by Lori Foster
Not since that day he’d finally tasted Rissy.
His gaze went to the small hallway in Rowdy’s bar. Dim and narrow, it led to an office and the johns. Months ago he’d caught Rissy there and for a few minutes he’d lost the fight. Mouth on mouth, tongues playing, damp heat and a firestorm of sensation. Remembering, he closed his eyes and gave in to the surge of molten lust. God Almighty, she’d tasted good. Felt good. Fit against him perfectly.
An elbow to his ribs got his eyes open again. Instead of one of the guys, it was Vanity, Stack’s wife, who slid onto a stool beside him. “What?” he asked.
“You tell me,” she said, her gaze unwavering, her nails tapping on the bar counter.
Gorgeous beyond words with long blond hair, a killer body and an angel’s face, Vanity was still one of the most down-to-earth, kindhearted people he knew. “Is that supposed to make sense to me, Vee?”
“Yes. You’re moping and I want to know why.”
Stack stood behind his wife and braced an arm on the bar. “It’s the upcoming fight,” Stack predicted. “He’s getting cold feet.”
“No way,” Justice said, taking a seat behind Armie.
Armie looked back and forth between them. “Sure, join me. Make yourselves comfortable.”
Vanity patted his arm in a pitying way. “We don’t stand on formality, not when we see a friend moping.”
“I’m not moping,” he denied. God, he was so moping.
Justice laughed. “I’ve watched five different women hit on you. All fuckable—excuse me, Vanity—and you made excuses to all of them.”
“No offense taken,” Vanity said, and then to Armie, “Seriously? Are you off the market?”
She looked way too pleased by that notion.
Stack laughed. “That’s even more ridiculous than my gibe about him having cold feet.”
A brunette approached the bar and Armie swallowed a groan. Of course he remembered her, but he pretended he didn’t.
Because he was a dick like that.
“Armie?” Ignoring the others, she trailed a finger up his arm and over his shoulder. “I’m free tonight.”
“Yeah?” Armie looked at Justice. “So is he. You two should hook up.”
Justice straightened. “Gospel truth, ma’am.”
The brunette’s eyes narrowed. “I was talking to you, Armie.”
“And I handed you off. Take it or leave it.”
Vanity slugged him.
Stack coughed.
Justice just looked hopeful.
The brunette asked expectantly, “Will you join us?”
“No!” Justice said quickly. “He won’t.”
Armie looked at the lady’s pout, Vanity’s disapproving expression, Justice’s appalled frown, and he had to laugh. “If you’ll all excuse me?”
Paying no attention to questions, he threw some bills on the bar and took off. Halfway toward the door, Miles called out to him.
Armie kept going.
Two women tried to waylay him, but he pretended not to notice. Once outside, he sucked in the cold evening air, but it did nothing to clear his head. And suddenly, without looking behind him, he knew Cannon was there. “Shit.”
Cannon laughed. “You’re okay to drive?”
Working to clear all emotion from his face, Armie turned to his friend. “Can’t get drunk on nasty lemon water, now can I?”
“Is that what you wanted to do? Get drunk?”
No, he wanted to drag Merissa to bed and keep her there until his blood no longer burned and lurid thoughts of her cleared out of his brain. He popped his neck, shook his head and said, “I don’t know.”
“It’s not the fight.” Folding his arms, Cannon leaned back on the outside wall of Rowdy’s bar. “I know you too well to think you’re concerned about Carter.”
“I’ll either win the fight or not. I’m prepared.” Armie shrugged, showing his indifference. He never thought in terms of winning or losing. Just winning. And to that end he did what he needed to do to ensure success.
“Everyone assumes there’s added pressure because you’ll be in the SBC now. But again,” Cannon stated, “I know you better than that.”
“A fight is a fight,” Armie confirmed. “The size of the crowd—”
“Or the size of the paycheck?”
“—doesn’t matter to me.”
“I know.” Cannon lifted a brow. “So you want to tell me what’s eating at you?”
