Just for Christmas Night

by Lisa Marie Perry

  It was the first exchange they’d had since leaving the gym. Martha, whose heart was still dizzy from the boundaries they’d burned in the boxing ring, hadn’t known how to play things once they were inches apart in the vehicle.

  “I have coffee.” Right away, Martha winced at the inanity—no, stupidity—of the words. Of course she had coffee. So did damn near everyone in the free world. “I’m going to fix myself tea, but if you want coffee before you go, it wouldn’t kill me to hook you up with a cup.”

  Teasing, “If you’re sure it won’t kill you, then yes, I’ll take a cup,” Joaquin brushed his knuckles down her arm, then unlatched her seat belt. “Lead the way.”

  Expecting these moments to be tenser, much more awkward, Martha wanted to drop back against the seat with relief. Instead, she kept her expression cool all the way from the truck to the house.

  Why am I inviting this man into my house? she thought, shutting the door behind him and strolling ahead, knowing he’d follow. In the formal living area she turned, caught the sight of his sulky frown and the heat in his eyes, and was momentarily paralyzed with desire. Oh, that’s why. Because I haven’t figured out how to stop being so freakin’ hot for him.

  The kisses and the touches he’d given her in the ring had been nothing short of magic. The pleasure was drugging, and she was needy for more. But she wouldn’t ask for it. He wasn’t a practical choice for her. Not only would her parents rain down hell upon Joaquin and Martha if they found out what they’d done, but she didn’t want to get wrapped up in hopes for a future with a man like him. His obsession with danger, his determination to base his value on how many times he could walk into pure violence and emerge victorious, scared her on levels she didn’t want to admit.

  Yes, she followed his career but played it off as though it bored her. It was better than owning up to fear that tore her to pieces every time she tried to watch him fight. It was far better than confessing that she was afraid for him, and was angry with herself because of it.

  “Just give me a sec to change, and I’ll get that coffee going,” she said. He moved soundlessly, so close on her heels that she could smell the cologne she’d breathed in at the Foundation Room, in his truck and at the gym. Instead of carrying out her initial urge to dive onto the couch and shout, “Take me or get out!” Martha swept up a pair of remotes, twirled them like a Wild West gunslinger, and turned on the television and the electric fireplace.

  Then she hurried to the kitchen before she could circle around to her first urge again.

  Quickly, she dropped her purse onto the counter, put the brewer to work, fixed herself a mug of Irish tea and pried off her stilettos. The cabinet she dedicated to comfy footwear offered a variety of plush slippers, cozy socks and…clogs? Making a mental note to donate the clogs to charity, she pulled on a pair of polka-dot toe socks.

  After arranging the coffee and tea on a tray, Martha realized she had no clue how Joaquin took his coffee. An hour ago, the man’s fingers had been doing wonderfully dirty things to her body and sanity, yet she didn’t know how he felt about cream and sugar in his caffeine. If her mother could scrounge up outrage that Gideon Crane hadn’t known her middle name was Chastity, then how might she react to Martha and Joaquin’s secrets?

  “Not good,” she mumbled, adding Truvia and Baileys to the tray.

  Did it really matter that he’d been a stranger for four years and in under forty-eight hours had found his way back into her undies and her heart?

  To the public, to the Blue family, it would undoubtedly matter, because it was a scandal waiting to unveil itself. But Martha found freedom on the fringes of convention.

  Intuition had outweighed the old hurt, had compelled her to be daring enough to ride with him to the closed-for-the-night gym. It had felt beyond right to trust Joaquin with her body. His touch had told her things he’d never say.

  Even if he wasn’t hers—would never be—she cherished what he’d made her feel tonight. Hell, she cherished their banter in the truck and how deeply she’d gotten to him at Mandalay Bay.

  “Thought you were going to change,” Joaquin said when she padded into the living room with the tray.

  “I did.” She passed off the tray to him and wiggled her toes. The purple-dotted gray socks clashed with her outfit, but she didn’t care. “My tootsies wanted to slip into something fuzzy.”

