy to clear the table with one swipe of his arm. Press her onto her back and use her nipple as the topping for his whipped cream pie. Luscious and sweet. And too sore from his rough attention.

He hesitated. Her eyes widened in confusion. Then, he pulled the stupidest, most asinine move of all time. He kissed her. But not his typical foreplay kind. Not the kind designed to get into a woman’s panties or onto her knees. No, this kiss was light. Gentle.

She withdrew, stood, and then situated herself on his lap. Leaning into him, she gently kissed his forehead, cheek and lips. Her eyes were filled with emotion, a mirror image of his own. Full of... Holy shit!

His head snapped back. Moving her off his lap, he jumped to his feet. What the fuck is wrong with me? Maybe it was his cock doing the thinking here? That was the most likely explanation, though he didn’t want to dwell on it.

“Gotta get up early before the fights. Get some sleep,” he heard himself say. Avoiding her eyes, he stalked out of the kitchen. Tomorrow, he’d fight and win. Find a way to make the kid tap out. Without fuckin’ killing anyone.

* * *

Every MMA fan within a hundred-mile radius of Pittsburgh was crowded into Mellon Arena for the first round of qualifiers. The crowd was a mixed bunch, from executives and blue collar workers to college kids and middle-aged fathers. All passionate about this emerging sport, and easily excited when their favorite fighter pulled a surprise Kimura, Muay Thai or any other technical move that showed off their spectacular fighting style. Or so Logan had heard; she wouldn’t know a Kimura from a kimono unless it showed up as part of a dance costume, not that she’d been dressed in any recently—except the red number.

Her cheeks flushed at the memory.

Hopefully, she’d find someone to serve as her translator for all these funny-named fighting terms. Tonight, after her Octagon Girl performances, she planned on sticking around for Keane’s bout. Curiosity played a part in her decision, but she was worried too.

Her housemate was quite the enigma. One-two-three, he’d pinned her on the foyer floor and pushed inside her. Then four-five-six, she was crying out his name in a toe curling climax. The beautiful man’s stamina was mind-boggling—not that she was complaining. But that wasn’t what worried her.

Since the weigh-in, he was either all over her or...withdrawn. After the final foyer tryst, he’d gone from blazing hot to Arctic cold in one second flat.

Logan closed her locker and tugged at the hem of her shorts. Maybe she was over-thinking this? After all, Keane was up at dawn training and bulking up for tonight’s fight. She’d barely gotten a passing grunt out of him in the few times he’d taken a breather. But, he was here at the arena, and more importantly, he was ready.

“Is it safe for little ol’ me to come in?” Chloe strutted around the lockers with a big ol’ grin on her face. Confident and carefree, a far cry from yesterday’s battle with the jitters. Logan was happy for her, impressed at how she’d overcome her shyness. This Octagon Girl might be here to stay.

“The janitors are all a-buzz about the mysterious flood in the locker room. Water drippin’ off locker doors, lockers not anywhere near the showers. Large wet footprints...good thing I headed straight home. Lordy, who knows what I might have walked in on.” Dangling Logan’s blue boy shorts by the label, she waved them conspiratorially.

Logan laughed. Wow, Chloe had a sense of humor, all right. Grabbing the shorts, she tossed them into a nearby hamper.

“Rumor has it that drop-dead gorgeous fighter is ya boyfriend. He’s hotter than the devil’s anvil, for sure. Way dang envious!”

“A mutual business arrangement, that’s all.”

“Yeah, right! Friends with benefits, and so on...sugar, I near about fainted at the weigh-in. That hunk is hot for ya. The way he’s fixin’ on ya, pretty much sums it up. M-I-N-E.”

“It’s complicated.” Logan sighed. Now she sounded like a Facebook status. Once more, she yanked down the hem of her shorts. Today’s version were even smaller and more annoying, with the bits of red material gathering between her cheeks.

Chloe, clad in an identical outfit, giggled.

“Just you wait until you’re up in the Octagon ring, strutting around with the wedgie of all wedgies.” Logan tested the knot at her neck, making sure it was secure. Two miniscule strings were all this red and white tie-dyed tube top had to hold her in place. If her chest had been any smaller, it would have given her a uni-boob. “Guess Rachelle bailed. Jerry’s going to flipping freak.”

“Jerry shmerry,” Chloe mumbled in a rich Southern accent. Every so often, it became more pronounced.

Texas, Logan decided.

“My daddy will have him fired if Jerry gets all buggy-eyed and puffy-faced on me again. Ya know, when he’s mad, he looks like an ol’ toad.”

Yep, a Texas belle with a rich daddy, one who’d miraculously recovered from her nervousness back at the weigh-in. What Logan wouldn’t give to see Chloe serve Jerry a slice of humble pie.

“Not a toad but a squirrel face. His eyes pinch in and his cheeks bloat out like he’s storing winter nuts.”

Chloe burst into laughter. “I like that. Squirrel Face.”

“Are you ready to check in with him and work out which bouts we’re announcing? I’m doing the welterweights.”

“Ya certainly are.”

Logan rolled her eyes. “You seem more comfortable today, Chloe. Aren’t you nervous about working with this crowd?”

They made their way around the lockers and over to the door. Perhaps she should have asked herself that same question, because her stomach tightened and her pulse sped up. She took a deep dancer’s breath, hoping to calm her nerves.

“Nope. Not nervous,” her partner announced. “Not much of a drinker, but those five shots of Stolichnaya in my latte done did me good. Soon, I’ll be smilin’ like a half-mad bobcat.”

Leaping leotards. Just add watch-out-for-pissed-drunk-Octagon-Girl to today’s list of worries.

* * *

The announcer’s microphone pierced their eardrums with a blast of feedback, hushing the crowd. Logan clutched her ring card tighter. It was time for the welterweight bout to begin. She hadn’t seen Keane all night. Hopefully, he’d been warming up in his locker room while she’d been busy strutting her stuff for two prior bouts.

If she hadn’t been so concerned about Keane, she might have enjoyed herself. The fans and press had grinned and wildly fist pumped the air, enthusiastic about her appearances. It reminded her of those last precious performances at Lincoln Center when her future had been full of such promise. At the time, Pierre had turned green with envy. Oh, if she’d only known then.

Logan yanked at her polyester wedgie. Aside from the wedgie, Squirrel Face and the tabloid press eagerly waiting for her to mess up so they could feed the drama hounds, the performer in her was beginning to like her temporary job as Octagon Girl. Hey, might as well enjoy the spotlight. And tonight she’d be heading home with a new, crisp paycheck.

“Ladies and gentlemen, all eyes on your favorite busty ballerina and Octagon Girl, Luscious Logan Rettino.”

Later, she was going to have a talk with this guy about straightening out his boring, repetitive rhetoric. Get over it already, buddy.

She hoisted a number one ring card overhead. Knowing what to expect, she calmly moved down the ramp. Hundreds of eyes swung her way. A few steps up and she positioned herself on the rim of the cage. Cameras rose for a picture. With a hip thrust out, she took turns giving each of them a jaunty smile.

“How about an interview, Logan?” one young reporter yelled up at her.

A popular Aerosmith song filled the arena and saved her from responding. She pranced off in tune with the beat.

Chloe waved up to her from a seat below, smiling and cheerful with several bouts under her wing. Fortunately, she’d made it through her bouts without trouble. The shots in her latte apparently had waited to kick in. The fan-boy babysitter in Logan’s seat next to her had better not get too comfortable.

Before she knew it, her performance had ended. Glancing out toward the entryway, she searched for Keane. No luck. She propped the ring card up against the side of the stairs as she claimed her seat.

Chloe leaned in. “This is my first fight.”

“Mine, too.” Logan shouted back. Tonight, she’d announced the first few bouts but hadn’t stuck around to watch them. She never did. Instead, she’d headed into the arena’s underbelly, hoping for a moment with Keane. He was nowhere to be found. After that, Chloe had consumed most of her time, and at present, the little Texan lush was swaying in the seat next to her. Soon, Chloe’d be doing the Texas two-step, if she didn’t face-plant first. Better keep her next to me and within sight.

The music took on an ominous beat. “Weighing in at one hundred and fifty-six pounds, with a black belt in Seibukan Jujutsu and with fists that pack a lethal punch, introducing welterweight Young Gun Willie.”

Chloe burst into giggles beside her. “A black belt in Chewbacca juju-juice.”

Logan grimaced.

Young Gun Willie moved down the ramp. Confident. Determined. A close-up of his face filled the widescreen TVs. He pulled a reverse Mona Lisa, pressing his lips tight and mean while his eyes sparkled with delight. Logan wasn’t sure what exactly being an expert in “Chewbacca juju-juice” entailed. Or if it was enough to keep Keane at bay. She knew Keane was worried about fighting such a young kid—the fact he was doing so at all was a little surprising after his reaction yesterday. She hoped Willie would be okay in there, for Keane’s sake as well as his own.

Willie made a grand showing of stripping off his clothing as he jogged around the inside of the Octagon cage.

“Now introducing the King of Tap Out, the Guillotine Grappler, the man who forced Andy the Annihilator into submission in seven seconds flat. The one, the only, Boom-Yay O’Shea!”

Logan jumped to her feet. Along with hundreds of other eager eyes, she searched the entryway at the top of the ramp. No music accompanied Keane’s introduction. Only the murmur of the anxious crowd was heard.

Seconds seemed like hours. The buzz of the fans escalated. Logan bit her lip as her gaze fixed on that one spot, waiting. Hoping.

A swarm of trainers—Jerry’s people—filled the entryway and began moving down the ramp. Keane was there, sequestered somewhere in the middle where Logan couldn’t see him. The image on the Jumbotron screen shook as the cameramen jockeyed for a clear shot of him as well. Finally, it steadied. And Logan grinned.

In a typical fuck-you gesture, Keane had pulled the hood of his black sweatshirt over his head and now kept his chin down as he approached the cage. She didn’t have to see his face to know what she’d find there. Clearly, this grand spectacle didn’t fit his low-key style.

Keane entered the cage. Ignoring Willie, the crowd and Logan—did he even know she was sitting there?—Keane jogged in place and jabbed the air.

Sal did see her, waving to her as he positioned himself in Keane’s corner.

“How about both welterweights make their way to the center,” the announcer in the cage directed.

Instead, Keane came toward her, toward Sal and his corner. His worked his hood off. Despite herself, Logan gasped. The way his jaw tightened, plus the narrowed slant to his eyes, he looked downright mean. Very unlike the man who’d kissed her so gently last night.

Sweatshirt, T-shirt and pants were handed over to Sal in exchange for a bottle. Keane drank deeply and poured the remnants over his head. A fine line of water cascaded down his face, down his chest and along the swirl of his tattoo. Not enough to puddle the mat. But more than enough to make Logan’s mouth go dry.

He shook his head like a puppy after a bath. Blinking away the moisture, his eyes fell on her. Briefly. He scowled and turned away. But at least Logan knew he’d spotted her. Knew she sat there, close to his corner. Just in case he needed her.

* * *

Fucking hell. He wished to God Logan had changed her mind. Keane had more than his share of problems right now. Not only did he have to worry about injuring this kid, but he knew, despite what she said, Logan had no clue how brutal a fight could be.

He could see her out of the corner of his eye. When he landed a well-placed kick and caused the kid to stumble, she covered her face. When he let Young Willie nail him in the mouth and bust open his lip—an effective tactic used to draw the kid closer for a takedown—she jumped to her feet. He needed to ignore her. Focusing on the kid took every ounce of his willpower. He couldn’t afford a mistake. He might hurt him. Or worse.

He took his time, let Young Gun run out of ammo from all the jogging about, defensive tucks and swivels he was so fond of using. The horn sounded. Five minutes had passed and Round One was over. Willie was winded, and grinning like a madman. The silly kid thought he’d done well.

Keane followed Logan’s movements with the Round Two ring card around the cage toward the stairs. There was no avoiding her. Willie stopped and said something to her. Something that made Logan blush. Every muscle in Keane’s body flexed, ice-cold rage filling every pore. Right then, Keane decided he’d had enough with this kid. Time for a tap out.

“Your lip! Are you okay? Why did you let him hit you like that? Put your hands up next time.”

Seemed like everyone was a mixed martial arts expert these days. Instead of voicing his thoughts, he grunted and pushed past her. Or tried to, before she blocked him with the damned sign. Outmaneuvered by a ring card.

“I’ve never had to announce a second bout. What is going on? Is it Willie’s training in Chewbacca juju-juice or however you say it?”

“Jujutsu.”

“Yes, that.”

“Look. Announce this bout and then disappear.”

“I’m an Octagon Girl, not a magician.”

“Just do it,” he said threateningly, dodging her sign to descend the steps.

Sal rushed over and handed him a water. They stood there next to the cage and waited for the blessed horn.

“Don’t say a word.” The old man closed his mouth, heeding the warning. Yet his eyes spoke volumes. Especially when they widened, and widened still further as Logan strutted by in butt-hugging hot pants, skimpier and more fuckin’ revealing than the last pair.

She finished, descended, and wouldn’t you know it, brushed right past him, making sure to stay just out of his reach. “I can’t. Chloe...” Luscious muttered. Dragging her up the ramp, locking her into a locker room, and ripping those shorts off her suddenly seemed more important than the fight.

Double fuck. Time to finish Young Willie off. Fast, and with care.

The horn rang out.

Willie strutted back into the cage like a prized peacock. Certain of his abilities and underestimating his opponent. Stupid kid.

Keane waited for him and took a kick in the ribs. Willie thought he’d done some damage and lessened the distance between them. While a quick upper cut or kick to the kidneys would finish Young Gun off, Keane discounted it as too risky.

The next time Willie moved in, Keane struck. Ducking, he wove one arm beneath a leg and broke the kid’s balance. He was on him in seconds and executed a quick, clean butterfly guard. Young Gun had nowhere to go but down on his back, with Keane on top of him.

He stretched Willie’s arm across his own and with the other hand, bent it to the mat.

The kid deserved some credit; he tried bucking Keane off but without any luck.

“Tap out.”

His face turned beet red and his teeth clenched together.

“It’s done. Tap out.” Damn it, either this guy was crazy or just plain stupid. He’d seen Afghani rebels who weren’t this reckless. Probably quick with a grin or cracking a joke too. Just like fuckin’...

“Do it or I’ll break your goddamn arm.” Keane pressed harder and hyperextended the kid’s elbow, enough to make him flinch.

Young Gun tapped out a second later. Blissfully unaware of the rush of emotions raging through Keane. Clueless, but safe.

Chapter Fourteen

POSITION: How a fighter strategically places himself/herself during a bout

Logan was officially the last Octagon Girl standing. Soon after Keane’s bout, drunken Miss Texas swayed once, then went down for the count in her seat. She thanked her lucky stars Chloe had held it together and passed out before the full effects of the liquor kicked in. The press would have gone nuts. One notorious ring girl was one too many in Logan’s book. Logan became the go-to Octagon Girl for the night. Fortunately, no one paid attention to this slight change in plans.

Jerry was running around, frantically organizing the second wave of bouts for each weight class. Sal and Keane had disappeared back into the locker rooms. The media interviewed fighter after fighter, taking over any unoccupied space in the aisles, in front of the cage, and, eventually, inside the cage.

Logan took it all in from her place next to Chloe. Drawing attention to her condition would only garner negative press. Besides, Keane’s locker room was likely overrun with fighters, making it impossible to speak to him.

The mention of welterweight contenders drew her attention to the reporters standing near Keane’s corner inside the Octagon cage. As predicted, they’d pulled their mics up closer to their lips, preparing for what Logan thought of as the “pre-show,” where they bantered about the fighters, revving up the crowd, and each other.

“Who’s the guy you want to see go up against O’Shea next?”

“Several welterweights dominated tonight, showed crazy skill and easily won their bouts. Tenacious Beast is one. But my money is on O’Shea fighting either the Mad German or Caden Kelly. Mad meaning crazy because this German dude is totally insane. He’s fearless, has a high tolerance for pain, and has a reach that is phenomenal—he can practically punch his opponent from across the cage.”

“Ahem, I think that’s a damn big exaggeration there, Felix. Let’s not overlook the facts. The guy’s six feet five, one of the tallest fighters in the sport.”

Chloe groaned, but Logan shushed her. It was hard enough to hear the two reporters over the crowd. She didn’t like the sound of the crazy German fighter, especially because if Keane had that much difficulty beating Willie, how would he stand a chance against this beast?

“Caden Kelly won big today,” Felix continued, “but is he ready to go head to toe with O’Shea?”

“Rumor has it Caden’s done with partying. Giving up on his playboy lifestyle. Feels he’s not being taken seriously. He wants a comeback real bad.”

“Caden Kelly might be the biggest surprise tonight. After all, with his modeling gigs and sports drink endorsements, he’s not exactly hard up for money. So, this huge payout isn’t his motivator. Why is he fighting again?”

“My guess is he’s got something to prove. Maybe he’s tired of being an Ultimate American Male underwear model. Remind everyone of the warrior beneath his pretty boy persona. Who knows? But we better be careful or he’ll have our jobs next.”

Logan knew who Caden Kelly was—what woman didn’t? His more than ample package, wrapped up in virgin white briefs, was displayed on every billboard in Pittsburgh and probably across the country. She jumped to her feet and peered around for Jerry. Kelly was the perfect opponent for Keane.

The broadcasters thought so too. “You know, the MMA isn’t professional wrestling or boxing. These guys have six packs like nobody’s business.”

Eight packs, but who’s counting? Logan grinned, thinking about a certain somebody’s oh-so-sexy business.

“O’Shea could easily land himself endorsements, too, with those good looks. I’m hoping these two pretty boys will battle it out next.”

Logan’s grin widened. Granted, Keane was drop-dead gorgeous but pretty boy? It just didn’t stick.

“Hey, check out Luscious lusting after Boom-Yay.”

Twist my tutu. Her gaze slowly lifted up toward them to find Felix pointing down at her. A second later, the widescreen television filled with her image. Logan froze, feeling like she’d walked in on someone butt naked at the very moment they’d realized they had company. Froze because of the sudden media spotlight. Froze because at this angle she blocked the camera from zooming in on Miss Comatose Texas sprawled out behind her.

Jerry saved her, waving wildly from inside the Octagon cage before snatching a microphone out of an announcer’s hand.

“Quiet everyone. We’re about to announce the fighters moving on and their next match-ups.”

Thankfully, the camera swung off her and toward Jerry. These bouts followed the standard three five-minute round format used by most organizations, except the UFC. If a fighter didn’t submit to his opponent within this time frame, then a panel of judges decided upon the outcome. Jerry finished listing off the next match-ups in the featherweight class, and moved on to the next weight class.

What if Keane were up against the lunatic German? If that kid could make him bleed, what might the Mad German do to him? What if he got hurt? Or lost?

“Welterweight Boom-Yay O’Shea, weighing in at one hundred and sixty-eight pounds will fight—”

“The Mad German!” a spectator screamed out, interrupting him.

Logan cringed. Her worst fears were coming true. From what the announcers said about this giant German, he was as tough as Pittsburgh steel. Not that Keane was anyone’s pushover but she’d seen him fight that kid, how he’d let him get close enough to be hit, repeatedly. Would he use the same tactic on the German, and let himself be hurt in the process?

“Eh, not the Mad German.” Jerry’s face pinched in.

No, don’t change your mind, Squirrel Face.

“Why the hell not?”

Logan wasn’t sure if it was the same irate fan or a different one, but whoever it was, he’d better put a lid on it. She jumped to her feet, and with her best Keane glare, swiveled around toward the obnoxious voice.

Jerry began again, with more assurance. “Boom-Yay O’Shea, weighing in at 168 pounds, will be fighting...”

She inhaled deeply. Please let it be the David Beckham of the MMA world, Caden Kelly. Surely Keane could beat an underwear model.

“Mr. Scorpion himself...Jaysin Bouvine.”

The crowd went wild, but not in a pleased, happy way. Instead, mayhem broke out.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me!”

“What a scam. Bouvine is like a bulldog, man. All bark, no bite.”

On and on the crowd screamed their displeasure. Jerry turned beet red. The announcers exchanged raised brow looks. Chloe snapped out of her comatose state.

“What’s going on?” Chloe shouted over the rest. “And what the blazes are ya doing, Logan?”

Logan raised her fist once more into the air and pumped it. Yes. Oh, yes.

* * *

Less than an hour later, Logan’s fist was pressed tightly against her mouth, attempting to stifle her cries of dismay. “Boom-Yay” was a fitting nickname—and the horrifying reason why was being played out within the cage.

Keane lit into Bouvine over and over. Fists and kicks turned his opponent into a bloody mess. At one point, Keane lifted him straight up and sent him flat on his back on the mat. Bouvine barely got up in enough time.

With sick fascination, Logan watched it all.

“Whoo, did you see that, Felix? O’Shea snuck in a sharp upper cut. Absolutely stunned Bouvine.” The excitement of the announcers was contagious, for all except Logan and Chloe.

Logan wasn’t quite sure what she’d expected, maybe a bout like the earlier one, where Keane seemed to go through the motions, somewhat reluctantly too.

This fight left her breathless, because for the first time, she understood what MMA fans loved about Keane. His power was tremendous, but it was balanced by a grace within his movements and the intelligence within his attack. Every step, every turn was well-planned and controlled. He had fans on the edge of their seats, anticipating his next move, only to be dealt one surprise after another. He was an artist, a warrior, a man’s man, and a woman’s wet dream.

And, by the look of things, Bouvine’s worst nightmare.

Bouvine dodged another fist by jogging away and heading straight back to Keane’s corner. For some unknown reason, he began swiveling his head around in his manic the-scorpion-is-about-to-strike movement, as if he wasn’t seeing stars from the elbow he’d just been nailed with.

Then he spotted Logan, and did something even more unexpected. He grabbed his crotch and gyrated his hips in a crude and stupid gesture. Was he still upset with her for abandoning Plan B, or was inciting Keane his sole purpose? Or—and she couldn’t rule this out—maybe he was just plain nuts?

In mere seconds, all eyes were on Logan. The Jumbotrons filled with her scowling face. Several guys pointed down in her direction, displayed on screen behind her. One guy even stood up and mimicked Bouvine’s gyration.

Logan prayed the arena floorboards would swallow her up. She’d worked so hard at coming to terms with her image. Like the flick of a switch, positive press was dimmed for negative news. Or in this case, utter humiliation. She slid down into her seat.

But not for long.

When Bouvine let go of his crotch, Keane was there. Step by step, Keane stalked the source of today’s humiliation, backing him up until his back pressed against the cage.

Logan had a clear view of the savage expression on Keane’s face and goose bumps formed on her arms. This was the reason Sal had warned her away. One mean, tough bastard had Bouvine trapped in the corner.

Cameras zoomed in on his face. His mouth was twisted into a sneer as he flexed his fingers. She’d never seen such unbridled fury. For a brief second, his eyes shot her way—or so she thought.

Then, he struck. Keane was merciless. For two minutes, he pounded fists and slammed elbows, pummeling Bouvine left and right. His opponent looked stunned and shook his head, trying to awaken from his daze.

“He’d better watch out for Boom-Yay and his elbows,” Felix’s voice boomed over the sound system.