A bad case of desperate lust for your little sister. Not something he’d ever share. Rather than deny the problem, Armie shook his head. “I’ll deal with it.”
“By avoiding sex?”
He jutted his chin. “Who says I am?”
Cannon didn’t blink. “Man, I know you. Better than anyone. You thought I wouldn’t notice when you went cold turkey?”
That so shocked Armie that he took a step back. He couldn’t think of a single thing to say. If he tried to blame it on fight preparation, Cannon would just laugh at him again. “I don’t suppose you’d butt out?”
“Sure. If that’s what you really want.” Cannon straightened away from the wall. “But if you want to talk, if you need anything—”
“I know.” Once, a lifetime ago, Cannon had been the only person to back him. Against all odds and ugly accusations, he’d stood with Armie and never, not once, showed a single shadow of doubt. Uncomfortable with the idea of ever again being that needy, Armie flexed his shoulders and said, “Thanks, but it’s fine.”
“I know that.” Cannon squeezed his shoulder. “You just need to start believing it.”
Armie glared at his friend as he went back into the bar. He didn’t need that melodramatic crap heaped on him. Breathing hard, he looked around at the moon-washed blacktop, the frost-covered bus bench, then up at the inky, star-studded sky.
What was Merissa doing right now? Was she with another man—as he’d suggested?
It’s what he wanted, what would be best—for her—but at the same time... Jesus, it tortured him.
After the life he’d led, the background he’d overcome and the physical ability he’d gained, he wasn’t afraid of anything or anyone, except Merissa Colter’s effect on him. That scared him all right. Bone-deep, heart-sucking fear.
He glanced back, and through the big front window of the bar he saw his friends. Merissa’s friends. Only she wasn’t there—because of him.
It was past time he stopped being a coward so instead he’d face the fear. Tomorrow morning, he’d face her.
And somehow he’d make it all right.
* * *
MOST PEOPLE THOUGHT bank managers worked a perfect nine-to-five job. Ha! As Merissa looked from the impatient customers still in line to her harassed tellers and the clock, she knew it’d be another late day. What should have been five minutes more would likely turn into at least half an hour.
The phone rang, and as she went to answer it the front door opened again. Along with a gust of cold air, two male customers stepped in, bundled up in heavy winter coats and stocking hats, with thick knit scarves around their throats.
Right behind them was...Armie.
Unlike the other men, he wore only an open flannel over his thermal shirt. His cheeks were ruddy from the cold, his blond hair disheveled as usual, and he looked so good her heart skipped a beat, then went into double time.
For weeks now she’d been telling herself she was okay—better, in fact—without him. She’d almost convinced herself, too. But one look at him and she was right back to sick-in-love with him all over again.
“Hello? Are you there?”
Realizing she hadn’t said anything after lifting the phone receiver, Merissa pulled her gaze away from Armie and went into professional mode. Or at least she tried to.
The second Armie looked at her, her skin prickled and butterflies took flight in her stomach. She sank back in her padded chair, glad for the support.
The annoyed customer had overdrawn his account and wanted the bank to waive the
fees. Merissa only listened with half an ear and finally, unable to concentrate anyway, she agreed and transferred the call over to one of her tellers.
Since it was now time to close she needed to lock the door, but that would mean she’d have to go past Armie. She waffled, deciding what to do, but then he took the decision from her and approached.
Jumping to her feet, she met him at the door to her office. As casually as she could, she said, “Hey, Armie.”
His gaze dipped over her. This time, being at work, she wore a button-front sweater, long skirt and flat boots, but his attention sizzled all the same. He flexed a shoulder, shifted. “Could we talk?”
Again? Hadn’t he said enough? For someone who wanted nothing to do with her, he sure liked to chat.
“Armie,” she whispered, feeling conspicuous, because seriously, no one in the bank would overlook him. He had that type of presence: big, badass, capable. And sexy.
So damned sexy.
