by Sibel Hodge
Amber’s forced to take refuge in the home of her ex-fiancé, Brad Beckett, and now it’s not just the case that’s hotting up. So is the bedroom…
All Levi Carter wanted to be was the boxing heavyweight champion of the world, but at what cost?
All Carl Thomas wanted was to be rich, but would his greed be his downfall?
All Brad Beckett wants is to get Amber back, but there’s a reason for the ex word.
Be careful what you wish for…you might just get it.
Chapter 1
When I was about five, I always loved losing myself in fairytales where the handsome prince would come charging up on his white horse and save the fair maiden. I frequently imagined that I was Rapunzel, although there were two problems with this daydream. 1) I wasn’t into heights in a big way; and 2) My hair was destined to be more flyaway than flaxen.
Fast-forward thirty years, and now I had an even bigger problem. I had two handsome princes in my life, and I didn’t know what to do about either of them. I know, I know – be careful what you wish for, right?
In my thirty-five year old daydream, there was Romeo, my boyfriend and all round Mr. Nice Guy. Then there was Brad, my boss and ex-fiancé. There was a reason for the “ex” word, though.
I sprawled on my sofa, staring at the ceiling and contemplating this little conundrum. Marmalade, my ginger cat, lay next to me. He purred away, mirroring my ceiling stare. I absent-mindedly stroked his head, wondering whether he was contemplating a two-pussy scenario.
I know what you’re thinking – two gorgeous men after little old moi. Lucky me. I wish! It wasn’t lucky, it was way more complicated than you can imagine. In fact, it was as complicated as trying to assemble flat-pack furniture with a stupid amount of screws and no instructions. Not that I couldn’t assemble flat-pack stuff, you understand. I’m a very practical kind of girl. But, you know, flat-pack can beat even the most enthusiastic DIYers. Or is it just me who ends up with a big bag of screws left over, wondering what the hell I’m supposed to do with them?
I was so deep in thought that I didn’t hear my mobile ringing straight away. When it finally registered in my conscious, I tumbled off the sofa, dislodging Marmalade in the process, and grabbed it from the wooden floorboards.
I glanced at the caller ID.
Think of the Devil. The last person I wanted to talk to when I was doing my contemplation thing was Brad. He might sway my decision about things, and I was pretty easily swayed at the moment.
‘Hey, Brad. What’s up?’
‘Foxy,’ Brad said, his Australian twang sounding more pronounced tonight. ‘What are you doing?’
‘Stroking my pussy.’
‘Mmm. Don’t give me ideas.’ I heard the smile in his voice.
‘You don’t need any ideas,’ I said. He probably heard the smile in mine, too.
‘No Romeo tonight, then?’
I rolled my eyes. Even though he couldn’t see it, he’d know I’d done it. ‘Stop fishing for information.’ I grabbed a fluffy cushion from the sofa and hugged it to my stomach, as if somehow that could put more distance between us.
His voice lowered. Deep and slow, he said, ‘I need you.’
A tingling sensation worked its way through my spine, not to mention other parts. I tried to ignore it. I didn’t really trust myself to speak so I gnawed on my lip for a moment, thinking of something witty to say. My wit had suddenly upped and vanished for some reason, so I just chose to ignore his words instead and pretend to be huffy.
I cleared my throat. ‘What do you want, Brad? It’s Saturday night, and I’m a very busy girl.’ My voice came out huskier than I intended as I glanced around my empty, poky apartment, which was very unbusy at this moment in time.
Yeah, right, Amber. Since when did thinking about Brad constitute being busy?
‘I need you for a job,’ he said.
I didn’t know whether to believe him or not. ‘Why do you need an insurance claim investigation done on a Saturday night?’ Was he just trying to lure me around to his place for some other, totally un-work-related reason? And if so, how much will-power did I have to resist it? ‘Can’t it wait until Monday?’
‘I’m afraid not, Foxy.’ More serious this time.
‘OK, what sort of a job?’
‘Have you ever heard of Levi Carter?’
I thought for a moment. ‘He’s a boxer, isn’t he?’
‘Yes. He’s the world heavyweight boxing champion,’ he said. ‘He’s also one of our clients.’