With Bouvine pinned in the corner, Keane pounded him with a series of blows to the head. Bouvine ducked the last, but his chin connected with a swift elbow. Then, Keane pulled back his fist and punched. Blood splattered and rained down on the fighters and the spectators in the front row. Logan’s row.

Down Bouvine went.

The referee began to count. An announcer screamed, “Boom-Yay wins with a knock out!” Chloe wiped her face, took one look at the speck of blood on the back of her hand, and promptly barfed off to the side of her chair.

Logan stood and wiped away splatters of blood on her cheek with the back of her hand. Appalled. Disturbed. Wondering why she’d never noticed that this man she cared so deeply for was so brutal? Violent. Someone to fear.

The crowd had witnessed his savagery, stood up and cheered for what she couldn’t help but watch. Logan held her gaze steadfastly on Keane. His chest, sprinkled with blood, heaved. Fists hung at his sides. He’d placed a forehead against the weave of the cage and his eyes closed.

Bouvine clambered unsteadily onto his feet. Facing the audience, he shook his fist in the air as if saying, “I’m back up and ready for more.” Keane ignored him.

Logan should have felt elated. He’d won again. Her paycheck from tonight would be enough to cover her remaining medical bills. The rest would be deposited into savings for her ballet school.

Bouvine left a trail of bloody footsteps as he pranced about while Keane stood immobile, his chin down and forehead still resting against the cage. Keane had won but from the way both men were acting, it seemed like Bouvine was the winner.

Keane straightened and his lips moved. “Fuck.” With a jab to the net, he turned and stalked out of the cage, past snapping cameras and eager reporters wanting an interview. He moved past Jerry, who tried to gain his attention by wildly waving his arms. Sal appeared out of nowhere and ran off after him. At least someone was looking out for him.

Logan grabbed Chloe by the arm and led her through the crowd. Fortunately the press corps was madly recapping the fight and paid them no mind.

Jerry caught up with them at the top of the ramp. “Hurry up! No one wants to see you two pretty Octagon Girls covered in blood. Looks like the Mad German’s girlfriend—a freakin’ model who happens to want some airtime—will take over for you. You can call it a night.”

“I need to find Keane,” Logan muttered, anxious to clean up and head home.

Jerry reached into his pocket and pulled out two thick green rolls of bills. “Remember, you get him here tomorrow and if he wins, you win. He’s my ticket to a Tetnus championship.”

He handed each of them their pay. So much for a fancy paycheck, but hard cash suited her just fine.

Logan grasped the wad of money. It felt heavy in her palm. A symbol of all she dreamed about her future. She was nearly back on her toes. So why did she feel like the ground had dropped out beneath her...again?

* * *

The downtown skyscrapers lit up the Pittsburgh night on the silent ride home. The hour was late, it had been almost eleven by the time a freshly showered Logan had followed Keane out of the arena. She didn’t know what to say...not that his somber, mean disposition invited conversation.

His hair was slightly darker, damp from showering. It had done nothing to improve his mood, though. His raw knuckles turned white around the Jeep’s steering wheel and his narrowed eyes focused straight ahead as he drove.

Logan looked out the window. Fighting offered him a physical release—she understood that, dance had been her outlet—yet the man sitting next to her was wound up tighter than an old-school permanent wave.

A cold pea compress, a few Advil, and her special blend of chamomile tea should soften him up. A good night’s sleep, too.

She stifled a yawn, worn out from the evening’s events. A cab had been called for Chloe while Logan had waited near the locker rooms, unsure of Keane’s mood. When he’d exited, he simply nodded for her to follow. A relief, albeit an annoying one.

Two lucrative fights were under her belt. Tomorrow, she’d deposit her roll of cash, head back to Mrs. Debinska’s house, and give a kiss goodbye to that dusty pile of bills. The second wave of fights wasn’t until evening. Not that she was looking forward to it, or to Keane being in the cage again.

Keane turned the Jeep onto his block. She knew he was a man of few words but he hadn’t spoken the entire ride. Not once. Did he forget she was even sitting there?

She fiddled with her coat, casting a sideways glance toward him.

“I’m not gonna rip your head off.”

Finally! She gave him her best as-if snort. “Well, if you’d stop acting as if you’ve lost your best friend and—” The minute the careless words sprang out of her mouth, she realized her mistake.

Keane visibly stiffened.

“Keane, I know you don’t want to talk about this, but bottling up your feelings isn’t healthy. Can’t we talk?”

He pulled up alongside the curb, put it into park, and jumped out. Before Logan could guess his intentions, he opened her door.

She clambered out and stepped toward him.

With his chin tucked in, he sidestepped her and made his way back around the Jeep. “Spare keys are in the planter.” He pointed toward his porch.

“It’s late. Where are you going?”

* * *

It took three shots of tequila and two Coronas for the knot in his neck to disappear. Keane contemplated the fourth shot being offered to him, though not from a shot glass. No, his two busty companions, tired of trading body shots with each other, had turned their attention to him. His next drinks were liberally drizzled between each set of tits. Rosie was an old pro at making a man hard, and tonight, she was in rare form.

“Come on, Keane. The drink’s on us.”

Except, he wasn’t turned on. Shit, two obviously eager females within reach and drenched in tequila, and he wasn’t biting. He was numb. Uninspired. Uninterested. Even in the amply displayed curves of Rosie’s rack. They paled in comparison to another set of tits, more luscious and much more to his liking.

He rested his head back against the booth and closed his eyes. Envisioned nestling his face in her soft flesh and breathing in the clean sent of her skin. Feeling the warmth from her soft swells on his cheeks before his feast began. Hearing the sexy moans from deep within her throat as he suckled each taut nipple. Making her beg for more.

He thumbed his cell phone in his pocket. One brief phone call, asking Logan to catch a cab and pick him up. His cock stirred at the thought. He wanted her with such an astonishing intensity, his balls hurt.

The vinyl cushion shifted, making him open his eyes. Rosie’s friend—what was her name?—knelt before him with both breasts thrust in his face. “I’ve heard a lot about you. Wanna know what you and I have in common?”

Keane grabbed his beer and took a long swig. He couldn’t care less, but his lack of interest didn’t stop her from talking.

“You’re every girl’s fantasy in the bedroom and I’m...”

“Leaving.”

He choked on his beer. Damn. Logan had tracked his ass all the way to Finnegan’s. His cock stirred in his pants as he caught sight of her, standing at the foot of the booth with her hands on her hips, glaring at them all. Too beautiful for words. Plus, she’d saved him a call.

“You too, Miss Kleptomaniac. Go prey on some other drunken fool.”

Rosie scooted off the seat across from him. The woman on his cushion did so as well, though neither one made a move to leave. Instead, they folded their arms under their breasts and guarded him like two Rottweilers watching over a bone. Logan was going to have her hands full with these two if he didn’t say something.

With his mind dumb from drink, his responses were slow. Way too slow.

“The drink’s on us,” Rosie screeched. Amber liquid splashed Logan in the face and splattered onto her sweater. She sputtered in surprise.

“Leave us,” he barked, giving full vent to his irritation. His bottle dropped onto the table, rattling from the force of impact. That did the trick. His two jealous companions stalked off in a huff.

The object of his earlier fantasy was here, sticky liquid dripping from her chin and glaring at him like he’d grown two heads.

He patted the cushion next to him, wanting her close.

Logan’s lips tightened. She ran a hand across her face and then placed her coat on the knob on the side of the booth. Though her gestures were smooth and controlled, he knew her well enough by now to know she was pissed off.

She hesitated and then, grasping the hem of her sweater, worked it up and over her head. Fascinated and pleasantly surprised, he watched the tight, white camisole stretch across her breasts as she hooked her sweater on top of her coat.

Despite his best attempts to the contrary, he couldn’t help himself—his lips raised into a broad smile. After all, it wasn’t every day his fantasy came true, and someone so damned beautiful, someone he wanted so bad his cock hurt, ripped off her clothes for him.

She rolled her eyes, he caught that much as his gaze shifted to her face before she slid into the booth. He couldn’t help but grin at her as he leaned closer.

“Baby, you’re every man’s fantasy.”

“And you’re hammered.”

Damn, she smelled so good, like the vanilla cream wafers he’d stockpiled while in the Marines. He shifted and moved his arm around the bench behind her. Yep, sweet vanilla wafers. He’d give anything for a lick.

“Guess I scared away your entertainment.”

He snorted, reaching with his free arm for a half-filled shot glass. Tequila swirled around the edge as he lifted it to his mouth. “Guess I’ll have to make do.”

She raised her eyebrows. God, he loved it when Logan got mad. Her green eyes brightened, her plump lips pressed into a tight line, tempting him to run a finger across the seam and pry them open. How her spine straightened, all stiff-back and proud.

“You know,” she snapped, her eyes blazing, “when you say things like that, it makes me wonder why you rearranged our...business agreement. That was your fault entirely. Heck, I don’t even know if you like me.”

Leaning in, he nuzzled her neck. “Don’t you, now?”

She went to move away from him but he wove his free hand behind her and firmly drew her in, closer. Still, her stiffening body said it all.

Lightly, he flicked his tongue over her earlobe. Then, he exhaled. He felt her shiver against his arm. “I’m nothing but trouble.”

She turned slightly and that green gaze bore into him. He knew her perception of him had changed after knocking Bouvine senseless. She’d witnessed the beast within that wouldn’t quiet without a pounding. The rage inside him fighting its way out. In truth, that obnoxious ass deserved everything he got. Wait and see how fast he grabbed for his crotch next time. Keane just wished Logan hadn’t seen it.

He’d scared the shit out of her tonight. A sure sign what was to come—of all that’s in store for her, aside from a good time in bed.

He downed the shot of tequila, shuddered and licked his lower lip. “You should have stayed home, baby. Fucked up.” Even he knew his words were slurred. That fourth shot was a keeper. Sweet release numbed his mind.

She shifted away. Despite the message he was trying to make sink into that stubborn head of hers, he wanted her body closer...didn’t want her to leave. He tugged her tighter against him.

“Why are you doing this to yourself? I’m trying to understand why you have such a strong aversion to fighting, yet you trained fighters for the Marines. Why is fighting only a release... When did it all change? Surely you must have enjoyed it as a trainer?”

“You’re not gonna like the answer.” He leaned forward and poured another shot. Shit, here we go again. Fuckin’ Jimmy must be laughing his ass off from his perch high above, knowing how much Keane valued his privacy and also knowing that Keane was about to spill his guts. Unless... “I want you to do something for me.”

“Um...okay.”

“Pull your hair back off your shoulder.”

“What? Why?”

He grunted. “Just do it, honey.” His cock swelled in anticipation. He wanted a taste of her, a reminder of everything he had, even if it was temporary.

“I’m sticking to my guns this time, Keane. You’re not going to dissuade me from getting some answers here. Can’t you see I want to help you? Want to understand you better?”

Shit. Trust me, you don’t.

“Make you a deal. Do as I say and I’ll answer a question.”

God bless her, Logan’s eyes lit up, eager and full of promise. He wouldn’t mind waking up to those eyes again...and again.

She swept her hair off of her neck and bared a shoulder blade. “What are you—”

Carefully, he drizzled tequila on her smooth skin. “Body shot.”

He ran his tongue from the bottom of her neck down along her shoulder, then further down, following the tequila trail until it was no more.

Despite the liquor, he saw desire sparkle deep within the green depths of her eyes.

He kissed her, ignoring his bruised lip. Deeper and deeper until he lost track of place and time.

It was Logan who had to catch her breath first.

“Um...before we continue this at home, you owe me an answer. What is it about fighting that upsets you so much? What changed for you? I know it must have something to do with—”

“Shhh.” He pressed a finger to her lips. “I get to pick which question.”

She exhaled with exasperation, or so it seemed. “The truth, okay. Let’s have it.”

“You asked me if I liked you.”

“Huh? Oh, no. Keane, that wasn’t what I meant by wanting answers. You—”

He bent forward and pressed a light kiss on her lips. That silenced her. Good thing, because the tequila was really fucking with his mind. Better tell her now and show her later.

“Like you, all right? Baby, more than anyone. Anything.”

Chapter Fifteen

NO CONTEST: When a bout is too close to call, and there is no official winner

Her hot mess of a man weighed a ton. With Keane’s arm slung around her shoulders and hers around his back, Logan finally managed to maneuver him into bed.

“Come here, Luscious. Need you.”

“Sleep is what you need. What the bleeding leotards were you thinking, Keane? You’ll hardly be in any shape tomorrow. Should I text Jerry and cancel?”

She caught his shake of the head on the pillow.

But her conscience battled out what to do. A few more wins and she’d be home free. All her future dreams would come true. She’d get her life back. With double the salary for working the next four bouts—if Keane won—then there would be enough for a few months’ rent on a dance school.

Keane’s breathing changed. Now clearly passed out, he looked uncomfortable lying there on the bed, fully dressed. She studied his long dark lashes, a delicate contradiction to the brute strength of his muscular body. Fierce, raw gorgeousness. Sexy as sin. Yet battling some inner turmoil that made him gnash his teeth even as he slept. Her heart constricted.

His lower lip was swollen and a bluish bruise had formed on one cheek. And his poor knuckles were more raised and battered than the first time she’d placed her peas on them.

Frozen peas were a good idea. Two for his fists and one for his lip. She silently moved across the room.

“Fuckin’ Jimmy. Told you to see a doctor.” His voice was hoarse and filled with pain. The room grew silent but Logan’s suspicions loudly resurfaced within her mind. Her instincts had been correct—something about Jimmy’s death wreaked havoc on Keane’s conscience. She froze in the doorway, hoping he’d reveal more. After a few minutes, it was clear Keane was out for the count.

With a sigh, she headed for the kitchen, retrieved the peas, and returned to treat this troubled, unconscious man’s injuries. Peas gently propped in place on his lip, she restlessly roamed around his room. Should she text Jerry at this late hour and cancel Keane’s fights?

She pulled her cell phone out of her coat, realizing that in her struggle to manage Keane, she’d completely forgotten to take it off. As she slid out of it, it occurred to her that Sal might know what to do. It was worth a try.

A quick text was sent: LOGAN: Keane passed out drunk. Think he can fight without injury or do I cancel? She took a deep breath, and waited. If Sal didn’t respond soon, she had no choice but to call him and hope his ringing cell phone might awaken him.

Her cell phone vibrated.

SAL: LOL. Typical Keane WOO. Always fights with a wik’d hangover. Company calls, gotta go.

She shuddered. Clearly, Viagra had broadened the playing field along with Grandpa Romeo’s woo—Way of Operating, or at least that’s what she thought the acronym meant. Poor woman.

Keane muttered incoherently. So, he’d done this sort of thing before...but why?

She crossed the room and stood before his dresser. Moonlight reflected off the dresser’s mirror. Her eyelids looked puffy. Heavy. Tired. Her skin radiated tequila, the smell strong beneath her nostrils. A shower was sorely needed.

Leaning in for a closer inspection of her bloodshot eyes, something on the dresser caught her eye. A business card. Why was she surprised? Women from all walks of life, from bottom dwellers like Rosie to fancy Pittsburgh socialites—hell, why wouldn’t they?—likely plied Keane with their telephone digits.

Against her better judgment, she grabbed the card and took a peek. A local phone number was listed, she could tell by the area code, along with a name—Dr. Susan Felter. But Logan almost dropped the card when she saw the message scribbled on the back: Keane, You gotta call her. Best shrink around for PTSD. Love you, bro. Stevie.

PTSD? As in Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder? Hell, reports of guys coming home from Iraq and Afghanistan were getting more and more coverage in the news every day. Could this be why Keane had trouble sleeping? The reason he was so mixed up about fighting—training his ass off one second and bent out of shape about it the next?

She took out her cell and entered the number, just in case. It was late. She’d think this over tomorrow.

Right now, she had a bigger issue to tackle. Like the one sprawled out on the bed, breathing heavily.

Tossing her coat on a chair, she stripped down to her underwear and crawled in beside him. As if sensing her presence, he rolled toward her.

The icy pea pack shifted off his lip. She turned on her side and propped it back into place. With her leg wedged between his and her arm wrapped around his body, she snuggled in closer.

I’m going to find out what’s bothering you and together, we’ll fix it, she silently promised as she closed her eyes. After all, that’s what you do when you love someone.

* * *

Logan wrestled with two bags stuffed to capacity as she unlocked the door. “Mrs. Debinska, I’ve brought you some groceries,” she called to her landlady. She didn’t hold a grudge against the woman. Who knew how the frail, elderly woman had ended up on videotape holding a bra? Logan didn’t blame her for the negative press. The fault lay with a relentless, hungry media. And most certainly with her fame pimp of an ex.

Payback is a bitch. Soon, Pierre. Just you wait.

The thought perked her up. She’d woken tired and cranky. Keane had tossed and turned like nobody’s business and when he was still, he muttered and swore incomprehensibly between clenched teeth. Delusional, him thinking falling asleep in a pissed-drunk stupor was helping him sleep better. She’d correct him on that fallacy later today.

Mrs. Debinska greeted her at the door. “Logan! Witaj. You are a dear. Thank you. Daj mi to, give them to me.” Logan handed over one bag and waited for her to return from the kitchen.

“Hi, Mrs. Debinska. How are you? I hope the reporters have left you alone.”

The old lady moved past her to look out the door. “I’m good...good. Eez here? Dat fighter?”

Crinkle my camisole. It seemed Keane’s appeal extended to women of every generation and nationality. “Um, Keane isn’t—”

Mrs. Debinska cut her off. Pulling her brown housecoat tighter, she brushed past Logan, stepped into the hallway, and eyed the front doorway. “Tak, Keeenee.”

“No...no, he’s not here.”

The old woman looked crestfallen as she moved back inside her living room. “Okey-dokey. Bye.” She took the second bag of groceries from Logan’s hand and shut her door.

Inside, Logan’s apartment was cold and empty. She quickly took inventory, making sure the few items of value were in place, which took less than a minute. Her painting had collected a coating of dust on its frame, as had the two Waterford lamps. Soon, you’ll have company, once a lawyer takes my case against Pierre, she promised her few precious possessions. She shook her head. Clearly, exhaustion had rattled her brain and caused her to make promises to simple objects. After she’d written out the final checks and paid off her medical expenses once and for all, she’d take a nap.

The morning had been busy. Her savings account had breathed a sigh of relief from her substantial deposit—after paying off the balance of her bills, she was left with six thousand dollars which was enough to cover three months’ rent on a place, plus start-up expenses if she started out humbly. It should have been enough to put a spring in her step. Except, the grocery store was packed, the bus to Friendship was late, and thoughts of Keane preoccupied her mind. Thoughts about how to go about...helping him.

Just because she was falling for him didn’t give her the right to butt into his business, right? Though that was exactly what she planned on doing. It all made sense now: Stevie’s surprise visit to check up on Keane, the subsequent conversation she’d overheard, the brief note he’d left. His friend was trying to help.

Logan sat on her couch and indecisively thumbed Stevie’s business card, the one he’d offered her back on the sidewalk in front of Keane’s house. She’d kept it in her coat pocket, never thinking she’d need to contact him. Not until today.

Though before enlisting Stevie’s help, she’d called Dr. Felter and had set up a tentative appointment.

That had been the easy part.

Long after she’d hung up, the doctor’s words echoed in Logan’s head. “Tread lightly but don’t give up. He might not accept the fact that he has a medical disorder and needs counseling. A lot of guys don’t—they see it as a weakness.”

Keane was a walking billboard for PTSD. From what she knew about the disorder from the news reports, people who suffered from it tended to be easily aggravated. They frequently had trouble sleeping, flashbacks and headaches. Sometimes, their emotional switch faltered. Soldiers were trained to suppress emotional or traumatic events, and the transition to civilian life—and back into the warm bosom of their families—could be rough. Painful, even. Was this what was going on with Keane? He’d made it home safe but was now struggling with everyday life?

Hell, Logan had worked through the agony of dancing on blistered feet, growing so accustomed to it, it seemed normal. Keane had been conditioned to block out an entirely different kind of pain, the pain of war.

No way could she leave Keane to his own devices without support.

Logan removed her coat, took a blanket off her bed and settled down onto the couch. You’re not dealing with this alone, Keane. She grimaced, remembering his hatred of surprises, and how poorly Stevie’s first attempt at an intervention had gone. That’s what Keane’s friend had been trying to do—gently pressure him into getting professional help. She bit her lip. Why hadn’t she realized this earlier, when all the clues had been staring her in the face?

She retrieved her cell and dialed Stevie’s number.

Another intervention was in order.

This time, she was on board.

* * *

Logan awoke to the abrasive sound of a car horn. She blinked, adjusting her eyes to the darkness. Oh no, how long had she slept? Jumping off the couch, she grabbed for her cell phone on the coffee table. And blinked. It was 5:05 p.m. Bleeding leotards.

Her hair tumbled out of the loose ponytail and God only knew the condition of her makeup. But Logan didn’t care. She had to talk to Keane about everything. Make sure he was physically and mentally fit to fight.

She grabbed her mail, tugged her door firmly shut and rushed down the narrow hallway. Breathless, her hand wrapped around the front doorknob and she yanked it open. Silently, she stepped out onto the porch. That’s when the shouting began.

“Luscious, over here.”

“Octagon Girl, who do you think will win tonight’s fights?”

“Dat’s her, Logan. Keeenee, dat fighter, eez no ere.”

The entire front lawn was covered with cameramen and reporters. Her landlady, dressed in her brown housecoat, carried a pitcher of lemonade on a tray, as if she were hosting a summer picnic. Logan stopped as Mrs. Debinska appeared on the porch and waved at her. As if she hadn’t just sold Logan out in the name of fame. Was Logan the only person who didn’t want to be a celebrity? A celebrated ballerina, yes, but that was different. And impossible now.

Well, there was Keane. While other fighters talked the talk, pumping themselves up for the press, Keane took another approach—he scowled, effectively keeping everyone at arm’s length. Or, he disappeared. The man valued his privacy more than Logan did.

Fortunately, he wasn’t here to witness this wild spectacle.

Squaring her shoulders, she made her way down the stairs. All that needed to happen now was for someone to roll out a red carpet along the sidewalk, which was bordered on both sides by the press.

“Is your boyfriend Boom-Yay O’Shea going to win tonight?”

“Speaking of Boom-Yay, what do you think of O’Shea’s nickname? And I’m not talking about fighting, if you get my drift?” Who uses that expression anymore? Logan picked up her pace and stepped away from the smarmy paparazzo.

She prayed they wouldn’t follow her down the block. The bus schedule was unpredictable and it would be beyond humiliating if the cameras followed her there just to catch her waiting for her ride. Soon, I’ll get my car fixed and not be at the mercy of public transportation.

“Logan, would you like to comment on Pierre’s latest statement?”

Well, that explained a heck of a lot. Her ex had stirred the pot once more. She was really getting tired of this. She tucked her chin in and kept walking.

“Rumor has it that Pierre’s coming to Pittsburgh to attend tomorrow’s final qualifiers. He’s taking a break from filming America Gets Its Groove On. Says he’s a big fan of the Mad German and is anxious to see him fight.”

