Holding Strong

by Lori Foster

  Hell, he’d been so involved in training, traveling for the fight and then the fight itself, he’d suffered self-imposed celibacy for too long.

  But for right now, Cannon gave his full attention back to Whitaker. What could the man possibly need from him that took so damn many papers and notes?

  Finally, somber in his preparedness, the lawyer folded his hands together and stared directly at Cannon. “You have inherited property and funds from Mr. Sweeny.”

  Whoa. A surge of fear brought Cannon forward. His heart thumped heavily in his chest. “Did something happen to Yvette?”

  Bushy brows coming together, the lawyer slid his glasses back on, sifted through the goddamned papers and shook his head. “You’re talking about Ms. Sweeny, the granddaughter?”

  “Yes.”

  “She has inherited, as well.”

  Relief sent oxygen back into his lungs. Jesus. Cannon pinched the bridge of his bruised nose, annoyed by his over-the-top reaction. But then, with Yvette, it had always been that way.

  The lawyer went on. “And in fact, Mr. Sweeny has evenly divided his assets between the two of you.”

  No way. “Between Yvette and me?”

  “Yes.”

  Blank, Cannon sat on the edge of his seat and tried to sort it out—without success. “I don’t get it. Why would he do that?”

  “He left you a letter.” The lawyer handed over an envelope. “I trust it will explain what I can’t. But what I can explain is that Mr. Sweeny came to me three years ago with very detailed instructions on the distribution of his assets in the event of his demise. He revisited once a year to amend and further clarify as his financial status fluctuated. I saw him for the last time two months ago when his health started to decline.”

  “He had a stroke?”

  The lawyer nodded, hesitated, then again folded his hands on the desk and dropped the officious attitude. “Tipton had become a friend. He was alone and I’d just lost my wife....” Whitaker shrugged.

  “I’m sorry.”

  He tilted his chin to acknowledge that. “Tipton’s blood pressure was high and he knew he wasn’t well. He seemed to dismiss the first stroke, but the next was worse and the third worse still. That’s when he finally closed up the pawnshop.”

  So he hadn’t closed up shop three years ago, after the vicious attacks, as Cannon had always assumed.

  “He was being treated, seeing the specialist on a regular basis, but he figured it was only a matter of time....”

  Seeing the sadness on the lawyer’s face sent guilt clawing through Cannon. Damn it, he should have gone to visit Tipton more. He’d known about the first stroke, but not the two after that—and then he’d been in Japan when Tipton’s body gave up the fight. “Yvette was with him?”

  Shaking his head, Whitaker said, “He didn’t want to burden her.” A measure of easiness showed on his face as he collected his thoughts. “I gather all of you shared an experience. Tipton never shared the details, but I assume it was something life altering?” He didn’t wait for Cannon to give details. “His granddaughter moved away because of it and Tipton didn’t want a sense of responsibility to bring her back, not, he said, when he knew her trips home were still difficult for her. He wanted her to return on her own terms, not out of a sense of obligation.”

  Bombarded with uncomfortable emotions, Cannon got up to pace the small office. Yeah, he imagined Yvette struggled anytime she had to be in town. No girl should ever have to suffer what she had. There were times when the memory of it hit him like a wild haymaker, leaving him dazed, angry, in a cold sweat.

  And he wasn’t the one who’d been threatened in the worst possible way.

  Remembering softened his voice. “She didn’t know Tipton was sick?”

  “Like you, she knew of the first stroke. But Tipton felt strongly about carrying his burden alone.” Chagrined, the lawyer shook his head and said, “No, I’m afraid that’s not precise. He wanted you to share his burden. He said you could handle it.” The lawyer gestured at the letter. “It’s in there.”

  A burden? More confused than ever, Cannon tapped the letter to his thigh. “So what are the rest of those papers?”

  “Deeds, bank statements, debts to be paid, retirement funds.” He shook two sets of keys out of a padded envelope. “Responsibilities.”

