“John. John Jordon...” Sasha fisted her hair back from her face. “I love him. I love him more than I’ve ever loved anyone...except you.”
“Good save. Go on.”
“He wants me to leave Templeton. Leave Funland. Leave and be with him. He’s given me the fair. For nothing. It’s mine. He’s also left me an open-ended ferry ticket to join him anytime in Bridgewater.”
Seconds ticked by, and Sasha’s heart picked up speed. She gripped the phone. “Well? What do you think?”
Leah’s exhaled loudly. “What are you asking me exactly?”
Frustration bit hot at Sasha’s cheeks. “What do I do?”
“Hmm...”
“Leah...this is serious.”
“I know.”
“Then tell me what to do!”
“You really need me to do that?”
“Yes. I’m dying here.”
“Go, you moron.” She laughed. “Go, now. The guy loves you. He wants you. You have nothing here but years of bad memories at Funland. Go make some new ones. Come back and visit, but hell, lady, the man is sex on legs with a heart bigger than the damn Cove. He loves you.”
Sasha grinned, her heart near bursting from her chest. “What about you?”
“What about me?”
“Will you be okay?”
“Will I be okay?” Leah laughed. “I’ll be fine and dandy. I’m going to hunt me down my own John Jordon, just you wait and see.”
Sasha laughed. “I love you, Leah Dixon.”
“I love you, too. Not get out of here. Send me a postcard.”
“I will.”
“Good. See you soon. I love you.”
“I love you, too.” Grinning so widely her cheeks ached, Sasha snapped her phone closed and grabbed her bag from the back of her chair. She stuffed the envelope containing the deeds to Funland into her bag, followed by the envelope containing the ferry ticket, before snatching up her keys. She locked her desk and headed for the door. Locking it securely, she marched through the dark and abandoned fairground and walked through the side gate and out into the open.
Replacing the padlock, she gave it a final tug and dropped the key into her bag. With her chin lifted, she unlocked her bike and straddled it, her long-awaited feeling of coming home now burning bright and clear.
* * *
SASHA ENTERED HER apartment, tossed her keys onto a side table and ran into her bedroom. She snatched down a suitcase from the top of her wardrobe and yanked open drawers, tossing clothes inside before hurrying back to her wardrobe and throwing in anything she could get her hands on.
Once the case bulged with clothes and shoes, she raced into her bathroom and filled a bag with toiletries, hysteria stirring a laugh from deep in her chest when she haphazardly grabbed some sanitary towels. Had she lost her mind? She laughed out loud. Yes, and it felt amazing.
Tension hurtled through her, but it was excited tension rather than the heavy dread she’d been carrying around since she was twelve. She’d waited her entire life for John to find her; she could wait a few hours more to be with him...God willing, forever.
The continual doubts that he would still want her after her treatment of him continued to badger her conscience. Did she deserve such a man after she’d shown him how single-minded she could be? Did he leave Templeton on the ferry, shrugging off their relationship as a bad experience and one never to be visited again? No. He’d pushed a ticket through her mailbox. An open-ended ticket to share his life’s journey.
She might be too late to begin the adventure with him at the starting line, but she’d take the first available ferry in the morning and catch him up at the next available stop.
* * *
JOHN STARED, UNABLE to believe what he was seeing. He blinked. Then blinked again. He turned to his class of eleven-year-olds, his throat dry. Their young faces were turned to the apparition smiling through the square of glass in the classroom door.
He swallowed and beckoned Sasha inside.
The way she tentatively pushed open the door and crept inside sent his heart leaping into his throat. He’d never seen her look so unsure about anything. He could only guess what this was taking for her to do this...to come to him.
The strength of his students’ wide-eyed stares burned into his temple, but he couldn’t take his eyes from her. Dressed in blue jeans and a simple, white V-necked T-shirt, John didn’t think he’d ever seen her look more stunning.
Her luscious, thick, waist-length hair was loose and glorious about her face and the yearning to bury his face in it was stronger than ever before. She threw a hesitant glance toward the kids, the soft tap of her ballet flats loud in the rare silence of the room. His gaze dropped to the visitor’s pass swinging from a lanyard around her neck. He’d find out later how she managed to convince the school receptionist to let her in. Right then, he didn’t care. She was here.
She came to a stop a safe two-foot distance from him and lifted her eyes to meet his. “Hi.”
“You’re here.” Somehow the words broke from his tongue. “You’re actually here.”
She smiled. “I am.” She glanced toward the kids again. “Do you think we could talk outside for a moment?”
“Are you here to stay?”
“Yes.”
“Forever?”
“Yes.”
His heart beat a painful tattoo in his chest and his arms yearned to hold her, but he had to be sure she meant it. He had to be sure before he laid himself open to more pain when he hadn’t recovered from the current agony ripping through him. He couldn’t be abandoned. Not again.
He nodded and turned to his kids. “I want you to read through the first two pages of chapter five of your textbooks. I’ll just be outside, so keep the noise down.”
They stared at Sasha rather than him, one by one blindly reaching for their books, varying expressions of curiosity and envy on the girls’ faces and varying expressions of prepubescent lust or disinterest on the boys’. Biting back a smile, John turned and gestured toward the door. “We can talk in the corridor.”