The faux smile slipped from her face. She stopped short. Remember, pride cometh before the fall. Don’t respond. Don’t do it. Don’t... The self-control she prided herself on snapped. Stiffening her spine, she turned to face down the reporters. “Why, I didn’t know Pierre was an MMA fan. I’ll have to introduce him to Boom-Yay, personally.”

“You sound confident that O’Shea will qualify for the final bouts?”

Logan turned and gave the cameras a jaunty smile. She waited until everyone had framed their close-up money shot for effect. “He’s fit and has never been more eager, more prepared. O’Shea is ready to kick butt and smash some faces. Pierre won’t want to miss it. See you tonight.”

The press buzzed with excitement over her statement. Her lies. Given the condition she’d left him in, Keane might not last until tomorrow. Hell, she wasn’t sure he’d even make it to the arena tonight. And if he did, she wasn’t even sure if she wanted him to fight, knowing what she now knew. The only truth in the pack of lies she’d told was about Pierre. How he was going to get a close, bird’s-eye view of just how violent an MMA fighter could be—when Keane planted his fist in his face.

And if Keane wasn’t available, then the world was going to experience their first Octagon Girl tap out.

Chapter Sixteen

CROSS PUNCH: A go-to power punch thrown with the back fist, and with a fighter’s full weight behind it

Mayhem broke out in Mellon Arena a few hours later. Jerry looked as though he’d cashed in a winning lottery ticket. Sal gestured wildly with two thumbs up. The crowd chanted, “Boom-Yay, Boom-Yay, Boom-Yay.” Day Two of the qualifiers was well underway, with Keane easily winning his first of two bouts.

Tenacious Beast had been a solid opponent. Hell, afterward, he’d even tapped Keane on the elbow in silent acknowledgment, as if saying you-just-kicked-my-ass-and-I-didn’t-feel-a-thing. Rule number one in fighting was to know when you’d been dominated and to learn from your mistakes. If Keane’s performance was as clean as this in the next three bouts, he’d have the championship in the bag.

For a moment, he’d felt like his former self. Let the rush ride over him, the kind a fighter gets when facing a challenging opponent. Guys like those he’d fought those first few years in the Marines, leading up to his qualifying for MCMAP and fourth-degree black belt. He’d handled them quickly and efficiently. Shit, he missed those days when fighting was such a sweet adrenaline boost instead of one massive psyche-fest.

His life had become way fuckin’ complicated.

And, despite himself, Keane found himself searching for the woman who’d stirred up all his shit. He rubbed his jaw. Damned if he could figure out where she’d disappeared to.

His recollection of last night was vague at the very best. Rosie and her friend. Logan pissed and glaring. Jimmy laughing down at him because...why? Hell. His friend had always had a way of seeing past all Keane’s bullshit to the heart of the matter. Jimmy’d told it like it was. But had he?

Did I say those three damning words? Not that it mattered, it felt like he did, which was just as bad. Not only did she stir up his shit, but did it with a big-ass spoon, causing waves so high he thought he was drowning.

She’d stayed with him through the night, the warmth from her head on his pillow still present when he’d awakened. Crazy how much he’d wanted her next to him. He’d inhaled her light vanilla scent, though it was faint compared to the strong tequila smell coming off of his own body. She was gone when he’d gotten up and hadn’t come home by the time he’d left for the arena.

Logan had somehow managed to get so far inside his head that just the sight of her sent him spinning. Man alive, he couldn’t deal with it. She was becoming a drug he craved, knowing it would only lead to pain. Hers. And his own.

Last night’s drunken confession had made him feel vulnerable. Another mindfuck—he couldn’t endure it, he already had enough emotional baggage to deal with. He was never going down that bloodbath of a road again. He didn’t want to examine his feelings—or feel anything at all, for that matter. All he wanted was peace.

Fuck, he had to set the record straight in case she’d gotten the wrong idea about them.

An attractive, dark-haired Octagon Girl smiled shyly at him as she lifted her sign overhead and announced the next fight. He brushed off a few reporters and headed back toward the women’s locker room. His second bout wasn’t for another hour or two, since his had been one of the first fights of the evening.

Laughter greeted him, a throaty, sexy sound that made him lengthen his steps. At the end of the stadium corridor, he stopped short.

Logan stood with her back against the cement wall.

Keane looked his fill. Camouflage sneakers at the bottom of long, shapely legs. Mid-thigh-length shorts in a shade of green similar to his military jacket. Less revealing than her two previous outfits. From there up, all he saw was skin. Tight stomach, a rib cage that accentuated her midriff without making her appear anorexic, and...more skin. Two triangular camouflage patches held in place by tiny strings almost covered her luscious rack. Pulled high, the bottom swell of each breast played peek-a-boo every time she goddamned breathed.

From a few feet away, Keane noticed it all. And he wasn’t the only one.

Some fighter leaned in toward her and had his hand on the wall by her head. Keane couldn’t hear what he was whispering but there was no doubt what this player was up to.

She was smiling at this guy and laughing at the sweet nothings he was whispering in her ear.

Last night, he’d been in a similar position, had run his tongue across that expanse of her soft skin, from her neck and lower. He’d seen desire spark in her green eyes. She’d wanted him, perhaps even more than she wanted him to fight. Lord knew, the feeling was mutual but going nowhere. But seeing her eyes light up for this moron made Keane want to punch the cement wall.

Asshole. Damn, he must have said it aloud. They broke apart and two sets of eyes shot his way.

“Keane, come meet Caden Kelly. He’s a welterweight, too. And still in the running for the title.”

Figures. The freakin’ underwear model. Keane glared at him.

Both smiles fell. Keane had to give the welterweight credit, his eyes didn’t shift away like a meek mouse. The muscular model straightened and folded his arms across his chest.

“Breached the walls of the wrong hen house, I gather?”

“Looks that way.”

“No harm done. This gorgeous hen wasn’t pecking anyway. See ya around, Logan.” The guy offered her a quick grin before striding off down the hallway.

“Did he just call me a chicken? What is it with this man lingo?”

Keane closed the distance between them. He smoothed his hands over her breasts and, because he couldn’t help himself, tugged the two specks of cloth lower and tucked her lusciousness away.

She gasped and her pupils darkened. Until her eyes refocused on the fury within his gaze, and then a second gasp escaped her lovely lips.

Here he’d been worried about exactly how to wedge some big-ass wall between them without hurting anyone’s freakin’ feelings, and she’d been flirting with this asshole. Good. That’s what you fucking want, right? To let her go before things got too deep, too complicated, too dangerous? He inhaled sharply, letting the frustration boil up inside of him and drawing on it. He had to hand it to her, she’d just made his job of distancing himself a hell of a lot easier.

“I’ve been looking all over for you.” She reached into her pocket and pulled out two blue pills. Tylenol or some shit that wasn’t gonna help in the least. Still, she held them out for him to take. “Take these. The water fountain is on the wall. I’d be a bear too with that hangover.”

He took the two pills, squeezing them tightly between his fingers as he stalked over to the fountain.

“You’re not going to like this. But I know how much you dislike surprises...”

One after the other he popped them into his mouth and swallowed hard. Water wouldn’t help the rawness within his throat.

“What?” he grunted, turning toward her.

“I called Stevie and he’s coming to Pittsburgh. He’ll be here tomorrow.”

What the fuck? “Call him back. Tell him—”

“Part of our business arrangement. The new one.”

“We’re sticking to the original plan. Got it? I fight, we fuck, and then we move on with our lives. Separately.”

He saw her flinch. Then she stiffened and put her hands on her hips. “A lot of guys returning from Afghanistan are struggling with PTSD. You’re not alone, Keane. And Stevie and I want to see you through this.”

“What else did that asshole tell you?”

She sighed, and lowered her voice. “That a professional is the best kind of help. You can talk to a physiatrist, Dr. Felter.”

“Jesus, the shrink Stevie’s been harping about?”

Logan grimaced at the fury in his tone, but plowed ahead. “She knows techniques for coping with this disorder. You said so yourself, the booze doesn’t work. Hell, last night is proof enough.”

“You wanna help me?” he demanded. “Worry about your own shit, and leave me to my own. I’m not talking to a goddamn shrink.” Fuck. The last thing he needed was a professional stirring up memories he was trying to bury—right alongside Jimmy. “Call that troublemaker back and tell him to stay out of Pittsburgh.”

“There’s nothing to be ashamed of—”

He stepped back away from her. A preventive measure. No way would he ever strike her or physically harm her, no matter how upset he got. Not intentionally. Unintentionally, now that was the bigger problem. But right now, he felt like she’d kicked his ass, like he’d been kicked in the kidney in a move so evasive, it made him dizzy.

“Do you want me to fight or not? Because if the answer is yes, this topic is dead. Understood? Or I walk.”

She stood, with her lips tight but her eyes thoughtful.

Jesus. Was she about to say no? He had to get away from her. Why don’t you cut the freakin’ cord, and quick.

“There’s one more thing I have to tell you.”

He held up a palm, as if it would stop her. He didn’t like the funny expression on her face. Not. One. Bit. “Look, I’ve got a fight to win.”

His heart was pounding along with his head in one mindfuck of a performance. Man, he needed a drink. Or better yet, a brawl. Shooting her a fierce scowl, a clear warning for her not to follow him, he stalked away, his strides long and purposeful.

The alarm in her tone echoed off the cement walls, glaring like a bullhorn signaling a tap out. “I’m not going to let you just slip away from me. You hear me, Keane?”

* * *

Logan made her final turn of the day around the Octagon cage to Metallica’s “Sandman.” Appropriate introductory music for Keane’s second bout on his second evening of qualifiers, especially the bit about hushing and not saying a word. Boy, those lyrics fit him to a T.

Boom-Yay’s fans enthusiastically sang along. She nodded in silent solidarity.

Now what?

Keane wasn’t ready to accept that he had PTSD and was set on fighting, as if he thought it was a cure, or something. However, she’d come to suspect that Keane’s bigger fight came after his wins. He didn’t relish his victories like most athletes. No, instead he acted like he’d lost. If she pushed him away, not only would he stop fighting like he’d threatened earlier, he’d distance himself from her, no doubt about it. Sure, she needed the money from his wins. But placing herself in a position where she couldn’t help him, that wouldn’t bode well for the intervention plan.

A no-surprise kind of plan Stevie and she had discussed in length over the phone, with a third-party conference call to Dr. Felter. It was going to take a lot of patience, compassion and perseverance, helping this very private, strong-willed man. But no one said it would be easy.

Hell, it had to be such a struggle on Keane’s end, as well. Fighting, booze, pills—those were Keane’s crooked crutches. A temporary escape from the trauma. Not a permanent solution only a psychiatrist could provide.

But sex? Was that really also a coping mechanism?

Logan blushed, refusing to accept Dr. Felter’s take on the matter, having first-hand experience of Keane in...action.

Her skin still tingled in memory of his tongue’s trail across her body. Her mind raced over the snapshots in her head: Keane’s sultry smile, the lust in his eyes, the way he looked at her as if she were the only woman in the place. His words made her heart dance: Like you, all right. Baby, more than anyone. Anything.

Crazy to think how her playful lover had morphed into such furious warrior mode. PTSD was the likely culprit for his swift changing moods. Perhaps after finishing the qualifying bouts and Tetnus, he’d retire from fighting? That would be the healthiest choice—the MMA world was brutal enough without him in it.

But how do you help someone who isn’t looking for help?

By showing him you care, she thought.

By showing him how well a person managed after a fall, when they had to dig deep to deal with the bruises, the external and internal kind.

This morning, before she hit the grocery store, she’d found a potential dance school near her apartment. The rent was reasonable and the money she’d earned so far was enough to cover a few months and construction expenses to convert the space into a proper studio. The downside was that her class size would be limited due to the small room, which was why she was debating holding out for a more suitable space. Plus, three more wins, and she’d have peace of mind in knowing that not only was her bank account healthier, but there’d be money for advertising and promotion to build up her roster.

Everything hinged on Keane winning the next three bouts. A win for her, but at what cost to him?

She tugged the sign higher and headed for the stairs.

“Luscious, Luscious,” the raucous crowd chanted, bringing her attention back to the present.

Funny how she didn’t mind her nickname anymore. The deep, throaty ways Keane said it replayed in her head, a sexy cacophony.

The music recommenced, signaling that Keane was about to enter. But she wasn’t going to let him stalk by on the ramp without seeing her. He’d sidelined her earlier. No way was she going to hang back in the shadows.

In fact, she was about to deliver a surprise cross punch of her own, and prayed he could take it. It was the easiest-yet-hardest way of making him realize how much she cared.

What Keane needed was tough love mixed with a healthy dose of attitude, accompanied by a swift Octagon Girl kick. A reminder that his stalking away from her wasn’t acceptable. She inhaled sharply. A few seconds later, she’d channeled enough frustration to fill an arena, providing her with enough courage to propel a Nike-clad foot forward.

Keane and his entourage headed down the ramp, and Logan moved up it.

A beefy arm snaked around her waist, pulling her close. “Gotcha, Octagon...ahh!” the guy screamed and bent over to cup his privates.

“Did you see that, Luscious kneed that guy in the balls. Wouldn’t want to piss her off,” Felix said.

You hear that, Keane?

Cameras began snapping, probably hoping to catch them lip-locked on the ramp. That was so not going to happen. Boom-Yay needed a wakeup call without lustful distractions.

Sal caught sight of her first and motioned for Jerry’s guys to make room on the ramp. When the entourage fanned out and moved past her, she spotted Keane. It felt like déjà vu. His dark sweatshirt was unzipped, revealing eight-pack abs and pecs so taut a quarter could bounce off them and keep on flying. The sight of him stole her breath away.

Handsome playboy Caden Kelly had nothing on Keane.

She squared her shoulders, knowing what she had to do, and getting all hot and bothered by him wasn’t helping.

He raised his eyes to meet hers.

For a second, it was just the two of them, no entourage, no crowd, nobody but them. She wasn’t sure what she saw in those deep, blue pools. Regret perhaps. Lust, most likely. Caring and adoration, she hoped with every fiber of her being.

Whatever it was, it was gone with the narrowing of his eyes. Just as well, his actions justified her own.

Keane shifted off to the side and made room for her to pass.

She sidestepped too, blocked his path, and forced him to stand still or plow smack into her. He stopped dead in his tracks.

The fine lines around his eyes deepened. That fierce look of his was likely to reach uncharted depths after she’d had her say. He needed to understand exactly why she’d overstepped the fine line between them. Why she’d butted into his business, which was likely what he’d thought she’d done.

His entourage had moved on down the ramp and out of hearing range. Perfect.

He stepped sideways to follow.

So did she.

“For fuck’s sake, Logan.” He yanked his hood off his head and rolled his neck. But all of his attention was on her.

“I wanted you to know I’m holding you to our business arrangement, minus the perks.”

“Great. Later.”

She took a deep breath and plowed on.

“I have one more thing to tell you, Boom-Yay, and I’m not moving until I do it.”

“That’s what you think.” Quick as lightning, he wrapped an arm around her waist, tugged her close and scooped her up. His body shifted around.

No way was she going to let him manhandle her like a sack of Pittsburgh coal. Two could play at this game. She wove her arms around his thick, stubborn neck but did so just as he was relaxing his hold on her. Which resulted in her scrambling to hang on to him, with her chest pressed up against his own, before he tugged her in tighter.

Obstinate, seemingly mean, strong in mind and body, he was all that. But the bottom line was his actions spoke volumes; he cared. Which is why it was so important to tell him the truth. “Second order of business. Only then will I let you go.”

Oh, she had no intentions of letting him go—for tonight, perhaps, but not in the future. He was as much a part of her future as her own dance school.

“Logan, the whole goddamned arena is watching us. What?”

Pride cometh before the fall, Logan. This was the biggest gamble of her life, her heart. Pride was not going to hold her back. She swallowed hard.

“I love you.”

* * *

Jimmy’s mindfuck dulled in comparison to the one Logan had just hit him with.

“Later,” he managed to growl out as he placed her down gently. He couldn’t freakin’ breathe. The quicker he put some distance between them, the better.

“Man, what I wouldn’t give to be you. The way Luscious was looking at you...what was she saying?”

“Zip it, Sal.”

Keane shook his head. Hell, he didn’t see that one coming. Love him? She hadn’t seen all of his bullshit yet. Didn’t know what a miserable, guilt-ridden bastard he was. A poor excuse of a friend. Too bad Jimmy wasn’t around to explain it all to her. Maybe she had a thing for fuck-ups. Shit, look at that loose-lipped, tights-wearing ex of hers.

He ripped off his sweatshirt as he approached the cage. Whoever Smithy was, he’d better be ready. Keane meant to draw blood and work out his frustrations in the way that worked best for him, with quick kicks and solid, deadly fists.

This bout, he’d win for himself. Prove he could do this, that he was in control. The final two would be for her. First fulfill his fucked-up needs and then their business agreement—which ended tomorrow.

Rolling his neck, he headed into the cage and took to his corner.

“You’ve got this one in the bag, O’Shea. Mickey’s a young one, fresh out of MMA boot camp. No match for your experience.”

Sal’s excitement wasn’t mutual. Fuck, Keane had missed Jerry’s announcement. That jerk-off was trying to make damned sure Keane qualified for Tetnus by pairing him up with these kids. Didn’t he get it? Keane didn’t want to fight opponents green behind the ears. Opponents who might get killed.

Jerry announced the fighters, the bell rang out, and after that, the bout was a blur. All Keane was conscious of was that his frustration was building and that no way in hell was he gonna beat down on this kid.

In fact, he did the opposite.

“Looks like Boom-Yay’s new nickname should be “No-yay.” His opponent is kicking the living shit out of him.”

Not to be outdone, a second announcer added, “It’s hard to believe this is the same guy who’d put such a brutal beating on Bouvine.”

The referee jumped in between them. Keane stalked over to his corner and spit blood into a small bucket.

Sal shouted at him, snapping him out of his daze. “Keane, what are you doing? You’re not even putting your hands up. What did Logan say to you on the way out? Did she cut your balls off or something?”

More like a kick in the balls. Logan and her I love you. Was she out there somewhere watching all this? Watching how weak he was, how goddamned broken? His fists clenched as all of the frustration holding him back peaked.

Spitting another wad of blood into the bucket, he turned. Smithy came at him with a high kick. Keane blocked it with his left arm and pushed the kid’s leg off to the side, fucking up his equilibrium. This left his opponent well open for attack.

Keane balled up his right fist, brought it back, and punched.

It connected with the welterweight’s chin. He was literally lifted off his feet from the impact. In the next hauntingly familiar second, the kid was out cold.

“Boom-Yay lands a solid jab and Michael Smith is down.”

“O’Shea wins with a knock out!”

“Smithy’s not moving.”

Everyone was shouting but Keane zoned them out as he hovered over the prone kid. “Get a damned doctor, fast,” he hollered, but the huskiness in his voice smothered his words.

He looked away from the kid. Spotting Jerry’s smiling face as he talked to a reporter by the stairs, Keane stalked over to him. Grabbed him by the throat. Pushed him up against the cage. Ignored the cameras flashing.

“Ten seconds for a doctor or you’re gonna eat your teeth.”

Keane released the shaking man, who sprinted down the stairs like the IRS was about to hand him an unpaid tax bill. He strode back to see the damage he’d caused once more.

The kid groaned. Sal placed a wet rag on his head as Keane stood there, helplessly.

The air in his chest compressed like a balloon before it burst.

An emergency crew brushed past him, the hose from the oxygen tank they carried swinging.

He needed a hit of O2 as well, feeling dizzy. But first, the kid...Michael.

The oxygen did the trick and Smithy’s eyes opened. Blissful semi-consciousness.

“Is he all right?”

“Yeah, we’re going to lift him outta here and give him a full check-up,” an EMT yelled up from his crouched position next to the kid. “Boom-Yay, think I can get an autograph later on?”

Keane flexed his sore knuckles. The cheering crowd, the media and everyone else shouting was too much to bear. Fans yelled and pointed, as if they’d just witnessed the best thing since Mike Tyson bit Evander Holyfield’s ear off. In Keane’s mind, this was as equally appalling.

He’d had enough. The kid was in good hands, with professionals equipped to help him. They’d give him a thorough examination and make sure no lingering effects remained, only to be triggered at some later date. Or so Keane hoped, from somewhere deep within the pit of his shattered soul.

Chapter Seventeen

KNOCK OUT: When a fighter is unable to get up off the mat and back on his/her feet due to a lethal strike

“Logan, any comments about O’Shea’s knock out?”

“What do you think about the beating he put on Smithy? One punch. Utterly ruthless.”

“Do you think Pierre is looking forward to being introduced to Boom-Yay tomorrow night? I’d be worried after watching how O’Shea turned the bout around and utterly annihilated Mickey Smith.”

Keane watched from his spot by the exit as Logan’s blond head snapped up. The swarm of reporters moving along with her stopped almost as abruptly as she did.

That braggart announcer Felix chimed in—another freakin’ guy with a hard-on for her. “God knows how O’Shea managed it, after getting his ass kicked, bleeding all over the place with a busted lip and an ugly gash on the eyebrow...you okay, Luscious?”

“I didn’t see the fight. Was he hurt?” Even from this distance, the worry in her voice rang out. He ran a finger along his swollen brow bone. She was about to hear, first hand, what a violent son-of-a-bitch he was.

“The medics think he’ll be okay. Concussion, so they’ll keep him at Pittsburgh Medical Center overnight.”

“Oh my God. Can one of you give me a lift?”

Keane took a step forward. And stopped. If she wanted to go rushing off and check on the kid, who was he to stop her? Hell, he had better things to do with his time right now—one of them involved Red Label Johnnie.

“Come on! You guys owe me big time for pestering me. Someone drive me to the hospital. How bad was Keane injured? God, this is all my fault. Here’s news for you: I don’t want him fighting anymore. Print that.”

A couple of reporters had moved aside, giving him a clear view. With her hands on her hips and her eyes fired up, Logan was a force to be reckoned with, a tigress protecting her cub.

As it turned out, he—the meanest, surliest, most-standoffish bastard of them all—was the cub.

Damn. His temple throbbed and his lip hurt like shit. Logan wasn’t worried about Smithy. She was worried about me.

The swarm buzzed with confusion but no one corrected her as they slowly moved out into the parking lot. One reporter dropped his camera bag, noticed Keane when he scooped it up, and sounded out the alarm. “Hey, there’s O’Shea over by the exit.”

Too late to duck. Keane had two choices: head back inside or join Logan in the parking lot. He looked in her direction and their eyes met through the parting crowd of reporters. She looked beautiful, and surprised. What, was she expecting him to be laid up in some emergency room?

“What are your comments on tonight’s knock out?”

Another reporter with a Napoleon complex shoved a mic in his face. “We’ll ask you the same question we asked Logan. What are you going to say to Pierre tomorrow night, when he makes a semi-announced celebrity appearance at the arena?”

He ignored them, strode toward Logan and muscled his way between the few foolish reporters who’d blocked his way. Her eyes were wide. Her lips pressed tight. She seemed so small, so fragile standing there amidst the persistent reporters.

“I thought you were in the hospital?”

This wasn’t good. It was better if she didn’t care. Easier to drop her off and head off toward the downtown city lights to deal with his demons. Alone.