  “Those are some interesting socks.”

  “They make sense. Average socks are for toes what mittens are for fingers—constricting.”

  She took her tea mug and curled up on the club chair where she’d slept last night. The throw blanket over the back smelled cottony fresh and the sticky ice cream smear had been cleaned. She’d get the names of the staff her mother had rallied to tidy up and would keep them in mind when she hit up Anthropologie and Nordstrom for last-minute stocking stuffers.

  Without bothering with sweetener or cream, or taking a moment to test his drink’s temperature, Joaquin took a swallow. “Good coffee.”

  “It’d better be. It was imported from Brazil, and it was a pricey graduation gift from my sis.”

  “Which one?”

  “Danica.” Danica’s gifts—whether it was coffee beans, a handmade garment or a mansion—were always considerate. Martha had spent so many years envying Danica’s “perfect daughter” status that she hadn’t realized her sister was more than a people-pleaser and Martha really should try to be nicer to her.

  “And you’re wasting this on me?” Joaquin set down his mug. Sweet hell, he was sexy.

  Martha wanted to lick the coffee’s unique berry-and-caramel flavor off his mouth.

  “I don’t think I’m wasting it,” she replied, wiggling her toes and reaching over to rub a foot. “Ow. This is the painful cost of dressing up my feet with impractical shoes.”

  “And diamonds.”

  “You noticed my toe ring?”

  “Isn’t that why you wear it?”

  “Nope, actually. I think it’s pretty and wear it for myself. Just like my other body bling.”

  Martha took a hasty gulp of tea. What in blazes was she doing? Flirting with him like this before had led straight to…the most electrifying orgasm of her life.

  The tremors had rocked her body, and though she was contented now, arousal was beginning to stretch inside her. Yup, her horniness was awakening from a catnap.

  “What other body bling?” Joaquin’s gaze blatantly fondled her. “You’re pierced?”

  “Obviously.” She raked her hair to the side, exposing an earring.

  “Where else, Martha?”

  “That’s for me to know, and you to find out—if I let you. New subject.”

  With a tight nod—the man really was a master of control, wasn’t he?—he gestured to the shopping bags grouped near the sofa. “What’s all that?”

  “Stuff my mother brought this morning. Christmas decor. My undecorated house is an abomination.”

  “Are you going to put it up?”

  “Maybe. Just another thing Tem can bulldoze me into.”

  “Sounded to me like decorating was something a mother wanted to share with her kid.”

  “Do not use that word in reference to me. I haven’t been a kid for a long time and I don’t need anyone to hover.”

  “You’re Tem’s kid. Marshall’s kid. That’s a privilege.”

  “I didn’t go looking for the privilege, Joaquin. I was born into it.”

  Joaquin’s parents hadn’t loved him; they’d broken him. Martha knew that. She also knew he’d literally fought for everything he had. But his take on her relationship with Marshall and Tem didn’t acknowledge that she’d carried her parents’ resentment her entire life, and that hanging lights and trimming a Douglas fir wouldn’t change things. Miracles like that didn’t happen—not even at Christmas.

  “Just hear this,” he said. “If you want to face off against Tem or Marshall, wait until shit gets real.”

  “Advice you don’t live by,” she retorted. “Did
you lose less significant matches to get to the main card? No. You won every fight and you’re here in Vegas now because you intend to keep winning.”

  Joaquin’s frown deepened, and she was puzzled that she could at the exact same moment want to slap him and kiss him. “Martha, dozens of times I’ve walked into a club and some asshole whose liquor made him too bold for his own good tried to get in my face. I’ve had to pass up the easy victories—the hollow ones—because they don’t pave my way to a win that matters. That’s why I’m America’s champion. That’s why I’m the best.”

  Martha’s eyes narrowed. “Maybe instead of kicking it with me, you should go home now and work on your self-confidence. I don’t think your ego’s quite enormous enough.”

  She hadn’t noticed that during their back-and-forth, they’d shifted closer. And now they were standing inches apart, and she was randomly annoyed that he wasn’t backing down.