A flicker of unease swept across her gaze before she turned and walked out ahead of him.
He shut the door behind them and the expected wave of excited chatter, screeching chair legs on tiles immediately ensued. With his hand at the base of her spine, he steered her to the last of the windows looking into the classroom to give them as much privacy as possible, without entirely obscuring his view of his class.
Her gaze locked on his, and it dawned on John, he was already hers for the taking, regardless of what she had to say or the brevity of his intentions to not get hurt more than he already had been.
“I’m sorry, John. I’m so sorry.” A single tear escaped and slid onto her cheek.
He reached out and brushed it away with his thumb. “What happened to change your mind?”
“I woke up.” She lifted her hand to his face, her dark, dark eyes boring into his. “I woke up from the nightmare. I’m here. I’m back in charge of my freedom again. I love you.”
He turned his head and placed a kiss in the palm of her hand before lowering it and holding it tightly between them. “I love you, Sasha, but you have to be sure about this. I can’t...”
“You won’t hurt anymore.” A choked cry escaped her, and she gave a wobbly smile. “I promise. No more hurt.”
He smiled and blinked back the tears that burned behind his eyes. He stole his hands to her slender waist and pulled her close. “No more hurt for either of us. Ever again.”
She laughed. “Deal.”
Relief and love surged through his body and into his heart with such ferocity, John abandoned all thoughts of his kids for a single moment and hungrily covered her mouth with his. She was his...in heart, body and soul, Sasha Todd had come to him...as he would have soon to her.
The roar of applause and stamping of feet from his classroom forced them apart. They both glanced through the window at the beaming faces of his class before erupting into laughter. Sasha wiped the tea
rs from her eyes. “I’ve found exactly where I’m supposed to be.”
He stole his arm around her shoulders. “Welcome home.”
Her grin was so wide, John didn’t know what else to do but kiss her again...and again.
* * * * *
Keep reading for an excerpt from IN HER CORNER by Vicki Essex.
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CHAPTER ONE
KYLE STOMPED ON the brake and jerked the wheel to the right as the maniac on the bike barreled toward him.
The figure in black and red whipped by, his loaded backpack brushing Kyle’s newly detailed convertible. Something metal bounced against the side of the car like a dud missile, rolling under the chassis. He slammed the heel of his palm against the wheel. No one touched his baby.
“Hey!” he shouted as a horn blared. The cyclist darted out of the path of another car, wobbling on its suicide trajectory against New Orleans traffic. “What’s wrong with you?”
The bicycle skidded to a stop. The front wheel popped up and pivoted around as the rider deftly maneuvered it like a rearing show horse. A horn blared, and the driver of the car the cyclist had barely dodged rolled down the window, shouting obscenities. The cyclist studied the ground, frowning, eyes masked by reflective sunglasses. He looked up briefly and screamed an obscenity right back.
Jesus, the cyclist was a woman. All that lean muscle, plus the helmet and high-cut cycling top had effectively hidden any evidence of her femininity. Not that her being a woman subdued his temper. Kyle yelled, “Hey, lady, are you nuts?”
She ignored him as she walk-rode her bike back between the stalled lines of traffic, searching under the cars she’d passed. The driver who’d screamed at her started to get out of his car, swearing and waving his fist.
This was going to get ugly, and the cyclist had no idea the man was stalking toward her. “You’re riding on the wrong side of the road,” Kyle told her when she was within earshot. The driver from the other car continued yelling but was hesitant to stray too far from his vehicle. Kyle popped his seat belt, ready to intervene.
The woman scrambled off her bike and leaned it against the driver’s-side door. “What are you doing?” He fought the urge to shove her bike off the side of his convertible.
“I dropped my water bottle.” Her voice was smooth and sooty, tinted with an accent that definitely said not from around here. She got down on her hands and knees and reached under his car. Kyle got an eyeful of backpack, booty and muscular calves, and his ire was momentarily forgotten.
“Dammit.” She crawled back up. “I can’t reach it. Could you move your car?”
He blew out a breath. “Listen, lady, you can’t ride against traffic. It’s dangerous.”
“No, it’s not.” She said it matter-of-factly, without the slightest trace of defensiveness or irony. “I can see what’s coming, and so can you. I don’t see what you’re worried about—you’re the one behind two tons of steel.” She rapped on the side of the car.
Kyle’s temperature peaked. “Don’t. Touch. My car.”
She blinked, gave him an apologetic smile and lifted her bike off the door. “Sorry. Can I please get my bottle now?”
Her flippancy reminded Kyle of his sister, Jessica. He frowned deeply. He was not going to let her get to him—or have the last word. “Listen. I don’t know where you’re from, but in this city, you ride on a bike path and follow traffic laws. Otherwise, I can’t say what’ll happen. Not everyone is as nice as me.” He glared pointedly at the driver who’d gotten out of his car—the man looked like he still wanted to club her over the head. When Kyle narrowed his eyes at him, he stomped back into his vehicle.
