No siree.
Sophie flailed her arms overhead and kicked her feet hard. The sole of her foot connected with the pool’s bottom, which felt more like a carnival moonwalk ride, but she didn’t dwell on it. The lightbulb in her head had switched on to survival mode. With every ounce of strength left in her, she pushed off and shot upward toward the light.
Pumping her arms and legs wildly, she cleared the surface.
The welcoming rays of sunlight greeted her. With one long, jagged inhale, she realized her head was above water. She opened her mouth and let life’s breath fill her lungs. Her future was hers for the taking. It wasn’t all over.
The next instant, she was underwater.
Wildly, she kicked her legs, attempting to break free of both the water and the vise gripping her ankle. Something, or rather someone, had yanked her back under.
She reached out. Her hand connected with something soft and slippery, something to grab onto and use as leverage. Hastily, she worked her fingers up to the elastic waistband and wrapped them tightly around it. The material resisted, dragging the top of her hooked-on-for-dear-life fingers down along a warm, hard surface in a wet caress.
Still, it worked. Warm sunlight caressed her cheeks as she surfaced, gasping for breath as her head bobbed above water. She’d been given another chance. This time, I’m not going to blow it. The thought flickered through her mind like a passing sunbeam. Briefly. Before she went under once more.
An arm—the swimmer’s!—wrapped around her waist, pulling her in tight against his side. And, blessedly, upward, until her head broke the surface.
She sputtered and blinked away the pool water from her eyelashes.
Her silk blouse spread out around her like a bright purple jellyfish but Sophie didn’t care.
Laughter rang out loudly. She glanced at the Boys, pointing and fist pumping the air like their favorite wide receiver had just scored a touchdown, and ignored them and their less-than-sympathetic sense of humor. Not even the Boys were going to buzz kill the feeling of euphoria sweeping over her. She’d been given another chance.
“Are you nuts, pinning me to the bottom of the pool like that? You nearly killed me.”
Sophie tensed, horrified. The taut arm holding her pressed up against his side flexed. Caden.
Utter humiliation. Figured he’d be the cause. Crapola.
“I barely touched you,” she snapped, trying to figure out how to work herself free of his hold without drowning before he recognized her.
“See this?” He flexed a bicep and her gaze fell to his enormous, well-defined muscle before shifting to the floatie. “Weights. Plus my muscles are shot from swimming extra laps.”
Was there anything unattractive about the man aside from the floatie strapped to his arm? She pushed the wayward thought aside, turning her head to eyeball the rim of the pool. A hopeless cause—she’d never make it, even if she launched herself off his body. Better get their reintroduction over with. Bracing herself, she flipped her hair off her face and glared at him.
“Holy shit on a brick, you’ve got to be kidding me!”
She opened her mouth to give him a what-for but his hold on her slackened and she slid down his wet body. Her nipples pebbled up. Reminding her that not much separated her boobs from his rock hard body, aside from a soaked silk blouse, sheer cami, and thin, lace bra.
Holy shit on a brick is right. This was Caden. Her savior? The cause of her intense, immediate arousal? CADEN. DANG IT! She flexed her fingers, frantically searching for the elastic, leverage so she could hoist herself up and off of him. Hoping somehow she’d manage to keep her head above water, then miraculously morph into an Olympic swimmer and sprint the heck away from him. She found the elastic, and then some. And then more some, a heck of a lot of more some.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” He pulled his hips back, breaking himself free from the contact the tops of her fingers had made with...sweet Mother Mary.
The water rippled as the elastic snapped back into place against his taut stomach. She made a grab for his bicep. Think documentary. You just landed—literally—on the hottest welterweight around. One within reach. Several long inches of him. Get a grip, Sophie!
He tried to shake her off.
Kicking with both feet, she squeezed her hand, pulled herself up and then managed to weave her other arm around him.
“Are you fucking insane?” His emerald green eyes smoldered with anger. He tugged his arm back but she steadfastly held on even as her body slammed up against his chest.
Caden flexed beneath her. She didn’t have to look to know that, unlike other fighters, his chest was free of tattoos, but her gaze lowered anyway. His body was a work of art in itself. Taut, tanned sculpted curves like sweet caramel on a vanilla cone. An immediate gastronomical-gasm in one long lick. Punch-drunk, that’s what had happened to her, taking in the way his muscles rippled as he tried to break free. She made a sound deep within her throat, something between an exasperated grunt and a short low-toned moan.
He stopped moving, and as she glanced up, his gaze pierced her.
“Let go.”
“No.”
Caden’s jaw clenched.
“Thought the restraining order said if you stepped anywhere near me, no matter the circumstances, you’d be locked up. Where the hell did you even come from?”
Oh, she’d give anything to dunk his arrogant, troublesome head underwater. A warning, that’s all it had been. She’d been thrilled not to have the privilege of coming anywhere near the panty pimp. Though the network had reacted...badly. Loss of advertising and a temporary restraining order? Reluctantly, Sophie admitted that it had likely been the final blow, the additional ax in her contractual beheading.
A renewed sense of anger swelled up inside her. She fought for control.
