She didn’t know Oliveira well enough to gauge if that was true or if he’d just been drunk and looking for a fight. She only knew him through reputation and had seen him in person just once, the night of his championship fight. He’d seemed arrogant and full of himself that night. It was the way he’d smirked at the reporters after he’d won, as though he were entitled to the belt. The way he’d basked in the spotlight. The way he’d flexed for the cameras, smiling playfully and winking. “Is this something we need to put together an official press release for?”
“No, I don’t want to weigh in just yet. It might still blow over.”
Ashlynn nodded, agreeing with that. Sometimes to acknowledge things only made them bigger, adding kindling to the fire. “Okay, I’ll get to work on a statement just in case we need it. In the meantime, how about we come up with something positive to put out there? Do you think we could get Oliveira to agree to do some charity work? He could work with Gabe Maddox at the WFC Foundation. I know it’s early yet, but I read that Gabe is setting up his first Saturday karate clinic for underprivileged kids.”
Craig shook his head again. “Nah, won’t work. Oliveira is still pissed at Maddox. Thinks Maddox didn’t put up enough of a fight for the belt. He’s not wrong, mind you, but getting those two together right now wouldn’t be a good idea. I like what you’re thinking, though. It’s a great plan.”
She hadn’t realized there was bad blood between Oliveira and Gabe. They’d been rivals and Gabe had retired after Oliveira had won the championship belt from him. End of story, or so she’d thought. “How about the children’s hospital? I think I could arrange for him to do a tour of a floor there.”
“Perfect! Who doesn’t like sick kids?”
Ashlynn frowned.
“You know what I mean,” Craig clarified, flashing her a contrite smile. “We have family-oriented sponsors now, so we need some family-oriented PR.”
“Do you think he’ll go for it?” she asked.
“He’ll go for it or I’ll cut his ass from the roster. We stand to make more from these sponsorships than from the fans he’ll bring in.” Craig sat back in his chair with a smile on his face, visibly more relaxed than when she’d arrived. “Arrange the hospital visit. He’s got some interviews scheduled over the next couple of weeks to talk about being the new champion. Jules has him booked on morning shows in Miami, New York, and Los Angeles. Go with him and keep his ass out of trouble.” He stilled and then leaned forward, as though an idea had just occurred to him. “I want you to coach him.”
“Coach him.” She’d meant to phrase it as a question, but her words had come out flat.
“Yeah. You know. On how to be a decent person. More champion, less . . . Oliveira.”
Normally she worked on defined projects, handled specific crises. Granted, Oliveira seemed like a walking crisis, so maybe Craig wasn’t off base asking her to work with him. Maybe she just wasn’t sure she wanted to babysit some rich, spoiled bad boy.
Craig continued before she could answer. “I’ll talk to Oliveira and let him know to expect you. Meet with him, tell him the plan, get him on board. Tomorrow good?”
She nodded slowly. “Uh, yeah. Tomorrow’s fine.”
As though he could sense her hesitation, Craig shot her a placating smile. “Look, I know this is asking a lot and it’s short notice. But you’d be saving my ass here if you could take this mess off my hands.”
She smiled. “It’s fine.” She’d stepped in before when the league had needed the extra help. The WFC had grown so much in the past year, Ashlynn practically worked here part-time anyway. “Most of my clients are a little less hands-on, so I can work this into my schedule.” It’d be a huge time commitment, but she was anxious to get started, and Craig had always compensated her generously.
“Great. Stop and talk to Jules on your way out. She can get you the schedule and we’ll get your flights booked.”
Realizing she’d been dismissed, Ashlynn closed her notebook and grabbed her purse. “Thanks for calling me, Craig. I really enjoy working with the organization.”
Craig smiled. “You’re helping me out here. You get us through this, and I think there could be a permanent position here for you.”
She tried to keep her expression neutral, but her heart stopped for a second. A full-time position with a growing company like the WFC would be huge. It’d mean stability and a possible future as a PR executive. And there’d be plenty to keep her busy with the cast of characters around here. “I won’t let you down.”
