Just for Christmas Night

by Lisa Marie Perry

  “Are you confident?”

  At this, the entire room vibrated with laughter. Confidence, he had that in spades.

  “Gotta be.” He tasted the Bacardi. “If I’m carrying doubt, then I shouldn’t step into that arena.”

  “Let’s talk nicknames.” She chuckled. “Las Vegas’s prince. Sinner. You’ve carried ‘Sinner’ for the bulk of your fighting career. What’s behind it?”

  If she was fishing for backstory, she’d picked the wrong bait. There was nothing sentimental or charming behind the name. “I’m a bastard in the ring. That’s who ticket holders and pay-per-view subscribers see when they watch me fight.”

  “Do you fight to entertain?”

  Joaquin paused, digesting the question. “I fight,” he admitted, “because I’m a fighter.”

  The reporter studied him, considering. “You’re also an investor for a Fortune 500 company, BioCures West Energy Corp. Your mentor, Marshall Blue, is primary shareholder. Recent press releases indicate interest in alternative energy sources—radical move for a rather traditional natural gas and electric provider. What can you say about that?”

  Maintaining relevance and adopting an environmentally responsible worldview weren’t radical. “Adapt or fall,” he said. “Survival of the fittest applies to industry. Boxing. Public service. Journalism.”

  “The element of surprise. You’re good.” She breathed out a laugh. “Perhaps that’s why you’ve never lost. At this point in your career, you can retire whenever you’d like. If Eliáš Brazda outclasses you at the Garden Arena, will you fight again?”

  “The night I’m outclassed is the night I cease to adapt. The night I fall is the night I fail. When I fail, I stop being worthy of the ring.”

  *

  When I fail…

  Joaquin’s words followed him out of the hotel’s conference room after the interview. Would he ever truly be prepared to give up the fight—even when there was no longer any fight in him?

  Left to his own devices, he unknotted his tie and went in search of something stronger than the Bacardi he’d left half-full.

  Not yet ready to round up his folks, he avoided the casino. At every turn were holiday reminders: festive lights, pine and cranberry in the air, orchestral interpretations of Christmas tunes. For him, Christmas would be a training day that he’d begrudgingly cap off with an appearance at the Blues’ Christmas dinner. A soiree, Temperance Blue’s personal assistant had called it when she’d invaded his uncle’s gym the previous afternoon to give him a fancy invitation tied with sparkly twine. Jules and the cousins had received theirs, and RSVP’d, back in November. Put on the spot in the gym, he’d set aside his jump rope and opened the damn invitation in front of the PA, who’d stood there expecting an answer to parrot back to Tem. So he’d agreed to come.

  He would stay long enough to compliment the hostess and have a drink with the host. But he didn’t see himself sopping up the full effect of a Marshall and Temperance Blue spare-no-luxury party.

  He didn’t want to imagine himself catching glimpses of Martha with some storybook date—a man pretty for her to look at, but who’d be too lazy or clueless to make her come screaming.

  Besides, he’d grown up in Jules Ryder’s household, where money was tight, practicality ruled and Christmas was rarely celebrated.

  There had never been magic to the Christmas season. And he wasn’t expecting there to ever be.

  With security lurking like stealthy shadows, he sought the Lobby Bar. It was jammed with patrons but he wasn’t deterred from ordering something top-shelf with burn.

  Accepting the drink, he tossed a glance across the bar and saw Othello leaning on his elbow and staring at his phone with two glasses in front of him.

  “Downing cocktails two at a time, cuz?” he greeted, joining the man. “How hard did the table games hit you?”

  Othello straightened. A trace of a frown pulled at his mouth. “I’m still standing.”

  “Good enough.”

  “Wrapped up early, everything did, huh?” Othello scratched his chin.

  Joaquin instantly thought, Oh, hell. Now what? because the index-finger-on-chin scratch was the nervous impulse that told table game dealers when Othello was bluffing the same as it revealed to his ex-wives when he was lying.

  “Got out early on good behavior.”

  “You? Never.”

  “Funny.” As he raised his glass, he noticed Othello scan the Lobby Bar. Whatever Othello stepped in, Joaquin wanted no part of it. The way he saw it, the road of life had plenty of shit piles and you could either dodge ’em or ride through ’em.

