by Lori Foster
PRAISE FOR
THE NOVELS OF LORI FOSTER
Jude’s Law
“A delightful, lighthearted, romantic romp.”
—The Best Reviews
“It’s impossible not to feel heat radiating off the pages, especially during their hard-earned love scenes…. [The story has] neatly dovetailing plotlines.”
—Publishers Weekly
“With her trademark blend of danger, humor, and passion, Foster has written another entertaining romance.”
—Booklist (starred review)
The Winston Brothers stories andWild
“Funny, fast, and sexy.”
—Stella Cameron
“Wild lives up to its title.”
—Midwest Book Review
“Her books [are] always sexy, with heroes to die for…. Foster’s books can help you heat up during the cold, dark days of winter.”
—BellaOnline.com
“A talented author whose work shines, especially during erotic encounters.”
—The Romance Reader
MORE PRAISE FOR
LORI FOSTER
“The pages sizzle.”
—New York Times bestselling author Christine Feehan
“Fun, sexy, warmhearted…just what people want in a romance.”
—New York Times bestselling author Jayne Ann Krentz
“Lori Foster delivers both heartwarming emotions and heart-stopping love scenes.”
—New York Times bestselling author Jennifer Crusie
“Foster outwrites most of her peers.”
—Library Journal
“Lori Foster delivers the goods.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Known for her funny, sexy writing, Foster doesn’t hesitate to turn up the heat.”
—Booklist
Titles by Lori Foster
CAUSING HAVOC
WILD
THE WINSTON BROTHERS
Anthology
WILDLY WINSTON
CAUSING HAVOC
LORI FOSTER
BERKLEY BOOKS, NEW YORK
THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
CAUSING HAVOC
A Berkley Book / published by arrangement with the author
Copyright © 2007 by Lori Foster.
Front cover photograph: Bodice copyright © by Rainer Eggers/Zefa/Corbis.
Cover design by Rita Frangie.
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ISBN: 978-1-1012-0572-3
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From the heart:
To a beautiful, remarkable little boy, Josh, with a special dedication to his equally beautiful mother, Christie. You inspire me in many, many ways. (Visit Josh at www. eyesforjosh.com.)
From the imagination:
Thank you to the fighters in Pride (www.pridefc.com) and the fighters in the UFC (www.ufc.com). You’re entertaining to watch, inspiring to my imagination, and very, very fun!
Contents
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 1
A dull ringing reverberated through his brain, and for only a moment, Dean Conor relived that instant the night before when a meaty fist had connected with his temple. He’d almost passed out.
Almost.
But even as shadows crowded in, he’d maintained his hold on his opponent’s knee, hyperextending the joint, using the very last of his strength…and two seconds later the ref was there, calling a halt.
At first, Dean had protested. He wasn’t done for. Not by a long shot. Dean Conor never gave up.
Then the cheers sank in.
Rather than take real damage to his leg, his opponent had tapped out. Dean had submitted the number one contender with a knee bar. He’d walk away from another fight as the winner—and this time he knew it was as much luck as skill and strength and speed.
That persistent ringing sounded again, followed by low voices. What the hell?
Dean opened his eyes and immediately regretted it. Bright morning sunlight cut through an opening in the curtains to slice painfully into his brain.
He felt like his head would shatter.
He felt like his guts would come up through his nose.
Groaning, he turned away from the light, and this time, barely peeked. Yeah, he was in his own room. How he got there, he didn’t remember, but he was thankful all the same. With a slow, careful query of his body, he knew he was still whole, but aches and pains screamed for attention. His head, his shoulder, a rib. That Russian bastard’s punch had the force of a tank, and he kicked like a deranged mule.
Jesus. At twenty-nine, Dean felt too old to continue competing. Already he’d fractured his collarbone, broken a wrist, dislocated an elbow, and put more kinks in his nose than he cared to contemplate.
Not that he’d quit. Fuck no.
He lied to others, but never to himself.
The urge would return, as it always did. The cheers of the crowd, the satisfaction in getting bloody, in conquering a worthy challenger…. It was like a drug in his veins, his one and only vice. As long as the management called him to fight, he’d keep at it.
