The Beauty and the Brawler

by Winter, Nikki

  “I’m not pregnant.” She bit her lip, closed her eyes.

  “I don’t think I’ve ever witnessed a prettier sight than you tied to my headboard, bella...”

  Her lids snapped open, her heartbeat drumming in her ears as the memory of Luciano’s voice silkily sliding over her earlobe replayed. She ran a hand through tangled braids, still trying to find that same reasoning that said she wasn’t pregnant...and that Luciano “The Philly Brawler” Antonelli wasn’t the father.

  There was none. There was no reasoning. There was no logic. There was no thought-provoking discovery that would convince her it was all in her head. Exactly one month ago from today she found herself trussed up and on the cool sheets of one of the most infamous boxers in Philly to date, with him doing everything in his power to make sure she woke up hoarse and deliciously sore the next day.

  Her belly tumbled, and she placed a shaky palm to it. They’d been careful. Samara was so goddamn sure of it she would’ve made bets that would leave her set for the rest of her life. Condoms had come on and off like clockwork. She even had a hand in them going on a few times, which just led to more play. She took birth control religiously. So how...?

  Her hips hit the counter as she slid down to the cold floor, her knees under her chin as she wrapped her arms around her legs. All these years, all this time and she gets knocked up by Luciano?

  “Hey, God, yeah, me again...you hate me, don’t you?” Luciano had many ways about him, but none of those ways included being a family man. Not in the least. Samara had grasped that just under six short years ago when she first laid eyes on him in her sister’s office. Sansone was Luciano’s agent at the time Blackwell & Sultana had first taken off. He was one of their highest grossing clients with a reputation for not only breaking noses but also hearts.

  Apparently overbearing males came in pairs, because the moment Sansone decided he was going to spend the rest of his days pursuing Nyssa after rescuing her in the middle of a bad hurricane, Luciano took on the same task with Samara. The problem was, fucking him would be like purposefully sticking her foot in a bear trap. He’d latch on until he bled her dry then leave her to try healing on her own. As long as she’d known him, she’d watched him jump from bed to bed, city to city, state to state and so on. Even now, with him calling her at least twice a week, hinting at the two of them seeing one another again, Samara had her suspicions that Mr. Antonelli had plenty of women to fill her place.

  He wasn’t so much a bad boy as a rebellious one. In the ring, Luciano’s record was squeaky clean. The man had won more fights than she could count and had more championship belts than she had shoes. He was the consummate professional with an impeccable sense of style. Luciano was charming but in a way that leaned on his roots as a kid who grew up in the streets brawling, just managing to make it to the top by chance. He was goofy, and funny, and articulate, and surprisingly very well educated.

  He could sit on the stoop with kids just on the outskirts of town in nothing but an old T-shirt and well-worn jeans or walk into an event full of Ivy-League business owners, doctors, and lawyers and have the best-cut suit in the room. Simply put, he was multi-faceted with the ability to blend like a chameleon yet still stand out.

  There was something about Luciano that radiated an underlying sense of danger. Being in the same room with him had always been like taunting a caged tiger. She was constantly mindful of the leashed power just beneath the surface of that watchful gaze.

  He wasn’t just dangerous during his matches, but he was dangerous to Samara’s sense of self-preservation. The second their palms met in a handshake she knew everything in her small world would change. From the smirk he gave her, Luciano knew too.

  After that, he spent every dinner, lunch, or small opportunity he had letting her know how much she wouldn’t regret it if she just gave in to what they both so obviously wanted. The night of Nyssa’s party, Samara had given in. Of course it was after a few shots and a pep-talk from her wonderful sibling that consisted of, “For the love of all that is holy, do something spontaneous aside from changing the website where you buy your bras and fuck. Him.” That was ended with a lovely slap on the ass and a push forward...right into Luciano’s arms.

  They’d bantered. They’d danced around it. She’d insulted him, numerous times. As a matter of fact, she did it every time she saw him, but as any boxer would do, he rolled with the punches, obviously knowing her façade of disdain was just that—a façade.