  It was the kind of lesson a man figured out for himself.

  “Let me get ahold of your driver, bruh,” Othello said. “Tor and I are holding things down. Get back to your workout.”

  Road of life. Road of life. Joaquin wanted the words to motivate him to leave the bar, but he braced himself for the answer to “What’d you do?”

  Othello gave an incredulous, offended scowl. “The hell?”

  “I’m not in a playing mood,” he warned quietly.

  A pair of feminine hands suddenly covered Othello’s eyes and behind him a woman’s voice dared, “Guess who’s not wearing panties?”

  Oh. God. No. “Ciera Byron,” Joaquin said, killing their verbal foreplay.

  The hands released his cousin, and peeking out from behind Othello’s shoulder was the same copper-haired woman Joaquin had ordered out of his Miami place barely a couple of months ago.

  In a thin dress and pencil-skinny high heels, she teetered around Othello to glare at Joaquin. “America’s most narcissistic athlete. Still got that controlling God complex?”

  “You still have the tall shoes and a dirty mouth, but where’s your sewing needle?”

  “Asshat.” Ciera bristled under the heaviness of his controlled anger. “I’m not getting in the middle of a brawl. Call me later, O.”

  “Good to see you, too, Poker,” Joaquin said.

  “Brute,” she tossed back, sauntering past.

  “I liked asshat better.” When she all but stomped down the steps and out to the hotel lobby, he said to his cousin, “She’s your casino hookup?”

  “Man, look. I thought you’d take off after the interview.”

  “And you’d show Ciera a good time? Glad I could help you get that opportunity.” Had Joaquin not been Mister Cooperative this morning, the hotel wouldn’t be rolling out all-day luxury for his entourage. “Ciera? Ciera!”

  Othello glanced around surreptitiously. “She said you’d make this about you, but I’m here to tell you it’s not.”

  “It’s about Ciera, who’s a liar. A schemer. I cut her out of the circle after what she did in Miami. Tell her there’s no way back in. Not even through you.”

  “Don’t be like that. We’re cousins. We’re tight.”

  “Don’t play the family card when you’re screwing my ex-girlfriend.” Joaquin considered the contents of his glass. “Answer this, man. When you visited Miami and I introduced you to Ciera, did—”

  “No.”

  “Let me ask the question, Othello. Did you touch her when she was mine?”

  “No,” his cousin said again. “Ciera approached me at a concert here in Vegas a few weeks ago. She said she was in the city on business. I gave her a reason to stick around.”

  Ciera was a buyer for a department store chain. Possibly what had sent her across the country the same time as he was preparing to train in Las Vegas was a legitimate coincidence. That, or she’d identified the weak link in his circle.

  Pushing up on Othello, Ciera could potentially get closer to Joaquin. But did she know how messy things got when you tried to use a user?

  “Ciera’s life is in Florida, Othello. Whatever it is you’re offering her, take it off the table.”

  “That won’t work for me.”

  “Every woman you touch, you destroy. Give a shit, just once.”

  “Like Ciera was ever special to you?”


  Joaquin felt anger shudder along his vocal cords as he spoke. “She lost candidacy for ‘special’ when she poked holes in my condoms with a sewing needle.” But Othello had already known that she’d attempted to unsafe-sex her way to a pregnancy and a payday, because Joaquin had told his cousins why he’d put her on foot patrol.

  Joaquin set his glass on the bar, observing Othello with hard, narrowed eyes. “I’ve had enough of this drink. Want it, too?”

  Othello flipped up his middle finger. “The drink, the woman—keep them. I don’t need your sloppy seconds.”

  Muttering a sarcastic “Ho, ho, ho,” Joaquin deserted the bar.

  The situation could have been defused, had he been in a take-the-high-road sort of mood. But his cousin’s no-consequences, no-responsibilities attitude needed some tweaks. Let him cool his temper in a limo or dabble with table games in the casino. Maybe he’d realize that sleeping with his cousin’s conniving ex was one too many degrees of disturbing.

  Making tracks for the exit, he raked his hands down his face, then cursed.