He continued to watch her in that sharply focused way, his gaze warm and steady, and she caved. “Okay, fine. But I have to lock the front door, and then it’s going to take me some more time before I’m done here.”
“Because you’re closing, I know. No problem.” He released a breath. “I’ll wait.”
As Armie headed to the couch in the corner of the bank, one of the men who’d come in ahead of him strode toward her. Standing at her office door, ready to politely redirect him back to the teller line, Merissa smiled—and he literally pushed his way in.
Incredulous, she took an automatic step away from him. “What do you think you’re doing?”
He shut the door. Hat pulled low, the scarf hiding most of his face, he withdrew a gun and said with silky menace, “Shh.”
Her mouth went dry—especially when those narrowed eyes coasted over her body.
“But—”
“You and me,” he said, shushing her again, “are going to play in here while my buddy takes care of business out there. And, honey, you better play nice.”
Fear and shock immobilized Merissa as she realized she was in the middle of a robbery—and oh dear God, Armie was on the other side of the door.
* * *
THE SECOND HER office door snapped shut, Armie knew something was wrong. He felt it in his guts. He took one step—and the dude in front of him withdrew a gun.
Son of a bitch.
“Everyone be cool,” the man shouted, stepping back to encompass all the customers and tellers in one sweep of that weapon. “Arms up, tellers. Now! My partner has your manager. Anyone hits a panic button and she’s the first to go.”
Until that last statement, Armie might have let it play out. But at the mention of Merissa being held against her will, dread and rage swirled together in a combustible mix. He went rigid, his heartbeat slowing, his focus narrowing.
“No one overreacts. Tellers, unlock your drawers, and remember, make a wrong move and you lose one of your own.”
White-faced, the tellers did as told.
“Great. Now everyone, get to this side of the room.”
Perfect, Armie thought. It put him closer to Merissa’s office. He went along with the small group, using his body to block the elderly couple in front of him and another woman clutching a five-year-old. The last customer, a college-aged guy, watched the robber with sharp-eyed wariness. Two of the tellers were forty-something women. The other was probably in her twenties.
The robber aimed his gun at the younger guy. “You.”
College boy froze.
“Go collect the money. Empty the drawers of bills and rolled quarters. Make it fast.”
The young man said nothing, just took the bag the robber handed him and jogged to the teller line. As he filled the bag, Armie saw that he also kept an eye on things, looking up often.
A noise, like someone landing up against the door, sounded in Merissa’s office. Armie’s senses sharpened further, but otherwise he didn’t move.
The idiot robber laughed, as if amused by whatever he thought might be going down in that small office.
The five-year-old started to cry, drawing the robber’s attention. Armie stepped in front of him, blocking his view of the boy. Surprised, the robber looked into his eyes, and whatever he saw there clearly alarmed him.
“Don’t try it,” the robber warned.
Armie held up his hands—but he didn’t look away.
“Give me the damn money,” the thug shouted, and the college guy came back, holding the bag out to him.
“Set it there,” he said, indicating a kiosk filled with deposit and withdrawal slips. “Then get your ass over there with the others.”
“Okay, sure.”
Impressed, Armie watched the young man set the bag down slowly and back away. College boy looked to be nineteen or twenty at the most, but he was smart, taking his time—giving Armie an opportunity to evaluate things.
The gunman looked skittish. Above the scarf, faded blue eyes repeatedly flinched left and right. The hand holding the gun trembled ever so slightly. He kept shifting his feet as if resisting the urge to run.
Rolling a shoulder, Armie loosened up. Should be a piece of cake.
Another thump sounded in the office and Merissa cried out, sending a stab of fear straight through Armie’s heart and stealing what little patience he had left. Taking a step away from the others, Armie regained the robber’s attention. The college kid, pitching in, went in the opposite direction.
“What are you doing?” Panicked, the thug swung the gun left, then right. “Stop moving. Both of you.”
Making sure the idiot focused on him and only him, Armie inched toward him. “Or what?”
“I’ll fucking shoot you, that’s what!”
