Caden leaned back into his leather bucket seat, wondering just how much backlash she’d received when Ultimate American Male cancelled his ads. Served the little spitfire right. That woman was as confident as she was curvaceous—and God help him, he’d spent enough time thinking about those curves.
“Keep searching. I wanna know exactly what that fireball is angling toward.”
Harold inhaled faintly. But it was enough for Caden to pick up on it before the sound blended in with purr of the engine. Here we go again. “Um...I know this isn’t a good time to rehash this issue, but Ultimate American Male is waiting for your decision.”
“Right. Bad timing. Let you know soon. Talk to you later.” He pressed the disconnect button on the dashboard, feeling guilty for stringing Harold along.
Miles flew by, giving Caden ample time to contemplate what lay ahead of him.
He loved the hardcore sport of mixed martial arts. Nothing better than a well-planned and executed fight, where his heart rate accelerated and his mind was in perfect sync with his body. In the Octagon cage, he’d be expecting the punches and kicks. He’d be in control.
Signing another modeling agreement would be the kiss of death to his MMA career. The Boys were getting younger, stronger, and more technically skilled in abstract fighting strategies like Brazilian Jujitsu and Muay Thai. He’d missed his opportunity three years ago. Ended up modeling instead—easier to maintain a wicked stupor and numb his demons when all he had to do was flex some muscle and smile. He dealt with his less-than-stellar childhood the best way he could.
In retrospect, his hardcore lifestyle had been a form of escape.
Escape. Just like when he was a teen, taking to the streets with his brother Bracken, deep into the underbelly of Nashville. Always on the move. Always on the go. Always struggling to get by. They’d had each other. They’d survived.
Bracken seemed to have come to terms with his demons. When he’d been promoted to second grade NVPD detective, Caden had to scratch his head. Such a one-eighty from his hell-raising youth. He was rumored to be damn good cop, too. Their eldest brother, Michael, who’d escaped their father’s fists by heading into the Marines, would have been proud of Bracken.
Except, Mikey was dead. Killed in an Afghani roadside bombing three years ago. His posthumous Purple Heart had come by mail, and was now tucked safely away in Caden’s wallet.
The Kelly men were fighting men. It must run in their DNA.
There’d come a point where all the hard living had come back to bite him. It was now or never to get his head on straight and his body in top form. The thought caused Caden to readjust his long legs, suddenly growing antsy. Man, he was actually looking forward to picking up the pace of his training.
He tugged his iPhone from the overnight bag wedged between the front seats and plugged it into the auxiliary jack, anxious for some music to break the dismal silence. Thumbing through his playlist, he found the perfect Blake Shelton song to blast away the memories. A silly song about a bee, of all things, always cheered him up. Caden cranked it and sang along in harmony.
The sun began to rise, and so did Caden’s spirits. He needed a strong cup of coffee. But first, he had to ditch the bus. To hell with Jerry and his temper; he’d meet up with him and the others in Wichita.
Caden maneuvered the Aston into the passing lane and gave it some gas. The car picked up smoothly. The Boys’ faces filled the windows, their shit-eating grins full of envy, and Anthony gave him an approving thumbs up. Caden hit the accelerator hard, ready to blow past the bus, hoping to catch sight of Jerry’s furious mug in his rearview mirror and not a moment sooner. The man had to be livid, after passing up such a sweet ride to drive that can of rust on wheels.
He was two-thirds of the way past the bus when suddenly something sailed out of a window. Small like a finch. But bright, fuchsia pink.
It landed on the shiny black hood and slid across the polished chrome all the way up to the windshield. Caden stopped singing and his eyes narrowed. A thong?
“Panty fight!” One of the Boys screamed, rolling the material in his hand into a tight ball and hurling it toward Caden.
Lingerie in every shade imaginable soared out of the bus. One after another, in a wild array of rainbow silk. Blue briefs whizzed overhead, accompanied by a matching bra made out of fishing twine, or some other transparent material. Caden ducked, avoiding a yellow nightgown. An interesting assortment of naughty nighties, panties, and bustiers followed. Inexplicably, his hand shot up and snagged a bit of black lace.