His phone rang, so she said good-bye and went to find Jules. Oliveira would be challenging, but she’d yet to meet a challenge she couldn’t overcome. She was confident that she could handle him.
THAT NIGHT AFTER dinner, Ashlynn took her glass of Chablis and headed into the tiny bedroom she’d converted into an office on the first floor of her townhome. Settling into her chair, she opened up her laptop and Googled Leandro Oliveira. Her meeting with him was confirmed for tomorrow morning at ten, and she wanted to make sure she knew the extent of the public image damage she was dealing with.
The search returned a lot of articles with the same handful of photos showing him punching some guy in the strip club. They’d clearly been taken by bystanders with cell phones. There were also articles and blogs that mentioned the other incidents Craig had talked about. She clicked a link that took her to a Brazilian fan website that was filled with photos of Leandro from his fights in a Brazilian MMA league. It also featured shots from various modeling jobs he’d apparently done. She hadn’t known that he’d modeled, but there he was on a beach in a Speedo—holy bulge!—looking like a Brazilian god, all hard muscle and sexy, masculine intensity.
She took a moment to appreciate just how gorgeous he was. In person, his expression tended to show his arrogance, but in the photo he gazed at the camera thoughtfully. His blue-green eyes seemed to look right at her, sending heat rippling through her and settling low in her stomach. She bit her lip and clicked on the next photo. In this one he was dressed like the son of a billionaire banker in a blue button-down shirt, white linen pants, and canvas shoes, lounging on the deck of a yacht. His olive skin and thick, dark brown hair glistened in the sun, emphasizing the masculine planes of his face. The logo of a men’s clothing company was stamped on the bottom of the photo.
She clicked through a few more, surprised to realize that when he wasn’t being a conceited jerk, she thought he was hot. Really hot. His chiseled features—the straight nose, high cheekbones, full lips, sculpted jaw—were sometimes harsh and intense, as if he could take control and make her like every minute of it. That appealed to her in a way she didn’t understand. She wasn’t into that type of guy. Her last boyfriend had been a pharmacist. Someone stable and predictable.
The link at the bottom went to the next page on the website, but when she clicked it a pop-up window came up and a grainy video started playing. She squinted and leaned in, trying to figure out what she was looking at. She saw a wrought iron railing, and when the video zoomed in, she could see several people inside a hotel room. Several naked people. It was night and the lighting wasn’t great, but Ashlynn’s mouth dropped open when she realized a couple of women were having sex on the king-size bed.
A movement caught her eye and she saw that a man had moved to take a seat in an oversize armchair facing the bed. His chest muscles were chiseled perfection, flexing and bunching as he moved. She knew immediately that it was Leandro. Her mouth dropped open again and she gasped at the size of his erection. “Oh. My. God,” she murmured. It stood up, curved slightly toward his belly, huge, thick, and long. She had no idea how big it was. Eight inches? Nine? More? A slow ache began deep between her legs. Shit. This was his sex tape. She knew she should probably close the window, but she couldn’t look away.
He held the monster between his legs with one hand as a woman came over, dropped to her knees, and started trying to give him a blow job. It didn’t look easy considering his size—he didn’t even h
ave to remove his hand for her to take him deep into her mouth. His other hand came up and tangled in her hair, guiding her down. A fourth woman walked up behind him, her hands sliding down his chest as she leaned in to kiss him.
Ashlynn stared, watching the scene unfold with a mixture of disbelief and disgust. But if she was honest with herself, there was a healthy dose of lust in the mix too. He was hot and she was a warm-blooded woman who hadn’t had a date in a while—there’d been that one guy from the gym after the pharmacist, but he’d been a mistake, and she was glad they hadn’t slept together.
After a couple of minutes, Leandro tugged the woman away from his cock and stood. One of the women—she couldn’t even keep track at this point—had moved to all fours on the bed and he walked up behind her. But just when he’d finished putting on a condom, the video paused and another pop-up window asked her to input her credit card information to see more.