  Chewing his upper lip, Cannon stared at the papers—and had the god-awful urge to hand back the letter. His plate was full, and then some. He could handle it, that wasn’t the problem.

  It was Yvette.

  Could he handle her, the way she affected him?

  More to the point, could he resist her now if she needed him? Just thinking about her, hearing her name, had his muscles tightening in that familiar way. “You said deeds?”

  “One for the house, one for the business.”

  “The pawnshop?”

  “Yes.”

  “The last I’d heard,” Cannon admitted, “he was going to sell it.” After what had happened, he’d expected Tipton to sell the house as well, but he’d stayed put.

  “No. He continued to work until the health issues forced him to retire. Said it was cathartic for him to stay busy. He also redecorated the house.” The lawyer shrugged. “It was home to him.”

  Home. Cannon nodded in understanding. His mother had felt the same, refusing to budge from her house, the neighborhood, even after they’d lost his dad to extortionists.

  Her insistence on staying put was Cannon’s number one reason for learning to fight. He’d lost his dad, so he had been determined to protect his mother and sister. And he had—until his mother had passed away with cancer. Now it was just him and his sister, and...whatever it was Tipton had embroiled him in.

  More than a little intrigued, Cannon asked, “So now what?”

  “You sign a few papers and take ownership alongside Ms. Sweeny. Fifty-fifty. The two of you can decide to stay put, sell or one can buy out the other.”

  Cannon shook his head. “Have you seen Yvette?” He couldn’t imagine her wanting the house, but even if she did, where would she get the funds? She’d be...twenty-three now. Still young for such responsibilities.

  But finally old enough...for him.

  “She was in yesterday.”

  Had Yvette expected him to be there, as well? Looked forward to it?

  Or maybe dreaded it?

  He hated the thought that seeing him might dredge up a past better forgotten.

  Whitaker turned the papers, placed an ink pen on top and pushed them toward Cannon. “If you wouldn’t mind?”

  He wasn’t about to sign anything until he’d read it all and figured it out.

  The lawyer sighed, pushed back his chair and stood. “Read Tipton’s letter. I’m sure it’ll all make sense then.”

  “You know what’s in it?”

  Whitaker looked away. “No, of course I don’t. Tipton gave it to me sealed.”

  Suspicions rose.

  Clearing his throat, the lawyer met his gaze. “I know...knew Tipton. He had a strong mind right up to the end. He knew what he was doing, what he wanted.”

  And he wanted something from Cannon.

  Coming around his desk, the lawyer clasped his shoulder. “I’ll give you a few minutes.” And with that he stepped out of the office, closing the door behind him.

  Walking over to a window, Cannon leaned a shoulder on the wall and studied the envelope. It was sealed, all right, closed with tape wrapped completely around it. He tore off one end of the envelope. With a sense of foreboding, he pulled out two neatly typed, folded papers. Opening them, he skimmed over the type to see Tipton’s signature at the bottom.

  Going back to the first page, he began to read. Each word made his heart beat heavier with trepidation—and anticipation.

  Yes, Tipton knew what he wanted. He’d spelled it all out in great detail. One particular paragraph really got to Cannon.

  This is her home, Cannon. No matter what, she should be here. She always trusted you and you were
always there, such a good boy.

  Despite the enormity of what Tipton wanted, a touch of humor curved Cannon’s mouth. Being that he was twenty-six, only a grandpa would call him a boy.

  I know it’s a lot to ask, especially after you already risked your life for us. But she’s too cautious now, too guarded. If you’ll agree, I know you can free her from the nightmares so she can be her carefree, happy self again.

  Did Tipton mean literal nightmares? Or just the nasty memories of being attacked, threatened with the worst a woman could suffer?

  No, he didn’t want to think about that now; it still enraged him, the helplessness, the fear he’d felt while being an unwilling spectator to the cruelty.

  What a grandfather considered guarded could just be maturity. Just how free did he want Yvette to be?