Remember Christiane Amanpour. Make nice, or drown without your documentary. She cleared her throat. “It expired. You never officially filed, or went to court...”
“Attempted murder. Hell, a second attempt—”
“Both accidents.”
“I thought being wacked in the head by a three hundred pound camera hurt like hell until—”
“Hardly three hundred pounds. How could my cameraman carry such a weight?”
“—being trampled on at the bottom of a pool by a hundred and fifty pounds of demented redhead with some sort of vendetta against me.”
She sucked in a breath, exasperated yet struggling to find a way to make the best of the situation. No time like the present to clear the air, right? “Can we discuss this logically? Preferably somewhere safer? You’ve got to be getting tired of treading water. Especially while holding one hundred and thirty five pounds of certifiable redhead, one who doesn’t have a vendetta against you.”
The look he shot her screamed demented. “I’m standing.”
“What?” Sophie looked down. Sure enough, she could see his big feet through the water. She searched the tile wall until she found the sign painted on it that indicated the depth—or lack of it. Six feet deep. A few steps to the right and she’d be able to stand on her own.
He laughed unpleasantly, in amused disbelief or something closely resembling it. Once more she itched to dunk him.
“Idiot,” he muttered, moving a few feet forward into shallower water, dragging her along. With a firm tug, he freed himself. Her arms fell to her sides as her toes connected with the pool bottom.
He turned, and she watched as the one fighter certain to make her documentary a success trudged his way through the water toward the cement stairs in the corner.
She really needed to work on not pushing the panic button every time things spiraled out of control. Heck, back in the day, Sophie Morelle would have swallowed pints of chlorinated water, drowned, and resuscitated herself in order to get
the story. Her attention narrowed on the man climbing out of the pool. And from this angle, she had all the validation needed—with buns like that, undoubtedly every woman in America would want more of the troublesome fighter.
Except Sophie. That would be a disaster worse than a little tap on the head or a ruined career. What she needed from him was strictly professional. A means to an end. And then that would be the end of her interaction with him.
“See you around, Caden,” she shouted. He’d better get used to the idea she wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon.
“Not a fat chance in hell, sweetheart. No way are you gonna ruin my career...again,” he warned from the side of the pool before stalking away in one wet, handsome mess. The Boys wandered off after him.
Sophie tiptoed her way toward shallow water, yet her steps were determined and certain. Like Caden, she wanted her career back, and more. Move over, Diane Sawyer. Sophie Morelle was about to reinvent herself.
No man, in any shape or form—muscular heartthrob or unpleasant memory—was going to stop her.
Chapter Four
HEEL HOOK: Typically employed by a female fighter, when she sticks a stiletto in her opponent’s eye
Caden adjusted the weight on the bench press bar, just enough for a few final agonizing lifts. Fatigued, he was ready to catch some early evening Z’s, and be asleep by ten. A far cry from his party animal past, of boozing it up all night and lounging around in bed all day. With company, of course.
Tomorrow, he’d head over to the St. Louis Mixed Martial Arts Club to pick up some hardcore sparring partners. Battle away the years of abusing his body, along with any lingering doubts about just how committed he was to winning the welterweight title. The bruise on his elbow barked as he completed a lift. He tried to ignore it, and thoughts of the woman who’d caused it.
No way was Sophie in Missouri on vacation. Seemed more like the Cabo San Lucas type. High end. High maintenance. Not that he knew her well, or hardly at all.
He had caught a few episodes of Late Night with Sophie Morelle back when he could stand the sight of her. Every bar, café, and goddamned sports pub on the planet tuned their televisions to watch the gorgeous television host talk smack. The guys Caden knew loved the bullshit spewing from her mouth, and respected her for having balls of steel when a belligerent star got freaky.
Sophie held her own, alright. Never seemed at a loss for words or had a hair out of place. The consummate, smart-ass, sexy-as-shit television host. So, what was the fuck was her deal?
Clenching the bar, he pushed up, held the position, and slowly lowered it, feeling the shake in his tired biceps. Fighting for control of his movements. Fighting for focus on tonight’s training.
Fighting against the direction his thoughts had taken, and the image of her, with her runny mascara and her hair looking like a shampoo commercial gone bad. For a second there, she’d looked human. Not the demon spawn he’d built her up to be in his mind since he last saw her in Pittsburgh—before his world went black.
Fuckability factor aside, that woman was trouble.
Tried and proven trouble. His chances at a comeback had crashed to a halt when that camera had smashed into his head. Knocked him out cold and almost ruined his shot at qualifying for Tetnus. Luckily, greedy Jerry declared him a winner anyway. Caden had heard it was an accident, that Sophie had been tripped, causing her to fall into the cameraman. But he still hated the sight of the mouthy reporter.
After eleven more repetitions, he released the bar. It clanged hard back into place on the bench press.
What he did know about her, he didn’t like. She was dangerous. Relentless when it came to getting her story. Uncaring of who she hurt. Unfazed by the drama that always seemed to unfold around her. No one’s wind was strong enough to knock her sailboat off course. And she sure as hell knew how to suck the very breath out of a man. Literally.