  A streak of brown makeup smeared one palm. In his haste to get the hell on with his day, he’d forgotten to have the makeup artists undo whatever they’d done to cover up the scar on his cheek.

  He scrubbed the area ruthlessly with the back of his hand, using the other to frisk himself for a cloth. Keys. Wallet. Phone.

  “Mother—”

  “Before you drop the MF-bomb, why don’t you ask me if I can help with…whatever it is you’re doing?” All confidence and bubbliness with a little haughtiness sprinkled on top, Martha observed him from a few feet away. The lobby’s lion statue sat regal beside her.

  Both were probably mocking him.

  And he almost smiled at the thought.

  Without invitation, she glided closer. “This place is infested with media. Just an FYI.”

  “Not necessary. I brought them, in a way. Taped interview, all the fun stuff.” He flashed his makeup-smudged palm. “Got tissues? I need to de-goo my jaw.”

  “It’s called concealer, Joaquin. Not goo. And I have something more effective than tissues. Makeup remover.” She grinned, patting her purse. Wearing a short dress so silky it resembled pale pink liquid, she almost sucked him in completely with that luminous smile. “Come with me, champ. I’ll ‘de-goo’ you, and won’t even ask you to buy me dinner first.”

  Joaquin’s brain tripped, but somehow he heeded her instructions to meet her at the absolute last place the press might search for him: a wedding chapel.

  “I got seasick a lot when I was a kid,” Martha said softly, when he met her in front of the Cherish Chapel. “I was actually afraid of boats. Just getting close to one triggered this compulsion to puke my guts out. The look on your face right now is the exact look I used to have whenever I stepped on a boat.”

  “I generally avoid weddings unless for some misguided reason a friend or relative sticks me on the guest list.”

  Martha looped her arm around his, and her sugary perfume began seducing his common sense to oblivion. “My parents are fans of the aggressive approach. To cure my fear and seasickness, they put me on dozens of boats. Yachts, canoes, glass-bottom boats, so on and so on.”

  Damn. At night did they tuck her into bed with stories of sunken ships? “And you puked until your body could puke no more?”

  She grunted a sexy chuckle. “Not quite. The gist of this is I’m sea-healthy nowadays. So I prescribe that you attend dozens of weddings. Church weddings, beach weddings, Wiccan weddings, so on and so on.” She started walking and he moved with her, disturbingly satisfied to be so close to her again. “I’m inviting you to my wedding. Call me misguided.”

  “You’re not getting married.”

  “Someday.” Untangling their arms, she whispered, “A human Muscle Milk ad with a high and tight is tracking us.”

  Joaquin gave the security specialist a discreet nod. “It’s what he’s paid to do,” he murmured to Martha.

  “Oh. Of course. I get it.” This time the smile she offered was a touch wistful. “What kind of prince would you be without royal guards?”

  When they reached their destination, she announced, “Groom’s dressing suite.”

  “That’s got to be locked.”

  “Precisely why I rented it for my own salacious purposes while you were finding your way around this ginormous place.” She tugged the key card from her purse. “The Blue name opens doors in this town—literally. I’d prefer if your royal guard stayed out here…”

  Joaquin signaled the man to venture no farther, then joined Martha in the suite’s stylish dressing room.

  “I got so caught up in figuring out how to get this paint off my face that I forgot to ask what you’re doing here in the middle of a workday,” he said, hanging back and watching her take in the accommodations. Yeah, he really could spend hours admiring her ass.

  “Slayers damage control. And I don’t think I ought to say more. You might be a…Dolphins fan.”

  “Observer. I don’t have NFL allegiances.”

  “You have an allegiance to my family, don’t you?”

  “In business and friendship, yes. As far as entertainment goes, if the Dolphins offer a better game than the Slayers, I’m watching the Dolphins.”

  Martha nodded. “Honesty’s not always cute, but it’s valuable.”

  “Glad you think so. And leaking NFL dirt isn’t my priority when I’ve got twelve rounds coming in a month.”

  “Okay, I’ll share. The media’s already picked up the scent.” She unzipped her purse and started to root around inside. “One of our players had a play-offs-euphoria-induced transgression. Anyway, his transgression was captured on cam and uploaded on YouTube last night.”