Brad owned Hi-Tec Insurance. He wasn’t just a successful business owner, though: he had a mysterious SAS past, too.
‘I’ve been watching Levi’s fight tonight on pay per view,’ Brad carried on. ‘He’s just gone down in the sixth round by TKO, but something about it doesn’t look right.’
‘What’s a TKO?’
‘Technical Knockout. You’ve never watched a boxing match before?’
‘A few, but that was mostly because I wanted to see two fit guys with six packs and hardly any clothes on. I don’t know anything about the rules.’
‘It’s a knockout declared by the referee when he judges one of the boxers unable to carry on with the fight.’ Brad paused, waiting for me to take this in. My mind was still on the fit guys, though. ‘It means the other guy won because Levi couldn’t continue with the fight.’
‘So why is that unusual? Doesn’t that happen a lot?’
‘It’s not unusual, but something feels off to me.’
‘OK. What happened to Levi Carter so he couldn’t carry on fighting?’ I sat up on the sofa, all ears. Brad’s instincts were as good as my own. If he thought something was off, it probably was.
‘He had a bad cut on his eye by a blow from his opponent. He’s at the hospital at the moment, and the doctors say he’s got a torn retina. It’s quite a common injury for boxers.’
‘And let me guess...Levi’s insured with Hi-Tec for any medical expenses due to boxing injuries?’
‘Yep,’ Brad said. ‘Although the expenses covered by his policy are fairly limited. Any payout we make is pretty low – minimal, in fact. There aren’t many insurance companies who would give a boxer high risk medical insurance.’
‘Huh?’ My eyebrows furrowed. ‘So if any payout we make to him for medical expenses are negligible, why all the fuss on a weekend? Why not just wait for the medical reports to come in and see if he makes a claim. Aren’t you getting a bit ahead of yourself?’
‘Let’s just say I’ve got a personal interest in this one.’
That got my interest aroused pretty quick. Brad didn’t do personal, unless it involved a few select people – me included. ‘OK, I’ll play. If he’s got a common boxing injury, what is it that doesn’t look right with the fight?’
‘That’s why I need you. I’ll have to show you at my place.’
‘I’m on my way.’ I grabbed my rucksack, which was filled all sorts of investigatorish tools, like a stun gun, my SIG Sauer handgun, camera, voice recorder, notepad, and headed out the door.
****
Brad’s place consisted of a spacious – and very expensive – barn conversion. Huge ceilings and windows, stark white walls, lots of exposed wooden beams, minimal furniture, and no personal knick-knacks gave it a show house kind of feel. Brad didn’t do clutter. I couldn’t live like that. Give me clutter and stuff any day. In fact, give me five minutes with this place and I could clutter it to death. The place was spotlessly clean, as usual. A guy who could kill people with his bare hands and do the housework – a rare find indeed.
‘Here.’ Brad opened the door and handed me a glass of red wine.
‘Trying to get me drunk?’ I arched an eyebrow and dumped my rucksack on the floor.
‘Me?’ He faked a shocked look. He looked like he was fresh out of the shower – his cropped hair was damp around the edges and he smelled of...I sniffed…I wasn’t sure, but it was pretty scrumptious whatever it was. Something sexy and manly. Pheromones Pour Homme. He wore b
utt-huggingly sexy jeans and a black T-shirt that showed off his muscular body. I secretly thought that SAS stood for Sexy Arse Soldier.
I took a sip of wine and followed him into the huge downstairs living space. ‘OK, what’s so important you have to entice me here tonight?’ I rested a hand on my hip.
Brad pointed to his humongous flat screen TV that took centre stage on one wall. A freeze-frame picture of a boxing match caught my eye. Two sweaty, well-defined black men took up the whole screen.
‘I’ll replay it for you,’ he said.
I tilted my glass towards the TV. ‘Which one’s Levi?’
Brad sat on his black leather sofa opposite the TV and patted the empty space next to him.
Hmm. Probably not a good idea to sit that close considering the last time I’d had a drink in his company. What if I lost control of myself and we ended up doing something I’d regret in the morning? Not that we actually did do anything that time, but, well…it was complicated.