Caden didn’t believe in coincidences. He needed to put a finger on some logical explanation for her sudden appearance in Missouri. He’d bet his rental car—a sweet ride in the form of an Aston Martin DB5 convertible—that it had something to do with him. Sophie Morelle was not the kind of trouble he needed in this stage of the game.
“How in the blazes did you get out of tonight’s gig? Dang it, I needed you there,” Sal’s voice reverberated loudly as he approached the bench.
Caden winced. Was it too much to ask for a peaceful workout? Bad enough his thoughts had screwed with his focus.
“Ah, what does it matter?” Sal continued in a low voice, drawing up a small stool.
Caden sat up and wiped the sweat from his forehead. The old timer seemed frazzled, with his white hair standing up in all directions. “Late night wind kick up out there?”
Sal didn’t seem to hear him as he searched in his pocket for a worn leather flask, which he withdrew and opened with shaky hands.
“How’s it going, Sal?” Caden pressed. All joking aside, he was worried about the busybody of a man.
“Just a sec. and I’ll tell ya just how it’s not going.” Bringing the flask up to his lips, he took a long drink, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
“Easy there, big guy. What have you got in there? Whiskey?” The smell of booze was hard to ignore.
Normally, Caden avoided getting involved with other people’s business. But he’d grown fond of the old timer, one of the few people who didn’t bend over and kiss his ass every time he frowned. Sal had been around long enough to know not to get caught up in the celebrity shit.
“No offense, but do you think you can handle that?”
Sal nodded, and took another long swig. Oh, fuck.
“Never seen Jerry so pissed off.”
Caden began his warm down, and rolled his shoulders. “Can’t say that I’m surprised. What else did you expect to happen at a biker bar? Nothing but trouble. God knows why he’s scheduling appearances at dives. Starting to cost me a pretty penny—and more—having to bribe my way out of making them.”
“And more” was putting it mildly.
It had taken some serious finagling to get out of tonight’s appearance. Since flying into St. Louis two days ago, Jerry had been nagging him about joining the Boys and trying to renege on their agreement. Caden’d greased the man’s palm big time to only having to make two appearances and to not having to ride on that crap-for-wheels bus. It didn’t stop Jerry from busting his balls and pressuring him into doing more.
Whether or not he liked Jerry was irrelevant. Caden was part of his fight team, sponsored by him, and most importantly—and what he’d best keep reminding himself—was that notoriously tight-fisted man was also a major sponsor of Tetnus.
Go figure.
Clearly Jerry had high hopes for his team—him—winning.
At least they shared a common goal.
Caden was already regretting what else he’d offered up in exchange. “You know, with the wad of greenbacks lining his pocket, that asshat should be grinning all the way to the bank. And...God help me, he’s riding along with me for the rest of the trip in my rental car.”
“Not anymore. No wonder he’s madder than a fighter caught in a choke hold. Bad enough all hell broke loose tonight. Jerry totally flipped his lid right dab in the middle of all the hoopla, cursing and screaming threats. He promised the Boys that he’d be on tomorrow’s bus.” Sal took another hard swig.
“Tastes better when you sip it,” Caden lied. The news about Jerry’s change in transportation plans made him smile. “Okay, I’ll bite. You gonna fill me in on all the hoopla?”
“The bus is leaving tomorrow at 6:00 a.m. sharp. He told all the Boys to either be on it or forget about Vegas, and that shot at the title.”
“Bullshit. No way is he going to can his best fighters.” It’d probably take Sal all night for him to spit out the truth about t
onight’s fuck-up, given how he was three sheets to the wind.
“Told everyone that he’s driving the bus himself, so he can monitor who gets on and off. Don’t know how I’m going to break it to her.” Sal murmured the last bit in a low voice, causing Caden’s ears to strain to catch his words.
There could only be one her—the troublemaker in high heels. Man alive, she seemed to have occupied his thoughts for the better part of the day. But something else was up, and he intended to find out what it was. “What’s got you all riled up tonight, old man?”
“My word is my honor. My reputation. This means a lot to her. You should have seen her handle the Boys on the bus. And tonight.”
“You’re talking about that reporter, right?” he asked, already guessing the answer. Caden gave himself a mental pat on the back. Keeping himself off that bus was money well spent.
“Most of the Boys seem to have taken a liking to her.”
“Imbeciles. What was Sophie Morelle doing at our gig?”
“Jerry’s face looked like a parsnip. The man must take blood pressure medication or else he’d have been wheeled outta that place on a stretcher. Bad enough only ten people showed up. Bad enough the Boys downed enough liquor to fill a stadium. The worst of it all happened after Sophie moseyed on in. That’s when the night went from bad to life-threatening.”
“Usually does when she’s around. She was at the gig because...?”
Sal looked at him, and something crossed his face, something slightly devious. Or was it perturbed? Or most likely nothing, except mad-ass drunk.
“Trust me, Sal. Whatever happened, that woman will get over it. She’s a survivor. What did she want from you, anyway?”
Sal looked like he was ready to tear his hair out. Good thing he had so little to work with. “Dang, I hate to disappoint a pretty lady.”
Caden snorted.
“Now I’ll never see my name in the credits.”
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