  The lawyer walked back in. Cannon ignored him as he finished reading.

  If it’s necessary, if your life is now too busy or if she won’t agree, go ahead and sell both places with a clear conscience. But selling will require emptying the house—and that will bring about different problems for her.

  What did that mean? What type of problems came with finalizing a sale?

  In my heart, I know she’ll be happier here in Ohio, in Warfield, than she could ever be in California.

  Whatever you decide, Cannon, please don’t tell her about this letter. Not yet. And please know, regardless, you will always have my deepest gratitude.

  Sincerely,

  Tipton Sweeny

  Familiar feelings stirred up, feelings he’d long ago tamped down and then forgotten. Or tried to forget. God knew he’d done his best to demolish them, to sweat them out in the gym, fight them out in the ring.

  Screw them away with willing women.

  But, damn it all, every sensation Yvette inspired was still there, rooted deep.

  Taut with anticipation, he asked, “Where’s Yvette now?”

  “I’m not sure,” the lawyer said. He stood behind his desk, but didn’t take his seat. “She took a set of keys, so perhaps she’s at the house.”

  Disquiet kicked Cannon in the gut, adding to the aches and pains left over from his recent fight. Would Yvette go there alone? He shrugged off the urge to race to her rescue.

  Again.

  He’d done that once—and then she’d walked away.

  Moved away.

  Across the country to California.

  He tugged at his ear, uncomfortable with the latent resentment. Yvette was not the one that got away. She wasn’t a missed opportunity. She was only a girl he’d gotten to know better under extreme, dire circumstances. A girl he’d wanted, but had been too noble to touch...much.

  But she had gotten under his skin, and even after three long years, he wanted her still.

  Fuck it. He’d walked through one fight after another to make himself a prime contender for the belt, but resisting the lure of finally having Yvette was a fight he knew he couldn’t win.

  He faced Whitaker with barely banked anticipation. “Where do I sign?”

  * * *

  YVETTE STOOD IN the doorway of her grandfather’s house. Yesterday, after the long drive back from California, she’d chosen to put aside the visit. Instead she’d gone to see the lawyer, and then checked into a hotel and tried to get some sleep. Impossible. The heaviness of what awaited her had her tossing and turning all night.

  It wasn’t just a fear of being in the house. No, it was a fear of seeing Cannon Colter again, losing herself in his appeal, relapsing back to that young, love-struck, vulnerable girl who’d let him play the hero without a single ounce of pride.

  Her grandfather wanted her to stay in Ohio. Returning for his funeral had been difficult enough. But to live here?

  She’d finally learned to conceal her cowardice and, more recently, to accept the limits of her romantic capability. Being anywhere near Cannon threatened her resolve on both counts.

  For now, for however long it took to sort out her obligations to her grandfather, she really had no choice. She would be in Warfield.

  Pushing aside the nerve-jangling fear, she stepped into the house and closed the door behind her. The click of it sounded so final that her heart missed a beat.

  Until she looked around. Then her pulse sped up.

  Sunlight spilled in through open drapes, brightening the interior, showcasing the many changes. From the carpet to the paint on the walls, even the lamps on the end tables, everything was different. Her grandfather had redecorated with used items, probably from the pawnshop, but he’d pulled it all together.

  For her.

  Through a mist of tears she took in the remodel. God, she missed him so much already.

  Forcing one foot in front of the other, ignoring the murky unease making a slow crawl up her spine, she went through the living room to the dining room and around to the kitchen. Familiar appliances filled the walls, but cheery new wallpaper and bright scatter rugs transformed even this room.

  Flipping on lights as she went, she explored the house and all the changes. Although everything seemed different, the empty house still held the scent of her grandfather’s Old Spice aftershave.

  Just as it held the memory of Cannon’s kiss.

  Even while weepy from her loss, a tidal wave of warmth invaded her limbs whenever she thought of him. She again felt his protective touch, remembered the hot taste of his kiss. She’d built some elaborate fantasies around that brief moment in time. But now she wasn’t sure if even Cannon could make a difference to her wounded psyche. Knowing that wouldn’t stop her from wanting him, and that scared her more than anything else could.