I eyed the spare seat. OK, what was the worst that could happen? We’d just talk about the case and that would be that. Hey, it was Saturday night, after all, and maybe I could fool myself into thinking that a hot-blooded woman should live dangerously sometimes.
I sat down, my thigh close enough to feel the heat from his. He glanced at me, haunting grey-blue eyes seemingly piercing my thoughts.
I coughed and leaned away from him, keeping my eyes firmly locked on the screen.
‘Levi’s on the left,’ he said. ‘The other guy is Ricky Jackson.’
Levi looked in his early twenties. He was good looking, unless you counted a nasty bruise around his swollen left eye with blood gushing from a cut above it. Ricky had a few cuts and bruises, too.
‘That’s the eye with the torn retina?’ I asked.
‘Yes.’ Brad reached for a remote control on the arm of the sofa. ‘Let me show you what happened before the injury.’
He rewound the fight at high speed and stopped it. ‘OK, watch it from here.’
I watched Levi dance around Ricky in the centre of the ring. For a guy who must’ve weighed about two hundred and twenty-five pounds, Levi was very light on his feet. I was mesmerized by his speed and agility. I thought back to Muhammad Ali’s catchphrase, “float like a butterfly, sting like a bee.” If Ali had still been in the ring, Levi looked like he would’ve given him a run for his money. He looked at the peak of physical fitness, too, like he was buzzing with energy, whereas his opponent, Ricky, was more out of breath as he dodged Levi’s quick jabs.
Ricky managed to catch Levi with a punch from his right hand, his glove smashing into Levi’s left eye and opening a nasty gash just above it. Blood mingled with sweat, trickling down Levi’s cheek and spraying onto the ring as he danced out of reach, before coming back and connecting with a right and left punch to Ricky’s head. A succession of fast blows by Levi followed with Ricky struggling to move out of reach. Levi backed Ricky onto the ropes with nowhere to go. Levi was in the middle of a bout of short punches to Ricky’s head when the bell sounded and each boxer returned to his corner where frantic activity took place on both of them.
A close-up shot showed a man in Levi’s team pressing an ice bag to his cut eye as another man squeezed water into his mouth from a bottle. Levi swirled the water around and spat it into a bucket. The man with the ice applied something to Levi’s cut with a cotton bud, then rubbed some sort of gel on his face.
Levi came steaming out of his corner at the sound of the bell, ready for action. He was just about to land a punch to Ricky’s head when it looked like he was distracted by a sound from the outside of the ring.
Levi’s outstretched arm was aiming well to hit Ricky on the cheek, but his punch seemed to falter through the air, skimming off Ricky’s ear. Levi whipped his head around towards a middle-aged man who was now in full frame of the camera behind the fighters. The man stood in front of the ring, shouting something, his arms pointing up at Levi and waving frantically. The man’s face had turned a shade of red that was a cross between tomato and eggplant. Levi’s face froze in a scared mask, and his ebony skin seemed to lighten several shades in front of my eyes. As the man carried on shouting, Ricky made use of Levi’s distraction, taking his chance to land a forceful punch to Levi’s left eye, opening the gash further. Blood poured from the wound, dripping onto the floor of the ring.
Levi sagged to his knees before rolling onto his back. The referee moved forward, ordering Ricky to one of the corners while he took up position next to Levi’s head. Then he started counting to ten.
One!
Levi squirmed on the ground, his gloves pressed to his face.
Two!
Levi’s right arm came away from his face and, eyes closed, he rolled onto his side.
Three!
Levi removed his left hand from his left eye but kept his eyes closed.
Four!
Levi scooted into a sitting position and squinted through his right eye.
Five!
Levi managed to drag himself to a standing position on wobbly legs. He clamped his left glove over his eye again.
The referee got in Levi’s face, saying something I couldn’t hear over the shouts from the crowd. He whispered something to Levi, who removed the glove, giving the referee a good look.
The noise from the crowd got louder as the referee led Levi back to his corner, where a guy with Doctor sprawled in yellow letters on his jacket was waiting to check him out.
Levi’s team crowded protectively around him like vultures circling carrion, blocking any view by the cameras.