The woman noticed the exchange. She lifted her chin a fraction, acknowledgment and challenge clear in her strong, stubborn jaw. He couldn’t see her eyes behind the mirrored lenses but felt as if he were being studied by a predator. “Of course. You’re right. I apologize.” Her full lips tilted up.
A jolt of surprise hit him. He’d expected her to put up more of a fight, maybe scream at him in a fit of bipedal road rage.
The traffic ahead was moving again, and the cars behind Kyle honked. He quickly buckled up and inched his vehicle forward, giving the woman enough space to retrieve her battered aluminum water bottle. She swung a leg over the bike and started to go with traffic, staying right next to Kyle’s side-view mirror. When he finally regained his speed, she kept up with minimal effort, legs pumping. Flashes of her well-sculpted body danced in his peripheral vision.
He braked for a stoplight. She halted at his elbow. “Do you mind?”
She flashed bright white teeth. “No.”
“You’re following way too close.”
“Don’t worry. I won’t touch your car as long as you drive predictably. Anyhow, it seems safer riding next to you than trying to get around everyone else. And you’re obviously a good enough driver that you wouldn’t hurt me.”
He stared. He didn’t know what this woman’s problem was, but he was done with her. He was going to be late for work and he had an important client coming.
“I’m taking the next right,” he said, then cursed himself for warning her.
“Me, too.” She gave him an enigmatic grin.
Kyle gripped the steering wheel, suppressing the urge to yell at her to back the hell off. His heart thudded. Sweat dripped from his brow. The sweltering New Orleans heat was only slightly moderated by the thin cloud cover. He wished now that he’d put the top up and turned on the air conditioner. At least then he wouldn’t have to deal with his cycling stalker. He’d have to shower again before his new client arrived. A Fiore was not someone whose hand you wanted to shake when you smelled like balls.
He tried to focus on driving, but the whole time he was ultra-aware of the pilot fish cyclist in her skintight cycling gear. She stayed so close that at stoplights, he could practically smell her—a strangely enticing combination of spice and something like fresh-baked bread. Like a hot-cross bun.
His eyes darted left as she slowed. Staring at her hot-cross buns nearly made him miss his turn. He yanked the wheel right. She arced away from the car, caroming into the next lane. Suddenly free of her, he floored it, speeding ahead and leaving her far behind as traffic closed around her. His tense shoulders relaxed as he pulled into the parking lot next to Payette’s, the official Unlimited Fighting Federation’s mixed martial arts gym he’d been managing for the past three years.
He grabbed his gym bag from the backseat and headed to the front door. His footsteps faltered as the cyclist coasted to a stop and alighted from the still-moving bike right beside him. She snatched it up as if it were broomstick.
Kyle stifled a groan.
“You left me behind.” She took out a sturdy U-lock from her backpack and attached the bike to a stand in front of the building.
Kyle didn’t say anything as he continued into the gym.
“Hey, wait up!” The woman’s sooty voice dogged him.
“I have somewhere to be,” he said without turning. He was used to dealing with hangers-on. Maybe she recognized him and wanted an autograph or something. If she tried to give him her number, he’d be sure to lose it as quickly as possible.
“We all have somewhere to be,” she said as he reached the entryway. “It just so happens I have to be right here.” She touched his arm. Something electric shot through him, and he whipped around. “With you.”
She was shorter than he’d first thought—five-eight at most. But she was built like a brick house with thick biceps that showed through the stretchy biking top and a trim, tapered waist. He’d been wrong to say that the biking gear hid all her feminine assets, because he could see them clearly defined now. Her grin widened as she unsnapped her helmet and shook out her hair. Long, thick, wavy black tresses slick with sweat tumbled out, barely tamed by an elastic hair tie at her nape.
He shouldn’t have been intrigued. Pushy girls weren’t his thing.
She stuck out her hand. “Kyle Peters, right? I guess you don’t recognize me.”
He panicked, searching through his internal catalog of bedroom conquests. He tried to place her face—something about her seemed familiar, but he would’ve remembered a body like that.
She lifted her sunglasses to rest on the crown of her head. When he saw the glass-green eyes her family was famous for, he knew he’d made a huge mistake.
* * *
“BELLA FIORE.” SHE extended her hand again, cooler now that she knew what Kyle Peters was really like. Any man who cared more about his car than a human life didn’t rank high on her list.
It wasn’t even a very nice car.
She watched his expression shift from embarrassment to frustration to regret and then, surprisingly, to anger. “You recognized me and didn’t introduce yourself?”
“In the middle of traffic? I didn’t think it was the safest place to do so.” She kept her smile polite, even though she wanted to laugh at him. The guy was a lot more high-strung than his reputation suggested.
He opened his mouth as if to retort, but then shook his head and pushed into the gym. Bella followed, unable to resist a peek at his shapely behind. It’d been seven years since he’d wrestled professionally, but he still had the great glutes of an Olympic medalist. Actually, all of him was admirable—thick muscles on his upper body, a narrow waist, strong thighs and not an ounce of extra meat visible on him. He was the living portrait of a Greco-Roman wrestler, complete with broken Romanesque nose and dark brown Brutus-style haircut. She wondered idly if he’d ever wrestled naked like the pugilists of those bygone days.
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