She froze in indecision. This time, there was no potted plant to hide behind, which is what she’d done a day earlier when she’d spotted him in the hotel lobby. Nowhere to hide, especially as his gaze pinned her in place, then slowly raked over her, starting with her hair, which dangled freely about her shoulders, and traveling all the way down to her open-toe pumps.
She felt an irrational tug deep within herself, urging her to step forward, wrap her arms around his neck and pull him in tight.
Her lips felt dry. She moistened them with her tongue.
His lips tightened into a fine line.
The elevator chimed and the door closed. If the elevator had legs, it’d be giving her a swift kick in the butt, knocking her both away from this man and some sense into her, the foolish, idiotic, irrational woman on her third ride within minutes.
Except it didn’t move. Glancing down, Sophie spotted the reason why. Caden had stuck his foot in the door.
The doors slid open, allowing him entry, his big, sweaty body blocking the exit. He reached over and pressed Close.
She stepped to the right in an attempt to squeeze by him but he was too fast, blocking her just as the doors closed.
He shifted sideways and after a quick swipe of his room card, pressed the penthouse button.
Caden was staying in one of the luxury suites reserved for the very rich, or the very lucky. Or the very corrupt.
Her gaze shifted away from the illuminated button and met his bold stare.
He smirked.
Smooth operating bastard.
A bead of sweat followed a path along his cheekbone. He tugged the bottom of his T-shirt up and wiped it away, not before giving her an eyeful of exquisitely toned eight-pack abs and massively bulging pecs.
God, he was more chiseled, more defined than a few days ago. She’d run her hands along his chest and down to his abdomen as she straddled him in the Aston. Touching him was like sunshine on a winter day, you never got enough of it and never wanted it to stop. The feel of his sculpted physique was such a turn-on. And, wow, if Caden had been in fighting shape before, his opponents didn’t stand a chance now. She couldn’t imagine another man cut so beautifully in all the right places.
She swallowed hard, remembering what a masterful liar he was.
His eyes narrowed, piercing her. “What a difference a few days makes, huh? Where’s your entourage? Ditch them after some fun at the craps table?”
She frowned. Keeping tabs, was he? His tone was mild, yet still felt like daggers. And, for some bizarre reason, she wanted to rattle his smug, self-serving attitude. “The Boys have been extremely supportive, helping me with my documentary. Except for Jaysin, I underestimated them. They’re...sweethearts.”
“Sweethearts? Every MMA fan in America is going have your head if you use that freakin’ word to describe the Boys. Is that the kind of guy you want, a sweetheart? A sweetheart who’s got you spread eagled on the hood of a car with his tongue in your honeypot.”
She flushed at the memory but forced it away. Bastard. How dare he argue the merits of a word with a goddamned journalist. Way too confident in his abilities, too. Too self-assured. Too smug. And way too capable of pissing her off.
If he could toss down lies like shots of tequila, without wincing or fearing the inevitable hangover, well so could she.
“You’re assuming one of my sweethearts isn’t lying spread eagled, as you so eloquently put it, on my mattress right now.”
He moved and punched a button with his fist. Number 25—her floor. The entire elevator rattled under the impact.
She jumped. “Are you crazy?”
“I’d say so.” He stood glaring at her, like he’d been the one left stranded in the desert with an inoperable luxury rental car and a wad of large, unbreakable bills. The cab driver had been overjoyed to be handed a week’s worth of fees. A two-week stint at the MGM Grand was pricey so she’d been thankful the officer had let him toss her the wad of money, even if it was dirty drug money. She intended to make a donation to the Nevada State Police after all was said and done. Sooner than planned, if her luck at the craps table continued.
“Fuck, you’re bluffing,” he muttered, his fingers unwinding from his tightened fists. Her breath caught, knowing her lie had struck a nerve. Knowing he cared.
And knowing, too, that she shouldn’t give a damn.
“Ready to listen yet? Or are you going to keep avoiding me?” He folded his arms across his chest and cocked his head, his clear, green gaze holding her captive. “I deserve a chance to explain, considering our history.”