  When she ran into him at the party, he’d flashed his signature predatory grin, and it had gone from there.

  ***

  “You’re always hiding from me, Sammie. Why is that?”

  Samara sucked in a deep breath as that familiar, low, delicious voice reached her ears. A familiar, low, delicious voice that she hated. A familiar, low, delicious voice that made her want to stab its owner in the face.

  She didn’t blink, didn’t even acknowledge said owner. She also didn’t take her eyes off the party going on around her. He could stand there until his balls sagged and his liver gave out. Giving him the satisfaction of noticing that he breathed her air wasn’t even an option. Samara’s lips curved as she watched her sister find a tabletop to stand on and shake her ass. If there was one talent Nyssa had...

  “She can get down on her own, or I foresee Sansone helping her down.” Luciano pointed out.

  Biting the inside of her cheek, she simply lifted her glass to take a sip of the drink in her hand, still ignoring the giant, good-smelling bastard next to her. Samara didn’t need to be informed of what would take place in a few seconds. She was well aware that Sansone was well past his tolerance for the night. Which was why she hadn’t breathed a word in the last hour about her older sister’s antics.

  Nyssa’s birthday parties were always a big production, and Sansone was always in the background, watching. Funny, after six years, it seemed like the only one who didn’t notice he was always watching was Nyssa.

  “So…” That same voice kept talking, kept trying to draw her in. “You’re just gonna keep acting as though I’m not right here.”

  Nothing. She didn’t even glance in his direction.

  “I’ll be taking that as a yes.”

  Her gaze never wavered from the crowd. At least not until six feet, six inches of brick-hard Italian blocked her line of sight. One huge hand reached out and gripped her glass. “And we’re done with this game now.” Luciano took a sip from said glass then sputtered. “Jesus H! The fuck are you drinking? Battery acid with a dash of gasoline?”

  Forced to finally speak, she answered, “No, it’s a rare poison that assholes aren’t immune to.” Samara raked her gaze over him. Of course it wasn’t. Seemed like a glass or three of absinthe was the only thing that could make her tolerate a party capacity of over sixty. “Your cock should be exploding in about five minutes or so.”

  Luciano simply smirked, amber eyes sparkling at her from beneath dark brows. “Well, if I’m gonna lose it, I might as well use it.” Those brows waggled. “Got five minutes to spare?”

  Her grin was saccharine sweet. “Somehow, I doubt you’d be able to last that long.”

  He pouted. “Why are you so mean to me?”

  “Might have something to do with you being a narcissistic dickhead who’s determined to get into my panties just so you can put me on the end of your list of conquests.”

  Luciano’s eyes widened as he pressed a hand to his chest. “Now Sammie, that’s not true. You’d go right at the top... like at number six...”

  She started past him.

  Laughing, he caught her and pulled her back into his chest, nose running along the length of her throat. “You have to know what I just said is bullshit. I could have thousands of conquests, and none of them would ever come close to you.”

  Samara shrugged. “I don’t care, humongosaur.” Lies! Oh, she cared. Way more than she wanted to admit.

  His hand spanned her tummy, his thumb rubbing in slow circles that sent a shiver
racing down her spine. “Oh, you care. You just like to play as though you don’t, but I’m onto you, Sammie. I can smell you before you even enter a room and pick your voice out in a crowd. It’s the only one with the ability to send my dick rock hard within the span of a millisecond.” He let go of her then, tossing over his shoulder as he walked away, “I guess at some point you’ll take care of the problem you have such a habit of creating.”

  ***

  Samara sucked in a deep breath as she mentally stepped out of her reverie. She’d been right to assume sleeping with him would change her life.

  Standing on wobbly legs, she headed for her phone and dialed the one number she needed to call more than anything at the moment. “Dr. Balcomb, this is Samara Blackwell. I need to make an appointment for Saturday morning...”

  Chapter Two

  Luciano softened his singing of the Fresh Prince theme to a nice mellow humming as he quietly walked through the hallway of a very nice, very well decorated waterfront condo on the upper east side of his hometown.