As Dean forced his throbbing body into an upright position, he heard his front door close. So he had a guest. But who? The last thing he remembered was getting the heavyweight belt strapped around him, his corner roaring in pleasure, and then the trip to the hospital.
A small crowd of groupies, both male and female, had tagged along with his trainer and members of his camp.
They wanted to party.
He wanted to pass out.
The doc had given him some pain meds that dulled the worst of it. He’d been iced, stitched, taped, and released to head home for rest.
Everything after that was sketchy.
Glancing down, Dean realized he was buck-ass naked. Not good. But then again, it could mean nothing.
Instead of feeling like a first-rate fighter in his prime, a heavyweight champion with a score of first-round knockouts to his credit, his joints and muscles strained like that of an old man.
Shit, he’d hate for anyone to see him now.
After locating boxers in the middle drawer of his chest—he wasn’t up to putting on any more than that—Dean pushed the bedroom door open of his temporary apartment. He tried to stand straight and tall as he made his way to the kitchen where there seemed to be some activity. He took his time, working out the kinks along the way. Then he stepped into the open archway and saw a woman cooking at his stove.
She wore an official SBC fighting shirt that didn’t quite cover the nicely rounded cheeks of her ass. Long blond hair hung down her back, and she swished as she turned pancakes on his stove.
A damned groupie.
Dean had a vague memory of her begging for his signature right before he’d fought. As he’d made his way down the long aisle to the spotlight, she’d stuck out an impressive bared rack and handed him a black marker.
Playing to the crowd had made him a fan favorite, so he’d scrawled his fighting name over her left breast. The roar of the audience almost drowned out the hard-rock music blaring throughout the events center.
It had been one hell of a night.
Propping his shoulder against the wall, as much for support as attitude, he said, “Morning.”
She spun around. “Havoc! You’re awake! Finally.”
If he didn’t miss his guess, she was naked beneath the tee. “I’m awake.” He cocked his head at her, racked his brain, but couldn’t come up with a name.
She laughed as if she could sense his problem. “Tiffany,” she offered.
“Right.” Never in a million years would he have guessed correctly. “So, Tiffany, how’d you get in here?”
She turned coy in an instant. “I brought you home.”
“Simon allowed that?” His trainer-slash-manager-slash-agent was so watchful that Dean couldn’t imagine him sending him off with an unknown broad bent on screwing him to death. Most of the more successful fighters had a team of people working for them. Dean had Simon Evans. He didn’t need anyone else.
“He was here, too. But he couldn’t stay. Something about live interviews on your fight.”
Yeah, that made sense. He hadn’t been in any shape to be interviewed, so naturally Simon would take up the slack. “And you’re still here because…?”
Her smile slicked up a few notches. Strutting toward him, making sure that everything bounced just so, she said with a purr, “I couldn’t rouse you last night.”
“But you tried?”
Her laugh rubbed up his spine and wormed into his aching brain. Obviously rudeness wouldn’t make a dent in her determination.
“Forget I asked.” Dean had a vision of her molesting his drugged and down-for-the-count body.
To his surprise, the thought stirred him even as it disgusted him.
She stopped right in front of him—and cupped her hand over his crotch.
Uh-oh.
The corners of her soft mouth lifted with satisfaction. “Let’s hope I’ll be more successful today.”
Self-preservation kicked in and Dean grabbed her wrist. “I need a shower.”
“Want me to wash your back?”
He thought about it, considered tossing her out, then decided what the hell. He hurt, but not bad enough to turn down her offer. After all, he wasn’t dead.
“Yeah.” As he turned away, still holding that slender wrist, he noticed the envelope on the table, and belatedly remembered the ringing doorbell. “What’s that?”
“Just a letter.” She cuddled up close to his side and rubbed herself against him. “It came special delivery.”
Which explained the bell and voices. While Tiffany plastered her boobs to his back, Dean lifted the thick envelope.
Seeing the return address sucked all the air out of his lungs.
In the twenty-one years since his parents’ deaths, he hadn’t received a single card or note from that address. For him, Harmony, Kentucky, had ceased to exist. Uncle Grover had taken him away, and he hadn’t been given the opportunity to look back. Ever.
