Valentine's Billionaire Bad Boys

by M. S. Parker

  I wasn't complaining though. I knew that the newbies had to pay their dues. I just wished I was paying them at a real news magazine rather than a sports one. Granted, I preferred sports to the tabloids or fashion, but I'd never been a big fan of most of the sports we covered. Even the ones like basketball and baseball that I'd always tolerated growing up had become more about the scandals than the sports.

  But a job was a job, and it paid better than a lot of other magazines at this level. I was grateful for it, and always put out a hundred percent, no matter what the assignment.

  Even if it was mostly lunch runs.

  Sure enough, nearly the moment I walked in the door, I was given a breakfast order for the Monday morning meeting and sent back out again. By the time I got back, everyone else was in the conference room, so I headed straight in and handed out the orders. A few people thanked me, but most essentially ignored me, which was pretty much the norm.

  As I settled in my usual back corner, the editor and owner headed to the front of the room. In his mid-fifties, Ace Reilly was a former hockey player who'd ended up with one too many concussions and had been forced to retire. Since then, he'd started Aces, the not-so-creatively-named magazine where I now worked. Considering how poorly most print forms of media did these days, I had to be impressed with the business savvy that kept this place well above water.

  “I just got word this weekend that the FFC has scheduled a championship match between current title holder Hollin Pressman and their new star, Tyrell Smoak,” Ace began.

  I suppressed the urge to roll my eyes. Of all the sports we covered, the ones where guys – and women too – beat each other up while people cheered were the ones I despised the most. I'd never actually been to a fight, but I’d also never tried monkey meat. It didn't mean I didn't know what I wouldn't like.

  I didn't know much about Tyrell Smoak, except that he was FFC's poster boy. Aside from his skill, he was also good-looking. Raven-black hair, jade eyes, one of those faces that was almost too pretty for a man, and definitely too pretty for a fighter. There were bets among some of the reporters about how long that face would last.

  I was honest enough to admit that even I thought he was hot, not that it mattered. Aside from the fact that I wasn't a groupie, and therefore not the kind of woman that men like him went after, he wasn't the sort of man I wanted in my life. When I did finally settle down, I wanted someone like my father. Not necessarily a farmer, but someone with a solid, reliable job. Athletes were definitely not on that list, no matter how much money they could possibly make. I wanted intelligence, integrity, the sort of man I could have a family with.

  “Anita, you're going to write a piece on Tyrell. Training through the fight itself. It's in a month, so I want at least two to three days a week where you're at the gym, talking to him, talking to his trainer, the other fighters, all of it. I've already cleared it with Dorian Forbes.”

  I liked Anita. In a field where women were either ignored or bed-able, she'd managed to make a name for herself without resorting to being bitchy or sleeping around. Granted, she'd had to put up with a lot over the years, but she'd always kept her focus on the story. I might not have wanted to make a career out of sports, but Anita Principle was definitely the sort of reporter I wanted to be.

  “You paying for me to go to Vegas to cover the fight?” she asked.

  Okay, maybe I'd be a little less blunt.

  Ace gave her a hard look. “We'll negotiate closer to the date.”

  She nodded, then looked around. Her dark eyes landed on me. “I want the kid with me on it.”

  My eyes widened.

  “Her?” Ace directed his question at Anita, sounding as surprised as I felt.

  She nodded again. “She can be my photographer and watch how it's done.”

  He shrugged. “All right, but if her photos are shit, it's your ass.”

  “Deal.”

  A murmur went around the room, then settled as Ace went on. I didn't hear him though. All I could think about was the fact that I'd just gotten assigned my first story. Requested, actually.

  I really hoped I didn't fuck it up.

  Chapter Three

  Tyrell

  Monday morning came way too soon. I tried to sleep on the plane, but despite how comfortable it was, my mind was too full to relax. And it wasn’t only my mind either. I'd hoped that my hour with Shannon before I left would've at least taken the physical tension away, but that hadn't been the case. Nearly three full weeks of vacation, and I didn't feel any better than when I’d gotten to the island. The only positive thing I could say was that I no longer felt like I had to avoid Sara and Dorian at all cost. I was completely over it and ready to move on.

  Last night, between the jet-lag and the anxiety about the upcoming fight, I'd known that I wouldn't be able to sleep, so I'd taken some cold medicine. It'd knocked me out, but I was still feeling like shit when I arrived at the gym.

  Paul took one look at me and walked away, shaking his head and muttering something that I was pretty sure wasn't complimentary. Dorian raised his eyebrow, but his face was otherwise expressionless.

  “Looks like you either didn't have fun in Hawaii at all, or you had too much,” he said.

  “I'll be ready.” I put as much conviction in my words as I could manage. “You don't need to worry about it.”

  He raised a shoulder in a half-shrug. “It's my job to worry about things like that.”

  He had a point.

  I rubbed the back of my neck. “Paul'll get me to fighting shape.”

  “Maybe,” Dorian said. “But while we were waiting for you to get back, Paul and I had a talk.”

  That didn't sound good.

  “Hollin's a beast,” he continued. “And we don't think that your usual regime will be enough, even if you’d been training all this time.”

