destroying a family, or breaking a heart. If you don’t protect yourself,
you’ll get hurt—maybe so bad you’ll never recover.”
His impassioned speech makes my heart ache. I can almost feel
the pain behind his words. I reach out and cover his hand with my
own. “Max–”
He cuts me off, as if he knows he has revealed too much, and yet his
words have revealed nothing at all.
“I want to know about you. Where were you born?”
I startle at the abrupt change in conversation, and my brain scram-
bles to shift gears. “What?”
“Where were you born?” Max repeats.
With my wineglass refilled again by a now silent Brad, I can give
Max my full attention. Big mistake. The questions come thick and fast
starting at birth, which I don’t remember, and moving to the childhood
I do. I skip the bad stuff and tell him Dad died when Susie and I were
young and how hard it was for my mom to raise us alone. I tell him
about Amanda and how she was my surrogate sister and how she practi-
cally lived at our house to get away from her cold, distant parents. I tell
him about my stepdad, Steve, and how he changed our lives and made
Mom smile again.
“I’m sorry about your dad.” He takes my hand and presses his lips
to my knuckles.
Brad returns with our first course, oysters with cabbage and some
kind of foamy jelly. No to the most disgusting vegetable ever created. No
to the foamy jelly. Yes to the oysters simply because they are supposed
to be an aphrodisiac. The cold, slimy blob slithers down my throat.
My gag reflex kicks in. Twice in one day. Good to know it works. I
manage to control it with a sip of orgasmic wine. However, I am not
overcome with the need to have sex right now. I cross oysters off my list
of aphrodisiacs.
Max’s questions continue. Brad removes the remnants of the
oysters and replaces our plates with sea scallops (yum) and fancy deviled
eggs (double yum). How did I meet Amanda? I stole her boyfriend in
kindergarten and she stole him back. Did I like school? Yes. Did I do ex-
tracurricular activities? Soccer, volleyball, golf, tennis, archery (Amanda
made me do it), volunteer stuff, lots of social activities. What were my
favorite subjects? Biology and gym. Least favorite? Physics and history.
Brad tops off my glass. Is that a smile or is he about to whistle? His
tiny mouth is kind of cute. Not so much his bony ass.
Although the little bites of food are delicious, my stomach is
growling for something more substantial. My heart sinks when Brad
arrives with two more miniscule dishes. Disappointingly, the frilled
cod is not dressed in a tutu. I hit my fish threshold and dive into the
asparagus instead.
Max doesn’t let up. His questions narrow in on college, my EMT
work, my courses, and my boyfriends. What guy wants to know about
the competition? Finally, I’ve had enough. “Max, please stop.” My
wineglass wobbles when I put it down. The problem with having Brad
constantly refilling my glass reveals itself as my head spins. Or maybe
it’s lack of sustenance.
“I feel like I’m going through an Amanda-style inquisition. I want
to have a conversation. I want to know about you.”
Max frowns. “I’m not done.”
“You are done.”
“I’m not done, baby. I have more questions.” Can a man look petu-
lant? I’m leaning toward a big “yes” on that question.
“You are done because you aren’t getting more answers until you
answer some questions about yourself.”
He raises an eyebrow. “One question. What do you want to know?”
“Why do you fight?”
“I enjoy it.”
I groan and let my head fall back on the seat. “Work with me here.
Why do you enjoy it? What is the appeal in hurting people?”
Max swirls the wine in his glass with an expert flick of his wrist. So
cool. I want to learn how to do that.
“I don’t do it to hurt people.” He takes a sip and puts down the
glass. “I enjoy the physical challenge and I enjoy the total mental focus
it requires. My father was a professional boxer and he had me in the ring
as soon as I could walk. He taught me the beauty of boxing. He called
it the sweet science. He said it is more about focus and technique than
outright violence. When I took up MMA as a teenager, I saw the same
beauty in combining so many martial arts into one sport.
“Oh come on.” I give an elegant snort. “You can’t deny fighting
is violent.”
Brad places a bread basket between us. At least, I think it is bread.
I grab a long white finger and shove it into my mouth. Not bread.
Unidentifiable substance with a Styrofoam texture and no taste. I smile
and wash it down with an elegant glug of wine.
Max leans forward and clasps my hand. His thumb rubs gently over
my knuckles, soothing the savage, Makayla beast. “We are all fighters.
It is basic human nature. We strive to get somewhere in life or we fight
for survival.”
What have I ever strived for in my life? What have I ever wanted
enough to pursue? A long time ago, I had a chance to fight for sur-
vival, and I threw it away. I gave up. I’m a quitter. “I’m not a fighter,”
I whisper.
As if he can sense my resignation, Max brings my hand to his lips
and brushes a kiss over my palm. “Violence is part of you, baby, whether
you admit it or not. You might have repressed it, but the instinct is still
there. So why not embrace it and enjoy the rush?”