“Wrong guy.” He tucked his arm around her waist and tucked her against his side. “Let’s go.”

“Lead the way.”

Reporters followed but gave up their chase once they’d reached his Jeep. He yanked the passenger side door open and nodded his head toward the seat.

God, he was wired up. Climbing into the driver’s seat, he cranked up the heat and noted the time on the dashboard clock. Ten forty-five. No way was sleep a possibility—not when the need to bash someone’s head in or drink himself senseless persisted. He felt like howling at the moon from all the emotions raging through him. She loved him.

His knuckles tightened around the steering wheel. He didn’t deserve her. But he didn’t have the strength to push her away. He should have done it earlier. He should be doing it right now.

Logan sighed, a throaty, just-woke-up sound that did it for him. She was buttoned up tight in her fancy coat with her long skinny-jeaned legs stretched out before her. Her blond hair wildly framed her face, an unusual break from her neat, smooth ponytail. No, this was more like a sexy-as-hell bed-head look. For a second, he wondered if that underwear playboy had anything to do with her mussed-up hair; another reason to kick the guy’s ass from Pittsburgh to New York. As soon as the thought finished, another replaced it: sweet Jesus, he was jealous.

He caught her reflection in the passenger side window as the Jeep left the reporters behind.

“You know, I can see you scowling at me in my window. Guess you’re anxious to get rid of me, and get a head start on your evening?”

Her disapproval was clear yet something else lurked beneath her words. She sounded resigned and...hurt. Had she expected an outpouring of emotion from him? “I love you,” she’d declared, guns blazing. And like the heartless prick that he was, he’d swiftly dodged her bullet. Any fool knew that that kind of shot—one to the heart—was the deadliest. Any fool could tell you love wasn’t enough to keep someone around when the going got tough. And his tough goings-on were a constant event.

He couldn’t look at her, didn’t want to show the conflicting thoughts written all over his face.

When he caught sight of the underwear model swaggering across the parking lot, the blood vessel in his forehead throbbed. Mine. She loves me, with all my fuck ups. He felt like staking his claim and making sure Marky Mark knew where things stood.

But Keane didn’t. He didn’t know where things stood. His head was like one of those rides at a carnival that spun topsy-turvy, just out of control, with screaming kids and all.

All he wanted was peace and quiet.

And...her. Shit.

Keane glanced over at the quiet figure next to him. She was studying her hands and not paying one iota of attention to the playboy out in the parking lot. She seemed sad. And, he was the cause.

What was he going to do with her?

He’d faced car bombs and bullets. Seen men killed before his eyes. Fuck, he relived it on a nightly basis. But this was a different kind of fright. More for her sake than his own, and more having to do with what he might do to her than what some shithead terrorist might do to him.

The Pittsburgh skyline illuminated the night sky, the brilliant light seeming to reflect off the stars. A blinding light that clouded his judgment. No, he couldn’t see dropping her off. Getting shitfaced at Finnegan’s was his post-fight standard but that’s not what he needed. Hell, the opposite, really—he needed her near him tonight. Someplace neutral and serene. A place to calm his pounding heart. Before he could change his mind, he tugged out his cell phone and shot off a text.

“Are we taking a road trip?”

“You’ll see.”

The Jeep climbed steadily up Mount Washington, away from the hubbub of the city below. Away from all of Pittsburgh’s nighttime temptations and the vices Keane had grown dependent on.

His restlessness hadn’t really subsided, but as he breathed the crisp, cool mountain air, the peacefulness of this place he remembered most settled over him. The tension wound up in a knot inside him began to unravel. A few minutes later, the Jeep ambled into an empty parking lot which, considering the late hour, was to be expected.

Logan leaned forward in her seat and peered at the sign flickering on the small building in front of them. “Duquesne Incline. Wow, you’re full of surprises. A cable car?” Her lips twitched as she turned toward him.

“Come on.”

A teenager sat behind a counter inside the small building at the base of the incline. His face lit up when he saw Keane. “Holy shit! It’s you. I’m like, the hugest MMA fan. How you feeling, Boom-Yay? I watched the fight on Pay Per View. That was some knock out tonight. I—”

“What do you want me to sign?”

The kid’s mouth broadened into a wide smile. “I know the deal is one autograph, but you know, my friends are huge MMA fans.”

“No problem. Get whatever you’ve got.”

Reaching underneath the counter separating them, the kid pulled out scraps of lined notebook paper, one rumpled “Rumble on the Rivers” T-shirt, and a baseball.

Keane rolled the ball in his palm and tossed it back at the teenager. “Save it for the Pirates. But I’ll sign the other stuff.” As he got busy scrawling his name, the teenager placed another stack of loose-leaf papers on the counter and stared at Logan expectantly.

“When Dad told me Boom-Yay texted him wanting a private ride tonight I hoped you’d come with him, Luscious.”

“Just like your old man. Freakin’ Mr. Opportunistic Jr. here,” Keane muttered good-naturedly.

Logan giggled.

The girly sound made him smile. It felt as rusty as an old tire iron. It was rare to find something to smile about these days. But Logan was a good sport, signing her own pile of autographs. Tapping his foot, he waited until she had finished. “Ready?”

“Text me when you want to descend. I’ve got homework to keep me occupied. A half hour cool?”

Keane nodded.

They climbed inside the bright yellow-and-red car, vibrant even on the inside, although softly lit. It hadn’t changed much since the last time he’d ridden it, a lifetime ago, with its polished wooden ceiling and walls. A rectangular bench framed the space below massive arched windows.

Logan crossed the car and settled onto the bench. He sat next to her, stretching out his legs and resting an arm on the seat back. So conscious of the woman next to him and so fucking careful to not make contact. Peace was what he was aiming for tonight. And, if the weather cooperated, a great view.

The car shifted into motion.

Fortunately, Logan seemed content to gaze out the window.

The round, flickering lights from the bridges below looked like rows of full moons floating along the rivers. Everything seemed clearer from up here, and not simply the spectacular downtown views.

He’d set Jerry straight about pairing him up with these freakin’ green-as-grass fighters. If he wanted Keane to win this thing, then he’d better find him a partner with a thick skull. One who could take a beating. No more repeat performances of his fights with Young Gun and Smitty. Not with Keane’s sanity at stake.

The tension in his neck eased as the car ascended.

“All my years growing up in the Pittsburgh suburbs and I’ve never been on an incline.” Her voice held a note of awe in it. Pittsburgh had a bum rap for being a gritty, tough steel city but it had an attractive side as well. He liked that he was the first to take her up here.

“Too busy dancing?”

Her lips turned upward but not into a full, knock-me-on-your-ass smile. More resigned. “I sacrificed a lot of things for ballet. Dancing was my whole life, my purpose. Though, in retrospect, dancing isn’t my life but is something I love doing. Does that make sense?”

“Yep.”

Her head cocked sideways and her eyes fell on him. “Was that how fighting used to be for you?”

He drummed his fingers on the bench’s smooth wood and looked away. “Guess so.”

“So, what changed?

His fingers kept up their rhythm on the bench. He shifted, his gaze drawn once more to the bridge lights far below. Rows of parallel lights from the skyscrapers downtown reflected off the rivers. Well-balanced and orderly—like his life used to be.

Touching his forearm lightly, she murmured, “If you didn’t want to talk, then why’d you bring me up here?”

“Dunno,” he heard himself mutter. He relaxed, knowing how much he liked having her nearby, and also knowing that he’d be an idiot to admit it—no good would come from leading her on and making her think there was something more between them than...holy shit. He stiffened and pulled away, separating them by a fraction of an inch which felt more like a mile.

He felt her fingers squeeze his arm before letting go. “It’s ironic. All that time spent hung up on becoming a prima ballerina, and it took becoming an Octagon Girl for me to realize how unfulfilled my life has been. Dancing gave me joy but it was everything else interfering with it that I regret. So caught up in the fame, glamour and money, I forgot about making decisions for myself.”

He heard her sigh. A frustrated sound that caused him to look back at her.

“That silly reality TV show is a prime example of just how ridiculous my life had become. In a way, my broken ankle healed me.” She paused and gazed at the skyline. Light reflected from the glass to her earnest eyes. She looked so freakin’ beautiful. Something deep inside him stirred.

Mercifully, she continued, unaware of the change in him. “My life was dance. Period. I couldn’t imagine anything else. Look at what I’ve been missing. Would you look at that skyline?”

She wasn’t the only one who had missed out on life. His lapse in living was more recent, post-Jimmy’s death until...shit, he was in the muck of it, all right.

As she shifted on the hard seat, her arm brushed against his.

He flexed in awareness. Forget about it, no can do. He struggled to bury the sudden rush of desire for her. Wait for later and take care of business alone, without her around.

She swiveled toward him on the seat and her face lit up. “I would never have pegged you as a romantic. This view is magnificent. Thank you for bringing me here. It’s so beautiful.”

Him, a romantic? Jesus, did she have it all wrong. Still, he heard himself say, “Gets better on top.” Damn. On top is where he wanted to be, and it wasn’t Mount Washington he was thinking about.

“I can’t imagine anything better than this.”

Keane tightened his lips in determination because he most definitely could imagine something that would trump the view, something along the lines of sinking into her warmth until all his demons disappeared.

The cable car swayed, sending Logan sliding up against him. She twisted and wiggled away, but his arm shifted protectively from the back of the seat and curved around her in silent, inexplicable protest.

She sighed and leaned back toward him so her head rested in the curve of his shoulder.

The heat in the cable car kicked in. His inner thermostat ran hot to begin with but now, he was uncomfortably warm inside his army jacket. Yet, he did nothing about it. Didn’t want to move away, even though he knew he should.

“This mountain used to be called Coal Hill. I remember my father describing how they were restoring these cars to their original condition. I always wanted to take a ride on one. It’s hard to believe people used foothills to walk from downtown to the top of Mount Washington.”

Keane grunted, and studied the view of the Golden Triangle below. The downtown lights reflected in a perfect V where the three rivers angled out from a single point. The rivers tenderly surrounded downtown Pittsburgh, much like the way his arm and body nestled Logan’s head.

Shit. He was so fucked.

Gently, he wrestled his arm out from behind her, and stood. Used the pretense of removing his jacket as explanation for his sudden movement. He was still too damned hot, burning up really. Tossing the jacket on the bench, he unzipped his sweatshirt, peeled it off, and dropped it on the pile.

“Good idea. I can’t imagine what year heat was installed in these cars, but there’s no doubt about it working.” Logan stood up and unbuttoned her jacket. It joined his pile of clothing.

His gaze fell on her bared shoulder.

He froze. She had that damned sexy-as-hell sweatshirt on.

“Come here.” Keane’s voice was barely above a whisper, the gravel in his tone husky and warm.

* * *

Logan resisted the urge to roll her eyes in frustration. She’d been laying subtle let’s-rock-the-incline hints all night but he hadn’t taken the bait. The sexy, brooding man standing in front of her was a poster boy for exasperating. No, beyond exasperating, with his tight-lipped, no nonsense attitude, which in truth, caused her pulse to quicken as it drew her in.

One minute he blew hot, the next he was as cold as winter steel. She realized his coldness was a defense mechanism, that whenever she’d overstepped the boundaries between them and hit a nerve—his PTSD being the mother lode of all nerves—his response was consistent: he pushed her away.

She stepped closer.

He reached out and cupped her chin in his big, burly hand, then caressed her cheek with his thumb. His face was tight, unreadable, but his fingers were gentle.

“So goddamned beautiful.”

His words caused her heart to thump louder than wooden floorboards after landing a grand jeté. She inhaled sharply. His soapy, clean scent was laced with the fresh mint of the gum he had been chewing.

He closed his eyes and ran his fingers across his lids. As if in pain. As if he’d said too much—as if that was ever a possibility. His eyes snapped open, and her breath hitched. His gaze was so open, so intense, so filled with pent-up need, she really couldn’t breathe.

She nearly missed his next knee-trembling words, his voice was that low and soft. “You make me feel things. Want things. Want you, more than anything, ever.”

He undressed her with his eyes. If his comment hadn’t induced a state of shock, she’d have stripped off every stitch of clothing right then and there.

The exchange was too intense. Too raw. Too nerve-racking.

“What are you waiting for?” She cocked her head as she issued her corny, light-hearted challenge.

Straightening, he cocked his head and simply stared at her. Hard. Then, faster than she could say “crinkle my camisole,” he was on her.

He grasped her arms and pulled her in close.

She lifted her face and kissed his tense jaw. “I want you too. I love—”

His mouth came down and opened against hers in such a hot, intense kiss, her toes would have curled under if she hadn’t been standing on the tips of them. He slid a hand under her sweatshirt and his palm flattened on top of her stomach. Her abdomen was on fire, burning from his touch. She didn’t think she wanted anything in life as much as she wanted this. Him, a big brute of a fighter so different from anyone she’d known. A man so sexy her mouth dried up at the sight of him.

Not that her mouth was dry now, as his tongue twirled in a sensual dance with her own. She raised one hand behind his head and held his lips to hers, demanding more.

The car abruptly stopped, breaking them apart as they fought for balance.

“Take off your clothes.”

Hell, who was she to disobey such a direct order? And from a retired Marine, too.

Bending, she unfastened and stepped out of her boots and socks, then kicked them aside. Next to go were the skinny jeans. She stripped down to a pair of tuxedo-themed panties, black with a white lace fringe and a cute bow affixed just below her navel. Her sweatshirt was tugged off next, revealing a matching tuxedoed bra. Silently, she thanked her newfound sexuality for prompting her to put on this ensemble rather than her dependable, conservative tighty whities.

Keane’s eyes burned with desire beneath heavy lids. “Nice bow.” His response made her brave.

She folded a bra strap over a shoulder and ever so slowly, freed her arm. The second strap received the same treatment. Angling both arms behind her back, her fingers reached for the clasp.

“Leave the bra on.” He sauntered forward, closing the distance in a few steps. His left hand slid down her stomach to the top lacing on her panties. A middle digit slid beneath the elastic, paused and rotated. A flush of moisture dampened the part of her that craved his touch.

Her legs spread apart as if they had a mind of their own.

His right hand cupped a breast and his thumb rubbed across the swell of her chest and then down into her bra and over her hardening nipple.

“Can’t get enough of you, Luscious.” Something flashed in his eyes. The rawness of his voice vanished, replaced by his normal, bossy self. “Go sit on the bench.”

She silently moved over to the bench, tugged his coat over it and sat. Her bare legs rubbed against the coarse material, but she didn’t care. All she cared about was him.

“Spread ‘em.” He moved and stood directly in front of her a few feet away.

Wanton, naughty and sexy as hell, that was how she felt sitting there with her legs spread, opening herself to him.

“Hard and rough, baby. That’s what you’re gonna get.”

Her lips twitched, remembering how gentle he’d been the last time such a declaration was made. “Famous last words, Boom-Yay. I’ll believe it when I see it.”

His smile was so incredibly sexy, a rush of moisture coated her panties. He untied the string on his track pants as his gaze roamed over her hungrily.

“Spread ’em a little wider.”

Her chin notched up slightly at the challenge in his voice and she opened her legs broadly.

He knelt onto the floor between her thighs, grabbed her behind the legs, and tugged. She slid down until her head rolled against the seat back.

One hand cupped her left thigh. His other hand began to roam. Over the soft silk panties and the swell of her until his palm came to rest on her core. His finger looped into the side of her panties at the crease of her leg. And, without hesitation, pulled them aside.

“You’re gonna scream for me, Luscious.”

His head ducked. It took all of her willpower not to thrust her hips off the seat when he licked her like an ice cream cone, his tongue moving in one upward sweep. Another lick and her legs trembled. It was earth shattering, the combination of his hot, wet tongue and the gentle press of his fingers against her mound where he held her panties in place.

Then he got down to business and laved at her over and over, until not only did her body hum, every inch of her, from her head to the tips of her toes, sang, bellowed and danced. She moaned and shifted. His palm nudged her left leg away.

“Now you’re gonna get it.” He pulled back. Briefly straightening his body, he grabbed a foil packet from his wallet. Her mind was numb, blissfully oh-so-pleasurably numb. He grasped her hands and brought her to her feet. His fingers curled under the elastic of her panties and he stripped them off her in one fluid movement.

“Step.” She lifted her legs out and the silk pooled on the floor. Her entire attention was focused on Keane as he stripped down to his briefs and kicked them off as well. His cock sprang out, enormous and thick.

She reached out and wound her fingers around the long, hot shaft. A few strokes and he was rock hard. Retrieving the condom from his hand, she made quick work of rolling it over him.

With a growl, he reached for her and ran his hands across her bottom down to her thighs. He lifted and her legs clasped around his waist. The full tip of his erection rubbed against her center as he moved them across the room, to the floor-to-ceiling windowed doorway.

He pinned her back against the glass pane. For a second, she wondered if the entire population of Pittsburgh was gazing up at her naked ass pressed up against the window. All errant thoughts vanished as the thick head of his penis slid up into her and split her deliciously apart.

“Oh, my. Keane.” His hips thrust and suddenly he was buried so deeply inside her, she saw stars. Bright white lights that outshone those far below.

He withdrew and plunged back, even deeper than before, if that was possible. In and out, over and over.

“Wanted this all fucking day. From the time I found you with that playboy, maybe earlier.”

Just hearing him talk made her hot and wet. Man oh man, feeling her inner muscles tighten around his hot shaft was the best prize of all.

“What playboy?”

His next thrust was less gentle, more powerful. She loved every brutal inch of him.

“Freakin’ lame-ass underwear model.”

He’d promised her hard and rough, and his powerful plunges took her breath away. She arched her back against the window pane, angling for something to push off of, wanting to meet him thrust for thrust. Her stomach rocked against his. His pace quickened.

“God, I need you. Want you. I...” Keane rumbled, his tone thick with need.

She gasped for breath at his passionate onslaught. His hip muscles flexed and thrust in wild abandon. Her skin was hot, but the juncture between her legs, so amply filled, was on fire. A molten, liquid heat so intense, so shattering, she lost awareness of everything except the feeling of him sliding in and out of her.

“Shit, Logan, you’re so tight, baby.”

“Maybe because you’re hung like a rock star. You know...oh, yes. Mmm.” A blaze of fire shot through her and she strained for release. The muscles of her legs flexed in his arms. He grunted in awareness and held on tighter.

He shifted so all of her weight bore down onto his thick staff. “Ahh...” she cried out but his mouth claimed hers and cut her off. His tongue plundered her mouth in rhythm with his thrusts. Her arms wrapped around his big neck and she held on for dear life. Her chest rubbed against his, the friction of her bra simulating her nipples as they moved.

He broke his kiss, and grunted. “Come on, baby. Let’s do this.”

His biceps flexed and he lifted her high. He let go and she slid down hard on the full length of him. Once more, his biceps flexed. She shattered as he lifted her and the long, fast plunge caused her to cry out her release.

“Keane.”

“I’ve gotcha. My turn.”

Flex and lift, flex and lift, three more times and suddenly her back was back up against the window. His face nuzzled her neck. He moaned into it, his breath warm against her skin. “Logan...ahhh. So fucking good.” His entire body shook from his release.

She felt his heart beating against her chest. Her arm was still wrapped around him, his hands cupped her buttocks, and her legs dangled aimlessly beside his body.

A wave of contentment washed over her. She loved this wildly passionate man, and she believed in him. But instead of giving voice to her emotions—having had a taste of how he’d likely respond—she decided that keeping the air light and easy-going was the better approach.

But she wasn’t willing to cut the thin thread that bonded them together. The doors of communication had opened, albeit mostly physical, hands-on communication. But it was better than nothing. No way was she going to let it slam shut again.

He grunted against her neck. She was lifted then lowered onto her feet, his cock sliding out of her in a warm, wet farewell.

“Do you want to know what I’m thinking?”

His arm tensed as he stepped away from her.

Not so fast, my love. Reaching out, she grabbed his wrist and yanked it. He didn’t move but his eyes shot to her face, surprised and cautious. It was like an iron mask snapped into place, impenetrable and unrelenting.

Or maybe not, she thought as she adjusted her bra strap under his unwavering gaze. He followed her every gesture as the second strap was smoothed into place. How would he react if she ran her hands down her body to the juncture of her legs? She was tempted, but instead she murmured, “One of the reporters has finally gotten it right.”

The tight cheeks of his beautiful ass flexed as he retrieved his sweatpants and put them on. “How so?”

Good, she still had his attention.

“Your nickname.”

He stood and ran his fingers through his hair. His tattoo rippled tight across his torso and down to his abs as his arm rose overhead—even in repose, his massive strength was visible.

She stepped closer and retrieved her own pants. Her silky underwear had eased the friction between the denim and her skin, but they remained where she’d stepped out of them on the floor. It took some doing but, she finally wiggled herself in.

He made a noise and she glanced up, catching the slight upward curve on his lips. Good, he’d relaxed. That was a sign of how the rest of their evening was going to be, if she could manage the man’s moods.

“Boom-Yay. I’d say the nickname fits...perfectly.”

The curve of his lips remained in place as she put on her sweatshirt.

“Okay, you got me. How so?”

Her hands found her hips and she gave him her sauciest smile. “Well, you promised me hard and rough.”

“You got it, babe. Bet you can’t even walk straight.”

She felt like fist pumping the air. He was biting, and it felt wonderful.

“Boom-Yay. Didn’t you hear your nickname ringing out in your head?”

“Fuck, no. Why would I think about a bunch of rowdy men heckling me while I was having amazing sex?”

God, she wanted to hug him. Amazing, was it? She was so pleased she felt like dancing.

“I’m not referring to your crazy fans. I’m talking about us. How every time you pushed up inside of me with a boom, I answered you with a yay. Bleeding leotards, I must have shouted yay at least a hundred times.”

She wasn’t sure if it was her rechristening of his nickname or her reference to one hundred times, but whatever it was, he grinned like a madman.

“Hmph...Boom-Yay. Yeah, I like it.”

“So do I. It suits us—Boom-Yay and Luscious.” She held her breath, waiting for him to object to her linking them together like a couple.

“What time is it?” he asked, in a neutral, unreadable voice.

She reached into her jacket, pulled out her cell, and showed him the screen. Eleven fifty-five.

“We better hurry.” He placed his thumbs in his track pants and yanked them down.

“What are you...doing?” The question was ridiculous; his intentions became clear, very clear, when she caught sight of his emerging hard-on.

“Strip. Time to sink my Boom-Yay into your Lusciousness, and test out your theory, baby.” His smile took her breath away. Five minutes later, his Boom-Yay had her humming faster than a hummingbird’s wings.

Chapter Eighteen

TURTLE: A protective maneuver where a fighter curls into a ball to block his/her opponent’s punches

Naked as a jaybird, Logan lay on her back, studying how the early morning light deepened the golden hue of Keane’s lovely tin ceiling. He was full of surprises, this sexy hunk sleeping soundly next to her. Life with him would be as rich and complex as he was.

Last night was as unexpected as a Pittsburgh Indian summer. Her body still hummed from their wild ride on the Duquesne Incline. What they’d done in that beautiful cable car registered way off the mind-boggling charts. Incredible. Stupendous. And a ride she’d repeat again and again.