Ice-cold with fury, desperate to see Merissa safe, Armie smirked. “Yeah? With the safety on?” Closer and closer.
The guy breathed fast. Even beneath the thick coat, Armie could see the bellowing of his chest. “Glocks don’t have safeties.”
“That’s not a Glock, asshole.”
The second the guy glanced down, Armie kicked out and the gun went flying. It skidded across the floor and under the kiosk. The college kid slid down to his knees, trying to retrieve the gun.
“Help!” the gunman got out a mere second before Armie’s fist met his face, sending him wheeling backward, tumbling over his own feet to wipe out on the floor. His head smacked with a thump, dazing him, keeping him from rebounding to his feet.
More noises sounded from the office.
Already charging toward it, Armie whispered, “Get down!” to the other customers, who, except for the college guy, immediately hunkered on the floor together. That put them to the side of the office door. Armie reached it just as the door flew open. He had only a split second to see Merissa locked in front of the gunman, secured with a meaty arm tight around her throat. Her makeup was smeared, her hair a mess, but her gaze was incendiary. Rage, more than fear, consumed her.
A large bruise already showed on her jaw and she clutched at the restraining arm as if struggling to get air.
The gun, thankfully, wasn’t aimed at her.
The man held it outward on a stiffened arm, giving Armie the perfect opportunity to grab the trigger well with his left hand, and strike the man’s wrist with his right. The bastard didn’t have a chance to get a shot off before Armie had control of the gun.
Cursing, the thug shoved Merissa into Armie, unbalancing them both. He caught her, and as she scrambled to regain her balance, she inadvertently knocked the gun from his hand.
Seeing a ham-sized fist aimed his way, Armie gave her yet another quick push to put her out of harm’s way and took the punch to the chin. It snapped his head back, but hell, he could take a punch. He shook it off—then went about demolishing the bastard who’d dared to touch Merissa.
Armie had always been a fast, adaptable fighter. He moved by rote, adjusting as he needed to, dodging blows while landing his own with added force. The robber was big and muscular. Armie fe
lt the bastard’s nose crunch, saw blood spray from his mouth.
Women screamed and the five-year-old cried.
The college guy yelled something, and a second later the other gunman, who’d finally regained his wits, hefted a fifteen-pound post from a rope barrier used to keep customers in line. He brought it down across Armie’s back.
And mother-fuck, that hurt.
It knocked him to the ground, but it didn’t stop him. Hell, his ground game was as good as his stand-up.
Two to one made it a little trickier. Normally he’d consider that a piece of cake, but not with so many possible victims in the way.
The man who’d hurt Merissa tried to kick him in the ribs while he was down. Armie caught his leg and jerked him to his back. He landed awkwardly, cursed and immediately rolled to a less defenseless position.
The man wasn’t a slouch. As a fighter, Armie recognized right off that the guy had some training.
Merissa tried to assist him, but Armie barked for her to stay back. College boy tried to edge in, but with fists and legs churning fast, it wasn’t easy.
Or necessary.
Both men together were still no match for Armie. He bounced back, regaining his feet just as the second man again swung the heavy post. Armie ducked, but the post clipped him on the forehead, stunning him and sending a trickle of blood into his eyes. He swiped at it, and heard Merissa gasp.
The man who’d followed her into her office had retrieved one of the guns and had it aimed at her, point-blank.
Armie barely remembered moving, but a split second later he stood in front of her, spreading his arms and using his body to shield her.
“Armie,” she pleaded.
Blocking out her shaking voice, he kept her tucked behind him, his gaze locked on the gunman. The robber’s hat was now gone, his scarf askew. But with his face so mangled from Armie’s punches, he didn’t need a disguise.
Odds were his own mother wouldn’t recognize him right now.
His nose, crooked and covered in blood, had turned a sick shade of purple, matching the shiner on his right eye. His lips were swollen, also bloody. Part of a torn nylon stocking drooped around his neck.
Armie focused on his eyes. They were a clearer blue than his pal’s, without an ounce of conscience.