Don’t You Dare: A Bad Boy MMA Fighter Romance

by Claire St. Rose

  But Gloria paid them or the crowd no mind. Tonight, she was focused on her performance. The music started, a quick jazz piece, as she scatted and crooned her way through. It was a love song—a simple one, at that—but she sang it with such passion that the rest of the room had to take notice.

  When her set finished, she planted herself at the bar. A new bartender had joined the Tavern’s crew and had his hands full filling mug after mug of beer to the thirsty men at the stools. He still took his time out to walk over to her, an envelope in his hands. “That’s from Warren,” he said, shoving the envelope towards her. “Payment for tonight’s show.”

  Gloria smiled as she opened the envelope and surveyed the cash inside. She had gotten paid from the bar for her performances before, but every bit of honest earned money meant more to her now. She leaned in over the bar and whispered into his ear, “And what about Packer? What do we know about him this week?”

  The bartender’s eyes grew wider as he looked towards where Vinny and Matthew were sitting. Their eyes bore holes in him, forcing him to remember their threat. His voice shook as he answered, “He’s working the quarry tonight with Devin and Marty. Something about a shipment from down south.”

  Gloria sat back and smiled at her new partner. He was proving his worth almost every day. She went through the envelope and pulled out a couple of twenties. “For you, kid. Keep up the good work.” He pocketed the cash and poured her out a couple of shots of her favorite drink. One by one, she threw them back as quickly as possible.

  Suddenly, Gloria sensed something: opportunity. She looked towards the door; a haggard-looking man walked in looking like he had just seen hell. His face was new to her, and he was looking more and more like dollar signs. She glanced over to Vinny and pointed to the guy. With a wink, she got up from her barstool and strode over to where the man was sitting. “Bad night?” she asked, sidling up to him and biting her bottom lip. “Tell me all about it.”

  THE END

  Read on for your FREE bonus book – HANDS OFF MY WOMAN

  Hands Off My Woman: Padre Knights MC

  By Claire St. Rose

  WHAT IF PROTECTING HER MEANS SENDING HER AWAY?

  I’m an outlaw. She’s an aristocrat.

  We belong in separate worlds.

  But love and lust won’t let our connection fade.

  It’s been ten years since I last had her in my bed.

  And now that I’m back home…

  She’s mine again.

  But it’s a bittersweet reunion.

  A bloody biker war and her scumbag fiancé are threatening to tear us apart.

  I have to make a choice:

  Can I keep her for myself if it means putting her in the line of fire?

  Or do I have to sacrifice our love in order to save her life?

  CHAPTER ONE

  I've been a good girl all my life. For eighteen years I've done what everyone expects of me--Mama, Daddy, my teachers, my friends, my coach. I kept a near-perfect GPA all through high school, even with cheerleading and volunteer work. Tonight I walked across that stage with the road to my future paved and shining, just waiting for me to show up and drive.

  But I just had to go off-roading.

  Alejandro Rojas has wanted me since ninth grade biology. Cristina, my best friend, is also his cousin. She's been trying to keep me away from him for four years, but I was curious about him. So we've been talking, just a bit, in secret. He's like no one I've ever known. Alejandro is so smart, so talented, so interesting to talk to. He's also tall and gorgeous and just wrong enough to make me feel like I'm doing something bad without really breaking the rules. He got into Magnet with us because he's supposed to be some kind of math genius, and he played football all four years, but Mama would have a fit if I brought him around. He's not really one of us.

  Which suits me just fine tonight.

  We made plans to meet up at this party, so I made sure he saw me when he walked in. I pretended not to notice the way he stared, but his eyes burned me up. There are girls here tonight who've wanted a piece of Alejandro all year. There are even some girls here tonight who've had him, but no one's kept him.

  I don't want to keep him, either. I don't want a boyfriend, not with my freedom so close I can taste it. In two and a half months and I'll be in College Station meeting hot, smart guys from all over the country. All I want tonight is to keep looking into those velvet eyes and letting him kiss me again. I want him to keep whispering sweet words as he touches me. If he goes too far I'll pretend I want him to stop, but what I really want is to wrap myself around that perfect body and touch him everywhere. I want to drive him crazy and I want to let myself be carried away.

  I want to be reckless.

  His breath is sweet and his lips on mine are gentle. I didn't expect his kisses to make me feel like my whole body might explode. "Ali," he whispers against my lips, "You're so beautiful." And I feel beautiful in a way I've never felt. I feel raw and powerful, as if I hold the key to some secret in the universe. I fit perfectly in his arms and I know if I ever let him make love to me that would be perfect, too.

  But tonight his hands are respectful. Too respectful. I want him to touch me all over, but there's no way to do that without seeming slutty. I can tell that he's hard, but he doesn't pressure me in any way. Although deep down I'm glad of that, part of me wishes he would grab me and make me his. Just for tonight.

  Suddenly my back's against the wall and I've got six feet of gorgeous guy pressed against me. Our mouths are fused, our bodies so close I can't tell where I stop and Alejandro starts. There's a whimpering noise in the background, and I realize it's coming from me. He's done this. Right now, with his hands in my hair and his body pinning me to a wall, I feel more alive than I've ever felt.

