by Juniper Hart
“It’s almost six. I need to get home. Marco and I have dinner plans with his parents tonight.”
Jealousy flashed over his face plain and painfully.
“Okay then. Have a nice weekend,” he said gruffly, turning toward the front desk on a spun heel.
“You too,” she called after him, sounding forlorn.
You could always tell him the truth, she thought, but just as quickly as she thought it, she dismissed it. The truth was always a bad idea.
Bouncing back and forth from one taped foot to another, Jordan tried to concentrate on what Harley was hammering into his ear, but he found it increasingly difficult to focus. The arena was jammed that night, an improvement from the seventy-five percent fill the previous fight. Jordan wondered if James had anything to do with it. He had no way of knowing for certain.
He had spoken briefly with his agent a few days earlier, and James had promised that he was working on making him a star. He offered little more than that, but Jordan had faith in him. He was practically a staple in the world of sports. Jordan knew that James would make him huge. He just needed to be patient, something Harley endlessly drove into him, something Jordan could not seem to easily grasp.
He was overwhelmed by the sights, scents, and sounds surrounding him while he warmed up in the ring, waiting for Frank “The Giant” Giles to appear.
“—really important that you focus on the switch-hitter exercises we practiced,” Harley continued. “He expects you to use your signature southpaw moves, so change it up. Keep your face covered. Don’t forget, he’s a slugger by nature. Just stay on your feet and keep moving.”
Jordan nodded absently and rolled his neck about his shoulders, hearing a slight crack at the popping of muscles. Harley rubbed his shoulders. “The Giant” emerged from the changeroom, spitting and glistening, and a cheer rose through the crowd.
One of his two trainers doused him in water as he plowed his way through the aisle, and “The Giant” raised one huge hand, swiping the plastic bottle. The trainer’s face went pale. Jordan thought he looked terrified.
What a douchebag this guy is, he thought with some contempt. It was going to be a pleasure beating him once more. Frank climbed into the ring and shot Jordan a look laced in venom, but Jordan smiled back, blowing him a kiss.
“Jordy! Stop that!” Harley hissed in his ear, but the fans loved the gesture and howled with laughter. “The Giant” bared his teeth, and Jordan winked, waving coquettishly. The crowd went wild.
“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Seattle’s North Side Arena! Tonight, we have a royal treat for you, a rematch between two of the most up-and-coming boxers of our day! In the blue trunks, weighing one hundred seventy-six pounds, Washington’s finest, is Jordan ‘Southpaw’ Archer! In the red trunks, weighing in at one hundred ninety-two pounds, is Frank ‘The Giant’ Giles! Gentlemen, let’s get ready to rumble!”
The announcer dropped the mic, and a bikini clad redhead with large breasts and winning smile walked over the ring holding a black sign declaring “Round One.”
Fleetingly, Jordan permitted himself to think about another redhead who had been clogging his thoughts, though he didn’t let the image of Samantha linger. He needed to focus on this fight.
Harley gave Jordan one more encouraging shoulder squeeze, and Jordan met “The Giant” in the middle of the ring with the referee.
The men touched gloves and assumed proper stance, tersely awaiting the go-ahead. The bell chimed, and instinctively, Jordan bounced backward, avoiding a lumbering blow. Caught off guard from the get-go, Frank staggered forward, and Jordan sprung, delivering a series of switch-hitter jabs to his opponent’s now exposed kidneys. Frank grunted and struggled to reclaim his footing while Jordan nimbly stepped back, gently kicking his shin to keep him unstable. The ref stepped in, and both men separated. Jordan tossed his head back to whip a bead of sweat off his face. As his gaze shifted back to “The Giant,” his eyes landed on someone in the horde of encouraging people.
Tensely sitting on the edge of her seat was Samantha, her slim hand on her mouth as if resisting the urge to yell out. Startled, Jordan dropped his hands. Is that really Samantha? Did she come to see me fight?
Suddenly, a blow hit his face, and dazed, Jordan fell sideways into the ropes.