“Whoo hee. Sophie Morelle’s got some sexy underwear,” another of the Boys hollered. “Guess now she’s really going to be the Commando Queen.”
Caden glanced down. Purple, not black. Lace-trimmed, silky and fuck-all transparent. He tossed the negligee into the back of the car, as if it had sparked up and burned him. What the hell? Knowing she slept in a sheer bit of material was an image he so did not need after last night. Thinking was about her off somewhere, panty-free, made his cock stiffen.
“Damn, that’s a hell of a lot of lingerie,” he muttered, as the hail of undergarments began to dwindle. “Serves her right.”
Caden had a pair of boxers for each day of the week—a simple, no-nonsense plan, despite the fact that Ultimate American Man’s signature garments were form-fitted briefs. Sex sells, and Caden had been the biggest attraction they had, which equated to a hell of a lot of brief sales. Which is why they were still hounding him to resign a multimillion-dollar contract.
He was crazy turning down that kind of money.
Jerry gestured violently from the driver’s side window. Caden shot past him, cranked the music up another notch, and with an overhead wave, headed off on the long expanse of highway.
He approached the I-70 on-ramp in record time. Spotting a Cuppa Joe sign at the last exit, he slowed and turned smoothly off the road. Grabbing his overnight bag from the middle console, Caden stretched his long legs as he ambled out. No need to put the top up as the car was fully equipped with an anti-theft system. All he needed to do was secure his bags in the trunk.
Shifting the driver’s seat forward, he lifted his suitcase out of the bucket seat. Took two steps toward the trunk, and stopped. Frowned. And turned to take a closer look at the back seat.
The sheer purple nightie was gone.
Caden attention sharpened on the object. What the fuck? Tucked away behind the passenger’s seat was a large, bulky blanket that he hadn’t noticed before—man alive, it hadn’t crossed his mind to check the back seat in the early morning darkness. Besides, Jerry had had his head spinning.
The balled-up material looked suspiciously like the bedspread from the New Millennium Inn.
He stalked around to the passenger’s side, pulled the door open, and flipped the seat forward. The bedspread moved.
A stowaway. One he knew, undoubtedly.
In one swift movement, he yanked the bedspread up and off.
She was curled up in a ball on the floor, neatly wedged between the back bucket seat and front passenger seat, clutching the missing nightie like it was her last possession.
“Out,” he demanded. Hell, if she doesn’t have balls the size of Vegas.
Sophie angled her head and gave him a bold smile. “Nice ride.”
* * *
“I should have followed through on that restraining order,” Caden murmured. His body was straight and tense, but his lips twisted wryly. “Damn, you are persistent.”
Sophie climbed out of the back of the Aston Martin, feeling the pins and needles in her legs from being crunched up for so long. She saw Caden’s gaze shift to the nightgown in her hands and quickly stuffed it inside her pants pocket. She sucked in a breath. “So,” she began nervously, yet her voice sounded smooth and unaffected.
“So?” he responded, in a low, sexy tone. Her toes c
urled upward at the sound. His gaze raked over her in a bold caress, from her head to her curling toes. Humph. Was Caden trying to intimidate her? Or make her feel bad about hitching an uninvited ride?
Sophie decided to soften her approach. “James Bond’s car, right? An Aston Martin.”
His lips lifted for a fraction of a second before he nodded agreeably. Dang-diggity. “DB5.”
It seemed he wasn’t going to make this easy on her.
He tossed his luggage back onto the back seat, reminding Sophie about the fate of her own bags.
She hoped Sal had managed to secure her camera bag and large suitcase in the luggage bin underneath the bus. He’d promised to take care of things earlier this morning when they’d discussed her plans—though plan A, hiding on the bus, had been shot to pieces once she’d spotted Jerry prowling around.
Shifting toward the car’s hood, she scooped up her thong and tucked it safely away in her pocket, to keep company with her nightie.
Out of your cotton-pickin’ mind with crazy plan B, she scolded herself for the hundredth time.
