by Libby Rice
He leaned in. “You never will, so—”
“These rocks are like your attitude. I mean, they remind me who I am and provide the ultimate mask.” The earrings told the world she was nothing more than a pretty bauble, expensive and meaningless. They told her she was strong and resilient and, at least once, loved. Ethan’s cynic warned the world away, but maybe his harsh exterior provided mere camouflage.
His expression remained impassive, revealing nothing. “You surprise me, Scarlet.”
Calling her “Empress” had been fine until he said her name, long and slow like chilled maple syrup. His mouth, she decided distractedly, might be his best feature. Full lips curved over white teeth in patterns that injected everyday words with undeniable power. They let her in while his eyes locked her out.
When she stepped from the car, he was there, and she let him clasp her hand and guide her to the elevators. Fumbling for the key card in her bottomless purse, she worried she’d gotten in over her head. Awareness of the man who stood large and solid next to her, at once disarming and enigmatic, raised the skin on her arms into a thousand tiny bumps.
She came to a hard stop at the split doors. “Here we are.”
Ethan’s lingering smile fled. “We’re in a garage, Empress, standing at an elevator.”
Scarlet regarded him for a weighty moment. “Penthouse,” she explained, pointing up. “Private elevator. This, essentially, is my door.”
He stepped closer, and a nervous chill chased down her neck. For all her feeble attempts at rule-breaking, her life invited solitude. She lived behind walls, walls in the form of guarded buildings, alarm systems, and close confidants from her limited social stratosphere.
“So what’ll it be,” he murmured, eyes on her mouth.
She cleared her throat, refusing to step away, yet wringing the handle of her bag with two fists.
“Scarlet,” he said in that low voice big men use to soothe frightened animals, barely moving forward, but advancing all the same. “Relax.”
“Please, don’t say that.” First of all, she couldn’t obey. Worse, commanding her to simmer down, no matter how gently said, only pointed out that she clammed up at the mere hint of intimacy.
He backed her up with his body, then hunched over her smaller frame, bracketing her rear against the seam between the elevator doors. “All right. Should we get it over with?”
“A kiss?” she breathed. Yes, kiss.
He leaned in, and she felt heat seep from his tense thighs and stomach. “If you insist.”
His dark head lowered a fraction, and she let her suede bag crumple to the dirty concrete. Splaying her hands against the cold metal at her back, she willed him to touch her, to never pull away. A soothing caress skated from her shoulders to her wrists, prying her hands loose and settling them at his hips. Then his arms fell to his sides, not pinning or restraining in any way.
He stroked his tongue silkily over her bottom lip until she opened and let him in. When she did, he didn’t rush to take all she offered. No, he dipped in for a taste, then another, gradually deepening the kiss in a maddening show of restraint.
Afraid he might stop, she worked her hands up his torso until they wound around his neck. With a groan, his tongue met hers in long, deep caresses, each one offering another sweet hint of flavor, like a lollypop dipped into her mouth over and over again.
Sensation dissolved the strength in her knees, and she leaned into him for support. When she thought the kiss might end, he took more, went deeper. Finally, with a light suck on her tongue, he lifted his head and peered down at her.
She detected a flash of surprise, maybe even frustration, in the flare of his eyes and the tight pitch of his lips. He hadn’t expected to like kissing her, at least not so much.
Uncertain whether she could stand, let alone walk into the elevator when it dinged, she held on and let him gradually pull back. Before he stepped away, he moved steadying hands to her shoulders. Then he bent to retrieve her purse, pressing the strap and her key fob into her palm, deliberately closing her fingers with a squeeze.
“Up you go,” he whispered.
Chapter 2
Scarlet stared out her bedroom window on the forty-sixth floor, ignoring the caterwauling coming from the closet where Lissa scoured for items to take to the upscale Goodwill in Greenwich Village. Scarlet didn’t mind the noise, especially since Christmas week had passed in pained silence. Her father hadn’t called. Neither had Ethan.
She’d texted a holiday hello to both men on the morning of the twenty-fifth. To one, the gesture had been dutiful. To the other, hopeful.
So much for garage kisses and elevator dreams.