“Hold up.” He pushed the blonde away and started to open the envelope…but he hesitated. God, had something happened to one of his sisters? That thought annoyed him. Hell, could you call someone you hadn’t seen or heard from in over two decades a relative?
He slipped a finger under the envelope flap and tore it apart.
“Havoc,” Tiffany complained. “Can’t you read that later?” To punctuate her impatience, she took a stinging love bite on his back.
“Ow, damn, leave off, will ya?” He shrugged Tiffany away.
In thick tones of petulance, she whined, “But I have to leave soon. I have work.”
While unfolding several sheets of paper, Dean said absently, “Something’s come up. I need you to go.”
A huff nearly parted his hair. “I made you pancakes!”
He glanced at the still warm stove top. Oh yeah. But he hadn’t invited her in, damn it. Groupies were like that: pushy, outrageous, and looking to add another notch to their bedposts.
“Thanks.” And he meant it. The breakfast would be good. Then he held up the letter. “But this is important, so how about a rain check?”
Her bottom lip stuck out and she pouted—for about two seconds. Then she turned calculating. “All right. If you’ll also get me ringside tickets to the August fight in Atlantic City.”
Those tickets would go for about six hundred a piece—if bought now. In a few weeks, they’d go for double that. “Sure.” He turned away, already distracted again. “Write your name and address down. I’ll see that you get them.”
“You’ll be there, too?” She trailed a finger down his spine to the waistband of his shorts. “For the rain check?”
Lying through his teeth, Dean muttered, “Wouldn’t miss it.”
She squealed, went on tiptoe to put a wet, sucking kiss on the nape of his neck, then whispered, “You won’t regret it.”
“I’m sure you’re right.” His attention back on the letter, he noted a three-month-old date in the upper left-hand corner. So his mail had been following him around for a while?
He glanced at the feminine handwriting.
Dear Dean,
I hope this letter finds you well. I know it’s been a lifetime and I regret that. Aunt Lorna always said there was no way to reach you. But I finally did some research when Uncle Grover died. That’s how I found your address.
Dean flipped the page and skimmed to the bottom of the next sheet. It was signed, Hopeful, Camille.
His sister, Cam. She’d be…what? Twenty-three now. And Jacki would be twenty-one. The image of them both as babies—Cam a toddling two-year-old, Jacki still an infant—sent a melon-sized lump into his throat.
They were grown women now, well past the age of needing a big brother. If they’d ever needed him.
A pain clenched in his chest; it was unlike the aches rippling through his bones and muscles.
It was fucking worse.
Knotting his
hand in the papers, Dean tried to make himself toss them away. But he couldn’t. His teeth locked. His eyes burned.
Slowly his fingers opened again.
“Here you go, sweetie.”
He glanced up to see Tiffany dressed in jeans and sandals, with the same shirt now knotted at the side. She’d brushed her hair and put on lipstick.
Still radiating “come and get me” vibes, she put a card on his table and grinned. “See ya in August.”
“Right. August.” Dean dismissed her from his mind. He barely registered the sound of his front door opening and closing. But he felt the new stillness of being alone.
Again.
Which was just how he liked it.
Heart pounding in what felt like rage, but was probably anxiety, he sat down at the small table and smoothed the papers out again.
I’d love to see you. Can you come for a visit? Please? There’s so much to tell you, and so much I want to ask. I want to explain everything. I want to get to know you. I want you to know me. I want us to be family.
Dean grunted. People in hell wanted ice water; that didn’t mean they got it.
But he couldn’t keep from reading the rest, more of the same, more entreaties, more…desperation. Yeah, somehow the desperation was there, woven between the lines. Subtle, but detectable.
Or maybe it was his friggin’ imagination, brought on by too many knocks on the head.
When Dean finished the note, he sat there, numb, undecided. Torn. Anxious.
And damn it, as hopeful as Cam claimed to be. Not that he’d ever admit it to anyone. But again, he didn’t lie to himself.
Amazingly enough, he forgot his bruises and cuts. Unsure what to do next, he went to the stove and picked up the platter of pancakes. He covered them in syrup, and still standing at the stove, shoveled them down by rote.