  Shame quickly followed, because she’d just lost her beloved grandpa, the one relative who hadn’t given up on her, who’d taken her in after her parents’ deaths and made her world better. She had to keep him and his wishes uppermost in her mind.

  When she saw her room, fresh tears welled up. New bedding and drapes made it look different, but all of her more personal belongings were just as she’d left them. She touched a hair ribbon on the dresser, an ancient carnival doll he’d won for her.

  Slowly, she sat on the edge of the bed.

  Cannon had missed the meeting at the lawyer’s office.

  For over three long years she’d honed her fixation on him, using it to help her get through trying times, using the example of him to hopefully become a better person. He was everything she wasn’t, everything a good person should be. Generous, protective and caring. He had an athlete’s body, a fighter’s strength and an angel’s heart—all wrapped up in gorgeous good looks. Every girl in the neighborhood had wanted him.

  After months of ignoring her childish flirting, he’d come to her rescue when she’d needed him most. And afterward, he’d felt pity for the pathetic girl she’d been.

  He’d finally seen her—but as a victim.

  Well, she was stronger now, and she’d prove it, to him and herself.

  She watched every SBC fight, soaked up every mention of him on the internet and in numerous interviews. To the general public Cannon had been dubbed “the Saint,” in part due to his philanthropic attitude and always calm demeanor. Nothing and no one ever rocked his foundation of composure.

  Insiders, however, claimed the nickname had more to do with his gentle treatment of women. He stayed too busy to engage in long-term romantic relationships. While he kept things brief, most of the ladies he knew became his friends without resentment, having nothing but good things to say about him.

  Yvette could attest to his gentle concern and careful consideration. Difficult as she knew it’d be for her, she hoped he still claimed her as a friend, too.

  It was necessary to see him, the sooner the better. But first... She’d learned that expending energy helped her to overcome her reservations. Before facing Cannon, she’d do what she could to shake off her nervousness and the uneasiness of being back in Ohio.

  With that goal in mind, she emptied her suitcases and, doing her best to block the foul memories
of what had happened in this very house, prepared for a night out.

  Cannon would no doubt go to Rowdy’s bar, where he used to work. She’d find him there, and she’d show him that she wasn’t a frightened little girl anymore. She wasn’t pathetic. And she wouldn’t fawn over him. She’d convince him that she was a different person now.

  And then maybe she’d be able to convince herself, too.

  * * *

  THE SECOND CANNON got his signature on all the papers, the lawyer stood and grabbed up an overflowing briefcase. “I’m sorry, but I’m running late for court. I hope you understand.”

  “Sure.” He had no reason to hang around for small talk, especially when he had so much to think about.

  “Tipton was a good man.” Friendly, sincere, Whitaker shook his hand. “If you need anything more, anything at all, please call Mindi and she can put you through.”

  “Thanks.” With everything now in a big padded envelope, Cannon followed him to the door.

  Before he could head out with the lawyer, Mindi reappeared. “You’re not rushing off, are you?”

  That Whitaker took note, and then ignored his assistant to continue on his way, left Cannon wondering even more about their relationship.

  Her body language, the way she looked at him and her tilt of her lips all invited him to stay. But if she and the lawyer were involved...yeah, he had no interest in getting mired in that sinkhole.

  “Sorry. I have a dozen things to do yet today.”

  Pretending to pout, she came closer. “But we have the office to ourselves.” Deliberately crowding his space, she reached around him and turned the lock on the front door. “Did I tell you that I’m a huge fan?”

  Her breasts brushed against his chest; he could feel her breath on his throat. “Appreciate that. Thanks.” He kept his hands at his sides and tried not to breathe too deeply of her perfume. “Maybe another time, though.”

  She teased a fingertip up and down her cleavage, and, damn it, he looked.