  “I can beat him.” I spoke the words through gritted teeth. Had Dorian asked me to come back just so he could tell me I couldn't win? That seemed a cruel thing to do, and no matter what happened between Sara and me, I'd never thought of him as cruel.

  “I think you can,” he agreed. “But it will take a lot more than a few hours a day with Paul.”

  The way he said it told me that he had a plan. “What did you have in mind?”

  He glanced over his shoulder and motioned someone to come forward. She was on the tall side for a woman, easily five-seven. Short auburn curls and eyes the color of milk chocolate. She had strong features that prevented her from being classically beautiful, but she was definitely striking.

  “Tyrell, meet Gilen Roche. Miss Roche is a motivational coach.”

  She held out a hand and I shook it. “Nice to meet you.” I turned to Dorian. “I'm not sure I understand.”

  “I also have training as a nutritionist,” she said. Her voice was pleasantly low, husky.

  Despite myself, I couldn't stop from wondering what she'd sound like in bed.

  “So you're going to tell me what to eat?” I asked. “Some sort of new diet?”

  She gave me a small smile. “That would be part of it. My job is to help you focus on the match, provide you with the sort of atmosphere that will allow you to make the most of your training.”

  I really didn't think it was necessary, but if Dorian insisted, I wouldn’t argue with him. He knew what he was doing. As the best FFC fighter in its short history, he probably could've taken on anyone else in any other league too. He hadn't retired because of injury. He’d left so he could take over the company when his father started to have some health issues. He probably still could've been winning matches if he’d stayed with the sport.

  “Excuse me, Dorian.” Paul was back. “We got two women here who say they're from some magazine.”

  I glanced at Paul, then turned my attention to the women in question. And I wasn't the only one looking. Three women in the gym at the same time was probably a record. We weren't exclusive, but only a few women trained here, and they usually kept to themselves. Not be
cause any of the men bothered them, but because they were as serious about their training as most of the men.

  And none of the women looked like any of these. The older one had a fierce expression, the sort that said she didn't take shit from anyone. She was the kind of person who would go after what she wanted, and not let anyone get in her way.

  But as soon as I looked at the other woman, I forgot about everyone else. She had a sweet, soft face, and light blonde hair, a combination that made me think of one of those china dolls the girls in my classes at school used to love. Except she wasn't frail, not with those curves. There were no sharp angles to her at all.

  Then my eyes met hers, and I saw that she wasn't soft either. No, those steel gray eyes had metal to them that wasn't just in the color. I wondered if anyone else would see it, but this girl had backbone.

  “Anita Principle,” the other woman introduced herself. “I'm a reporter for Aces. Our editor said he spoke with you, Mr. Forbes.”

  Dorian muttered something that sounded like a curse, and then he smiled. “Right, I'd forgotten.”

  “Reporter?” I still couldn't take my eyes off the blonde.

  She, however, wasn't looking at me. I could feel Gilen watching me, and that was more of what I was used to. Eyes on me, not me watching anyone else. Whether I wanted it or not, I'd never had a problem getting female attention.

  Except, apparently, from her.

  “Ace Reilly wants to do a story on the match, specifically on you,” Dorian said. “So Miss Principle...”

  “Anita,” she corrected.

  “Anita,” he conceded. “And...”

  Here, he broke off again, and when I glanced over, he was looking at the blonde. My stomach tightened, and a strange flare of jealousy went through me. He had Sara, he shouldn't have been looking at anyone else – even though I knew it wasn't the same.

  “Cynthia Rose Harkness,” the blonde answered. Her voice was soft, but not sugary sweet like a part of me had been expecting.

  “Three names?”

  I shot Gilen a sharp glance, but her face was impassive. Perhaps I'd imagined the derision in her tone.

  Cynthia Rose shrugged. “It's my name.” There was no apology in the words, just a simple explanation.

  “She's my photographer for the story,” Anita answered the rest for her.

  “Dorian,” Paul spoke up. “I can't have all these women hanging out while I'm trying to get him ready.”

  “Standing right here,” I muttered.

  Dorian looked at Anita. “Perhaps we should set some guidelines for when and how you have access to Tyrell.”

  “Still right here.”

  I heard a soft laugh and glanced over to see Cynthia Rose covering her mouth. She glanced up, her eyes catching mine. If everyone else wanted to pretend I wasn't there, I might as well make the most of the time.

  “So you're a photographer, Cynthia Rose?”

  Her eyes narrowed, as though startled that someone was talking to her. “Um, no. Not exactly.”

  “What does that mean?” I asked, honestly curious. She didn't really seem like the type to want to work at a sports magazine.

  “I'm a photojournalist,” she said. “I want to do stories and photographs, but on this story, I'm just taking the pictures.”

  Neither of us said anything for a few seconds while the others talked around us. I could've told Paul I was ready to warm up, or I could've talked to Gilen about whatever it was she wanted to do. Instead, I found myself wanting to keep talking to Cynthia Rose. I didn't really know why. She wasn't my type at all.

  “Cynthia Rose,” I said. “That's a bit of a mouthful. Does your family really call you that all the time? Both names?”