  I feel invincible. Irresistible. Infinite.

  If this is what it's like to lose control, I love it.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Ten years later

  It was obvious that Bobby was trying his damnedest not to look worried when Ali dragged herself in from the barn, grimacing at the sharp pain in her hamstring. She stifled a groan as she tugged off her boot and waved him away when he took a step toward her to help. It would be a foolish man who’d touch me like this when he’s dressed like that, she thought, admiring his perfectly pressed shirt as she brushed more dirt off her denim-clad thigh.

  His brow furrowed. “Don’t forget, Sugar, we’ve got the thing tonight.”

  “Right. The thing. I didn’t forget.” And just how in the hell am I going to wear heels tonight? She took a deep breath and flashed him her brightest smile, hoping to reassure him that she could, in fact, spend the evening teetering on four-inch heels with a pulled muscle. “Sweetheart, don’t you worry about me. I’m just a little sore, but I’ll be dressed and beautiful and on your arm all night even if it kills me.” Which it might. Another twinge ripped through her as she tried to stand, but she bit back a groan and pushed through it, hauling herself to her feet with a smile. She limped into the kitchen and leaned in to offer Bobby a kiss.

  “I’ve got no worries about you looking beautiful.” He cupped her head in his hands and gazed at her a moment as if trying to decide whether or not to believe that she was really okay. “I’d like you in one piece, though,” he murmured, brushing his lips softly over hers.

  “I’m fine, really. I have no idea what spooked Tip or how I even fell. It’s just a pull—I’ll go soak it and I’ll be good to go this evening.”

  “Thank God it’s not serious.” His deep sigh was one she’d heard before, and she didn’t want to have that argument again, not this morning. He pulled back and gave a slightly imperceptible shake of his head. “I just can’t stand the thought of anything happening to you.” His thumb trailed tenderly over her lower lip.

  “I know.” And she did know. But if there's one more argument about her continuing as a riding instructor after the wedding, she had half a mind to call the whole damn thing off—no matter how many peopl
e were invited to the Dawson estate.

  Just the thought of the sheer scope of their wedding caused her more pain than the pulled muscle. Just let me make it through the next seventy-six days, God, that’s all I ask. The once-intimate guest list, which she’d handed to the mothers with demands to only add a few people, had swelled to well over four hundred. Her dreams of a quiet ranch wedding had been hijacked by her mother. With the help of Bobby’s mother, it had turned into a social event of epic proportions.

  But no reason to punish him for the mess their mothers had made of their special day. She bit back her displeasure and kissed him again, long and deep.

  “If you didn’t smell like a horse, I’d take you right here on this countertop,” he murmured against her mouth.

  She swatted him away. “Yeah, right. You’ve only got ten minutes to spare and you’ve never been late a day in your life. Go on,” she scolded, “before I forget myself and get that gorgeous suit of yours dirty.”

  He sighed and stole another quick kiss. “To be continued,” he vowed before grabbing his car keys from the counter. “Love you,” he called over his shoulder. “I’ll pick you up at seven.”

  “All right,” she returned. “Now get before you make your poor daddy nervous.”

  ***

  Finally, the house to myself. Ali loved Monday mornings. No students, no Bobby, nothing but peace and quiet and her own thoughts. She stripped off her filthy clothes and tossed them in the washing machine before padding to the bathroom, her muscles practically screaming in anticipation of a long soak. Maybe I should cut back on paying students, find someone else to take on the volunteer instruction. I’ll help Karen get the program up and running and that will be it. Six months, tops.

  But the thought of stopping instruction with any of her students—paying or not—just didn’t sit right with her. Besides, the volunteering was the best part of her job. Most of the kids had really rough lives and the bond they shared with the animals was restorative. For some, their hour or so with the horses was their only opportunity to be kids. How could she take that away from them? The notion of giving it up—not to mention abandoning the new program, which was her brainchild—was unbearable.

  The water spluttered wildly when she turned it on, and she reminded herself to get someone to come and fix it for her. When she’d mentioned calling a plumber, Bobby reminded her that she’d only be in that house a little while longer. The new house was almost completed, and in two months—give or take, you never knew with contractors—she’d be leaving the old farmhouse behind. No sense wasting time or money on a quirky little faucet, he had reasoned, especially not in the guest bath. But it was still her house for now, and she wanted the damned faucet fixed.

  Ali groaned as she lowered herself into the hot water, trying to imagine stretching out in the giant tub at the new house with their spectacular mountain view from the master bathroom. As luxurious as it was bound to be, it wouldn’t be the same as soaking in this one. All those nights when her parents had been busy with some charity gala or social function to attend, she’d spent the night here in this old house with Gran. She’d been bathed in this very tub, dried with fluffy towels, and tucked into the little bedroom just next door. The house was more than an inheritance from her grandmother. It was the scene of all the happiest moments of her childhood.