Sophie snorted, trying to harden her heart and gain back some self-control. Respect, that’s what this was about—or rather, his disrespect. Groupie. She’d gone and let him in, closer than other male, trusted him, and he’d gone and pulled a Hawley on her.
She struck her best Sophie Morelle pose—shoulders squared, hands on her hips, with one hip thrust out to the side. “History is learning from your mistakes. And you’re my biggest one.”
Instantly, she regretted her words—way too revealing. Rule number one when dealing with a lying male cheat was don’t let him sense your weaknesses. And, she’d laid it right on out there for him, on the Sophie-reveals-all table.
“Darling, there’s no arguing size with you,” he paused, his lips twitching, probably because he’d caught the flush spreading across her cheeks and down to her chest. But his demeanor suddenly changed, from aggressive male to a softer version of himself, more like the Caden she’d grown to love. “It wasn’t mine, you know. The duffel bag. I was just trying to figure out what the fuck was going on. Who’s taking or distributing the drugs.”
Damn, the elevator was small. Nowhere to hide tonight.
“Performance-enhancing drugs, Caden. And needles, for what?” She frowned, thinking about the duffel bags Jaysin had exchange with his large friend. Her instinct reassured her that no way was Caden involved. Yet the evidence...
Caden snorted, interrupting her thoughts. “Shows you don’t know jack about the sly ways some athletes get their fix.”
That did it. “You’re the voice of experience, huh? Bet there’s not a drug out there you haven’t indulged in.”
“Not performance-boosting stuff. Never. I’m a lot of things, but a cheater—no way. I’ll win based on my own merits, not because my muscles are souped-up on steroids or fresh blood infusions. Never done any of that shit, and don’t do the other shit anymore, either.”
She bit her lip and studied him.
He looked right at her, his eyes hooked on hers. Either he was a damned good liar—and of course he was, the man excelled at everything else, why not lies?—or he was telling the truth.
Her heart quickened, wanting to give in and believe him. Wanting him. “So how did that duffel bag get in the trunk of your rental?” she blurted out.
“Think about it, Sophie. Haven’t I been trying to get the answer to that question from you the entire ride?” He straightened and turned away, as if he was disgusted with her. “Fuck, you know what? Believe what you want. I’m used to figuring things out on my own—why would now be any different?”
The elevator stopped, and a split second later, Sophie found maneuvered onto the exterior carpet.
“See you around,” he growled, his tone teeming with frustration.
He was gone. Done with her. She’d been feeling the same toward him for days. So why did she feel so alone? Abandoned. And unjustly accused. So reminiscent of how she felt when the entire town of Hawley had turned on her? Maybe, just maybe, that’s what she’d been doing to Caden.
The police had released him. Here he was in Vegas, training hard for Tetnus. Antisocial, keeping to himself rather than working out with the Boys. No time to solicit buyers or sell drugs, from what she could tell.
She’d been so
ready to believe the worst of him. Heck, that’s how she felt toward everyone—it was better to assume the worse than expect the best, right?
These nagging doubts played around in her mind all the way down the hallway and far into the long, sleepless night. Searching for a truth that seemed just out of reach.
* * *
“Another water with lemon,” Caden ordered, nodding at the empty glass on the bar in front of him.
Bracken tossed back the rest of his tequila and wiped the back of his hand across his mouth.
“The shit I’ve had to do...” his brother mumbled, his way of explaining why he was drinking on the job, before he changed the subject. “That twat Jerry’s not our dealer. You were right. Interesting guy, though, with his fingers in quite a few pockets, maybe even links to organized crime. I’m gonna keep my eyes on that fuckhead.”
“So it’s one of the Boys.”
“Probably. Did you do as we discussed, plant the rumor that some hard-prick biker wants to meet a couple fighters, share the shit? That I was looking for some low-key fights, off-premise, an easy way to get in shape without of the bullshit training?”