“What the hell happened, Jordy? Get it together!” Harley screamed. Jordan instantly heeded his advice.
Rolling off the ropes as Frank approached, he took the man from behind, administering a rally of jabs about his shoulders, neck, and skull. Frank fell to his knees, but Jordan did not relent. He followed the jabs with a series of hooks until his opponent lay face forward on the ring.
The ref snatched his gloved hand, preventing him from causing any more damage, and Jordan forced himself to calm down. His heart was thudding so severely, he thought he might be having a heart attack. The crowd was going insane, and even though the announcer was speaking, even Jordan could not hear his words above the incredible din.
Realizing the futility of his actions, the speaker was silent, waiting for a lull. Jordan wiped the sweat from his brow and scanned the seats frantically. He did not see Samantha, but he was sure she was there. He could sense her.
“Ladies and gentlemen!” the announcer tried again. “We have a winner! Jordan ‘Southpaw’ Archer!”
The hysteria commenced once more, and Jordan was pelted by roses and panties as the ref held his blue gloved hand into the air.
A microphone was shoved in his face, and he was suddenly facing a barrage of questions as Harley and his crew joined his side, rubbing his shoulders and patting his back in congratulations.
Somehow, Jordan answered the reporter’s inquiries, but his mind was not on anything said. He could not stop looking for Samantha. He felt like he was floating above his own body, and when Harley finally led him to the back, Jordan realized that the feeling had very little to do with his second victory against “The Giant.” His heart was racing for Samantha.
“You were there on Saturday night.” The words sounded much more accusing than Jordan had intended, but he could not hide his hurt that she had not stayed to bask in his victory.
Samantha glanced up from her computer screen, and her mouth pursed into a fine line, a gesture that Jordan already recognized as a sign that she was thinking.
“Yes,” she confirmed, “I was.” Uninvited, Jordan entered the spacious office and closed the door behind him. Samantha looked at him warily. “Jordan, I don’t think that you should—”
“Why didn’t you stay and celebrate with us? I would have introduced you to my trainer. My agent wasn’t there, but Harley is a good guy. You would like him.”
Samantha cleared her throat and gave the door another furtive glance.
“I wanted to…” she answered evasively. “I—you fought really well.”
“Well, I got caught off guard when I saw your face in the crowd,” he confessed, leaning forward to smile at her warmly. “But I bounced back.”
Samantha cleared her throat again.
“Yes,” she said nervously, looking toward the door. Jordan was puzzled by her behavior.
“Thanks. I still don’t understand why you didn’t stay, though.”
Samantha sighed and rose to her feet, closing the distance between them.
“I guess I was just a little overwhelmed. When Frank Giles hit you, my heart dropped into my stomach. I didn’t want to see you hurt. I didn’t even stay to watch the end,” she confessed breathlessly. She put a hand on his arm, and they stared at each other, the usual spark of electricity coursing between them.
Jordan grinned at her.
“You were worried about me?” he asked, touched at her emotion. She nodded sheepishly and looked down at her open-toed sandals.
She has beautiful toes, Jordan thought admiringly. I would like to kiss those. A shot of shame bolted through him as he realized he hadn’t even thought about her fiancé once before that minute. We’re not doing anything wrong, he though
t defensively, though he knew that wasn’t true. The attraction between them was very, very wrong when there was someone else involved.
“I thought you were a fighting fan,” he chided, placing his hand casually over hers. An unexpected jolt surged through him. How many times had he thought about touching her?
“I am,” Samantha murmured, turning her strawberry blonde waves aside as though to hide her expression. “But it’s different when it’s someone you care about!”
Jordan blushed at her words, his entire body warmed by the thought. He drew closer. “You care about me?”
Samantha turned her surreal eyes toward him.
Abruptly, a sharp knock on the door forced them apart guiltily. The door flew open, and a tall, intelligent looking man stood in the doorway. He surveyed the room with shaded, suspicious eyes before speaking.