  “I’m satisfied with my relationship with my parents. So, thanks, but no thanks, for the word of wisdom.”

  “What if Marshall and Tem aren’t satisfied with their relationship with you?” Joaquin edged closer. “Tem was pissed when I showed up here this morning.”

  “Not because of some garland and lights. Because a guy spent the night.

  “He’s my friend, who spent the night along with two of my other friends, and he didn’t come close to touching me the way you did in the gym.”

  A muscle jumped in Joaquin’s jaw. Was he reliving every second of pinning her to that post in the ring, of stroking her so, so deep?

  “A man and a woman can be friends without having sex,” she said. “Believe it or not, but I know that to be true.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “People call me a ‘party girl.’ No, I don’t live for the bad moments. Yes, I love enjoying myself. But I don’t need a spreadsheet to keep track of how many men I’ve had sex with.”

  Well, she hadn’t meant for that to go flying out into the open air, but her filter tended to malfunction when she was epically aggravated.

  “Hey,” he said, so gently she was momentarily confused, “who said that?”

  “Not important.”

  “You’re not that woman.”

  “How would you know? Before yesterday, you hadn’t spoken to me in years.” The same years she’d spent tracking his career, worrying about him even as she resented him, because, damn it, someone had to worry.

  Her parents, her sisters, his uncle, his cousins, were supportive. Proud. But did any of them fear for his safety and wonder how they’d breathe again if they lost him?

  “As much as the misconceptions sting, you’re hiding behind them. And you’re doing that to protect yourself.”

  Martha’s grip relaxed. God, how she wanted to protest. Yet just hours earlier she’d lied to Tem, saying the reason she went “off the grid” was because she partied, when the truth was she burned the midnight oil studying more often than she did partying. She’d lied to protect herself…

  “If you’re going to do that, hide like that,” Joaquin said, “think about how it reflects on the football team you represent.”

  “The Slayers franchise isn’t your concern.”

  “If I owned a team, I’d want it to be a cohesive unit dedicated to business interests—including its reputation. And if there was someone on my payroll who constantly attracted negative publicity, I’d ax them.”

  Scoffing, she carted the shopping bags to the sofa and dumped the contents onto the cushions. “Good thing you don’t run the Slayers.”

  “Fair to say. But suppose the people who do run it think as I do.”

  Martha paused midway through stacking boxes of silver stocking holders that spelled the word hope.

  Though not a member of the Slayers’ HR staff, she had an educated guess of how many employees her parents had terminated since acquiring the ball club. The number who’d gotten walking papers during the season was staggering enough. Her sister Charlotte had been suspended through the exhibition games at the end of training camp for fraternizing with a fellow trainer, whose father had sold the team to the Blues and was now under investigation for misconduct. Then Danica had quit the organization altogether after the owners had rehired the scandalicious quarterback they’d ordered her to fire in the first place. Of course, the situation had been tangled by the fact that she’d fallen in love with him.

  An office fling wasn’t in Martha’s future—she had no interest in complicating a professional relationship with one-time-only sex. But if her private life, which hadn’t felt truly private since her parents’ acquisition of Las Vegas’s football franchise, was no longer independent of her professional life…

  She was in deep shit—professionally speaking.

  Her parents had the exact mind-set Joaquin described. Only they were blunter, more ruthless about it, which must be a winning formula, as the Slayers were invading the play-offs with just one loss.

  Never would Marshall and Tem allow her to cross over to business operations if she approached them with a reputation sullied beyond repair. They’d keep her banished to S-Dubs forever.

  Or… “Joaquin, what are their plans for me?”

  The man sighed, cursed. “Keep you on a short leash until after play-offs.”

  “Until they can neatly eliminate me from the business, you mean?”

  He stepped beside her, scooped up the stocking holders and moved them to the cathedral fireplace. “If your job matters, come out of hiding, Martha.”

  “Haven’t you reached your advice quota for the day?” she tossed back, glad that she could still speak through anger.