No-bullshit training was more like it. From daybreak to well past nightfall, Caden had been following workout regimen that left no room for woes or aches of any kind.
Training for Tetnus was no joke. He had to put on muscle and then drop weight a day before the bouts to make fighting weight. And then put it all back on again. He followed a highly restricted, lean-protein diet, extreme carb-infused workout, and balanced it with weight lifting and stretches to elongate his muscles. Despite the vigorous training and dietary restrictions, it would all be worth it if he won Tetnus.
And some pill-popping peddler was looking to make things easier, ruin a fighter’s credibility.
“Yep. Pissed a few fighters off, too. You’re going to be an unpopular man with most of them.”
Guys from around the country would give their left nuts to qualify for a chance at becoming the greatest fighter around. Sure, the argument remained that boxers were the toughest. Not so. What mixed martial arts fighters had over boxers was serious, mad-ass skills in a host of disciplines. Boxers...box. But an MMA bout was more than exchanging punches and whoever lands the best throws or whoever falls down first wins or loses, respectively.
MMA fighters trained in several styles of fighting. Hell, one of the MMA Gods, named Royce Gracie, proved that size doesn’t matter. Six foot one and at 180 pounds he took on a taller wrestler who outweighed him at a whopping 486 pounds and won. He took down more fighters using Jiu-jitsu than any other guy around. Fuck, a mind-blowing headache wouldn’t bother a guy like that.
The bartender placed another water in front of him, and leaned over the bar as she did so, flashing some skin. He could almost see her belly button, the way her low cut shirt gaped open—a few more buttons had been unbuttoned since she’d served him the first glass of water. But when her gaze drifted to the man sitting next to him, she beat a hasty retreat back to the other end of the bar.
“Guess that’s my signal to head out. I’ll be out in the neighborhood following a tip. We’ll keep in touch. Text me if you hear anything more. You’re looking fit, bro. Rooting for you.” Bracken faux-punched Caden in the arm, and left.
There was more than meets the eye happening behind the scenes out here, that much was for sure. The fact that the duffel had been hidden in Caden’s rental car and no one had come to claim it was downright bizarre. Sure, Jerry was the king of shitty business practices but Caden, and subsequently Bracken, had ruled his involvement out.
Someone was missing something. But what?
Caden took a sip of water and felt the bartender’s eyes on him. He ignored her. Another time, another place, another freakin’ woman ago...
He hadn’t seen much of Sophie since arriving in Vegas, except for a quick elevator ride the night before. She’d done something with her hair, was wearing it loose around her face so it curled against her cheeks. Not the prim, proper Sophie he’d grown used to. Her long, wavy hair offered her the perfect way to hide—which is exactly what she’d done, pretending she hadn’t seen him. Yeah, like the surprised flash of desire that had filled her eyes when he’d entered the elevator wasn’t enough of a hiya.
Sal got a kick outta keeping him informed of her whereabouts. Tonight, she’d kept to her room, located a few floors above the rest of the crew. Not far enough away from that bonehead, Anthony, though.
Last night, Caden had come in from his run and had been drawn to the casino by the Boys’ shouts. The big bonehead had had his hands all over her. At the sight of him lifting Sophie into his arms, Caden charged forward, ready to act on an unexpected surge of violence. He wanted to protect her from that player’s hands. Drive his point home to the fighter using some non-verbal communication, likely fists. Hands off. So reminiscent of the kind of anger he’d had as a kid—which was the only reason he stopped, turned, and walked away. Control was key in a situation like this. And, Caden had been anything but in control of his emotions.
What did she see in the guy?
“Can I get you anything else?” the brunette asked. She’d come out from behind the bar and approached his barstool. Maneuvering herself between the bar and his legs, she thrust her breasts at him. “Anything you want.”
He forced a smile onto his lips. “Tempting. But I’ll stick to water, sweetheart.” Damn, what he wanted was a stiff shot of Jack. And a woman, someone to bury deep inside and work off some tension. Hard, fast, and unrelenting—just like his daily routine. But somehow during his cross-country journey, he’d changed. A quick roll on the mattress wasn’t enough, unless it was with Sophie.