He wasn’t just hot as hell and able to put the spring in her step with a simple glance. He was caring, loyal and trustworthy. Dependable, too—he’d made her a promise and put aside his own issues to fulfill it, all for her. More proof that his conscience ran deep.

Whether he liked it or not, she was going to help him. Stevie’d be in Pittsburgh today—it wasn’t like she’d had time to call him back and cancel their intervention. Not that she wanted to, despite knowing how pissed off Keane was going to be.

She glanced down at him. Boom-Yay has hit the hay. Seems I’ve worn him out! There was a bruise on his eyebrow and his lip was swollen on one side. Not that it had stopped him last night. Not that either injury took away from his rough, handsome features. Reaching out, she ran her fingers across his cheek in a gentle, loving caress.

Without warning, Keane shot up like he’d been burned, wrapped his big body around her, and rolled over and off the bed. Fortunately a pillow pinned between her head and his arm cushioned her fall. He landed on top of her, knocking the wind out of her. One hundred sixty-eight pounds of muscled welterweight had her trapped, with her arms tucked against her sides and legs spread wide open.

If she wasn’t so astonished, she’d have laughed at finding herself in this situation once more, with a naked Keane sprawled out on top of her. But this was different. He was different. What just happened?

His face was mere inches above hers. His eyes were vacant and his mouth tight. A fine sheen of sweat covered his brow and his cheek ticked. If she didn’t know better she’d think he was ready to go kick some ass. Or worse. He wasn’t himself—this wasn’t the man who’d made such passionate love to her last night.

“Keane!” Her voice was sharper than intended, and full of worry.

He blinked, and blinked again. His eyes refocused, filled with surprise, and then awareness.

“Fucking hell!” Quicker than he’d wrestled her to the ground, he was off her and onto his knees beside her.

She tried to sit up.

“Don’t move. I need to check you out.”

Silently, she obeyed. Aside from the tightness in her throat from his desperate expression and the tenderness between her legs, she was fine. Shocked, worried and trying to control the heart attempting to burst out of her chest, but otherwise fine.

“Jesus. Logan, are you okay? Where did I hurt you?”

“Keane, you just caught me by—”

“Shit, holy shit. I’ll call an ambulance.” His voice was hoarse, almost panicked. The sound of it forced her out of her dazed state.

“Listen, I’m fine. The pillow cushioned my head. You weigh a ton but I’m okay. No harm done.”

“You’re gonna see a doctor, anyway. To make sure.”

She clambered up onto her knees and faced him. Cupping his jaw in her palms, she tried to soothe him as she struggled to come to terms with what had just transpired. “Shhh, I’m okay. You woke up out of a sound sleep because I touched you. You reacted. But you snapped out of it and realized I’m not the enemy, or whomever you were picturing in your head. At least, that’s what I think happened.”

“Fuck.” He pulled back and covered his face with his hands, mumbling something inaudible.

Logan stood. She didn’t move away, but instead hovered over him, desperately trying to figure out how to help him.

Moments passed yet the tension remained. Keane’s fingers flexed as he pulled his hands away from his face and rose to his feet. His expression was horrible, like he’d lost a fight or worse. His hardened gaze scanned her from head to toe, pausing on her belly.

“Christ, what is that? Did I do that to you?”

Logan gasped at the pain in his voice. She lifted her arms away from her body and searched for whatever had him so alarmed. A bluish-red mark stood out on her otherwise pale skin, marring the area near her bellybutton. Come to think of it, a matching mark was probably on her neck, too.

“It’s a love bite. Remember last night when you ran your tongue over my stomach and...well, you know. I think there’s another one on my neck.”

He exhaled in a rush.

“I’m here, Keane, for you. I—”

His lips tightened and caused her to hesitate. She had promised him not to pry but this was important. He needed to know she would help him. “Is fighting your way of dealing with all of this stuff? A physical release, even if you don’t enjoy it?”

“What about it?” He stood in front of the antique dresser with his back to her. The metal handle rang out against the wood as he fiddled with it.

She sighed. He wasn’t making this easy. Moving over to him, she placed her fingers on his bicep and squeezed reassuringly.

His arm tensed beneath her touch. Her heart raced with emotion—she wanted her touch to absorb all of his pain. Gently, she placed a feathery kiss on his neck, then whispered, “I’m here for you, Keane. This isn’t something you have to deal with alone. I can go with you to see a professional, if you want. An expert who has counseled a lot of guys going through similar issues.”

His body stiffened as he brought a balled-up fist crashing down onto the dresser. The wood vibrated from the impact. She jumped back, alarmed more by his anger than his physicality. She’d expected him to have softened from her touch, but instead, was now faced with a tense, brutish street fighter.

Turning around, he narrowed his eyes at her.

“Okay, so you’re not ready to talk about it. Can’t you see I want to help you? Sure, the timing stinks—you should be focusing on the next fight, right? Focusing on not getting hurt. Winning, even. But given what just happened, you can’t ignore this.”

“You don’t know shit.”

“What shit don’t I know then, Keane?”

“Why are you sleeping in here?” His voice was brutal, accusing, but she noticed his hands were shaking. “Don’t you see?

Her back stiffened. “All I see is that you didn’t give me much choice. I was trapped beneath you for most of the night.” She pointed to the bed, hoping he’d be reminded of their wild night together. Hoping it might calm him down. Soothe him.

He pinned her with his gaze and clenched his jaw. “Logan, this isn’t gonna work out for me. I need my space back, I need my freakin’ life back.”

“What are you saying, Keane?”

“Look, I warned you. No strings attached. No commitments.”

“You fell asleep with your arms and legs wound around me. How’s that for attachment?”

“It was just sex.”

Leave it to a fighter to know how to deliver a knock out. He couldn’t have picked a better way of tearing out her heart. Her fingers curled into her palm so tightly, her hand numbed.

She marched over to the other side of the bed and gathered together her clothing scattered on the floor. Scooping up her jacket from the chair, she headed for the door.

“Thanks for the sex.” She shot out, passing him by.

“Logan, wait,” he murmured, his voice tight once more. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“Too late.”

* * *

If the darned city bus moved any slower it would be going in reverse.

Be right there, Jerry.

Getting fired seemed minor in comparison to her mixed bag of emotions about Keane, minor compared to her much-needed over-the-top salary even. His rejection smarted.

It sucked knowing her love was one-sided and unrequited. She’d worked her way through a lot of bullshit this year. Falling in love had been unexpected. Falling in love with a fighter had been startling.

Falling in love with a troubled man like Keane had been a mistake.

“This is for the best,” Keane had said as he dropped her off at Mrs. Debinska’s and drove off without so much as a goodbye. Logan wanted to bury her head underneath a feather pillow and stay there until her heartache subsided. Instead, she sucked it up and forced herself into taking a step toward fulfilling her other dream. She checked out another potential ballet studio.

The space was small and the rent more than she could afford, despite being in a less than desirable industrial area. Instead of cheering her up, it forced her to reassess her present situation. She had two choices: take the sales associate exam at Boscov’s and nickel and dime her way into saving enough for six months’ rent, minimum. Plus expenses. That was going to take some time.

Or she could high-tail it over to Mellon Arena and hope Jerry would cut her a break for being late.

Deep down, she knew a year at Boscov’s was better than watching Keane getting a knuckle sandwich from his next opponent, the Mad German. They’d certainly pulled a one hundred and eighty-degree shift—she didn’t really want Keane to fight, and he now seemed hell-bent on doing so.

Talk about a yin-yang of conflicting emotions.

She needed him to fight but was worried. Everything she’d heard about the Mad German said he was bad news. Was Keane prepared for someone so huge and vicious? Physically, maybe. Lord knew Keane had as much fat on him as a celery stick—zip, null, zero. But was he mentally prepared for this kind of bout?

The way he’d withdrawn after such a wildly passionate evening was proof enough she’d gotten too close for comfort. This morning’s events, him tackling her off the bed, had freaked him out bad. He’d overreacted, and worse still, he’d pushed her away.

The bus halted a block away from Mellon Arena. Logan briskly walked the short distance, passed security at the side door, and made her way to the women’s locker room.

“Sugar, thank God you’re here!” Chloe greeted her in a rush. “Ah tell ya what. Jerry’s lookin’ for ya and he’s been throwing a hissy fit, barging in here like clockwork every five minutes, wanting to know if ya arrived yet. Madder than a rattler, with him grumbling about ya being one lucky broad. I reckon ya boyfriend struck a deal, by the look of things. Jerry kept mumbling on and on how Keane and free publicity is what’s keepin’ ya ass from gettin’ fired.”

Logan frowned. Her boyfriend, a man more complex than a spider’s web, who’d flat out told her their relationship was just sex—casual, like he didn’t give a rat’s ass about her—had gone out of his way to save her job as an Octagon Girl. Was she that predictable that Keane expected her to show tonight? Or was it his guilty conscience making him act on her behalf? Whatever his motives, it bought her time.

Unlocking her locker, she eyed the two remaining Octagon Girl outfits. Even through the plastic wrap, she could tell by the colors that these were different than the bright yellow number Chloe wore. Logan caught sight of the wording printed on the back of a pair of purple shorts. She sucked in a breath. Jerry had lost his mind completely with this stunt.

“I’ll wait outside and keep an eye out for ya.”

“Thanks, Chloe,” she said, her eyes glued to the outfit in her hand. Great bleeding leotards. What does Jerry have me wearing this time?

The sound of a crashing locker room door signaled her boss’s arrival. So much for Chloe stopping him.

“Rettino, where the fuck have you been?” Squirrel Face appeared at the end of the row of lockers.

Logan gasped at the sight of him. It looked as if he’d gotten into a fight with the locker door and had lost, with his cut-up face, swollen lip and bruised cheek. So disheveled and out of sorts, she wondered why he seemed so focused on her showing up and not on cleaning himself up. Hell, a man after a bar brawl was in better shape than him.

“I look like an asshole every time I send that nitwit out to announce the bouts when they’re asking for you.”

Asshole pretty much had him covered, bleeding lip and all. Chloe was not a nitwit, but Logan had to choose her battles carefully right now. “Why did you pair Keane up with the German? Isn’t there anyone else he can fight, someone less violent?”

“Sweetheart, this isn’t one of your fancy ballet shows. These guys out there want blood—to taste it, smell it, lick it, breathe it.”

Lick it? Ew! Whoever had done the number on Jerry’s face had scrambled his marbles as well. “So what are you saying? You’re sending Keane to be butchered by that giant German so the crowd can turn into a bunch of testosterone-induced vampires?”

Jerry patted his mouth with his fingers, seemingly checking for verification that his lip was indeed the size of a golf ball. “Hmph, what have you been drinking? Your boyfriend is the butcher in this match-up. He’s not exactly passing out roses tonight. Mean fuckin’ bastard. Do you see what he did to my face? But I’m not holding a grudge, especially against my champion.”

Logan frowned. Did Jerry believe Keane would win this bout? It certainly appeared that way.

“You’ve kept them waiting long enough. Let’s go.”

She had no choice but to follow Jerry out of the locker room and down the long corridor. Tiny goose bumps spotted her skin by the time they arrived at the ramp into the arena. Something in Squirrel Face’s suddenly cheerful disposition triggered her inner warning bells. “Jerry, when you said I kept them waiting long enough, you were referring to the crowd, right?”

He ignored her question. “That outfit is going to put this MMA event on every goddamn television network from here to Australia.”

Her goose bumps multiplied in number. Whatever Jerry is hedging at, it’s going to be bad.

His hand smacked her across the ass, forcing her forward into the arena. But not before she forcefully shoved an elbow back into his stomach. “Humph,” Jerry grunted. She didn’t wait around for the fallout.

The crowd spotted her a quarter of the way down the ramp. A familiar cheer greeted her. “Luscious, Luscious.” This wasn’t so bad. Predictable. Familiar. A day in the life of a popular Octagon Girl.

“We love you, Luscious!”

“It’s Pete’s birthday. Give us a smile.” She plastered a grin on her face and waved at the birthday boy.

“Is Boom-Yay ready to take on the Mad German?”

I wish I knew, buddy. I wish I knew he was going to be okay. She gave a thumbs up.

A crowd was gathered at the end of the ramp, without leaving much room for Logan to pass. As she approached, she immediately recognized the striking, dark red-haired woman overdressed in a deep navy business suit—of all things—blocking her way. Her arm hooked around Logan’s own and tugged her close. “Logan, your manager said you’d give me a few minutes for an interview. Ready? Lights, camera, action.”

Logan blinked at the cameras’ blinding white lights, stunned and horrified to find a mic in her face.

“This is Sophie Morelle reporting live from the Mellon Arena. I’m here at day three of Mixed Martial Arts Monster Mayhem bringing you a live, uncensored, special report of the final fights for a chance to compete in the Tetnus championships in Las Vegas. I’m here with Luscious Logan Rettino. So Logan, you were an accomplished ballerina, had a huge fan base as a contestant on America Gets Its Groove On. How hard was it for you to make the switch from classical ballet to this?”

Logan’s mouth opened and closed like a beached fish fighting for its life. Nothing squeezed out but a long exhalation. Great, just great. She was about to make a fool of herself on national television for the second time this year.

Logan kept her fingers laced together across her backside, just as she’d done since entering the arena. Careful to hide the source of further humiliation from sight. How long would it be before they caught on?

Sophie didn’t miss a beat and addressed the crowd. “What do you think, guys? Hasn’t Logan rocked it as an Octagon Girl?” The camera swung away and zoomed in on a few hard-core fans. Logan flinched as the other woman’s fingers squeezed her arm. She looked up and caught her conspiratorial wink—or so it seemed. The popular television host had saved her the embarrassment of answering. Yet, with Sophie on her side, who needed enemies. After all, the woman was notorious for her abrupt surprises.

“Gentlemen, before we let Luscious strut her stuff up there in the cage, I want her honest reaction to what’s been plaguing viewers the most since her unfortunate departure from America Gets Its Groove On.”

Logan wished she could curl up into a tiny insignificant ball of nothingness and roll the hell out of there. Even in this more conservative outfit, there was no hiding them—her slightly above-average breasts were about to be re-measured, reassessed, and reevaluated once again. What was wrong with America when breast size captured more media attention than a Japanese tsunami and a Chilean earthquake combined?

Man how she wanted to fold her arms across her breasts, but didn’t dare move them from behind her. Because what was printed on her ass was beyond embarrassing.

Sophie waved her mic at a group of people and they shifted off to the sides, clearing space for her near the stairway. The reporter had considerately let her off the hook once again, or so it seemed.

Logan relaxed and stepped toward the opening in the crowd. That wasn’t so bad. This woman gets such an undeserving bad rap.

“Reunited for the first time since Logan’s abrupt departure from America Gets Its Groove On...” Logan didn’t hear the rest. At the unexpected sight of his smirking face, that helpless, falling feeling returned, like the ground had shifted out beneath her and the person standing in front of her found it more delightful if he didn’t catch her.

Logan braced herself for the second time that day. There was nothing else she could do.

Chapter Nineteen

CLINCH: Where two fighters face off, before one grabs the other and pulls him/her in tightly

“If this is your doing, you’re gonna eat some teeth.”

Jerry visibly winced at Keane’s threat before slinking off down the hallway. Clearly, the asshole hadn’t learned his lesson from the beating he’d earned earlier. Keane turned back from his place at the top of the ramp, scowling at the Jumbotron and the so-called “surprise reunion” playing out on it. More like “vicious ambush.”

The reporter seemed pleased with herself for surprising Logan like that. Her ex had a twisted grin on his face, clearly pleased with his stunt. Logan’s face filled the screen, her glossy, widened eyes and half-parted lips making her look like someone who’d lost her best friend. An emotional punch Keane was all too familiar with.

“Jerry set her up. I heard him tell that reporter she could have an interview,” Sal commented from his spot next to Keane. “I might be past my prime but I’ve got a few more jabs in me with Jerry’s name on them. Jeez, Logan looks like she’s gonna...hang on, what’s her ex saying?”

“...and I’d like to personally invite you to watch me perform with Anya on the finale of America Gets Its Groove On.” Pierre reached out and the cameras zoomed in on the envelope he was offering to Logan.

Sal swiftly headed back into the corridor with a parting, “I’ll crank up your entrance music.”

Keane snarled, his words undecipherable. If this crowd wanted a show, he’d give it to them, and he wasn’t about to wait for some freakin’ music. Stepping forward, he started down the ramp.

“Yo, Keane! Wait up, man. I had a hell of a time getting past security and had to pull out an old photo of you, me and Jimmy as proof we’re buddies. I can’t believe I almost missed this. Good thing your girl called me.”

Stevie jogged up next to him.

Luscious hadn’t left enough alone.

“Dude, you sure you’re up for this? Fighting might not be the healthiest thing for you right now. Not until you work out some...issues.”

“Zip it, man.” Keane shouted and lengthened his stride. He’d left strict orders for no visitor’s passes. Period. Just in case. Who the fuck had let him in?

Stevie shadowed him as he stalked down the ramp toward the group gathered cage side. “And this isn’t a fight you want to take on. This German guy’s the real deal. I know you’re tough, but you’ve been out of action for a while. Even on your best day—and God knows you’ve had many of those—this guy would have given you a run for your money.”

Keane felt his friend’s hand on his arm and shrugged it off. All of his attention was zeroed in on Logan’s beautiful-yet-stunned face spread out across every Jumbotron in the place. Her ex was in for a surprise—after Keane kicked his ass, he’d move on to kicking the German’s, then Jerry’s. Stevie would be next in line if he kept harping on things best left alone.

Stevie and Logan were two persistent thorns in his side, unsatisfied until he bled. Avoiding them both seemed paramount to his survival; hell, they didn’t realize how close he was to losin’ it with Jimmy’s death eating away at him like ants on a slice of pie. Beating the shit out of this German was just the cure he needed. And should have been his absolute focus right now, if he hadn’t caught the close up of Logan’s pained expression.

“I’m starting to think you’ve got a death wish or something. Come on, Keane, listen to what I’m saying. This fight isn’t worth it. You’re hurting yourself, man.”

On the Jumbotron, Twinkletoes took a step forward and Logan shifted backward. Keane’s fists clenched even tighter.

The feedback from a microphone trilled loudly, then music filled the arena—Aerosmith’s “Dream On.” The crowd jumped to their feet. All eyes swung his way. Their mouths moved. Keane thought they chanted, “Boom-Yay” but all he could hear was Steven Tyler singing about paying your dues in life. Just like fuckin’ Pierre was about to pay his dues.

Keane stalked toward the group. He caught the shift in images on a huge screen, and now his tight expression replaced Logan’s. Good. Let ’em see what’s headed their way.

Stevie deserved some credit, for his buddy stuck to him like glue in spite of his menacing expression and the overwhelming attention it garnered. Thankfully, Keane couldn’t hear a word of what his friend was yakking nonstop about.

Striding toward the cluster-fuck surrounding Logan, he muscled his way inside. Three sets of eyes widened in surprise. Two sets of eyes immediately filled with fear, and with good reason. Keane had been waiting for this asshole to show up so he could teach him a lesson.

A third set of surprised eyes, as clear and as lovely as grass in an otherwise bleak desert, met his own.

“Keane,” her lips mouthed his name. His eyes raked over every inch of her, from the top of her forehead to the tip of her Nike-clad toes. Her arms were folded behind her, thrusting her lovely breasts outward and upward. A desert storm had nothing on the emotions blazing through him. Look but don’t touch. Not again. Never again, or he’d be unable to stop. Running his hands over her body, that’s not what this was about. No, sex was easier.

This was deeper, this was him struggling to hold the fuckin’ floodgates of emotion at bay. You can’t have her. You’re not the man for her, someone who’ll protect her. Keep her safe.

His gaze was drawn to the swell of exposed skin at the top of her breasts, then up to her face, to eyes brimming with hope. And love.

Something inside him snapped.

And he lost his mind, completely.

* * *

Logan wasn’t sure what surprised her the most, being waylaid by Sophie Morelle, provoked by a smug-faced Pierre, or Keane’s abrupt appearance.

But what she did know was this: Keane never looked so fierce, with his beautiful tight lips and piercing blue eyes, possessive and conflicted. Pierre never looked so nervous, as if he’d been cornered in a pen by a wild animal. She knew with certainty that what goes around, comes around, and things had finally swung full force in Pierre’s direction. Keane was going to kick his lame ballerina ass if she didn’t stop him.

Fear of consequences made her jump between the two men. Keane would suffer more for attacking a spectator than Pierre would from the well-deserved beating. As much as she’d love to see her ex laid out on the floor—just like he’d left her all those months ago—she couldn’t let Keane be hauled off to jail on her account.

Keane’s hands shifted to her waist in a familiar move. Oh, no, Boom-Yay. You’re not moving me out of the way so easily. Ignoring everyone but him, she stepped in closer so their bodies touched. Keane tried to sidestep her, but she was ready and moved along with him.

“Logan...” he warned, his mouth close to her ear as he scooped her up. Mercifully, her sequined bottom was hidden by his embrace.

“Don’t do it. I know you promised but he’s not worth it. He’s not worth your getting into trouble.” Despite her plea, he spun her around and moved her out of his way. Her mind worked frantically for a solution, some way to prevent this inevitable debacle. She thought about wrapping her arms around his neck and holding tight. Hell, it had worked once before. But the tightness of Keane’s jaw reflected his determination. Logan would have to resort to more drastic measures. Surely, God would forgive her for the white lie she was about to tell.

“Ah, Keane. I’ve a slight problem here,” she began, yelling loudly in his ear. His scowl told her he was listening. Good. Better to play it up like it was a final performance at Lincoln Center. “The knot on my top is loose.”

Keane kept moving, a runaway train of a man unwilling to stop.

Then she did wrap her arms around his neck, pulled him tight, and leaned in closer. “Do not put me down. Wardrobe malfunction, here. I’m about to lose my halter top.”

His gaze narrowed on her face, assessing her words.

She opened her eyes, in what she hoped was an innocent look, and added for good measure, “If I reach back to retie it, everyone will see.”

“Damn.”

Logan smiled up at him. He cared enough about her to barge into this crowd and kick Pierre’s butt. He cared enough to prevent her from hosting her own Octagon Girl peep show. He cared.

“Don’t think this is over, Twinkletoes.” Keane turned and with the side of his arm, gave Pierre a strong shove, sending her dumbfounded ex flying backward. Tugging her in tighter, he headed up the ramp.

The crowd loved it. Not one to miss an opportunity, Sophie Morelle’s face filled the Jumbotron, as she added her take on what had just transpired. “Gentlemen, listen up. That is how you treat a lady. I’ll say, it’s the most romantic thing I’ve seen. He literally swooped in here and swept her off her feet. Nudged...well, maybe it was a bit more than a nudge...his rival for Logan’s attention out of his way. To hell with all this fighting. Those two lovebirds are the real deal.”

The real deal. More like a raw deal, once Keane realized her little white lie. Or maybe not. As soon as Keane cleared the entranceway, Logan unwound an arm from behind his neck and pretended to stretch.

Arching an elbow in the air, her fingers found the knotted string holding her top in place behind her neck. Deftly, she untwisted the bit of material and loosened it. No one was the wiser.

“Stop squirming,” he breathed into her ear.

“Um, my hair’s stuck. There we go.”