  Secretly she hoped construction on the new house would hit some snag and she’d be here until October. Fall was the loveliest season on the ranch, when the light looked so beautiful in the barn. September mornings when she took Tiparillo out on the trail there were times she never wanted to come back home. Ali loved it when there was nobody but the two of them in the filtered light of dawn, Tip’s gentle chuffing the only sound except for the birds.

  But Bobby was nothing if not goal-oriented, so she knew it was no use daydreaming. Construction would be finished well before the deadline, come hell or high water, and they’d move in. And just a few weeks later— seventy-six days, to be exact—Ali would become Mrs. Robert Dawson, wife of the future governor of Texas.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Alejandro had been in town less than twenty-four hours. He’d arrived with some of his brothers from the club, the speed limit signs urging them slower and slower until they were practically crawling when they rumbled past the faded sign welcoming them to Arroyo Flats. The flags declaring it an All-America City were new, as Alejandro imagined a lot was since he’d been here last. Ten years was a long time in a small town but not long enough when you’d sworn never to return. Yet here he was, back in the place he vowed would never hold him like it had held every generation of Rojas’ for as long as anyone could imagine.

  Now, standing in line at the Valero with a case of beer in his arms, he decided the scenery could hold him a few more minutes, or at least as long as the blonde headed for the front door was in his sights. He gazed appreciatively at the young woman as she walked through the front door, all tanned long legs and attitude. Experience told him she was the type of girl who would turn up her nose at the attention of an outlaw biker unless she was in the mood for slumming, but it didn’t stop him from enjoying her particular brand of well-bred southern beauty. His groin tightened pleasantly as he appraised her. He imagined stripping away the clothing that barely concealed her feminine curves, parting those taut thighs…

  But when she shoved her sunglasses back into her tousled golden hair and squinted toward the back of the store, the recognition splashed over him like an icy shower. There she was, his first love, the woman who still haunted his dreams. Ali.

  He’d known it was going to happen. A day hadn’t passed in God knows how long when he hadn’t mentally rehearsed the conversation he needed to have with her. But all hopes of hunting her down for a civilized, private explanation were dashed as she appeared in front of him in the Valero.

  Alejandro’s breath caught as Ali reached for a bottle of wine on the top shelf, exposing a sliver of bare flesh as her shirt rode up in the stretch. He was aware of the cashier, a high school boy no older than he’d been when he last saw her, ogling her from his side of the counter. For a second he fought back the urge to grab the kid by the throat. She’s mine, you little punk.

  But that was ridiculous, of course. She hadn’t been his for a decade and never would be again. Alejandro had always known she’d marry one day—girls like her didn’t stay on the market long—but it had still crushed him to read the engagement announcement. His cousin Cristina had e-mailed him the smiling publicity photo of Ali with her golden-boy politician fiancé and single-handedly dashed any ridiculous secret fantasy he’d ever indulged about a reunion. That night he’d worked diligently to drink the image right out of his mind. It had taken him two days to recover from that particular bender, his mouth like straw and his head hammering relentlessly, only to have the image come back in spades. He’d stayed in bed, curtains drawn, as a maddening montage of the happy blond couple in both public and very private poses danced through his brain.

  And now here she was. Ali Owens, in the flesh.

  She headed for the line at the counter but stopped in her tracks when she saw him staring at her. He watched her eyes widen and her fingers clutch the neck of the bottle so hard they turned white. For one second he saw in her eyes what he’d seen the night he first kissed her, a brightening, an awareness. Half a plea and half a promise.

  Then just as quickly it was gone. She pursed her lips as her eyes traveled slowly over his face, taking in the shadowed jaw and scarred forehead, then moving lower to his club vest and his heavily tattooed arms. Her gaze stopped at the huge silver buckle on his belt and then flickered back to his own steady stare. Then she marched to the counter and stepped in front of him, plunking her bottle of wine ahead of his six-pack.

  “Excuse me sir,” she drawled coyly up at him. “I’m in a bit of a hurry.” She leaned close as if confiding a great secret and he saw the flecks of gold in her gray eyes, the ones he’d always tried and failed to count. “You’ll forgive me
if I don’t want this purchase to take a decade.”

  To anyone else, she might have looked like a girl with too much sass and an urge to get her drink on using her feminine wiles to cut in line. But Alejandro noticed that her smile wobbled a bit and didn’t quite reach her eyes, which now bored into his with abject fury.

  Ali, lo siento… But the words died in his throat as she turned her back to him and thrust her credit card at the cashier. She had the bottle tucked into the crook of her arm and all but bolted out the door before he’d even opened his mouth. Lucky for him, she’d been too much of a lady to say out loud what her eyes conveyed: You son of a bitch.

  He fumbled for his wallet in stunned silence, his apology crawling back to its coward’s cave in his belly. Forget that as the VP of a 1% motorcycle club, he routinely faced down criminals at gunpoint and had business dealings with thugs so hardened they’d shoot their own mother for fifty bucks. Right now he was reduced to jelly by the fiery stare of a Texas rose. Her anger unsettled him, left him speechless and afraid to make the next move, and Alejandro Rojas was not a man who often found himself unsettled or speechless or afraid.