Pushing his barstool back, he put some distance between himself and the buxom bartender. Glancing at his watch, he figured he’d bump up tomorrow morning’s run, work off some of the bullshit clouding his thinking. The streets of Vegas were cooler after midnight. Jerry could go fuck himself and his curfew. Then, he’d head over to the adjacent casino where a sparring cage had been set up. Just as he’d done the past few nights, Caden hoped to pick up a bout or two. Perfect his skills on new blood, before the big finale with Tetnus. Work off his frustrations. His anger.
Spread a rumor here and there.
“Another time. I’m here all week.”
Caden reached into his sweat pants pocket, pulled out some bills, and placed them next to the empty glass.
“Thanks for the drink. It was just what I needed,” he commented.
She shrugged, and tucked a napkin into his pocket. No points off for effort.
For a second, he paused. Why the hell not follow through on what was so blatantly offered? A week ago, she’d have already been on her back with her legs spread wide.
Someone else came to mind, her legs spread and all. Fuck. She plagued him worse than any drug habit. With a shake of his head, he set off for the Strip. Man, how he wished he’d forget ever getting involved with—ever caring about—Sophie Morelle.
Chapter Nineteen
CLINCH: The face a fighter makes when he gets the credit card bill.
One for Team Caden, he thought, smirking. His cheek smarted, but he ignored it. The punch to his face left him invigorated. Alive. Knowing this peacock prancing about the cage underestimated him. He let him land a punch, a strategy used to draw the man in closer. Close enough where he could land a lethal kick and take things to the mat.
A few minutes ago, Jaysin Bouvine had put a hurting on a guy. Knocked the man out cold with a single jab. Concussion, or worse. Ruined his chances at Tetnus. But it gave Caden hope, because if a douchebag fighter like Bouvine could manage to win a sparring match, Caden’s chances at winning Tetnus were in the bag.
Douchebag and his crew seemed to be having a premature victory celebration on the other side of the cage. Caden moved away from them, not
giving a shit how much Jaysin thought he was going to somehow miraculously rise to the top of the MMA food chain and win. Dumb luck.
Not the kind of luck that had ever graced Caden’s life.
Not the kind of luck he wanted, either.
His opponent stepped in and attempted a kick.
Caden stepped back, blocked it, and visualized exactly how he was going to take the man down.
A light flashed, momentarily blinding him. Enough time for the peacock to punch him in the kidney. Blinking away small, illuminated stars, Caden instinctively shot his elbow up, blocking another swing. Pivoting on his toe, he swung around and nailed the guy in the back of his legs. He buckled, unsteady on his feet. Throwing his weight on the man, Caden knocked him onto his back and fell forward with him.
They grappled and rolled.
Someone shouted—a woman—but his mind was locked on his opponent. He flipped him onto his stomach.
Caden had the amateur’s head in a can-opener when another light flashed brightly, causing his pupils to dilate. His opponent wiggled free.
“Fuck me,” Caden ground out, and searched the side of the cage for the obnoxious light.
His gaze halted on two familiar faces, one with a brightly lit handheld light meter, and the other one pointing a goddamned video camera at him. He shook his head, and gestured a time-out at his opponent. Stopping the sparring match wasn’t part of the MMA rulebook, but the breathless guy was all too eager to take a coffee break.
“If you pull this shit during Tetnus, I’m going to give you a beating,” he growled, leaning into the cage and glaring down at Sal.
A muffled noise caused Caden’s gaze to shift to the woman standing next to the old-timer.
Her hair was tucked beneath a baseball cap, which was pulled low over her forehead. She was wearing a tight, pale blue T-shirt with the words Tap Out stretched tightly across her chest. Crisp white slacks covered her long legs. And, she had on flats, pale blue, to match her T-shirt. A casual look for her, probably so she wouldn’t draw attention to herself. Funny how that hadn’t exactly worked out.
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