And there it went, the unraveled string falling freely across her back. Her lips twitched upward.

Steven Tyler’s crooning ended, replaced by the sound of approaching footsteps echoing on the cement floor. A Boy-Who-Cried-Wolf-like moment began playing out, as her top jiggled free and slipped from the sides of her breasts. Only her nipples, pressed tightly against Keane’s chest, remained covered. Pimp my plié, she’d asked for this. To make matters worse, instead of a wolf drawing closer, it was a massive, six-foot-five German. Hastily, she wrapped her free arm back around Keane’s neck.

The German and his entourage stopped. “Isn’t zis sveet.”

Keane shot out, “Yea, you’ll see sweet in five.” He brushed past the puzzled giant and his entourage, who were rapidly translating Keane-speak into German, and strode down the hallway.

His foot connected with the locker room door and it crashed open with a large boom.

“Don’t come any closer Jerry, or I swear my daddy will pull financing for Tetnus quicker than an angry bobcat,” Chloe’s startled voice cried out from behind the lockers.

Keane stopped short and abruptly set Logan down.

Logan called out to her friend in warning. “It’s me, Chloe, and I’m not alone. Give me a sec, okay?” In one quick rush, Logan’s tank top dropped to the floor.

“Jesus,” the beautiful man standing before her muttered. Logan racked her brain for a way to make him stay. His gaze raked over her and a lusty look she was all too familiar with briefly replaced the fierceness within his eyes. But with Chloe just around the lockers, seduction was out of the question.

Yet, she didn’t cover herself. Let him look his fill and remind him of what he was missing. Postpone the fight a little longer. Buy her time to try to persuade him once more. Make him love me.

Her breath caught in her chest at the last ridiculous thought. There was no making Keane do anything. Besides, she wasn’t about to force someone into loving her—no matter how her heart was breaking.

Pushing aside her own rampant emotions, she forced out, “He’s a beast. I’m worried about you being prepared to fight him.” Mentally, not physically, she wanted to add but refrained. Bringing up PTSD again was a bad idea right now.

He stepped closer, tension rolling off his muscles. Reaching out, his fingers swept across her stomach. Warm and gentle. She leaned closer, wanting more.

“No faith, you and Stevie.”

Logan had spotted the shocked expression on Stevie’s face as Keane hauled her out of the arena. Help had arrived, but he was nowhere to be found at present.

With a whisper of a touch, his fingers ran back across her stomach. The air seemed thick with unspoken lust. A distraction she couldn’t afford to give in to, not with Chloe close by. Not without having her say before he battled it out with the German.

“You can back out of this. I won’t hold you to our agreement.” Her voice raised as she spoke, distracted by his touch. “No question that Jerry’s already canned my ass, so you won’t be doing me any more favors.”

His fingers had ever nerve cell humming. Her body remembered the feel of him so well, his big hands on her, the way he filled her up and made her cry out her release.

“Wanna bet?”

“No he won’t, Logan. I’ll talk to Daddy on your behalf,” the sly, curious and evidently wealthy eavesdropper declared from behind the lockers.

Crinkle my camisole, Chloe. Logan couldn’t blame her. Given the situation, she’d have done the same thing if their roles were reversed. But the damage was done. Keane snatched his hand back and straightened to his full, unbendable height.

“Fix your top,” he said over his shoulder as he stalked out of the room.

* * *

The German and his crew were already in their lion’s den when Keane mounted the stairs and headed into the cage. Sal wildly gestured to him from his own corner, and he met up with the old timer in six long strides.

“Boyo, that was some show you and Luscious put on. But we’ve got bigger fish to fry here, lover boy.”

Keane scowled down until Sal shifted uncomfortably on his feet. Everyone doubted Keane’s ability to win against the Mad German, everyone except himself. His opponent was aggressive, with a skull as thick as granite. A worthy opponent. This was the kind of bout where he could let loose, maybe even enjoy himself, without worrying about killing the guy. He’d finally be able to unleash the mounting anger raging just below the surface.

“I can’t see how this guy made weight. Must be all flab, or someone’s tomfoolery is at play here. Either way, you’re gonna need to keep your distance because this guy’s reach is incredible.”

Keane jogged in place, loosening his muscles. His irritation grew as Sal voiced his doubts. Anger was good. This wasn’t freakin’ family fun night or a show you’d take Grandma to see. There was no place for nice here in the cage. Judging from the sly, intense looks the German was shooting him, nice was on a sabbatical.

Hell, there was a shit load of recent situations to fire up his rage. He visualized Logan’s stunned expression at Twinkletoe’s ambush. What had she called him, the fame whore? That ass had some balls showing up at an MMA bout and harassing her, just so his freakin’ face stayed in the papers. Yet, Logan had interfered again, and stopped him from smashing his face in. Well, Keane was gonna remedy that. When he was done with the German, Twinkletoes’ swollen face would be the last thing home viewers expected.

He let a few punches fly. These days, thoughts of Logan set him off quicker than a car bomb.

She had a way of maneuvering him to her will, just as she’d done a few minutes ago. Man, every fuckin’ guy in the place had a definite hard-on for her. Himself, included—but fuck knew it was a lot easier managing an untimely stiffy than the organ pounding away inside his chest.

He rolled his shoulders back, feeling the stretch in his muscles. Taking it to the mat was the only way to beat a brawler with a punching range like the German’s. Fist to fist wasn’t gonna do much. He threw a few more jabs and hooks, hoping his opponent misinterpreted his intent, and refocused on dredging up his hostility. It wasn’t hard to do.

Darting a hostile glance at the German, Keane swiftly pummeled the air, imagining the rodent-faced promoter standing to his left, and Logan’s asshole ex to his right.

Wouldn’t you know it, Jerry entered the cage at precisely the moment Keane stopped for a swig of water. The man had nine lives for sure. He seemed oblivious to Keane’s glare as he approached center cage.

With the bout seconds away from starting, Keane gave in to the biggest demon on his shoulder, the source feeding his anger like a twenty-four-hour virus: the asinine move he’d pulled this morning.

Sweet Jesus, when he’d snapped out of the nightmare and discovered Logan beneath him, he’d just about lost his mind. Unsure of what exactly had transpired but knowing oh-so-well what he was capable of doing. Combat had suited him well overseas but those days were over. Days he tried like hell to forget.

He’d come a hair’s breadth away from breaking loose on her. His fists had been balled tight and ready to fly. When he’d spotted the bruise on her creamy, pale stomach, he thought he had socked her a shot.

That was why he slept alone. Why Rosie and company were a few hours’ entertainment at best. The type of woman he should have stuck to.

God knew, Logan was different. Special. Someone he’d hugged close as he fell asleep. Someone he wanted to wake up to every day.

Someone he needed to shut out of his life as fast as possible—for her own good. And for the sake of his own freakin’ sanity. Move on and forget her, already. Forget everything.

Tonight, he’d prove his worth. Show her, and Stevie, that he was one tough son of a bitch. Prove once and for all he didn’t need help. Make them forget they’d ever bore witness to his fucked-up weaknesses. All he needed was time to figure it all out, and reconnect with the pleasure of pummeling a worthy opponent into pieces.

“Ladies and gentlemen, sorry for the delay in the main match-up of the evening. I’d like to draw your attention to our favorite Octagon Girl, Luscious Logan Rettino.”

Keane’s head snapped toward the stairs and spotted her. The Round One sign was firmly in place over her head. His features softened, though, as he glanced at her conservative deep purple halter top secured back in place. Move on and forget her, already. Forget everything, his mind repeated his newfound mantra.

He ignored her, Sal, Jerry and even Stevie, seated front row and center a few feet below. The German had his undivided attention, and was about to bear the brunt of all the unleashed emotions caged within him for so long.

Jerry returned to the mic and announced the bout. The horn blared, and with a few strategically misleading jabs, Keane stalked toward the center of the cage.

Chapter Twenty

HAYMAKER: A lethal, diving punch. If landed, it will likely change the outcome of a fight

“Nice shorts.”

Logan blushed and ignored Stevie’s comment, firmly planting her butt down in the seat next to him. Front row, behind Keane’s corner. An earthquake wouldn’t be enough to stir her from her chair. What was bedazzled in brightly colored sequins across the bottom of her fluorescent purple shorts was too humiliating for words. It took some work keeping them hidden, first by holding the card behind her, then, as she made her rounds, by keeping her bottom toward the cage. It had been a miracle Sophie Morelle, the crowd, and, most importantly, Keane, hadn’t spotted them. Still, who knew if the Jumbotron had zoomed in on the words displayed there.

Pierre was probably laughing his ass off somewhere in the audience. Funny how the thought didn’t bother her much.

Stevie intently studied the cage. “If he doesn’t keep a lid on his emotions, he’ll lose this match for sure.”

Logan snorted. If the lid containing Keane’s emotions was screwed on any tighter, she’d never tug the damned thing off. It must be a Marine thing, restraining all feelings to the point of having none at all. She supposed that’s what made a fighter an effective one during combat. What had Stevie noticed about Keane that she’d missed?

Nothing was out of the ordinary. With narrowed eyes, Keane glared at his opponent like a puma ready to pounce. He had the kind of quiet, contained ruthlessness that intimidated even the toughest of men—she’d witnessed this first-hand. In Logan’s opinion, the German even seemed nervous, with the way he swayed back and forth, keeping his distance within the eight-sided cage.

She gave voice to her thoughts. “Keane is a study in self-control. Believe me, I’ve tried to break through and get in close but every time I see a flash of...whatever...he shuts me out. He literally dropped me off on my stoop this morning without so much as a goodbye.”

Stevie ran his fingers across his chin thoughtfully. “Oh, he’s been bitten by the love bug, all right. I’ve never seen him so possessive about a woman before, and believe me, he’s had his share—no offense. Women have always loved Keane, that much hasn’t changed. For the most part, he’s loved ’em and left them. You, Logan, are the exception.”

Logan shook her head. “Stevie, have you been listening? Keane and I are no longer...” What were they, even? Partners? Boyfriend/girlfriend? Lovers? “He’s done with me. Things are different between us.”

“Listen, I know him better than anyone. Keane totally digs you. What is different is that he used to be more social, less distant. He’s more closed off and harder to reach these days. Like Dr. Felter said, a lot of guys experience the same issues after coming home. Believe me, I know. I’ve been working on my own issues all year. Try not to take it too personally.”

“He doesn’t want to hurt me—that’s what he keeps saying.”

With a small smile, Stevie glanced at her. “It’s a start, him admitting something is up, that he’s worried about how he handles you. See, your intervention wasn’t the failure you made it out to be. I’ve been trying to get him to speak with my therapist. Got to start somewhere.”

“He’s stubborn, that’s for sure.”

The fans erupted out of their seats, screaming and pointing at the fighters. Logan forgot everything she was saying, even the question on her lips about Keane’s so-called hang-up, as her gaze swung toward the cage and fell on his bleeding cheek. Before her widening eyes, the Mad German’s fist connected straight on with Keane’s nose, and the impact forced him backward a few steps.

With clenched fists, she angled her body for a better view of him. He seemed unfazed by the punch in spite of the blood.

The announcers were having a field day, speculating how fast the German was going to finish him off, but Logan tuned them out. Surely the referee would call the fight with one man injured?

“He better stay out of that dude’s reach or a broken nose isn’t all he’s gonna get.” Stevie shouted.

“Oh my God! Is his nose broken? Why is he still in there?”

“Shhh, don’t scream any louder, Logan. Keane will blow a gasket if he hears you. That’s what happens in MMA fights, things get broken.”

Logan shifted in her seat and looked around for the EMT crew. They’d know what to do, right? Except they were off to the side of the cage, nodding and laughing. No help there.

Keane wiped away the blood with his forearm, rolled his neck and jogged slowly around the cage, just out of the German’s reach. Intense and focused. Even with a bloody, swollen nose, he was too beautiful for words.

The German was just the opposite. An enormous brute with at least three inches on Keane, and twenty pounds. How had he even made weight? No way had this man’s underwear knocked off a pound or two on the scales. Logan’s gaze came to rest on Jerry standing off to the side of the cage with a smirk so broad he resembled a circus clown. Did Jerry screw with the damn scale so this heavy brute seemed to weigh less? She swallowed deeply. She wouldn’t put it past the jerk.

An explosion of activity rocked the cage. The German charged, his fists swinging. One connected with Keane’s arm. A big, beefy leg followed, hitting Keane in the same place and making him stagger back.

The fickle crowd roared with appreciation.

“I don’t think you should watch this, Logan. How about sitting this one out in the locker room?” Stevie shouted over the brouhaha.

Logan tightened her fingers around the undersides of the chair. She wasn’t going anywhere. She had to know he was okay.

Surprisingly, Keane was smiling. Her heart clenched. It was a rare occasion to get even a fleeting grin out of the man, yet there he was grinning like a cat who’d eaten a fat German canary. Had the punches to his face rattled his mind? Was he enjoying this?

Stevie spoke, his voice filled with trepidation. “I’ve seen that look before. Things are about to get ugly.”

Logan jumped to her feet, but Stevie grabbed her arm and tugged her back down. “Don’t distract him. I had it all wrong. Just watch.”

“Another kick like that and Boom-Yay is going to become See-yay,” the voice of an announcer predicted enthusiastically.

Once more, the German charged Keane. Closing in on him, his big, beefy bratwurst leg lifted and swung violently. Logan resisted the urge to squeeze her eyes shut, knowing she was about to witness a savage beating. “Keane,” she screamed and, wrestling her arm out of Stevie’s grasp, jumped to her feet.

What happened in the next few seconds was so fast that Logan barely had time to process it. The Mad German’s kick was short but close enough for Keane to wrap his arm underneath the man’s knee, lift it upward, and twist, knocking him belly down onto the mat. Without missing a beat, Keane was on top of him.

Logan fell back into her seat as Keane pushed the German’s head into the cage a few feet away. Keane’s arms flexed tight as they angled around his opponent’s body, his face tight with intent.

“Lukas, get your knees in. Get your knees in,” a corner man warned the other fighter.

Logan’s eyes widened. Surely, forcing an opponent onto his stomach and hitting his head into the cage wasn’t the way to win? Punches and kicks seemed more effective.

“Would you look at that? Man, I owe Coach an apology.” Stevie laughed beside her. “Wonder what he’s aiming for?”

Logan heard the admiration in his voice, as clear as day. The announcers went silent and, except for the German’s trainer screaming out directions and the grunts of the two men wrestling around on the mat, an uncharacteristic hush fell over the arena.

Keane thrust his chest into the German’s back and came up onto his knees. Shifting off to the side, he angled his arm over and underneath his opponent’s neck.

Stevie sprang to his feet and fist pumped the air. “That’s it, Keane. Get ’em in a headlock.”

Logan gripped the seat tighter, not knowing what to expect. The German’s eyes opened wide and, for a second, focused on her. It occurred to her that he knew what was coming a moment before it happened.

Keane pushed up to a crouch and then, in one fluid movement, sat back on the mat. His legs wound up and around the German. His arm flexed around the man’s neck. Logan gasped and came to her feet as Keane rolled backward. With disbelief, she watched him flip the German over his body.

Stevie jumped up and down next to her. “Shit, shit, shit. He’s going for it—a Peruvian necktie. You’re witnessing the most lethal choke hold of all. Very few fighters have mastered it. Keane’s making it look like a walk in the park, too.”

This was a Peruvian necktie? The almighty MMA move that seemed to excite everyone from fighters to fans? Logan shook her head. She’d always thought it sounded like something a fighter passed around as a joke, a way to showcase how refined he was—like wearing a black silk bowtie at a wedding. What a misleading name for such a brutal maneuver.

Euphoric chaos broke out in the arena as the German tapped Keane three times on the forearm.

“Boom-Yay, Boom-Yay, Boom-Yay,” chanted the fans.

The announcers sounded stunned. “The Mad German submits to a masterful Peruvian necktie.”

An open-mouthed Stevie still hopped in place next to her, his eyes fixed on the cage.

The German lay on his back, coughing and gasping for breath, as he stared up in what could only be bewilderment at the man hovering over him.

Astonishment, fanatical pride, and respect echoed throughout the voices in the arena. The same sentiments filled their eyes. Logan had seen vaguely similar expressions spread across fan faces at a Pittsburgh Steelers Super Bowl party she’d attended while on tour.

“Boom-Yay, Boom-Yay, Boom-Yay!”

Her gaze fell on the source of their admiration. Keane. Her breath hitched. He didn’t seem surprised, or euphoric, or proud. She had a clear view of his beautiful, battered face as he stood over the German. He looked...miserable.

She marched forward, grabbed hold of the cage, and looked up at him. “Keane,” she called out. He looked up and their eyes connected. The air rushed out of her lungs at the unspoken emotion within his blue depths. This is not a normal reaction from a guy who’d just outmaneuvered an opponent twice his weight and size.

“Keane,” she shouted, uncaring who heard or about how terrible her timing was. “I love you, you hear me? I love you, no matter what.”

Her declaration did the trick, all right. Something changed in his expression. A brief softening. And in the next second, it was gone and replaced by his oh-too-familiar tough-as-nails expression. Logan empathized with the German—Keane caused her throat to restrict enough that she felt like coughing and gasping for breath. His rejection stung.

Sal sprinted up and tried to dab Keane’s nose with a towel. Keane brushed it away. He was so good at that, pushing people away. Sal was a stronger person than she was, she noted, watching him shuffle off, hot on Keane’s heels. Logan watched Keane stalk away, out of the cage, and out of the arena. Every Jumbotron captured the image of the ferocious fighter’s abrupt departure.

“There he goes, ladies and gentlemen. The welterweight who will now be going up against Caden Kelly for the championship later this evening. Don’t go anywhere.”

She needed to get a grip. If Keane truly wanted nothing to do with her, she had no choice but to let him go. Her heart raced inside her chest but she tried to ignore it. Moisture coated her eyes but she blinked the tears back. She had to get out of there before the media caught sight of the Octagon Girl who’d just received her own version of a Peruvian necktie from the man she loved.

Stevie interrupted her self-inflicted pity party. “Ah, Logan. Don’t take it so hard. I don’t think he heard you—”

“My father way out in San Diego heard me. I couldn’t have shouted it any louder. I’m done here. I might love the guy but if this is the way he reacts to it...”

He took her by her arm and moved her over to the chair. “Sit. I’m going to explain something to you, whether Keane wants me to or not.”

Logan cut him off. “I know more about PTSD than you think. A lot of veterans suffer from this, right? You don’t see them fighting in MMA bouts with broken noses. Acting all nice and sweet one minute and surly and tight-lipped the next.”

Stevie smiled, and Logan wanted to smack him on the side of the head. “Nice and sweet, huh? I’d have loved to be a fly on the wall for that. Keane’s never been the type to be gentle.” His face became more serious. “PTSD does fuck around with a veteran’s emotions. Depression, anger, and even sadness might ambush a guy emotionally. You can’t even fathom the shit we’ve seen—done—in the line of duty. It’s nothing people stateside can begin to relate to.”

“Well, it’s your turn to convince him to get help. I tried, and he showed me the door so fast my head spun.”

Stevie studied her, assessing her words.

Am I really just going to walk away from him? It wasn’t like she’d been given a choice in the matter. Keane was calling all the shots.

“You know the expression ‘the people you love hurt you the most’?”

“I sure do. Along with the expression, ‘Love like you’ve never been hurt.’ Well guess what? Here’s a quote for the originators of these ridiculous expressions: ‘Bite me.’ She looked around for Jerry. Retiring from her gig as an Octagon Girl was the first thing she was going to do. Boscov’s, here I come.

“When you suffer from PTSD, sometimes the people you love the most hurt you with their kindness, and with their love. Weird, I know. But after some of the shit we’ve done, love isn’t something we feel worthy of. See what I’m getting at here?”

“Now you can bite my ballerina behind, Stevie! Keane doesn’t love me. He doesn’t even like me.”

“You didn’t see his face when he hauled your ballerina butt outta here. If that wasn’t love, then I don’t know what it was. But there’s more to Keane’s issues than PTSD.”

Logan folded her arms across her body as if they might keep her heart from falling out of her chest. She thought about the other conversations they’d had, and Keane’s brutal withdrawal afterward. She knew the direction this conversation was headed. “Jimmy?”

“Yep, fuckin’ Jimmy.”

“Okay, you’ve got me. His name has come up so many times, I feel like I know him like a brother...” Logan’s voice wavered. Something in Stevie’s manner made the hair on her arms stand up.

“You got to understand...it’s bad.”

“Okay. But you’ve got to understand. I love him.”

Stevie smiled, fleetingly. “Keane’s gonna kick my ass for telling you this. But hell, I’ve been trying to help him since the funeral.” He shook his head as if in disbelief and added, almost to himself, “And, here he goes, and falls in love, despite the load of shit he’s bearing.”

Logan wanted to believe him, hoping her feelings weren’t one-sided, and that Stevie was right—that Keane loved her.

“I know him well, know he’s struggling. I don’t want to see him push you away. Not when I think you’re the only thing keeping him going...”

“Please, just tell me.” So far, the media was busy recapping the fight. Most of the crowd was refreshing their hot dog and beer purchases. Jerry had run off to who knows where. All while Logan’s world was crashing around her and she didn’t even know why.

“Keane killed Jimmy. At least, that’s what he thinks.”

An invisible sucker punch knocked the air out of her. “What?”

“Keane and Jimmy fought in a championship bout sponsored by the Marines. You already know Keane was a trainer for MMA fighters. Jimmy had been his sparring partner for God knows how many years. The Marines wanted a morale-boosting event, something to take the guys’ minds off of car bombs and Afghani rebels.” Stevie ran a hand over his cheek, deep in thought, before continuing, “Keane won with a K.O.—”

“He knocked him out? That isn’t so surprising.”

“Yeah, guess not. It’s what MMA fighters aim to do, right? Typical.”

“And...” she pressed on anxiously.

“Jimmy was out, and I mean O-U-T, for a few minutes. But when he came to, he refused to see a medic or go to the unit. I remember Keane cursing out him for being so headstrong.”

“How did Jimmy die? Did it have something to do with Keane knocking him out? Or was he killed in the line of duty? I don’t get it.”

“After Keane and I finished our last tour and headed home for good, Jimmy was deployed to the Afghanistan/Pakistan border. During an attack, he had a freaking brain aneurysm. He was the main cover for his unit as they moved across an abandoned terrorist encampment. Turns out, it wasn’t abandoned. He barely got a round out of the machine gun before the aneurysm happened.”

Logan bit her lip hard, tasting blood. Oh my God. Poor Jimmy. And...Keane.

“Most of his unit was slaughtered,” Stevie continued. “When an investigation into the matter revealed the cause of his death, it made the military papers. I knew Keane would see it, and that he’d totally lose it. Fuck, they were best friends. Then, I got a hold of him. He could barely speak as he spilled his guts. Afterward, he closed up. Shut me out. End of discussion. The guilt was—is—eating him up inside.”

Logan squeezed her arms tighter. Her heart thumped loudly in her chest. She thought about Keane’s reluctance to fight. The expression on his face every time he did so. His anguish over knocking that kid, Smitty, out. The misery in his eyes when he hovered over the German. PTSD wasn’t the only issue Keane needed help addressing. It was the lesser of the two evils. “Keane genuinely believes—”

“—he killed Jimmy and the men in his unit.”