Face blazing with embarrassment and lust, she closed all the windows and shut her laptop. Taking her wine, she hurried back to the safety of her living room. She shouldn’t have watched as much as she had. She should’ve stopped as soon as she’d realized what it was, because now she was turned on. Worse, she had no idea how she was supposed to look Leandro in the eye tomorrow morning when all she could think about was the size of his penis.
She’d just have to be professional and take a hard line with him.
Hard line.
Hard penis.
Leandro’s ginormous hard dick.
Crap, crap, crap.
3
LEANDRO’S ARMS SCREAMED with exhaustion, and his lungs heaved, desperate for air as he worked the heavy battle ropes up and down in an undulating rhythm. Sweat cascaded down his temples, soaking his hair and coating his bare torso. He spared a glance at the timer on the wall; twenty seconds to go. With an anguished cry, he pushed himself even harder, pouring every remaining ounce of energy he had into the training drill. After what seemed like an eternity, the timer went off, and with a final burst of strength, he slammed the ropes down onto the rubber mats covering the floor.
“Filho da puta,” he muttered to himself, somehow managing to pick up his towel with his dead arms and wipe some of the sweat from his brow. He sank down onto the weight bench and took a long pull on his water bottle, giving himself a minute to recover. He’d been working harder than ever, challenging himself to get stronger, faster, better, but it never felt like enough. No amount of sweat, torturous drills, or training could erase the fact that he felt like a fraud. Maybe if he trained like a world-class champion, he’d actually feel like one.
From his spot on the bench, he glanced up at the shelf where his WFC championship belt sat, the gold glinting in the bright morning sunshine streaming in through the floor-to-ceiling windows. He’d placed it in the center of his home gym because every time he looked at it, he didn’t feel proud or satisfied. No, instead he felt hungry and eager to prove himself. He’d vowed that next time would be different. He’d be ready, no matter who his opponent was.
With a groan, he rose from the bench and made his way over to the heavy bag in the corner. He pulled on his gloves and started working it in varying combinations, throwing in elbows, knees, and kicks as he got going, losing himself in the rhythm of feigned combat. The only sounds were the hip-hop playing from the Bluetooth speakers in the ceiling, his harsh breathing, and the satisfying smacks of his limbs against the leather bag. This was why he’d set up his own gym in the house when he’d moved to Vegas. The WFC facility was nice, but too crowded, too noisy. Too distracting. He preferred to train alone, focusing entirely on technique. Trainers came to him, and he set his own schedule, not the other way around. Along with the battle ropes and heavy bag, he’d also set up a weight rack, a treadmill, and various other small pieces of equipment—jump ropes, plyo boxes, and medicine balls. An open area in the middle left him space to practice grappling and jiujitsu. For everything else, he used the WFC facility.
The chime of the doorbell pulled his focus from the bag, the echoing, melodic peal settling over him like dread. She was here. But he didn’t move to answer it—one of the staff would take care of it. He’d make her come to him. Just because the situation had been forced on him didn’t mean he couldn’t quickly and easily gain the upper hand.
He hit the bag harder, anger and resentment churning through him. First his grandfather, and now this bullshit. Why couldn’t people just let him be? He wasn’t hurting anyone. Well, except the scumbag he’d punched for assaulting Red, but he’d gotten far less than he’d deserved as far as Leandro was concerned. He was an adult, and other people needed to learn to mind their own business. He didn’t need some PR woman telling him what to do and where to go. Didn’t Craig Darcy understand that he was Leandro fucking Oliveira? If he wanted, he could buy the whole goddamn WFC.
He paused. Maybe that was the solution. He’d buy the league and run it his way. But just as quickly as the thought had appeared, he dismissed it with a shake of his head. Too much work.
He heard the front door open and close, and then the distinctive click of heels echoing off of the polished hardwood floor as they approached. The main floor of his home was open concept, bright and airy with no walls separating one space from another. The living room, kitchen, and dining room all flowed together seamlessly, and he’d converted the back corner into his gym, mainly because he liked the view and the way the light came in through the windows in the morning while he trained.
“Mr. Oliveira,” said his housekeeper Loretta, “Ashlynn Fields is here to see you.”