After ten minutes of massacred country songs, Lissa stopped singing and started issuing demands. A muffled, “You’re going,” sounded from the closet.
“Nah,” Scarlet replied absently. Ethan’s brush-off had kyboshed her plans to attend a second fight.
Lissa marched out of the closet and handed over a flyer showing a grainy, black-and-white Ethan facing off against an unknown competitor. “He’s fighting Gerard Chamber.” Lissa delivered the news with a conspiratorial hush. “The two are evenly matched. Nemeses really—”
Scarlet tried to sound dry, totally disinterested. “I see you’ve become a boxing expert in no time.”
“Fast learner.” Lissa paused dramatically, then continued in her best voice-of-authority-with-no-actual-clue. “Look, Ethan’s become something of a wonder on the local circuit. Except against this guy. There’ve been draws. Disqualifications. Gerard hasn’t bitten off any ears, mind you, but he goes for low blows.”
Scarlet studied the ad. The dueling headshots managed a menacing cast despite the cheap, lime-green card stock.
Leaning over, Lissa tapped Ethan’s picture with a tapered nail. “If you’re mad at Ethan—”
Scarlet couldn’t hold back an indelicate snort. “I’m not—”
“—then this is the fight to see. There’s a chance he’ll take a beating.”
“Like I want him to lose?” Oops. She so wanted him to lose. Wasn’t humility good for the soul?
“Of course not.” But Lissa’s look didn’t match her assurances. She knew exactly how full of shit both of them were. “I’m saying I want him to lose for not calling. If you think it, you’re a bitch. If I do, I’m a good friend.”
Scarlet folded the paper into a meticulous square, making sure the corners aligned perfectly before slipping it into her pocket. The last fight had been so one-sided. Titillating, certainly, but watching Ethan work could be even better. She nodded, and Lissa grinned like she always did after Scarlet gave in.
Five hours later Scarlet sat with her ass glued to a familiar metal bench, watching as Ethan’s visibly-exhausted challenger staggered between blows. The pit of her stomach fell away when Ethan faltered, stumbling forward into an awkward crouch before lurching to his feet in the face of yet another glancing hit. She let her eyes drift closed, blocking the sight she shouldn’t have been surprised to see. After all, she’d been warned.
Ethan and Gerard did appear physically equal, both about three inches over six feet with the taut leanness of born-and-bred fighters. Like dueling wrecking balls, each man flayed himself against a body similarly strong. Gerard swung wildly while Ethan bobbed and weaved out of reach. In turn, Ethan’s punches went wide, a fraction of a second too late, leaving him swiping the air in Gerard’s wake. The two weren’t merely matched in strength. They moved the same, exhibiting equal speed and stamina, staging an enduring brutality.
At an opening, Ethan renewed his offensive, each blow landing in a targeted path of destruction. Sweat streamed from the gleaming black hair cropped close to his temples, and Scarlet detected a twice-a-day shaver beneath the dark stubble already shadowing the harsh line of his jaw. Roped musculature surged with each swing, flexing beneath the blue veins that tracked the definition of his chest and arms.
His lips distorted, no doubt from the mouth guard and his pained
grimace, but the ferocity paid off. Each hit pounded Gerard closer to the canvas. Knees bent, Gerard’s hands fell to visibly trembling quads. His head bowed in sluggish concession, and Scarlet tasted the first drizzle of Ethan’s victory.
Her thighs tensed, ready to propel her body forward with the winning blow.
Beat by beat, Gerard pushed off his legs, tunneling the top of his head into Ethan’s sternum. Holding Ethan at bay with his torso, Gerard slammed heavy fists against Ethan’s ribs. When Ethan reared back to reset their position, Gerard arced his body upright, clipping Ethan beneath the chin and snapping his head against his shoulders with enough force to give Scarlet whiplash in the stands.
The referee bounded forward, hands in the air and mouth to a whistle he blew in impassioned gusts.
Lissa coughed, “Bullshit,” into her shoulder. “Did you see that? Totally intentional.”
A corner man shoved Ethan onto a low, ringside stool and dabbed at the blood that trickled from his mouth. After several minutes, Ethan still gripped the ropes, head angled awkwardly with a glazed, faraway look. The referee blew the whistle again, shouting, “No contest,” to the hissing crowd.