Chapter Twenty-One

GRAPPLING: When fighters take the action down to the mat

Logan was waiting for Keane when he came out of the locker room. She had more determination than one of his former drill sergeants, prodding, hassling and trying to wear him down during interrogation training. Big Sarge’s goal had been to make Keane crack and spill the beans. Hell, if Logan dropped the L-bomb again, shouting I love you so loudly the arena shook, she might just succeed at accomplishing what Sarge had failed so miserably at doing.

“Bleeding leotards, your nose!”

Keane ignored her and tried brushing past. She blocked his path. No tame missus here, she had reason to fear him yet she planted her Nikes firmly on the concrete floor and stood her ground.

He loved the way her eyes flashed green when she was riled up. The way her hair unfurled from its ponytail and framed her lovely face. How her lithe, graceful movements reflected her self-discipline, the same type of control he’d trained for himself, first as a Marine, then as a fighter.

Her luscious curves jiggled underneath her conservative purple halter top. Her hands found her hips. She cocked her head and stared him down. Man, Logan was a force to be reckoned with. There wasn’t a lot he didn’t love about her. He just couldn’t go there, for both their sakes.

“When are you going to stop punishing yourself?” she demanded.

“In case you missed it, the German ate the mat. I’d say I punished him.”

A strand of blond hair fell into her face. She blew it away. “That’s not what I’m talking about. Stevie told me everything, Keane. Even about Jimmy.”

A brutal, mental ambush—that’s what this was. Wait until he got his hands around Stevie’s neck. She knew.

Yet, the sudden rush of anger didn’t come. Nor did the urge to beat up a locker or lay a kick down on someone. Instead, he felt empty. Dropping her back home on her stoop like that should have been her red flag. A clean break. Nice knowing you. Don’t need you around to witness how my life’s fucked up way beyond hope. He pressed his lips together, stepped around her and heard her sigh.

“Okay, you don’t have to say anything. All I want you to know is you don’t have to deal with this alone. I’m here for you. So is Stevie. And, professional help is available. But I can’t lead a horse to water. This is something you’re going to have to want.”

“All I want is to get this fuckin’ fight over with. Later.” He feinted left, then dodged her on the right. Out of his peripheral vision, he caught her flinch. Softly, he added, “Got a dance school to fund.”

“Please...I don’t want you to fight. I’m good, really. A few weeks at Boscov’s and I’ll have my studio. This isn’t healthy, Keane. I know it, Stevie knows it, you know it. Forget about Tetnus and Jerry.”

Yeah, like that was gonna happen. What did she think all the booze, pills and women had been for? To forget. The word was like a slow poison gnawing away at him. He couldn’t fuckin’ forget, that was the point. Not Jimmy. Not...her.

Shit, he couldn’t seem to shake thinking about her: the way she looked in the mornings, with her hair all rumpled and sexy as hell; how damned good she felt curled up next to him asleep; how every time he set eyes on her, something shifted inside of him. Logan and Jimmy—they’d both found a way to crawl beneath his thick skin and mess with his freakin’ soul. But, no way was Logan going to suffer the same fate as Jimmy.

“I know you’re a private man. How you hate being harassed about anything, by Stevie or me. I’ll say it once more, and that’s it. You need expert advice, from a professional like Dr. Felter. There’s no shame in it. Just contact her, okay? Talk to her and let her help you. Calling her is the first step toward figuring stuff out. I’ll wait for you.”

“Nothing to figure out. So, don’t waste your time.”

He lengthened his stride, yet only made it a few steps down the corridor before she shouted his name. Although he should have ignored her, he stopped and turned around.

“Don’t you think Jimmy would want you to be happy? Have a life? To care?”

Her words pierced him like daggers. But it was the hurt in her tone that really dug deep.

Fuck, hurting people was the only thing he was good at.

He shoved back the feelings swelling up in him, and instead focused on the sexy sway of her hips as she narrowed the distance between them. Hips that said she was full of purpose. Damn if Logan wasn’t looking for a way to make him tap out.

He rolled his neck and acted as if he didn’t give a shit.

“Was it all a lie? What happened between us in the cable car? Did I get it all wrong?”

She had to go there, and bring up the cable car. His throat tightened and he fought for control. Man, it had to be written all over his face. He was gonna lose this battle, big time.

She stepped closer, unaware of how precarious a situation she was in. “You are not fighting again tonight, or any other night. Got it?” Poking him in the chest with a finger, she continued, “I’m going to go tell Jerry right now that you quit.”

“No,” he stated. What the hell was she thinking? He’d fought a goddamn kid for her! He wasn’t turning back now. This was their shit-ass plan, after all.

“Yes. You owe me something, Keane,” she rasped.

What the fuck—stop the fight? Was she trying to emotionally bribe him? “No can do. I’m finishing what’s been started.” Man, her words got to him, like she was asking him for something he didn’t want to—couldn’t—give her. He’d fight, all right. And she’d get that money for her school and go on with her life.

Without him.

Her expression changed, softened. A warning as clear as a bullhorn. A fighter should always be prepared for a jab, yet he saw it coming a second too late. “For the record, no matter what happens from this moment on, I still love you.”

She pivoted on her Nikes, and stalked away. His attention was drawn to her freakin’ boy shorts, and instantly, he felt like he’d been hit with a surprise cross punch, full force. One that knocked the wind out of him.

In bold sequined letters, the word Boom ran diagonally down her left cheek. A horizontal dash crossed at her waist. On her right cheek Yay’s was diagonally written so the two words combined into a V shape right above the curve of her ass. Boom-Yay’s. Running straight across the bottom of both buns was the word Girl. The print was small—hell, her ass was small. But when the cameramen caught sight of her glittering butt, the Jumbotrons would make the words pop out bolder than any billboard. Boom-Yay’s Girl.

There it was. His feelings printed on her damned shorts for the world to see. Might as well add the word love to the sparkling mess. Plaster it smack on her ass in brilliant sequined emotions.

He rubbed his fingers over his temples. Would the pain of loving, then losing, someone ever go away?

He had no choice.

Sprinting down the corridor, he caught up with her and scooped her up into his arms.

“What? Keane...”

“This changes nothing, Logan,” he barked, hoarsely. Stalking down the corridor, he stopped in front of the ladies’ locker room and kicked the door open.

“Oh no, you don’t. I have to find Jerry,” she firmly stated, catching on to his intentions.

“Chloe!” he bellowed.

“This is not going to happen. Don’t think my friend is going to go all Benedict Arnold on me. Octagon Girls stick together, right Chloe?”

He’d heard the other woman gasp from behind the lockers. “Get over here, Chloe!”

Logan squirmed in his arms but he held on tight.

Chloe appeared from around the corner, breathless.

“Get Sal. Fast.” Logan kicked him in the shins.

The tension inside him was unbearable, the kind only satisfied by getting physical—pounding some flesh, hard. Fast. For as long as it took to calm the fuck down. To forget.

“Chloe,” Logan warned beneath clenched teeth. “Remember whose side you’re on. Think about who took care of you when that bottle of Stoli grabbed hold of your senses. Who gave you tips for overcoming your nerves, without a liquid diet. A friend who—”

Keane bounced her in his arms.

Logan clawed at him.

As Chloe sprinted out of the locker room, he heard her say, “Be back in a flash.”

Setting Logan down gently, he rooted her in place with his hands so she couldn’t follow her ditsy cohort. Much like how her words rooted themselves in a place deep inside him. Logan, with her I love you. Shit.

“Promise me you won’t fight.”

“This was our agreement and I’m sticking with it.”

“Fuck the agreement.”

His hands almost fell off her hips at the rawness of her curse. “It’s for the best.”

“What? Locking me inside a locker room so I can’t watch you get hurt. Physically and emotionally? I can’t let you do this.”

“That’s not what I’m talking about.” He grabbed a soft blond lock and rubbed it between his fingers before smoothing it back behind her ear. Everything about her felt nice. His chest tightened. “It’s for your own good.”

“What is?”

Shit. Didn’t she realize he was doing this for him and her?

“I love you. No matter what.”

Who was he kidding? He was a mixed bag of unresolved issues. But, he’d deal with them on his own terms. He’d do this, for his sanity. And for her sake.

“Everything.”

* * *

“I know you can hear me, Sal!” Logan pounded on the locker room door and paused for her unsolicited bodyguard’s response. Grandpa Romeo was uncharacteristically quiet. “Come on, Sal. This is important. I’ve got to talk to Jerry.”

She kicked the door, then pressed her forehead against it. In a low voice, she asked, “Sal, do you see the way Keane is after every bout, whether he dominates his opponent or not? He’s not euphoric like Jaysin Bouvine or any of the other fighters. Fighting isn’t healthy for him. I can’t tell you all the specifics, but you have to let me out of here.”

“Nope. Jerry will fire you for sure. Keane said as much.”

So at least he was out there. “What do you mean ‘nope’? Nope as in you don’t notice how miserable Keane gets after a bout, or nope as in you’re keeping me hostage here in the ladies’ locker room?”

“Sorry, Logan. Wha’d you say? My lady friend’s pissed the bouts aren’t over yet. Just texting her back.”

Twist my tights. At this rate, she’d never get out of here in time.

“Keane says you’ve lost your marbles. What are you thinking, stopping the fight? The way Keane handled the German, the model’s gonna be a piece of cake.” He sounded distracted, as if Keane’s wins were an afterthought.

Something slammed against the door and Logan jumped back in alarm. “Sal?”

Sal muttered from the other side. “Flowers and chocolate weren’t enough for her.”

“Please let me out. Don’t make me call the police,” she lied, knowing her cell phone was dead.

The door shook once again, vibrating loudly on its hinges. She almost missed Sal’s next comment. “She broke up with me for a pizza delivery boy. Says his hours of work suit her needs better.”

Had Grandpa Romeo been listening to anything she’d been saying? Maybe her approach was all wrong. “Let me see the text, Sal. I’m sure you’re misreading it.”

“‘Don’t call or text me again. Antonio gives better...’ humph.” It sounded like something was caught in his throat.

Poor Grandpa Romeo. Looking for love in all the wrong places. Not that Logan was an expert on the subject, given the way Keane’d dropped her faster than an overcooked Polish kielbasa. Wait a minute... “Sal, I’ll make a deal with you.”

No response came from the other side of the door. She hoped he was listening. “If you unlock the door and let me out of here, I’ll fix you up with a lovely woman. Someone more your speed. Someone who’ll crave your humph.”

“Your sister, maybe?” Sal sounded hopeful.

Logan felt hopeful, herself. “Ah, not exactly. But I can promise you, there’s no way she’ll ever dump you for an Italian dough boy. And, I know for a fact that her bra size is much larger than mine.”

The door opened so fast, if Logan weren’t so nimble, she would have fallen through it.

“Deal.” Grandpa Romeo grinned at her. “So what’s her number?”

* * *

The excited chatter of the MMA fans calmed Logan’s racing heart. She’d made it out of the locker room, down the corridor and to the arena in time. The fighters hadn’t yet been announced.

Standing on her toes, she scanned the crowd until she spotted Chloe’s dark hair by the cage. She seemed uncharacteristically calm and collected. Guess there was only room for one Octagon Girl freak-out per bout.

Logan saw Stevie standing over by Keane’s corner. From this distance, he was a speck among the masses. Maybe Stevie could talk some sense into Keane?

Jerry was over by the broadcasters’ table, animatedly chatting up the reporters and trying to drum up more financing for his fighters headed to Tetnus. Damn. Damn. Damn. Horrible timing. What she had to say to him was best done in private—for so many reasons. Who knew what Jerry would do if she confronted him now? A horrible, way-too-public cuss-fest was more than likely.

The same helpless feeling she’d had the moment her ankle snapped returned. Just like then, she struggled for some sense of control.

She desperately needed a Plan B.

Adjusting her top, she worked her way down the ramp. Closer to Stevie. Closer to where Keane would be.

“Hey, Luscious.” She waved in the general direction of the fan who’d called her name. When her gaze swung back around, she noticed Sophie Morelle standing by the cage at the end of the ramp. The reporter hadn’t seen her yet, she was too busy scribbling in her notebook. Alone. Intent on recording whatever it was inside the big black book. Presenting a prime opportunity for Logan to approach her and set the record straight about Pierre.

Strike fast and move on to more important matters, Logan. The righteously vindictive part of her spurred her on.

It was a perfect chance at revenge.

But she’d held out on airing the dirty laundry this long. Pierre counted on it, didn’t he? Knowing how much she hated the notoriety. Banking on her to keep her mouth shut and growing more and more confident in her silence. Her problems were so insignificant compared to Keane’s, yet the first step to solving them was admitting you had one. That was Dr. Felter’s recommendation. That’s what Logan had told Keane.

It was time for her to take the good Doc’s advice.

“Over here, Logan,” another fan hollered. She shot him a grin over her shoulder but her attention remained on Sophie, who was still busy writing her notes. Perfect.

Swift and fast.

But before she took another step forward, she spotted him. The biggest, smuggest, most self-serving ass she’d ever regretted crossing paths with was now hovering in the aisle, smack in between her and Sophie Morelle. It wasn’t a coincidence how close he lurked to the reporter.

Logan was about to give him an earful. This time, she was ready for him.

In her short career in the cage, her world, priorities and heart had shifted. Now he stood in her place, her Octagon arena, with hundreds of her adoring fans. And even if tonight was her last as Octagon Girl, Pierre wasn’t the star. She was.

What goes around, comes around, Pierre. Revenge was going to taste oh-so sweet. Fame...he could keep it. Logan planned on hitting him where he’d least expected it, in his pocket.

She squared her shoulders and strode forward until she was close enough to hear his wheezing exhale.

“Pierre.”

The jerk didn’t even greet her, just began speaking nervously, “About the finale. You know, Anya and I are slated to win. The hip hop duo and belly dancers aren’t real dancers. But any negative press could really hurt us, affect how America votes.”

“You are so damn arrogant. What won’t you do for fame, huh?”

“The show’s executives think you should be there.”

Logan gave a mental fist pump in the air. Surprise. Surprise. The wholesome family show was fed up with his bullshit, that’s what he really was saying. This was perfect. Upon spying Pierre, she’d made a split decision—she was going to take him down, with money instead of fists. Though she wouldn’t walk away from the opportunity to land a well-deserved kick. Make him sing instead of dance.

She decided to forfeit some of her savings for lawyer fees. Her salary from Keane winning the fifth bout was enough to cover a few months more in rent, plus initial lawyer fees. Money well spent. But knowing the networks needed her to make nice—that Pierre needed her—that was priceless. And she’d thought his showing up was a publicity stunt. Ha.

“It’s reality TV, Logan. Everyone wants their favorites to win or there’s no show.”

Pierre ignored her Keane-worthy scowl, and continued on, “I’ll apologize on television about the fall—”

“Drop it, Pierre. We both know the truth,” she stated, her tone suspiciously calm, void of all the heartache he’d caused. Hell, she had bigger heartaches to contend with. Make it fast, or it’ll be too late.

He swiveled his head around and nervously eyed the crowd, as if his lie had been announced over the loud speakers. “Ah, about that—”

“One million cash, or I tell all. Tonight.” She bit her lip, then added, “Plus payment of the full sale price on the co-op. All my antique furniture, china and porcelain collectibles.”

Pierre’s face flushed a beautiful scarlet shade. “That’s nearly everything I’m making off the show...”

“...and, I keep the painting.”

That did the trick. The vein in Pierre’s forehead popped out like a sugar beet root. “You told me it had been stolen. Why you...liar!” All self-control gone, he stomped around the ramp, enraged.

Sophie Morelle’s head snapped up from her notebook.

Logan had Pierre exactly where she wanted him. Now he was the one about to get dropped on his ass.

The arena reverberated with the opening chords of a Def Leppard song. Not that it stopped Sophie Morelle and her cameramen from heading up the ramp. Or Pierre, who was in full temper-tantrum mode, flailing about like a child who’d had his toy snatched away.

But the music signaled the beginning of the bout, forcing Logan’s hand. She could finish off Pierre and expose him as a liar once and for all. It would be so easy to hand that bloodhound of a reporter an Emmy-worthy story of lies and deceit. Or Logan could high-tail it over to the cage and hastily figure out Plan B with Stevie.

Pierre was going through some kind of metamorphosis on the ramp, his face flaming red, his fingers clenching and unclenching, but grinning like they’d just had the most pleasant conversation. Clearly, he’d caught sight of Sophie and company.

“So my breasts caused you to drop me—that was your lame-ass excuse?” she began, raising her voice high enough to earn some attention. How far could she push Pierre? His fear of being thrown off his precious show was priceless. Bad press? It was his turn to grovel. “I wonder what Sophie’s going to do when I clarify things; tell her how you need beginner lessons in ballet 101, where most dancers learn how to position their feet in preparation to catch their partner. Helps with a little thing called balance.”

Sophie Morelle was sprinting toward them. Pierre saw her, too. The blood drained out of his face. Good, she had the jerk right where she wanted him.

Someone cranked up the music. “Bringin’ on the Heartbreak,” a Def Leppard classic.

Of course, the song had to be about heartbreak. Damn. Damn. Damn.

The bout was beginning momentarily. The source of her genuine heartbreak was headed toward the ring.

Payback was within her power.

Sophie bit her lip and paused. And then she let the perfect moment for revenge slip away. Nothing was more important than the man headed toward the cage. She had to stop the fight.

Logan stepped back. In a total Keane move, she feinted left, hustled by a surprised Sophie on the right, and headed down the ramp without a backward glance.

Chapter Twenty-Two

GROUND AND POUND: A wrestling move, where a fighter secures his/her opponent to the mat and punches them, in an attempt to get them to submit

Keane jogged in place at the top of the ramp. Figures the underwear model would select such a lame-ass song for his entry music, some crap about heartbreak. He watched his opponent pause and lean in toward that abrasive redheaded reporter below. A similar gesture to the moves he’d been putting on Logan. This crowd-pleaser was a real ladies man. But could this Marky Mark handle himself in the cage?

Not your problem. Not like he’s a kid.

His temple throbbed. The days of fighting for pleasure were long gone. All he seemed to do lately was agonize over putting a beating on guys who’d willingly entered into the cage, most of them trained in mixed martial arts moves Keane hadn’t used in ages. It was incredible he’d been able to even pull off a Peruvian necktie on the German. A move he planned on never using again, not after the way the German had been fighting for breath.

When are you going to stop punishing yourself?

He rolled his shoulders as if the gesture might shake off the question foremost in his head. And shake off the image of Logan, with her piercing green eyes and her throaty voice so full of...love. She should have known better than to get involved with such a mean bastard, should have listened to Rosie’s warning the night of the snowstorm. She should count her blessings he’d be leaving her in one piece, unharmed and better off.

A Marine always finished what he’d started, it was part of a fighter’s code of honor. Stuff the emotional shit. Hell with sentiment. Love. Keane felt a familiar fury wash over him, and he took comfort in it.

If he had a hood, he’d have yanked it over his head. A way to block everything and everyone out. Bare-chested was one thing, but bare-headed left him...exposed. Gritting his teeth, he headed down the ramp.

The fans jumped to their feet and fist pumped the air. “Boom-Yay, Boom-Yay, Boom-Yay.” He ignored them and focused on the welterweight standing with the reporter and her crew. Judging by the way the redhead’s attention kept angling Keane’s way, she intended to interview both of them, like this was some demented freak show or something. Fuck that.

He lengthened his stride, planning on brushing by the group.

“Hey, Boom-Yay, wait up.” Freakin’ great, the underwear model. “Don’t take this personally but I’ve got moves the German’s never seen. Just thought I’d warn you now—this is gonna be some match-up.”

Keane snorted. The mics picked up on it, and cameramen shifted their gear high on their shoulders, ready to capture the unscripted drama unfolding on live television.

The welterweight smoothed things over. “Never seen someone pull off a Peruvian necktie like that. Man, you’ve got mad technique.” Assuming a fighter’s stance, his opponent lifted his fists chest level for a knuckle tap. A perfect photo op.

At least he’d stopped yapping. Keane didn’t want to hear anymore, didn’t want to like the freakin’ guy. Get the picture over with and get out of Dodge. He lifted his fists.

The redhead nudged her way between them. “Hold up, guys. One sec. Ready? Lights. Camera. Action. This is Sophie Morelle reporting from Mellon Arena and the match-up of all match-ups for the welterweight championship. The winner of this bout will move on to Tetnus in Las Vegas this July.”

Keane shifted, but Sophie grabbed him by the arm.

“You can’t begin to imagine how buff these guys are, how strong.” A red fox had nothing on this sly redhead. Yet, it was equal rights for all, as she dropped Keane’s arm and snagged the forearm of his opponent, who—to give the guy some credit—looked equally displeased.

Caden tried stepping back. Keane spotted how Sophie’s leg wound around the back of his ankle, stopping him. How she easily manipulated a six foot three, one hundred and seventy pound brawler as if he were a toddler.

“This guy’s got a body like a Greek god. C’mon ladies, you know you’ve seen his package plastered on every billboard from Pittsburgh to Los Angeles.”

At the mention of the billboards, Caden’s brows narrowed so much, Keane spotted two thick creases form on his forehead. Man, he felt sorry for the guy.

His opponent’s hand snaked around Sophie’s waist and nudged her away.

Sophie held her ground, and with a surprising combination of lethal hip and carefully placed foot, she gyrated into him. Except he moved sideways. Everything was a freakin’ blur after that.

His opponent angled away from the reporter. She went flying by him and straight into a cameraman. Like a slow motion movie, the cameraman lost his balance, the huge camera on his shoulder tottered and came crashing forward, smack into the back of Caden’s head.

Keane reached for him. But it was too late. His eyes rolled into the back of his head and then, Marky Mark was out for the count.

“Get the medics, now!” Keane bellowed, kneeling over the guy.

“He’s not...dead?” Sophie cried out, falling to her knees beside the unconscious man and grabbing his wrist. “Thank God, a pulse.”

Cameras flashed around them. Pandemonium broke out in the arena. A few people standing around them looked stunned.

Keane took it all in until his chest contracted so tightly, he had to gasp for breath. His skin felt damp and cold. This situation was way too familiar for comfort.

His opponent didn’t so much as twitch. Damn, it wasn’t a good sign. Keane should know; Jimmy hadn’t twitched either.

Jimmy had been flat on his back, one leg bent, his head twisted sideways. His brown eyes blank and unresponsive. His teasing smile muted. An image Keane tried to forget, but couldn’t. He’d killed his best friend with a knock out—except it had taken him months to die.

“Where are the goddamned medics?” He yelled again, tearing his eyes away from his opponent and searching the crowd for help.

“What have you done to my welterweight?” Jerry was the first to burst into the melee, jockeying for position between the arriving EMT crew and the hordes of converging reporters. “If he’s isn’t able to fight in the next bout, I’m going to sue you, your parents, your boyfriend, your television station, the whole lot,” he threatened Sophie. Jerry turned toward the medics. “You too. Either do your job and fix him or you’re all gonna pay!”

Jerry’s wild gaze fixed on Keane. “You! What do you think you’re doing? Get up and get the hell in the cage. We’ve got a fight to win.”