  “Most of the time,” she said, her gray eyes softening at the mention of family. “Does yours call you Tyrell, or do you have a nickname?”

  My expression tightened. “You must not have done your homework.”

  Her pale skin immediately flushed, and I felt bad for my tone.

  “I don't really have any family,” I continued. Better to keep it simple.

  “I'm so sorry.” Her eyes were wide, her expression horrified. “I didn't know. I just got this assignment today. No time for homework.”

  “It's okay,” I quickly reassured her. “Maybe I should give you a nickname.”

  Her eyebrows went up. “And why would you want to do that?”

  I grinned. “Because I don't want to have to say two names every time I talk to you.”

  “And you're planning on talking to me that often?” she asked, a pale eyebrow lifting in question.

  “I'd like to.” I was surprised to realize that I wasn't just flirting to be nice. I really did want to talk to her more.

  “Well, I think your trainer might have something to say about that.” She jerked her chin toward Paul.

  “He might,” I admitted, then frowned. I needed to focus on training, and I knew that Paul was already pissed at me for not staying up during my vacation.

  But I wanted to see her again.

  “Why don't you go out with me Friday night?” I asked before I knew the words were forming in my mouth.

  “Excuse me?”

  I couldn't tell if she was offended or just surprised. I was going to assume the latter. “I want to talk to you more, but as you pointed out, my trainer might not like that very much, so I want you to go out with me Friday night.”

  “Like on a date?”

  I nodded. “Yes, a date.”

  “Hey, Tyrell, let's get your ass in gear,” Paul called out, his voice as sharp as a blade.

  I smiled down at her. “What do you say?”

  “I don't know,” she said, her cheeks pink.

  “Or I could just stand here and talk to you, but Paul might start yelling then, and he'll definitely take it out of my ass later.”

  Her eyes narrowed.

  Apparently, threats weren't the way to go.

  “Come on, Cyn.” The name just popped out.

  “Cyn?” she echoed. “Are you kidding me?”

  “Nope.” I took a step closer. “So Friday, I'll pick you up or do you want to meet me somewhere?”

  She gave me a hard look. “Make you a deal,” she said. “You stay focused on your training all week, then let me ask you a few questions for the article on Friday, and I'll go out with you.”

  “Done,” I said. Then, before Paul could yell again, or Cynthia Rose – Cyn – could change her mind, I trotted off toward the locker room to change.

  I finally had something to look forward to so, now, all I needed to do was work my ass off until Friday.

  Piece of cake.

  Chapter Four

  Cynthia Rose

  When I agreed to go on a date with Tyrell Smoak, I told myself that it was because I wanted to get some one-on-one time that could make me a greater asset to Anita. If I could get some information, think of some questions she hadn't, she would probably put in a good word for me with Ace. I wasn't crazy enough to think that I'd get a byline or even a mention in the article. All I wanted was to prove my worth.

  Except a part of me knew that my reasons for accepting the date weren't entirely professional. I'd assumed Tyrell would be like most professional athletes I'd had the chance to meet. While there were those who were generally humble and likable, I'd found that most of those who were considered at the top of their sport either tended to be full of themselves or were so focused on maintaining their position that they had no time for pretty much anyone else. That didn't make them bad guys but didn't make them good boyfriends either.

  Tyrell didn't seem like that at all.

  He appeared to be embarrassed at the thought of a story being written about him, but he also hadn't run off claiming the need for practice either. He'd stayed, talked to me. And it'd been a genuine conversation. Okay, so there'd been more flirting than anything substantial, but his interest had been genuine.

  Our first date went well. We went to a restaurant that was ni
ce enough to tell me that he had money, but not so much that it felt like he was flaunting it. While there, we ate and talked, getting to know each other for real. There was plenty of flirting and definitely some electricity between us, but we also made sure to get to the real stuff too.

  I'd been tempted to do some internet research on him before the date, but I'd ended up deciding that it'd be unfair of me to have an advantage. So when we started talking about our families in more detail, I had no idea just how different we were. No idea that his father was in prison for possession with intent as well as assault, that his mom had worked her ass off to raise him, then died three years ago from breast cancer. No siblings, no extended family. I almost felt guilty talking about my family and childhood, but he made it clear that he didn't want anyone feeling sorry for him. That he considered himself lucky to have had a mother who loved him.

  If that wasn't enough for me to respect him, when he started talking about his desire to teach first graders after he was done fighting, it was just...adorable. I didn't tell him that though. Somehow, I doubted a man who made his living with his fists would appreciate a word usually used to describe bunnies and babies and other cute and fluffy things. I used the word impressive, and it was. He already had a degree in childhood education, and was only two classes away from his Masters. Once he finished those up, all he had to do was do whatever it was teachers did to get their license.

  When he had the cab drop me off in front of my apartment building, I half-expected him to invite himself up. Instead, he gave me a fairly chaste but toe curling kiss. My pulse was still racing by the time I reached my apartment, and it was only then that I remembered I hadn't thought to ask any questions for the article. But I finally admitted that it wasn't really my main concern anymore.