Gerard slumped into his corner, gloves discarded at his feet. He sucked water from a squeeze bottle in rhythmic bursts. Five gulps in and the bottle joined the gloves.
Rising up, Gerard adopted a demeanor akin to what Scarlet would expect in a bar fight, not a prizefight that was minutes over. He plowed through the referee, barreling forward in a surge of energy that Ethan observed with unnatural calm. Despite the apparent effectiveness of Gerard’s earlier cheap shot, Ethan stood, suddenly looking willing and able to settle the score.
The referee dove after Gerard but only managed to crash against his back and shove him chest-to-chest against Ethan. For a second, Ethan stood frozen, almost as if in indecision. Then a hard gleam entered his eyes, and Scarlet saw the slightest of nods, an acknowledgement of some internal promise of retribution. Choice made, Ethan’s palm landed against Gerard’s neck and pushed. His hand inched upward, fingers clenching against the straining muscles of his opponent’s throat. Gerard’s heels lifted, barely skimming the mat as Ethan dragged him in a slow arc that ultimately jammed Gerard’s ass against Ethan’s rope post. Cornered and cut off, Ethan lifted Gerard higher, then rose to his toes, whispering in the other man’s ear. A three-second secret passed before Ethan let him fall.
Gerard’s crumpled form didn’t budge when Ethan slipped away amid fanatical applause.
Scarlet’s head spun at seeing Ethan shift speeds so casually. A week ago, he’d feigned disinterest before a kiss that smoked the soles off her shoes. Tonight, she’d have sworn to his injury until he lifted over two hundred pounds of muscle by the scruff to deliver a message.
Which facets of Ethan were real? Last week’s boredom at the restaurant or the brief moment of tenderness in the garage? Tonight’s wounded warrior or the hulking avenger?
The sheen of Ethan’s robe dulled with each retreating step down a dim, tunneling hallway. He passed another fighter she couldn’t quite make out, though a passing fist bump said the incomer was a friend.
“Woo-hoo!” Lissa chanted, jumping from her seat when her new man, Matt, left the shadows and entered the arena. Not only was Lissa willingly listening to rap. She was undulating—actually dancing—to a pseudo-rhythmic rendition of several choice words like “bitch,” “whore,” “tramp,” and “blowjob.” The song didn’t even rhyme.
Unable to compete, Scarlet let her attention stray. The lights didn’t brighten the dinginess of their surroundings or lift the low ceilings. The ringside stands were packed, mostly with men, too many sporting stained wife beaters and leering grins. Young and female and well-dressed suddenly seemed out of place, too exposed.
As Matt prepared to duck into the ring, the referee hauled Gerard’s slumped form upright. Left to stand on his own, Gerard leaned briefly against the ropes before unfurling to his full height. A tentative move took him in the direction of Ethan’s retreat, but rather than take another step, he pivoted in a slow turn that brought him face-to-face with Scarlet’s section of the stands. Bending low, Gerard executed a genial bow the audience met with half cheers, half jeers. When he rose, all the showmanship had drained from his rough-hewn features, replaced with a look that promised revenge.
Pursing slightly, his lips formed a chilling pretense of a kiss that Scarlet would swear he aimed at her.
******
“I’m out,” Scarlet said from her seat in the stands. “My ass can’t handle another greasy meal. And Ethan doesn’t dig me.” Given the sad but obvious lack of mutual attraction, she preferred to spare herself another bout of unrequited lust. Scarlet Leore rose above stalking, mostly.
Lissa scanned Club Rancor’s interior on their way to the entrance. “Wrong.” She raised her arms in a flurry of tremulous jazz hands. “You’re headed back to Palo Alto to subsist on tofu and radishes for the next five months.” Her hands dropped. “Screw calories and screw Ethan.”
Scarlet didn’t subsist. Not when it came to good food. Or clothes. Or shoes. Or hair care products. Or… “If only you weren’t a pathological liar,” she said on a fatalistic sigh, slanting Lissa a worn look. “And if only I could screw Ethan.”