  “No, ’cause technically it’s a new day.” When Martha jerked around to glare at him, he was all cocky smirk and piercing eyes, and her ovaries somersaulted synchronously. “If I end up decorating your fireplace by myself, there’s a hundred percent chance it’s going to turn out ass-ugly.”

  A girl could get whiplash from how quickly he riled her up then turned her on. “All right. I’ll bedazzle the mantel. But only the mantel and only if you give me a hand. You’re tall enough to reach the thing without a stepladder.”

  “Got an aversion to stepladders?”

  “My mother and I had a mini-argument about ’em this morning.” She turned off the fire, then handed him a solid nine feet of flocked garland pre-beautified with pinecones, berries, ribbon and clear bulbs. “That’s what you missed before you came in and stared at my booty.”

  Joaquin shifted the garland in his arms and bits of frosty dust stuck to his jacket’s sleeves. He looked…embarrassed.

  Great. He had the nerve to annoy her, make her come, annoy her again, and now he’d reached a new plateau of hotness.

  “I—”

  “To deny is to lie…” she said in a lilting voice.

  “Wasn’t going to.” He began to stretch out the garland. “I was going to say that I’d stare at your booty for hours, if I didn’t have to fight.”

  Have to? Joaquin didn’t have to fight any longer—at least not from a financial standpoint. Her father had steered him toward shrewd investments and that was on top of the wealth he’d accumulated boxing professionally.

  He was rich. He had a name. He no longer risked his life in the ring for those reasons… Did he fight simply because he didn’t know how to stop?

  “How do you gear up to walk into hell like that?” she asked after a while. They’d worked in quiet, with ESPN prattle filling the silences between the occasional “Hand me that over there” and “Move that this way.”

  “Drills, running, jumping rope, getting in the ring and practicing as if a championship’s on the line every time,” he said, stepping backward to see if the trio of crystal candleholders achieved the symmetry she’d asked for.

  Walking back, Martha examined the fireplace critically and finally nodded, satisfied. “Besides exercise,” she said. “And besides scoping out the city where you’re going to fight.”

  “Mind games help
.” He grinned at her curious expression. “I go through with the interviews and promo, but eventually I tune it all out. I pretend that I’ve never won a match, that I’m fighting for my life. That my opponent stole something from me, and the only way to get it back is to go through him.”

  “Sounds brutal.”

  “When I fight, Martha, it’s art.” Joaquin peeled off his jacket, gave a rough swipe at the garland debris stuck to the fabric and flung it over a nearby ottoman. “Technique is the fine line between brutality and art.”

  The words were laced with a subtle warning: don’t try to convince me otherwise.

  But could she? She knew more about bodybuilding and football than other sports, but she wasn’t ignorant when it came to boxing, wrestling and mixed martial arts. She knew that he was a pair of gloves, a few technical rules and a dash of luck away from a cauliflower ear or worse.

  The dangers of what it took to win a fight, and—God forbid—what it might take for him to lose, frightened her. That it all seemed immaterial to him saddened her.

  He understood violence, was comfortable with it in ways she couldn’t fathom. And yes, he was a trust virgin. Those details intertwined and made her heart ache for him in spite of how thoroughly he’d damaged it before.

  “Joaquin, suppose I’d let you stare at me for hours. Would you still fight?”

  “Yes.” No hesitation.

  “What if I told you where my other piercing is? Would you fight anyway?”

  “Absolutely. I’ll fight until I face an opponent with the physical credentials to outclass me.” He retreated to sit on the sofa. “Oh, and when I find out where you’re pierced, it’s not going to be because you told me.”

  “When? Ha, ha.”

  “Forget that a couple of hours ago my fingers were inside you and you were moaning for me?”

  The words, the tension behind them, gave her a wicked chill. “I think I can recall that,” she managed to say, treading cautiously. “About the mantel. It’s not ass-ugly. I doubt even my mother will find fault with it. Thanks.”

  “I just followed your orders. I happened to be where you needed me to be.”