I give a noncommittal grunt and wallow in self-loathing. “If you’re
fighting just because you like to fight, why are you going for the under-
ground championship belt? Why not enjoy each fight for what it is and
move on to the next?”
He scrubs his hands over his face and shrugs. “I want to be the best.
I want to know if anyone tried to hurt the people I care about, I could
defend them.”
“The best are not in the underground circuit, Max. The best are in
the professional leagues. Everyone says you’re good. Why don’t you go
legit and fight them?”
He picks up his wine and swirls it around the glass. “What if I’m
not good enough?”
The mouth-watering aroma of lamb draws my gaze away from
Max’s earnest face. Brad places our dishes on the table. I search through
the foliage on my plate and locate the tiny morsel of lamb shivering
behind a baby carrot. Three huge slices of beetroot are artfully arranged
in one corner. Maybe the carbs are served separately. I put down my
knife and fork and wait.
“Something wrong?”
“I was waiting for the…carbohydrate part of the meal.”
Max flags down Brad. Not difficult to do since Brad’s job appears
to involve hovering near our table. “Ms. Delaney would like a carbohy-
drate side dish.”
“No. No.” I shake my head and motion Brad away. “I just thought
it would come with the meal because…well, usually there is rice or
potatoes or pasta, but I don�
��t need anything. Really. This is good.
Protein and vegetables. Very healthy.”
“We don’t do carbohydrates.” Brad’s lips pinch together so tight it
is a wonder he can breathe.
Max fixes Brad with a cold stare. “We’ll have a side order of mashed
potatoes with extra butter.”
Brad shudders and scurries away. Does he even know what a potato
is? From the size of the women in the restaurant, I believe him when he
says carbs aren’t part of the menu.
“You didn’t have to do that, but thank you. I didn’t have any lunch.”
“I know.” He slices his lamb into paper thin strips. I dismiss my
plan to stick the thumb-size morsel in my mouth all at once.
“How do you know? You weren’t there.”
Max winks. “Secret.”
Buzzed from too many glasses of orgasmic wine, I fix him with a
mock glare and spear a slice of cooked beetroot. “Tell me.”
“A man has to have some secrets,” Max chuckles. “It makes him
seem more mysterious.”
“You are very mysterious,” I agree, and then switch to a fake
German accent. “But vee haf ways ov making you talk.” I cackle and
jerk my hands in the air. The beet flies off my fork and lands on the
floor. I reach down to pick it up, just as Brad arrives with the mashed
potatoes. He slips. The potatoes go up. He goes down. The elegant
diners look over and snicker. Brad’s face is as red as the squished beet
on the floor.
Death cannot come too soon for me.
“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Are you okay?” I kneel beside Brad and
brush mashed potatoes off his pants.
“Carbs,” he moans. “I’m going to gain at least ten pounds.”
A hushed murmur ripples through the restaurant. The forbidden
word is on everyone’s lips. For a moment I fear I will be forced to wear
a giant scarlet letter C on my dress for the rest of the meal.
“Can you stand?”
Brad shakes his head. “My ankle. I think it’s broken.”
“I’m an EMT. Can I take a look?”
Brad nods and I examine his ankle. “It’s not broken. Just slightly
sprained,” I tell him. “You need to rest, elevate and ice it.”
The manager arrives at the scene of the crime. He and Max have a
hushed conversation, and then he helps Brad to his feet. He obsequi-
ously assures us no one is at fault and he will call a cab and send Brad
home with his full pay for the evening.
Max holds out his hand to help me up. I rise from the floor, and
my throat thickens. My beautiful dress is stained red with beet juice and
covered in mashed potatoes. My shoes have fared no better.
“I’m so sorry.” I stare down at the disaster that is my dress. “I’ve
ruined everything. I’ll pay you back—”
“I don’t care about the dress.” Max cuts me off and wraps his arms
around me, pulling me into his chest, stained clothes and all. “If you like
it, I’ll buy you another one. And you don’t have to worry about Brad.
I’ve taken care of everything.”
He pays the bill and walks me to the limo, his hand firm on my
lower back. I stare straight ahead so I don’t have to see anyone laughing.
When we reach the limo, Lewis looks me up and down and frowns.
“Are you okay, Ms. Delaney?”
Hmm. Maybe I was too harsh in my initial assessment of Lewis.
“Yeah, I just look pretty bad.”
Max strokes my hair. “You couldn’t look bad if you tried.”
“I just tried pretty hard.”
Lewis starts up the limo and we pull away from the curb. The
city lights blur as we purr down the street away from the site of my
latest humiliation.
“I’m not good with first dates,” I say to Max. “I always screw
them up.”
Max winds his fingers through mine and squeezes my hand. “This
isn’t a first date.”
My heart sinks. Did I totally misinterpret this evening? The dress?