He grunted and nodded, still working the bag, not looking at her. Making her wait. Setting the tone for how things were going to be. He wasn’t sure how long he ignored her. Fifteen, maybe twenty seconds, and then he heard her heels once again clicking against the floor, moving away from him before he’d acknowledged her. He dropped his fists and glanced up from the bag just in time to see the world’s most luscious ass heading toward his kitchen. Thick blond waves fell down past her shoulders, reaching almost to her tiny waist. Long, toned legs emerged from her black pencil skirt. He hadn’t even seen her face, and he was already conjuring up all kinds of dirty fantasies. Maybe, if God was kind, she’d have a lazy eye or a missing tooth.
Before he could stop himself, he followed her. “Hey, wait. Where are you going?”
She turned around, and he knew God was laughing at him because she was stunningly gorgeous. Bright green eyes, high cheekbones, wide mouth, creamy skin. His eyes dipped lower, and he wasn’t sure if the situation was made better or worse by the fact that even her loose-fitting blouse couldn’t hide her ample breasts.
Her eyes met his and something flashed in them, almost like a victory.
Fuck. She’d made him chase after her on purpose.
“You seemed busy, so I thought I’d wait in here. Nice place,” she said, and he could tell she was trying to keep her tone casual, but the tiniest hint of intimidation had crept in along with it. Perhaps she wasn’t used to taking meetings in multimillion-dollar mansions.
Seeing his chance to try to regain the upper hand, he shrugged. “It’s okay, I guess. It’s just a rental.”
She glanced around, and for a second, he tried to see it through her eyes. The modern architecture with clean lines. Hardwood floors and recessed lighting. Floor-to-ceiling windows that afforded a view of the infinity pool and a golf course. A fireplace that stretched up the entire length of the wall. Massive pieces of modern art on the walls. Expensive furniture. A kitchen filled with a quarry’s worth of marble.
She raised her eyebrows. “I think you and I have different definitions of okay, Mr. Oliveira.”
“Please, just Leandro,” he said, holding his hand out. As they shook, her eyes traveled down his bare torso, and a subtle flush crept up her delicate neck. Suddenly he was very confident that winning the upper hand in this less than desirable situation wouldn’t be so difficult. He’d flirt with her, unnerve her, charm her, and he’d be able t
o do whatever he wanted. Problem solved.
“Ashlynn,” she finally said, clearing her throat softly as she took her hand back.
Hell, maybe this would actually be fun.
He reached past her, his bare arm brushing hers as he plucked an apple from the glass bowl on the kitchen counter. “Hungry?” he asked, offering it to her.
She hesitated for a second, staring at the apple as though it might bite her, and then shook her head. “No thank you.”
He raised one shoulder in a casual half shrug that he knew made his muscles bunch and flex. “Suit yourself.” He took a bite of the apple, chewing slowly. She watched as he swallowed, and he found that he liked her gaze on him.
She cleared her throat again. “Is there somewhere we could talk?”
He nodded and led her outside to the terrace and the little table where he ate his breakfast the mornings he was at home. He pulled her chair out for her and then sat down opposite her, taking another bite of his apple. Her eyes roved from his face to his chest and back to his face again. She swallowed and bit her lip, fidgeting ever so slightly in her seat. Blood flowed into his semihard cock as he imagined her wiggling that ass against him, breathless and sweaty, begging and moaning.
She looked up and when her eyes caught his, he could barely see the green, her pupils were so wide.
Perfect.
She took a breath, tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, then clasped her hands on the table. “As you know, I’ve been brought on to help with your public image.”
“There’s nothing wrong with my image.”
She scoffed. “Craig Darcy and some of the WFC’s biggest sponsors beg to differ. Now that you’re the champion, you’re subject to even more public scrutiny than before. We can’t undo what’s been done, but we can give the media positive things to focus on going forward.”
He leaned back in his chair, fighting his frustration with the situation. “I haven’t done anything so bad.” He cocked an eyebrow at her, challenging her, wanting to make her list his transgressions, his litany of sin. Wanting to see her react, wanting to throw her even more off balance.
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