“Are you ready, Sam?” the man asked, the hint of an Italian accent meeting Jordan’s ears. He entered the room in long, easy strides, barely casting Jordan another look. Casually, the man splayed himself into Samantha’s chair and examined his perfectly manicured hands. If he noticed the closeness between Jordan and Samantha, he did not mention it.
This must be Marco, Jordan thought, jealousy bubbling through him, even though he knew he had no right to feel that way. I’m the one in the wrong, not him.
“Uh, yes. I’m just going to grab my purse,” Samantha stammered, almost running behind her mahogany desk. Jordan stood, partially in shock, partly in anger while she hurried to gather her belongings, shooting him a pleading look. As if he had just realized Jordan was standing there, the man twisted in the leather chair to look at him.
“You need something, friend?”
Jordan felt his back tense at the question. He’s not even one of the Enchanted. He’s a useless mortal. What does she see in him?
“No, Marco,” Samantha jumped in before Jordan opened his mouth to answer. “Jordan was just leaving. He had some questions about the corporate party next Saturday.”
Marco rolled his brown eyes and snorted. “What do you need to know, buddy? They’re boring as sin. You have your work cut out for you. Make sure you bring your cell phone so you can watch some porn or something, because God knows nothing exciting ever happens at Burke’s gigs. If you ask me, they waste money throwing these things, but some idiot in HR seems to think they’re good for morale or some shit. It’s just a tax write off, I’m sure. Come on, Sammy. I have meetings this afternoon. Let’s get a move on. We have an appointment with the lawyer.”
He flashed Jordan another tight smile. “Wedding planning is just as annoying. Don’t get married, buddy. Trust me.”
Charming, Jordan thought, his mouth turning up into a sneer. To his surprise, Samantha was smirking.
Marco grabbed her by the arm and hustled her out the door, leaving Jordan staring after them, seething. He loathed Marco on sight, and while he understood consciously that he was basing his opinion on the fact that he was intensely attracted to Samantha, he also recognized that there was something distasteful about her fiancé.
Jordan exited the office, trying to shove the scene he had just witnessed from his head, attempting to forget the rage he felt watching Samantha being touched by another man.
She is not yours to fight for, he told himself, not for the first time. But that was a lie. She was his mate. She was his to fight for.
6
“Wow, Jordan, what happened to your face?” The questioner was Thom, one of the chartered accountants, someone Jordan had barely had occasion to speak to on barely three occasions before this dreaded party. The man peered somewhat drunkenly at him and examined the shiner around his eye admiringly.
“You should see the other guy!” Jordan joked lightly, taking a sip of his own beer. The black eye was make-up, of course. He’d long since learned to keep the obvious wounds after his body generically healed itself. He didn’t want his trainer or the public to grow suspicious. After all, divulging his true nature to the mortals was punishable by death still, according to the Charter, and Jordan had no intention of dying yet. Aside from Samantha, he had not formed any alliances inside the company about his fighting, and his very private nature kept him from divulging his private life to co-workers.
It was none of their business. This job didn’t mean anything, anyway. He didn’t need them asking him stupid questions he didn’t want to answer.
The one thing that Landon had ensured in his company was that most of the employees were not Enchanted, therefore causing a separation between him and the others. Begrudgingly, Jordan admitted that Landon had done a lot of things right.
That’s why he’s on the Council of Seven, he reminded himself. The guy knows what he’s doing.
“Ooh, a bar fight?” Thom pressed, and Jordan raised an eyebrow mysteriously.
“Something like that,” he agreed, turning away from him, ignoring Thom’s approving nod.
Only a moron would condone a bar fight. What kind of backward society do we live in now where violence is still considered “manly”?
Under normal circumstances, Thom would not have given Jordan the time of day, but seeing as the man had had three drinks, Jordan was having a hard time getting him off his arm. He felt himself getting more and more annoyed with each passing moment. Thom was hardly the reason that Jordan had decided to come that night.