They’d exited the front door and huddled under the club’s awning. With the wind howling around their little cluster, Scarlet made her break. “But I can’t, so I’ll call when I get—”
“Can’t what, Empress?” Scarlet heard Ethan’s low voice behind her. Right behind her. She shuddered, suddenly noting the heat against her back. How long had he been standing there?
She turned too fast and looked up, face flaming and mind blank. “Whaa? I can’t eat you, er, with you. I mean, I can’t eat”—she circled her hand to indicate the group that had gathered—“with all of you tonight.”
Bottomless black eyes drew her focus to the fact that he smelled… edible. No strong aftershave, no cologne, just soap and world-class pheromones. Shiny strands of hair gleamed from an earlier shower, and she could practically taste the chunk of peppermint candy he worked with his tongue. Amazing how a guy in nothing but a sweatshirt and jeans could noticeably warm the freezing air around them.
His hands rose to rest on his hips. “That so?”
“Yes.” She kept her breathing shallow, refusing to suck in the sweet mintiness washing over her face. “But I’ve”—savored? relished?—“enjoyed watching you.”
Ethan didn’t respond. He simply stared down at her, slowly crunching that candy cane. Then he smiled, not a wide grin, but a knowing one. And she knew he knew. Knew he was warming her from the inside out, melting her down like a star-struck groupie.
Seizing on a distraction, she spoke of the first thing that came to mind. “What happened in the ring tonight?” Voice pitched low and quiet, she made it personal, focusing on a reddish bruise that darkened the skin beneath his chin. “I mean after the fight ended, when Gerard wouldn’t leave?”
Ethan’s eyes registered a moment of surprise at her question. Again he remained silent, but this time he brought a hand to the tips of her hair, his movements unhurried and sensual. Sensation prickled over her scalp as his stroking continued, emulating a head massage. Scarlet relaxed into the gentle pulls and soon tipped her head back to provide easier access to the fall of her curls, luxuriating in the touch that both soothed and stimulated.
When she thought he wouldn’t answer, he began to speak. “Guys get involved in things they can’t handle. Chemicals they can’t always control.” The comforting strokes on her back stopped. His tone went light and brittle. “Either that, or he’s had one concussion too many.”
She could never let go so easily. “What did you say to him?”
The stroking began again, this time in circles over the whole of her back. In tandem, he pressed a warm fingertip to her cool bottom lip. Anger countered the gentle touch, seething behind his narrowed gaze, and she realized Ethan hadn’t let anything about the
fight go. “Boxing matches have rules I follow. Post-fight cheap shots… don’t. I clarified the difference.”
Tendrils of unease threaded around her throat, choking the easy flow of breath. Like his palpable fury, the subtle threat wasn’t directed at her. Yet his easy rise to violence shook her first-class ideals. In her world, people didn’t hit or strangle or kick. Not once had a slammed door echoed through the penthouse. Her kind fought with silence and indifference, the chilly reception that functioned like a slap in the face. She didn’t know how to speak Ethan’s language.
He’d been right to blow her off. Paths like theirs could never meet in the middle. Flushed heat boiled beneath her scarf, and she forced herself to ease away, stepping off the curb and wandering backward in the direction of her car.
Round two to Ethan.
******
“If only I could…” Ethan had heard the words distinctly on approach and was gunning for a literal interpretation, one similar to last week, when she’d been a melting treat on his tongue, sweet and giving and, he now knew, prone to linger.
He quashed the thought, pulling his focus from her retreating back and trailing blindly behind the rest of the group. He’d heard Scarlet’s name before last week, but it’d taken a bout of locker-room talk to put two and two together. Her father was Tripp Leore, a well-known real-estate magnate. Stories hedged at long-standing feuds between Tripp and other prominent businessmen on the New York circuit. The guy seemed like a cold bastard who didn’t mind shitting in his backyard.
Tripp had married Scarlet’s mom after his star had risen. Ethan knew only that breast cancer had taken Cora Reed over a decade ago, and strangely, that little ditty had been Gerard’s prefight contribution over the catcalls coming from the showers. He’d cryptically talked of never forgetting million-dollar asses or attitudes.
Ethan nodded in silent, grudging commiseration, lamenting the fact that poor men who pandered to rich women rarely got off the ground.