  Granted, said condo didn’t belong to him, but that was just semantics. The way he saw it, he was here so much that he might as well call it home. Although, the locks kept changing, and it irked him to keep having to pick them every couple of weeks, but once again, semantics.

  Luciano reached the master bedroom and twisted the knob before throwing it open and jumping through the threshold with enough force to cause the floor to shake as he bellowed out, his favorite line.

  He watched with glee as the previously peacefully sleeping form of his best friend and adoptive brother jumped up as if shot, got tangled in his own sheets and rolled from the bed. Sansone Sultana hopped up from the floor. “Jesus H!”

  “Gah!” Luciano covered his eyes. “I’m blind!”

  “Luc?” Sansone roared. “How the fuck did you even get in here?”

  “The same way I always get in.” He motioned to his sibling’s form. “When did you become a nudist?”

  “My home, my naked. Don’t like it? Stop strolling in here like we’re sharing the mortgage every month.”

  “You don’t even have a mortgage.”

  “That’s not the point, you giant asshole!”

  “Look, you get that clothed.” Luciano waved a hand towards the door, careful to keep his eyes closed. “And I’ll make breakfast while getting right with Jesus.”

  Sansone snorted. “Wouldn’t your reigning master, Satan, take issue with that?”

  Flipping his brother the bird as he walked out, Luciano replied, “At least my master knows I’m alive. When’s the last time Nyssa took time out of her day to actually acknowledge the fact you breathe her air?”

  “Low blow, Luc! Low fucking blow!”

  Chuckling, he went back the way he came, finding the kitchen and making himself at home. Still humming a song that would never get old to him, Luciano started taking down breakfast supplies, knowing that once Sansone got himself together, there would be a lot of violence going on this morning. It wasn’t the fact that he managed to slip through his brother’s security system the same way water did paper, it was the mention of Nyssa Blackwell—the one woman his suave, polished sibling couldn’t seem to get his hands on.

  In the six years Sansone had been working with his sports management partner, he still hadn’t breached that ring of friendship that Nyssa had him confined in. It made Luciano’s brother edgy and grumpy and so goddamn easy to screw with.

  He loved it! But, along with Nyssa came a quaint little surprise he hadn’t been expecting in the least bit—her gorgeous, mean, lush-lipped little sister who had the sexiest voice he’d ever had the pleasure of hearing.

  The first time he’d heard Sammie, the Voice of Choice, he’d been nursing a hangover in a hotel room in upper Manhattan thanks to a victory celebration that consisted of lots of drinks, lots of women, and lots of dicking around. Obviously someone hated him enough to set an alarm for him the next morning so he would wake up early enough to catch a flight out to Sacramento. And by God above, the smooth, whiskey-rough rasp with just a bit of upstate thrown in the mix got his sluggish attention faster than a well-known porn star serving ice cream in a boys’ juvenile detention home.

  There was something about the leisurely way she drawled every sentence—a wickedness to every word, every syllable that rolled off her tongue. Her laugh was just as sexy, if not sexier, than the way she spoke, and he found himself more than a bit intrigued, drawn in by that dry, sarcastic, candid humor. But she didn’t just get by on that voice alone—Samara was also knowledgeable, and there was nothing more desirable to Luciano than a woman who could make his dick rise with a simple question then blow his mind when digging into the politics of the sports world.

  Just when he didn’t think his obsession could get any deeper, Sansone took up a partnership with a gorgeous barracuda in stilettos, and Luciano found out said barracuda was the older sister of said obsession. It was by accident, really. He’d been leaving Sansone’s new office after threatening to cut his brother/agent’s balls off if all the goddamn badgering about endorsements and investments didn’t stop when he heard her.