Clearly, she’d been too hung over when making this rash, by-the-seat-of-her-pants decision. Without considering the massive consequences, most notably six foot three of lean, muscled welterweight. A man with eight-pack abs, who now stood before her looking bemused, pissed off and indecisive, all at the same time. Eyeballing her like a schoolmarm he’d caught being naughty. It made her want to show him just how naughty she could be.
Jeez. What she needed was a cold blast of water on her face.
She straightened her blouse. What did Caden expect, after all? It wasn’t like she had a choice. Staying behind was out. Her three attempts at boarding the bus without Jerry knowing had failed. She’d had a fleeting window of opportunity to climb into the Aston Martin and become invisible—between the time Caden silently dropped Jerry off and headed into the hotel, and seconds later, when he’d returned. She’d hoped to high heaven he wouldn’t spot her. For once, luck had been in her favor.
Raising her chin, she looked back at Caden. Her luck had run out. Or possibly not, she thought, as he ran a thumb along his jaw, deeply contemplating his options, or so it seemed. She worked her fingers through her hair, as much to loosen the messy knots as to loosen him up further with a classic feminine move. Perhaps he wouldn’t be all that opposed to some company.
Sophie pressed on, wanting to make light of the situation. Take advantage of the sudden change in him. “Loved how James Bond and the Queen jumped out of that plane during the Olympics. Talk about a great PR campaign.”
“Listen, I’m gonna get a cup of coffee. This isn’t the safest of neighborhoods, so this is what I’m going to do. I’ll take you as far as the Park-n-Ride at top of the I-70 on-ramp, then you’re on your own. Catch a bus back to wherever the hell you came from. Man, I’d love to see the look on Jerry’s face when he sees you standing there.”
Sophie snorted and ignored his last comment. “That’s the safer option? Heck, there are more missing person’s reports along interstates—”
“Like hiding in the back of a stranger’s car is safe?”
“You’re hardly a stranger.” Sophie grimaced, thinking how false that statement really was. Drooling over someone’s billboard, following their career in the tabloids, and having a minor altercation with a person—well, a few minor altercations, if the pool and the kiss qualified—hardly fell under the category of “Getting To Know You.” “I know you can hold a tune, but your choice of music stinks. And that you wear briefs like nobody’s business.”
A deep V formed on Caden’s forehead, and Sophie gave herself a mental kick. Mocking the man’s music wasn’t earning her any points here. “You are attempting a comeback and are rumored to be the best welterweight out there. What else do I need to know?”
“I don’t do interviews anymore. No exceptions.”
Ouch. “Well, you know what they say...”
“She who expects nothing, won’t be disappointed. No exceptions.”
Double ouch. Darn, Caden was quick. “More like it’s better to expect the unexpected. So maybe over a cup of coffee, you’ll listen to what I have to offer.”
He straightened and the tension in his big body seemed to disappear. He pinned her with his gaze. This hunk positively gleamed with sex appeal. Sophie considered adding an addendum to her offer: Be mine for a night.
“Jesus,” he muttered, and she wondered if he felt the sizzling energy too. Heck, she’d been about to sexually combust before him. “Watch my luggage. I’ll get the coffee, and then you’re history.”
Sophie stood with her hip on the trunk and watched Caden stalk away, telling herself she needed to keep things in perspective. Though the perspective of his tight body so beautifully wrapped in worn jeans was downright distracting.
What could she possibly offer Caden that would entice him enough to let her ride along, and more importantly, give her a genuine, God’s honest interview? Naughty visions of the nightgown in her pocket came to mind, her in it and Caden on his knees, a smirk on his lips, willing to do whatever she demanded. Except they were back at the New Millennium Inn, not in a Cuppa Joe parking lot. And, let’s face it, Caden wasn’t exactly the submissive type.
Furthermore, although TV host and journalist extraordinaire Sophie Morelle was known for her brazen, no-holds-barred style, the real Sophie would never sell herself short by offering her body for a story. Locking lips, as Caden had so eloquently put it, didn’t count.