He had been at the function for just over an hour, and he was already contemplating leaving, even though he hadn’t seen who he had come to see. Even Landon had come and gone, and Wren hadn’t bothered to show up at all.
Jordan loathed to think that Marco had been right; the party lacked luster, and he wondered what he was doing there in the first place. Suddenly, he felt incredibly foolish for having come just to find a woman who wasn’t available.
Looking around at the same dull individuals whom he saw day to day, he noted with some contempt that they were just as rigid in a party setting as they were in their own offices.
Even their spouses look lame. How do these people sleep in the same bed at night? I can’t imagine having to share a mattress with any of them. He wandered back toward the bar. At least it was an open bar, and the impending dinner aromas wafting from the closed dining room were enticing. I’ll eat and then head home. Maybe I’ll swing by Sky Train afterward and let off some steam.
Again, Jordan’s eyes flittered around the room. He was looking for Samantha, but she had not yet arrived. Maybe she wouldn’t come, purposely to avoid him.
Since the day Marco had shown up at the office, Samantha had maintained somewhat of a distance, though Jordan had been relentless in his pursuit of her attention, guilt overcoming him every time he tried to catch her eye. He had learned her routine within the workday, and he invariably found himself “accidentally” bumping into her in the breakroom, running into her at the coffee truck outside the building lobby, or checking the parking lot when she was getting ready to leave in her Lexus for the night.
She was aware of his conspicuous actions and did little to dissuade him, but she did not instigate initial contact. She wanted him to look for her. In his gut, Jordan knew he was doing wrong by Marco, even if the guy didn’t deserve Samantha.
Sighing to himself, he turned his attention back to the bartender, who was staring at him impatiently, awaiting drink instructions. Embarrassed, Jordan realized he’d been standing there for several minutes, holding her from doing anything else.
“Gin and tonic,” he finally said, deciding to stay. The woman nodded crisply, immediately starting on his order. “Wait! Make it a double.” She nodded again without speaking and added another generous shot of liquor to the mix.
So much for going by the gym after. Harley will have my head if he smells liquor on my breath.
His trainer’s warnings still echoed through his mind, and with good reason. It wasn’t just that Harley was worried about Jordan’s regime; he was worried that the younger fighter would head down a familiar spiral, one that would not be easy to lift hi
m from.
The stern blonde server placed the tumbler glass before him on the countertop, and Jordan took a deep sip through the small straw. He located a ten-dollar bill in his wallet and left it on the bar for the server, shooting her a winning smile.
I should probably get on her good side. I have a feeling she and I are going to be friends tonight, he thought, shoving the image of Harley’s disappointed face out of his mind. One night wasn’t going to affect anything—but there was still no reason for Harley to find out what he was doing.
Jordan turned back to the party, and his heart stopped beating. At the entrance to the reception room where the cocktail hour was being hosted was Samantha.
She stood uncertainly, glancing around the room, looking stunning in a strapless red gown which swirled sensually around her perfectly shaped calves, accented by six-inch black stilettos. The bodice of the dress pushed up her firm, mature breasts into a breathtaking cleavage. A small heart-shaped diamond pendant dangled between, catching the glimmers of blue and green in her lovely cat-shaped eyes.
Jordan had never seen such a spectacular beauty in all his life. He wished he could stay frozen in time, drinking in every detail of her perfection for eternity. She looked like a fairytale princess waiting for her prince, and Jordan was taken aback by the romantic feelings that overwhelmed him in such a bizarre way.
She’s waiting for me, he thought, a lump in his throat. I’m the one that needs to rescue her.
“Damn, I would love to tap that,” Thom hissed in his ear, following Jordan’s gaze. Without thinking, Jordan reached sideways, firmly pushing the intoxicated accountant to the side, wanting to punch him squarely in the jaw for making such a disgusting comment.
Without ensuring Thom’s wellbeing, he moved toward Samantha, who had not yet seen him. Abruptly, he stopped in his tracks. Surely Marco would be at her side in seconds, and he didn’t want to give her fiancé cause for suspicion.