  Granted, she’d been in a screaming match with her sister over God only knows what, but it hadn’t mattered because all he’d been able to do was stop and stare and thank the good Lord above for his timely, efficient blessings. Now, being that Nyssa herself was, erm...pleasing to the eye, he shouldn’t have been surprised when coming face to face with the woman who shared her DNA. Somehow, it was still a gut punch the moment those wide, sparkling, hazel irises met his own. Extremely statuesque with what could only be described as a sinful mouth, Samara had a face and body that the best plastic surgeons in the nation couldn’t imitate. From that second on, Luciano spent every waking moment determined to convince her he should have exclusive rights to that mouth.

  Not many women got his attention for long. They’d come and gone so much that they’d begun to blur into one continuous memory. Each one beautiful or unique in her own way, but there was something different about Samara, something that made him chase her—a task he wasn’t accustomed to. He’d waited six long years before she finally gave in—pursuing, waiting, biding his time. And when she finally did...

  “I don’t smell food,” Sansone pointed out in a tone that suggested bellowing was about to follow. “Why don’t I smell food?” Arms folded, he stood in the doorway of the kitchen, glaring like a mentally unstable, angry circus bear.

  “Because I just realized I’ve always been too pretty to learn how to cook.” Luciano waved a hand at his form. “Look at this. Feast your eyes on the utter perfection before you.”

  Sansone blinked twice before quietly saying, “Shut the fuck up and make my pancakes.”

  “Rude.”

  “Did we not understand the ‘shut the fuck up’ part of this? Do I need to explain that?”

  “Anyone ever tell you you’re almost as sexy as me when you’re angry?” Luciano questioned as he turned back to the pancake batter and fresh-cut fruit on the counter.

  The response he got was a grunt.

  “Your mug and coffee are on the counter to your right, you moody son of a bitch.”

  Another grunt.

  “Sooooo...nice weather we’re having to—”

  “What do you want, Luc?” Sansone barked. The sound of the paper snapping open followed said bark.

  Luciano hid a grin. Bastard knew him well, didn’t he? “Oh,” he said slowly, “Nothing much.”

  “One,” Sansone stated.

  “Really? The counting?”

  “Two.”

  “Can’t I just—”

  “No,” the other man interrupted. “Three.”

  “Sunny, you’re being an asshole.”

  “I know,” he answered. “Four.”

  “All right with the tyranny!” Luciano leaned against the kitchen counter. “I need you to do me a small favor.”

  Sansone simply lifted a brow in his direction. “No.”

&nb
sp; “Sunny—”

  “You want to know shit Nyssa knows? Ask Nyssa.”

  Lips twisting, Luciano questioned, “You two have a lovers’ spat?”

  “You have to be lovers to have a lovers’ spat.”

  “Is that why your G-string’s in a bunch?”

  “For your goddamn information,” Sansone replied, “I wear thongs. G-strings mess with the undercarriage.”

  Luciano bit the inside of his cheek. “Why can’t you just be a good brother and tell me shit when I ask?”

  “Because I’m not a good brother. I’m a moody son of a bitch.”

  The goddamn fights between Sansone and Nyssa had become more and more frequent lately. He wondered if it had anything to do with her dating again. Luciano could ask...but his nose had been broken twice already—he’d rather not leave it to chance that it’d happen again. With a sigh, he started loading pancakes onto the griddle.

  Of the two of them, Sansone was hopeless in the kitchen. Pretty surprising for a tailored-suit-wearing, Harvard-graduated pretty boy from uptown, raised in a household where he had both parents and they actually treated him like they gave a shit. Luciano never had that advantage as a kid. No, his parents were well-known alcoholic swindlers who had brought a son into the world they either didn’t give a shit about or thought would be better off dropped on the doorstep of a church. He often joked they were probably there looking for a pastor to turn water into wine; his adoptive mother—Sansone’s biological mother—had never found that funny.

  It never really mattered that he eventually got his forever home. The damage had already been done. Gino and Cara Antonelli had been two-bit hustlers out to lie, steal, and cheat anyone they could. He didn’t know a lot about the people who’d ushered him into his shitty beginning, but he knew enough. He’d heard whispers from the time he was a lonely, angry boy. Whispers that made him fight. He was always fighting, always trying to prove himself, prove he was good enough.