Someone made a loud clucking noise, and Sophie turned. A large man in a Cardinals baseball cap and another stout guy with long, brown hair walked up to her. “This your car?”
They stepped a bit too close for her liking, invading her space. But Sophie held her ground. Years ago, she’d learned that fear was something a predator could smell miles away. Fear was hard to shake once it grasped hold of the senses. And Sophie had to inhale deeply as it welled up inside her. “My boyf—fiancé’s car. He’s standing inside by the window. Hi, honey!” She waved at the small, dirty store window.
The bulkier guy snorted. A low, disconcerting sound. Hard to tell if he was buying her story or not.
“When he’s not beating the pulp out of someone, my fiancé likes cruising around in his car.”
“Hear that, Pete? We’ve got a tough guy on our hands.”
Pete cracked his knuckles.
“Pete here packs quite a punch. Would hate to see him finally lose a fight.”
Oh, crapola. “He’ll just be a second...and has the car keys.”
The two men looked at each other, sending an unspoken message that Sophie read clearly. Trouble.
She stepped back until her bottom pressed up against the trunk. “You’re not mugging me in a Cuppa Joe parking lot. Heck, there are cameras everywhere.”
The tall mugger pulled his cap lower on his forehead while the stout one looked anxiously around the dirt parking lot—one better suited to a truck stop than any sort of retail space.
“Empty your pockets.”
She thought about reaching into her pocket and texting for help, like they did in the movies. Except her Smartphone was buried inside her purse, which was tucked away safely under the passenger seat.
“Look, I don’t have any money.”
Both men looked from the Aston, to her, to her bulging pant pocket, incredulous. “Sugar, you’ve got something stashed away. I can see it.” Pete offered her his palm.
“No.”
“What did she say?”
Sophie straightened, putting her hands on her hips. No way in crapola was she giving up the contents of her pocket. “N.O.”
Pete stepped forward, so close she could smell his breath. The man certainly could use some lessons in oral hygiene. He grabbed her arm and held her still while he jammed his hand inside her pocket. The
pink thong fell to the ground as he held up the nightie. His expression was one of utter stupefaction, until it changed. Then, he looked like he’d won a prize at the local fair. “What have we here?” he exclaimed.
“What have we here?” Caden repeated, his voice deep, calm and surprisingly unaffected as he took strode up to them. He bent, scooped up her thong and tucked it into his pocket nonchalantly, like he was gathering rocks for his collection. Sophie frowned, then noticed how he wasn’t carrying any coffee.
“Quite the little fiancée you’ve got, buddy. Hot and ready for some action, huh,” Pete mocked, his mouth twisting into an ugly grin. “Sure you can handle her?”
The man was still way too close, close enough for her to give him a quick knee to the crotch. She contemplated whether to escalate the situation or let Caden handle matters. Judging by Caden’s laid-back manner, as if the redneck had asked him if he liked cold beer or big-busted women, she’d better act. Sophie flexed her leg, warming it up for action.
“Uh, Pete. We gotta head out. Nice meeting you, Mrs. Kelly.” The tall man began to walk away. Pete, however, wasn’t biting.
“Nah, man. I’m taking a ride.”
Pete wasn’t looking at the car. Sophie felt an icy chill shoot up her spine, even though the only ride she planned on giving the man was a long trip in an ambulance. How hard did a woman have to knee someone in the groin to warrant major surgery?
“Come on, Pete. That’s Caden freakin’ Kelly.” The mugger with a newfound conscience—or was it perspective?—turned toward Caden. “Honestly, he didn’t mean any harm to your fiancée.”
Stepping several feet back from Sophie, Pete’s full attention swung toward Caden. He stood impassive, with his arms folded across his body like he was waiting on the tide, like the jerk had offered her flowers instead of trouble. His focus wasn’t even on Pete. Instead his attention fixed on her, as if he was assessing her worthiness as his better half, or something.
Sophie contemplated giving Caden a swift kick to wake him up. Was he just going to stand there, without doing or saying anything?
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