The compliments? Did I botch it up so badly he wants to pretend it was
something else? “Um. Yeah. Sure. I didn’t really think—”
“Makayla, look at me.”
His voice compels me to obey. I look up and an amused Max enters
my line of vision. His lips twitch into the semblance of a smile. “This
is our third date.”
My brain kicks into gear and my face heats with a rush of blood.
“Third date?”
“First we had a picnic. Then we had pizza. This time we almost had
mashed potatoes.”
“We seem to do a lot of eating together.” Three dates? He thinks we’ve
had three dates. Except for today, the time we spent together was more
like two friends hanging out than fingernail-biting, heart-stressing dates.
“We’ll have to do something else for date number four—or
even tonight.”
“Not tonight.”
Max’s face falls and he gives me a sideways glance. “Not tonight?”
“I just…today wasn’t so good, and now I’m covered in potatoes
and beets. I’m not really feeling my best. I just want to go home, take a
shower and go to bed.”
“We’ll go to your place, you can shower, and then—”
“No, Max.” I pat his warm, broad hand. “Another time.”
“But—”
Does he never give up? “Please. Just let me go home and wallow
in my misery. If you change your mind about date four, that’s okay.
I get it. I’m sure that was just as humiliating for you as it was for me.
You need to be with someone classy and sophisticated. Someone who
doesn’t throw beets around fancy restaurants.”
“Actually, it was pretty damn funny.”
“Seeing Brad fall?”
“Your German accent.”
Snorting a laugh, I twist my hands in the shawl I’ve used to cover
my stained dress. “You have to stop me when I do things like that.
Amanda says my sense of humor gets a little quirky when I have too
much to drink.”
Max slides one hand under my hair and strokes my cheek. “I think
your sense of humor is very refreshing. You are very refreshing. You
have no guile. You put it all out there. What you see is what you get
with Makayla, with a big dose of compassion thrown in.”
All too soon, Lewis stops outside my apartment building and I step
out of the limo and onto the sidewalk. “I’m sorry I ruined the evening.
Like I said, I’ll understand if you don’t—”
“Is that what you want?” Max follows me out and walks me to the
front entrance.
“I…don’t know,” I admit in a whisper. “The whole money thing
makes me uncomfortable. I don’t fit in.”
Max smoothes my hair from my temple and tilts my head back
with a finger under my chin. His warm, brown eyes study me until my
cheeks burn, and I am forced to look away.
“If I’d taken you for pizza on the bike, and we were standing here
in our leathers, would your answer be different?”
“Yes.” I give him an honest answer. “You would have been more
relaxed. I would have been more relaxed. I also wouldn’t be covered
in food.”
“You don’t like me this way?” His voice is h
oarse, barely audible.
“Of course I do. It’s just—” I stroke my hand down the cool, silk
of his tie. “You’re different in your suit. More focused and business-
like. You fired questions at me like I was a potential investment, and
you gave me almost nothing back. When you’re at the club, you seem
more comfortable with yourself. Business Max makes me nervous. I
guess it showed.”
He removes his hand from my chin and loosens his tie.
“What are you doing?” My throat goes dry. I should have kept my
big mouth shut.
“I’m showing you I’m the same man, with or without the suit.” He
releases the buttons on his shirt, tugs it from his waistband, and shrugs
free. Both his suit jacket and shirt fall to the ground. His devastatingly
beautiful body gleams under the warm glow of the entrance light. He
takes a step back into the shadows and holds out his hand.
Anticipation flutters through me. His brown eyes darken when I
join him under the protective cover of the shadows.
“Touch me.” His voice is raw, hoarse, and impossible to resist.
Without hesitation, I smooth my hands over the hard planes and
sinews of his chest, just as I have imagined doing since the day I met
him. He glides his thumb over my bottom lip, pressing down gently.
Desire licks through my veins.
“Same Max?”
I snake my hands around his neck, and press myself up against
his warmth. “Same Max.” I lie for the sole purpose of getting a kiss.
His kiss.
He slides one arm around my waist and pins me tight against his
body. His other hand cups my head, tilting it back, holding it firm. He
brushes his lips over my ear and rasps, “Be sure, baby. Because after I
kiss you there is no going back.”
My blood goes from a gentle simmer to a full on boil in a heartbeat.
My knees buckle and Max tightens his grip and holds me steady.
“Tell me.” His breath is hot and moist in my ear.
My hands clench and release restlessly behind his neck. “Kiss me,”
I whisper.
He gives a soft, satisfied grunt and feathers kisses down my jaw.
“Open for me,” he murmurs. My body trembles. Really trembles. Like
an earthquake is happening and I can’t stop the shaking.
My lips part and he brings his mouth down over mine. He kisses me
gently, nibbling my lips. When my body melts against him, he deepens
Against the Ropes Page 13