Shortly after, the referee declared Levi unfit to carry on fighting due to the deep gash above his eye and pronounced Ricky Jackson the winner by TKO. Ricky bounded around the ring like an excited puppy, punching his arm in the air and smiling so wide I could see his gums.
I downed the last of my wine and Brad paused the playback before pouring me another.
‘OK, did you see that Levi was distracted by that guy who was shouting at him?’ Brad said.
‘Yes.’ I thought about the scene I’d just witnessed. ‘Did you see the look on Levi’s face when he heard him? Levi’s head whipped around to face the guy, and he looked really shocked by whatever he was saying. Scared almost.’
‘That’s the impression I got, too. Levi is a professional boxer – he’s trained to not let anything going on outside the ring distract him, but he was certainly distracted by that. It doesn’t seem right to me.’ Brad turned to face me on the sofa and stretched his arm along the back so his fingers were within easy reaching distance of me. They radiated heat like a furnace.
‘So, what, you think that little scene was staged to make Levi throw the fight and go out deliberately in the sixth round?’
Brad thought about this, head on one side, for a moment. ‘Probably not. I don’t think any boxer would want to risk unnecessary injury by not keeping his defence up. There are easier ways to throw a fight, if that was the intention.’
‘What then?’ I sipped my wine, staring at the screen to avoid thinking about the crackling tension I could feel through the small gap between us. ‘Do you know the guy who was shouting at Levi? I recognize him from somewhere.’
‘You should do. He’s Carl Thomas: he and his wife live near your parents.’
I nodded. ‘Yes, that’s it. He’s the CEO of that bank…what’s the name of it?’
‘Don’t you remember? It was plastered all over the newspapers last week.’
I turned and rolled my eyes at him. ‘When do I have time to read the papers? My boss has me worked off my feet!
‘You love it.’ A grin danced around the edges of his mouth.
Well, yes, I suppose he had a point there. In between debating my love life, I lived for my job catching bad guys. Actually, no, that wasn’t strictly true anymore. When I was a cop, I caught bad guys. Now I investigated insurance claims, but somehow I always managed to catch cases that still involved the bad guys. Lucky or crazy? I’m not su
re which. This was precisely why I needed my investigatorish tools of a stun gun and my SIG handgun. I was a good shot, too. I’d even popped a cap in my ex boss’s ass. Not that I’m proud of it, really. OK, maybe just a little bit. It’s a long story and she more than deserved it.
‘OK, I’ll help you out,’ Brad said. ‘The bank is Kinghorn Thomas, owned by Carl Thomas and Edward Kinghorn.’
My eyes widened. ‘The same bank that had a safety deposit box robbery last week?’
Brad gave me a cool nod. ‘The very same.’
‘Romeo is investigating that case.’
‘What did he tell you about it?’
I tilted my head down and avoided his steady gaze. ‘Not much. The only thing I know is they haven’t caught anyone responsible yet.’
Brad raised an eyebrow. ‘Aren’t you discussing cop talk in the bedroom anymore?’
I suddenly found my nails incredibly interesting and stared at them until my eyes watered.
‘Well?’ Brad said.
Damn. He wouldn’t stop until I gave up some information. ‘Well if you must know, we’re on a break at the moment.’ I fixed my eyes firmly back on the TV. I really didn’t want to get into this discussion with Brad. Bad things might happen if I did.
Slowly he reached out and twirled a strand of my hair around his fingers. ‘Interesting. And why are you on a break?’
I tried to ignore him, but it was becoming increasingly impossible. I studied him from the corner of my eye. If I had to rate Brad out of ten, he’d be so far off the scale he’d be hitting quadruple figures. There was no denying how attractive he was. All the elements were there: the grey eyes that had a hint of blue when the light hit them just right, lined at the edges, giving him a dangerously sexy look; the solid cheek bones; the toned sleekness of a big cat; the full and particularly kissable lips – lips which at this moment in time looked like they wanted to kiss me.
Did I want him to kiss me, though? That was the question.
I batted his hand away to stop him molesting my hair any further, but he slipped his fingers through mine before I could stop him.