  “Get the video taken down.”

  “Obviously we’ve gone that route. But I still spent my morning brainstorming press statements and social networking responses with my colleagues and his publicists. The video had racked up over a hundred thousand hits by dawn.”

  “A hundred thousand? Shit. Was he recorded getting a lap dance?” The reference to their run-in at Mandalay Bay had one side of his mouth quirking up.

  “Correct—almost.” Martha held up a package of makeup remover wipes. “He was giving lap dances. As he claims, he and some buddies walked into a club during a bachelorette party and ended up dancing for liquor.”

  She brought the wipes into the restroom and waited while he washed away the concealer residue on his hands. “Anyway,” she said, reaching up with a wipe and stroking down the line of his jaw, “the video’s tamer than I’d expected, but his fans like his good-boy image. Preserving it is what’s best for his marketability and our team.”

  “Marshall and Tem don’t want more scandal.” Which would’ve been great for him to remember before he’d put his hand in her pants at the gym.

  Martha tossed the first wipe into the trash and grabbed another. “Speaking of scandals, what might Mister Muscle Milk suspect is going on in here?”

  “You’re sexing me.”

  Martha gave him a skeptical frown. “Because a groom’s dressing suite is the ideal location for a midday fix.” She tossed the other wipe and selected a fluffy rolled hand towel to pat against his cheek. “Tell him I was gentle,” she said as she left the restroom.

  Joaquin turned to examine the results in the mirror. The scar had reemerged, and he was now a bit closer to comfortable. All he needed were some sweats and a gym.

  Or, more than that, another taste of Martha.

  He’d watched her face, worshipped her lips, the entire time she worked. That sweet-smelling perfume and that deliciously plump mouth made him feel like a moneyless kid in a candy store.

  “Back to your normal beastly self?” she asked when he met her in the dressing room.

  “Getting there.”

  “I hope the tie didn’t suffer too much when you killed it.” She came over to lift the two dangling ends. “You’re upset today. Am I the reason? I mean, my goals hav
en’t changed. Yours haven’t, either. So we should be okay.”

  No. It wasn’t okay that he couldn’t stop wanting more. It wasn’t okay that there was something about her that he needed.

  “You didn’t piss me off.” That, he could say without lying.

  “What or who did?”

  “And. What and who.” Joaquin removed the tie and jammed it into a jacket pocket. “My weight lifting was interrupted for an interview, and I found out Othello’s sleeping with my ex.”

  “India?”

  “Ciera, who pokes holes in condoms in hopes of becoming accidentally pregnant and entitled to accidental child support.”

  “What if she genuinely wants to be a mother?”

  “If a baby’s all Ciera’s after, there are men out there who actually want to be fathers. That’s not me—and it’s not Othello, either.”

  Martha nodded. “Can’t help with the Othello-sleeping-with-Ciera dilemma, but I can help with the weight lifting.” She propped her fists on her hips. “Lift me.”

  “What?”

  “I’m a certified fairy-tale aficionado. I want to be swept off my feet.”

  The suggestion was ridiculous, ludicrous—

  Ah, hell. Joaquin took a step, knelt and scooped her up high. He lowered her, then lifted even higher. Again. Again.

  She gasped, hair bobbing, legs swinging. “Careful! Precious cargo.”

  He knew. Damn, did he know. “Had enough horseplay?”

  But the moment he set her loose, she put up her hands, palms out. “I like to be swept off my feet, but I’m sturdy when I need to be. Strike.”

  The silliness of the moment darkened. “No, Martha.”

  “Why not? Fighting’s your perfection.”

  “I won’t take a swing at you, not even for play. I’d never, never hit you.”

  “What if I hit you first?”

  “Then I must’ve really deserved it. But I’m trained to take hits and keep going.”

  “That ‘hard-hearted machine’ logic again?”

  “Point is, this hard-hearted machine won’t strike you.”

  “Unless you’re angry enough?”

  Joaquin went completely still. His temper had been tested too many times to count, but not once had he roughed up a woman. “If you have to ask that question, maybe you should walk. Now. Because you shouldn’t be with anyone who makes you feel unsafe, and if that includes me, I can accept that.”