Keane stood, and blinked. At least this asshole had snapped him back into the present. “He gonna be okay?” Keane asked one of the EMTs as he helped lift his unconscious opponent onto the stretcher.

“We’ll need to check him out at the hospital. A knot on the head the size of a baseball might mean there’s swelling inside. Nasty concussion. Ah, think I can get an autograph? I’ll get his later.”

Jerry tried to body block the stretcher. “No, no, no. Where are you taking him?”

“Enough!” Keane barked out and snatched the medic by the scruff of his neck. “If you interfere, you’re gonna be laid out on a stretcher headed outta here too.”

“But what about the bout?”

Keane couldn’t bear looking at Jerry, let alone express the obvious answer. He had to get outta there before he lost it completely. Turning, he noticed Logan hovering just outside of the circle, studying him intently. Watching how freakin’ weak and raw he was. How the fuck did she get out of the locker room?

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Felix’s voice boomed. “For the first time in MMA history, by way of K.O. the loser in tonight’s much-anticipated welterweight bout is...Sophie Morelle.”

Keane heard Sophie cry out, but ignored her. The stretcher cleared the top of the ramp.

“Are you okay?” He felt Logan’s warm hand on his chest, over his heart. A quickening heart that’d give a racecar driver a run for their money. Thump. Thump. Thump. No, I’m far from okay.

“Sal,” he snapped at the handler who’d come up next to her—another face gawking at him like he had two heads. He narrowed his eyes on the trainer. He couldn’t look at Logan, unwilling to watch her expression fill with pain from what he was about to do. Time to call it quits.

“I’m done. Make sure she makes it home okay.”

“Aw, Keane—”

“Do it.”

Sal stood undecided, looking like a sad old dog. Keane didn’t dare look Logan’s way.

He’d held up his end of the bargain. She knew from the get-go where this was leading. It was for her own damn good. Still, he hesitated. The bout hundreds of times worse than the one that should have gone down in the cage played out in his head.

The pain of it all was too much to bear, and he made up his mind.

Keane didn’t wait around. Barreling past the spectators abuzz with excited chatter, he pushed through the crowd, stalked up the ramp, headed down the long cold corridor, and out of the arena. Not once did he look back.

Chapter Twenty-Three

TAP OUT: When a fighter taps the mat to signal his/her defeat

“Eez here! Dat fighter.” Mrs. Debinska banged on the door. “Keeenee, eez ere!”

Logan groaned. This was the second Keane sighting in a week. Mrs. Debinska was on the lookout, but with those thick bifocal glasses, she wasn’t likely to see much. Yet Logan’s breath hitched in her throat just as it had done the last time. She rolled off the couch, yanked the door open, and hurried down the hallway into Mrs. Debinska’s living room. Her landlady pulled back the curtain from the bay window, and they both peered out.

She pointed to the street. “Eez waz there.”

All Logan saw was a newscaster firing up a barbeque grill on the front sidewalk. Nothing out of the ordinary. A camera flashed, and she tugged the curtain closed.

“Valeska is right, Keane was out there.” Logan flinched at the sound of Grandpa Romeo’s voice. Adjusting to her new job as a Boscov’s sales clerk had been much easier than adapting to the hot and heavy romance unfolding here on Morrison Avenue. Once more, she peered out from between the curtains. No Keane in sight.

Sal softly scolded her. “You should have taken his winnings. He wanted you to have it for your school.”

“Zut, zut,” Mrs. Debinska clucked at her. “Dat was a lot of monee.”

Logan wrapped her arms around her landlady and gave her a tight hug. “I know, but I couldn’t take his winnings. That’s blood money. A reminder that he’s going to Vegas.”

Sal grunted. “Jerry didn’t give them two much choice after declaring both welterweights as champions. If you ask me, Jerry was desperate to have one of his fighters qualify for Tetnus.”

“I know. But fighting is the last thing I want for Keane...” Logan bit back the words. There was no fixing what had been done, not the way things stood between them.

Sal cleared his throat and patted a mustard-colored cushion on the couch. Logan sat down next to him. “Honey, let ol’ Sal give you some advice on love.”

Twist my tutu! She resisted the urge to run for the slate hills.

“True love isn’t some guy sweeping you across the threshold. Nope, if you genuinely love someone you’ve got to get your hands dirty and flounder about in the muck right along with them. Ride the highs, and battle out the lows—together.”

A bittersweet smile spread across Logan’s lips. Grandpa Romeo’s long, passionate kisses with Mrs. Debinska, like the one Logan had witnessed this morning in the hallway, were both sweet and too gross for words. Yet, at this moment, Sal’s loving and sentimental nature couldn’t have touched her more deeply. It seemed Sal knew a thing or two about love, after all.

* * *

Keane found himself jogging through the streets of Friendship. Searching for one avenue, in particular. Morrison. His third trip this week. Each time, he hoped a run-by might ease his mind, and more. He had to know that she was okay.

Halfway down the block, he slowed, stopped and tugged his baseball cap lower on his forehead.

The small front lawn looked like a line for Springsteen tickets, with tents, lawn chairs and beverages. Vans with satellites attached to their hoods had double parked up and down the street. Reporters and cameramen alike stood around, chatting with their counterparts from different networks. Every few seconds, one would turn and look at the house as if anticipating Logan’s exit.

Damn. He hadn’t expected them to completely clear out, but was unprepared for this freakin’ festival. And, he was now the cause of the fucked-up publicity.

With a shake of his head, he realized there was nothing he could do, except leave. If they spotted him, it would only make matters worse.

He touched his track pants pocket. Inside were the pieces of the ripped-up check Sal had returned to him, along with a message: “Money isn’t what I want from you.”

But what she didn’t realize was how he was one massive shell of a man. Nothing inside but trouble. She deserved better, someone with their shit pulled together. Loving her—and man, did he love her—it just wasn’t good enough. But it was enough to let her go.

* * *

A week later, Sal’s words resonated in her mind as Logan stepped off the Shadyside bus. March hadn’t come in like a lion as the weathermen predicted. An uncharacteristic warm spell had hit the Burgh. Logan raised her cheek to the sun, loving the feel of the warming rays on her face. Today was the perfect day for a roll about in the muck. Especially with a six-foot-two hunk with an eight-pack for abs and a broken nose that didn’t lessen the impact of his beautiful face.

Logan hesitated on Keane’s curb. His Jeep was gone. With a sigh, she headed up the stairs onto his lovely wrap-around porch and knocked on the door. When no one answered, she hunkered down on the front steps and waited. After all, no one said finding the muck pile was going to be a simple task. Given the last few months, why would she expect anything different?

She’d visited a few prospective studios. She’d passed on the small one, and others were either also small, awkwardly laid out or way out of her price range. Once more, she questioned her sanity. Why did I rip up his check? It was going to take a lot of time to save that kind of money as a sales clerk.

Bleeding leotards, Logan. You did it because you love him.

Arching her head back, she let the sun fall on her face and contemplated her other mind-boggling option. Pierre’s desperately pleading phone call, and subsequent monetary offer.

Turns out, the show’s ratings had plummeted. Network executives were anxious to quickly wrap things up so instead of an April finale, they’d backpedaled to March. LaFool—as Keane had so poignantly dubbed him—would do anything in the name of fame.

A million dollars. Plus the full sale price of the co-op. The painting was still being negotiated. All Logan had to do was show up at tonight’s America Gets Its Groove On finale and cheer the fame whore and Anya on. He’d even reimburse her for the car rental. New York City was an eight-hour drive and there was time enough for her to make it there, if she wanted to.

Yet, Logan stayed on Keane’s stoop until the sun’s rays vanished and the last late-night bus back to Friendship was about to depart. He hadn’t come home.

Images of the alpaca-stealing thief weighed heavily on her mind as she made her way home. Something sounding like a cat yowling echoed along the hallway, and she quickly fumbled for the keys in her pocket and opened her door. Slipping off her coat and hanging it on the hook, Logan settled down on the sofa and flicked on the television, feeling numb and desolate. Searching for a distraction to take her mind away from Keane.

Crinkle my camisole, why the hell not? Like a driver passing a car wreck, she grabbed the remote and clicked it on to America Gets Its Groove On. Two smug faces filled the screen. Watching Pierre’s victory dance was the kind of sick closure she probably needed. Besides, it was the least of her heartaches.

The host was finishing his recap of the prior two performances. “A round of applause for our rocking hip hop performers and the exquisite belly dancer, Sukeshi. And now I’d like to say a few words to our ballet dancers, who many viewers predict will win the title along with a major dance contract with Rockefeller Studios, the one and only Pierre LaFeur and his beautifully talented partner, Anya Melankova.”

The camera zoomed in on a smiling Pierre peering down on Anya like she was the love of his life. If this didn’t pan out for Pierre, acting might. Logan had a similar picture she’d meant to rip up within her photograph album.

“Pierre, we understand you contacted Logan about cheering you both on tonight. Can we safely say her fingers will be dancing as she texts in her vote for you?”

Logan’s middle finger itched to dance but she rolled her eyes instead. These past few months proved beyond a doubt that anything could happen in the name of show business.

“That’s right. We talked.” Pierre pouted, like a sulky child unable to hide his disappointment.

“Okay then...without further ado, we’ll begin. Will the two of you take your places? I watched these guys rehearse and what you are about to witness, ladies and gentlemen, is a dance sure to go down in the record books.” The host left the stage, the lights dimmed, and the music started.

It was such an over-the-top performance, Logan was sure Mikhail Baryshnikov was off somewhere banging his head. Still, it had enough flair to excite the untrained eye. Lifts and pirouettes galore. Logan had seen enough, and went to click off the television. But the way Pierre was standing as he positioned himself for Anya’s final jump caught her attention. His feet were too close together, something they’d worked on repeatedly.

Anya completed a series of jetés, then raced across the stage. Her arms stretched overhead as she leaped full force toward Pierre in a breathtakingly beautiful arch. She did as expected and landed hard against Pierre’s chest. But he did the unexpected—unexpected that is, to everyone except Logan. He tottered backward, and then back onto his ass, with Anya sprawled out on top of him.

The cameras didn’t miss a thing. Not the host’s fish-mouthed expression, Anya’s stunned reaction, nor Pierre’s crimson face as he stood and viciously chewed Anya out, as if the fiasco playing out on national television was her fault.

Logan pressed the off button on the remote.

Payback was a bitch, after all.

* * *

In May, a second check, postmarked Cleveland, Ohio, had arrived in the mail. No note or greeting—or hey-how-are-you-doing-after-I-tore-out-your-heart?—had been attached. But the money was message enough. Keane was honoring their business agreement and wrapping up loose ends.

The money was substantial, more than enough to purchase a large dance space, when she’d been hoping to simply afford rent on a place. She hadn’t expected Keane to offer up his own money. Whether or not Jerry had paid him handsomely for winning five of the six qualifiers—six technically—was irrelevant. Turns out that Keane and Caden had both been declared the welterweight champions, by default. Not that it mattered to Logan anymore. She’d lost the bigger battle, after all.

Just like the first check, she tore it up. Except she didn’t know where to send the pieces, along with the chunks of her shattered heart.

Maybe Keane had found out how Jerry refused to pay her for the final two bouts? She couldn’t even argue with Squirrel Face, it wasn’t like she’d worked them. No, Jerry wasn’t someone she’d miss. Surprisingly, what she did miss was being an Octagon Girl.

Performing for an audience was something she enjoyed, and though carrying an octagonal-shaped sign around overhead wasn’t technically a performance, she’d somehow come to like the job. Well, Chloe would have to handle things now. Logan placed a cold Evian on her cheek. She’d perform again, this time as a dance instructor. In a studio she’d rent with her own money.

She padded into the living room and stared at the Renoir-like painting over the sofa. Logan hated the idea of selling it. It symbolized so much in her life; how she’d struggled to become a ballerina, how Pierre had duped her, and how the small girls pirouetting about were her future. Bittersweet, nevertheless.

Sally’s lawyer friend suggested that Logan had a strong case against Pierre—criminal charges were even a consideration. But she hadn’t entirely decided yet. She was prepared to hit Pierre where it counted, in his pocket. As long as the lawyer got back everything that was hers—especially the money from the co-op—she suspected that between that and Pierre’s public humiliation, she’d be hard pressed to take it further.

In one massive wave, the paparazzi had disappeared from Mrs. Debinska’s front lawn the night America Gets Its Groove On rebounded in the ratings, and in fact became the top-rated show in reality TV history. The same night, Pierre became the most hated man in America. A few reporters inquired into Logan’s opinion on the matter—had her fall also been Pierre’s mistake? Though tempted, she’d remained silent. After that, the media left her alone and moved on, like sharks feeding on a bigger, more newsworthy, pool of fish.

The cold condensation from the Evian bottle felt nice against her neck. Between her shifts at Boscov’s and a regimented ballet practice schedule, Logan kept herself busy.

Logan’s cell phone vibrated next to the lamp. Sal. After all, he was the only person she knew who’d rather text than call her.

SAL: Luscious, need ur help with Valeska’s wedding ring!!! meet me at Joe’s luncheonette on market st. at noon. come. important. hurry. Sal.

Grandpa Romeo and Mrs. Debinska certainly hadn’t wasted any time. Bleeding leotards. Hastily, she threw on a tank top, shorts and sandals and headed off to catch the downtown bus.

Barefaced, and with her hair wildly springing from the clip on her head, Logan tried to quiet her heart as she exited the bus a few doors down from Joe’s Luncheonette. The same place Keane had brought her for breakfast precious months ago. Jimmy’s uncle’s luncheonette. Dare she inquire about Keane, or was it best to simply...let him go?

“Logan, my girl. I can’t tell you how good it is to see you!” Joe greeted her as soon as she walked through the door. His surprising hug made her wonder if she’d better head back out into the June heat. Yet it was filled with affection and kindness, as was Joe’s face. “Yes, indeed, it’s good to see you.”

“Hi, Joe. Um, I got a text from Keane’s handler, Sal, to meet him here. Do you know where I can find him?”

“I sure do, dearie. I sure do. Follow me.”

Logan froze and bit her lip as Joe headed out the front entrance. “I didn’t know Market Street had a jewelry store—?”

“What are ye waiting for? Come on, honey. Before he gets away.”

She frowned, puzzled, but followed him a few feet down the block. They stopped in front of Rachel’s Antiques. “Go ahead, ‘es in there.”

“Sal’s buying a wedding ring from Rachel’s Antiques?” An odd place for a ring, but then again, nothing about his speed-dial romance with Mrs. Debinska was normal.

Joe chuckled. “Oh, it’s not Rachel’s Antiques anymore. Covers half the block too. Plenty of room. Two main entrances. Prime downtown location. Go on, get yourself in there.” His hand touched her shoulder and gave her a nudge.

Logan held her breath as she entered. The welcome blast of air conditioning eased her nervousness somewhat. This year’s twists and turns made even a ballerina feel dizzy, hesitant and gun shy from one too many surprises. What on earth is Sal doing in Rachel’s Antiques with—or without, she couldn’t be sure—Mrs. Debinska’s wedding ring?

“Excuse me, miss,” a workman said from behind her. She shifted to the side and watched two guys carry a massive mirror down the length of the enormous open-spaced room. But Sal was nowhere in sight.

“Sal?” she called out. Glancing over her shoulder, she caught Joe’s wave from his spot outside the door. Hovering, smiling, and...waiting for something? Maybe he was excited for Sal’s upcoming proposal? Her attention swung back to the workmen, and the open space. Except, someone else stood in the middle of the room. Someone unexpected. Someone so strong and beautiful, her breath caught.

“Logan.”

Despite the air conditioning, the temperature in the room spiked. A rush of emotions twirled around in her: happiness, sorrow, love, anger and confusion. She didn’t know how to react, whether to throw herself at him and never let go. Or smack him on the side of his head for the disappearing act he’d pulled.

“I know, baby. Come here.” His deep, throaty voice was so tempting.

She stood her ground. “Don’t baby me.”

He strode across the room and narrowed the distance between them. Logan stayed rooted in place. “Shit, I missed you.”

No words came out; her breath hitched tightly in her throat.

His fingers reached up and caressed her cheek. She held her head firmly in place.

“You are so fuckin’ beautiful with your green eyes flaring and your hair all messy.”

She had a hundred questions for him but remained silent. Let him do the talking for a change.

“Why didn’t you cash the checks?”

You know why, Keane. She gave him a look, the answer written on her face.

“Not making this easy on me, huh?” He flexed his fists and shifted on his feet, but his eyes devoured her, full of hunger. Need. Want. Brimming with unspoken emotions she could only guess at.

His hand snaked out, caught her waist, and pulled her closer. “I took your advice,” he muttered, smoothing a stray strand of hair around her ear. He smelled good, clean and soapy and with a hint of mint. The past weeks, she’d dreamed of a moment like this, where he’d come back to her. But for how long?

“What advice?” she whispered, needing to know.

“All of it, baby. All of it.”

She cocked her head and looked up at him, unsure what he was saying.

“You said you’d wait for me, remember?” he muttered. Keane sounded...unsure.

Instinctually, her hand covered the warm expanse of chest over his heart, and she stepped closer. Stunned. Excited. Breathless with the realization of what he must be telling her.

“I’m seeing a psychiatrist. Getting help with the PTSD. And Jimmy.”

Logan wound her arm around his back and pressed up against him. “Oh, Keane.”

“Quit fighting professionally. You were right, it wasn’t helping.” He angled his head and captured her mouth. His tongue danced with hers as her heart beat against his.

Seconds later, his head lifted. He lifted her by the waist and gently moved her away from him. “Like it?”

She grinned. Oh, she liked it, all right.

“The place. You like it?”

Her eyes fell on the guys far across the room, hanging an oversized mirror on the wall.

“Figure we’d split the space.”

Her mouth opened and closed. And opened. “You bought Rachel’s Antiques?”

He grinned so broadly her stomach did a pirouette. “Yep, your dance studio is over there.”

“Oh, my God. You’re not kidding.”

“An MMA training club on this side, for returning veterans. Dr. Felter’s satellite office in back.”

“How am I going to afford this place?”

He crossed his arms and his eyes narrowed on her. “You’re not. I am.”

She couldn’t let him walk in here, sweep her off her feet, and then, fulfill everything she’d dreamed about since The Fall. Could she? “What about our business agreement? You’ve managed your part, and I’ll manage mine.”

Foolish, stubborn pride. That’s what this was. But pride had carried her through the bad times like a trusty, dependable pair of ballet slippers.

He rolled his neck, and grunted. Unfolded and refolded his arms. Then, he stepped closer. She imagined the muscles beneath his black T-shirt flexing as he moved. His hand found her waist.

“One more thing—might tip the scale.”

God, the memory of his naked ass at the weigh-in made her feel lightheaded. She leaned into him but his eyes captured hers.

A grin spread across his face. He seemed younger, more carefree. Happy. She laughed. “I’d say you tip my scale every time you look at me. What were you going to tell me?”

Wouldn’t you know, his grin broadened? Six foot two of broad, mean hunk was smiling down on her like she’d given him the world.

His next words made her feel like he’d offered the world to her on a golden plate.

With blue eyes glimmering with emotion and his voice deep and rough, Keane whispered four words that meant more to her than ballet, more to her than anything.

“I love you, Luscious.”

Chapter Twenty-Four

DECISION: The outcome of a bout; when a winner is declared

Six months later

Chloe was a regular at Jimmy’s Fight Club. Perhaps it was the constant influx of hot, retired Marines flexing their stuff as they worked out their issues, both in the cage and back inside Dr. Felter’s satellite office. Or maybe her inner child connected with the young, fresh-faced ballerinas in the making. Or most likely, she needed an escape from ol’ Squirrel Face and the ever-present media attention. After all, Chloe was the most popular Octagon Girl ever to strut her stuff around the cage. Her daddy had made sure of it.

Logan stood with Chloe off to the side of the sparring cage, watching Keane instruct a veteran on how to make an opponent tap out. That’s what Logan thought was happening anyway.

She liked staying late, well after the kids headed home from their ballet lessons, to eyeball Mr. Eyegasm while he went about his business. Oh, Keane still had his surly moments, growling about some of her ballerina costumes or about the way the guys sometimes hung around and watched her dance. But, he seemed happier. Content. And late at night—after he’d taken her breath away in ways she’d never imagined—he told her he loved her.

Chloe sighed next to her. “Boom-Yay’s really something, huh?”

“Yep, my something.”

“Well, if ya can tear ya eyes away from him for a dang second, I brought ya a copy of the Pittsburgh Press. Y’all made the front page, again.” She unfolded the newspaper and handed it to Logan.

Chloe hadn’t lied—there they were, front page news. Three pictures and a few paragraphs of text. The headline read: Pittsburgh’s Favorite Couple Making a Difference. Keane was going to hate the first picture, a reprint of their first kiss on the ramp at Mellon Arena. But a smaller picture showcased two veterans posing inside the cage. The text underneath outlined the goals and purpose of this first-of-its-kind club and summarized it neatly: “Jimmy’s Fight Club aims to help veterans readjust to life back home.” Good publicity always helped. How else were these guy going to know about it? Keane’s going to hate this one too, Logan thought with a grin.

Logan’s hand tightened around the newspaper as she studied the third picture. Why had she chosen that outfit the day the reporters trickled in?

“I think that’s the most beautiful picture. It reminds me of the one on the wall over yonder, but better.” Chloe pointed to the painting of the two young girls dancing. Logan nodded. The shot was priceless, despite her skimpy outfit.

In the photograph, Logan stood against the barre with her leg stretched high overhead. Two little girls flanked her sides, their tiny legs mimicking her posture. Logan had an arm around each in support, although a team of special needs aides were on hand to help. Jenna’s wheelchair was pushed off to the side and barely in the picture. Joanna’s crutch was underneath her armpit. All three of them grinned into the mirror like kittens after a bowl full of cream. Out of all the students attending her ballet classes, these girls were her favorite.

Tomorrow, Logan was sending this newspaper clip off to the art store to frame for her dance school. She had the perfect spot to hang it, too—right next to Pierre’s painting.

“Come here,” Keane demanded from his place on the stairs. “Why so teary-eyed?”

“No reason,” Logan shot back, but Keane stalked up to her and took the newspaper from her hand.

His eyes scanned over it. She knew the exact moment he spotted the outfit because his mouth tightened and his features took on a gruff expression. She leaned up and kissed him hard, until his lips parted, his arms pulled her in tight, and her body felt like dancing.

In a year full of surprises, one thing was sure: life with Keane “Boom-Yay” O’Shea would never be dull.

* * * * *

About the Author

Michele Mannon believes life would be incredibly dull without an endless assortment of books and a good sports match on television—preferably with shirtless men (which is, by the way, her inspiration for writing a debut series featuring hot and oh-so-muscular MMA fighters).

Michele lives in central New Jersey where she divides her time between writing sexy and sassy contemporary sports-themed romances, laughing with her family and caring for not one but three heartless cats. Michele loves hearing from readers, so please visit her on the web at www.michelemannon.com.

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ISBN-13: 9781426897535

KNOCK OUT

Copyright © 2013 by Michele M. Mahon

Edited by Kerri Buckley

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All characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all incidents are pure invention.

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