by Lori Foster
Her mouth twitched. She remembered him telling the kids at the boys’ home the same thing. “Our ideas of serious must vary, because Drew, I’ve seen some pretty nasty boo-boos.”
He rolled his eyes. “A broken bone or dislocated joint. No big deal. Hell, these guys play hard enough to get that hurt on a weekend.”
“One fight that I saw, a young man had a gaping cut on his forehead. Blood was everywhere.”
“Head wounds bleed like a son of a bitch.” He waved off her concerns. “Believe me, a few stitches is not considered a severe injury. Now, if he was blinded or suffered brain trauma or something like that—yeah, that’d fuck up our good record for sure.”
He was so passionate about the sport that an idea occurred to Gillian. “I’m going to set up a talk between you and the local members of WAVS. If you told them everything you just told me, maybe they’d be less inclined to—”
“Fuck that.”
Gillian took in his outraged expression and sighed. “If you gave that group even a tenth of the attention you give to the fighters, it’d have to promote goodwill.”
His brows snapped down. “Working with fighters is my livelihood. The bitchy dames in WAVS are just a fucking irritant.”
Gillian set aside her cola and frowned at him. “Enough with the colorful adjectives already.”
“What?”
Irate, she waved a hand, saying, “Fuck this, and fuck that. Expand your vocabulary just a little, would you please.”
“It’s only a word.” But he grinned over her disgruntlement. “And I kind of like hearing you talk dirty.”
How did he manage to make everything sexual? “You’re being stubborn, Drew.”
“I’m being realistic.” He came to lean over her chair, his hands braced beside her hips on the seat. “Do you have any real concept of how crazy busy I stay? Hell, I travel more than I’m here.”
“Because you micromanage everything.” This close to him, Gillian could see the striations in his dark brown eyes. Whether seducing her or defending his much-loved sport, Drew Black packed a lot of intensity, and so much intensity in one man left her flustered. “I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that, too. There’s no reason for you to oversee every little thing. If you would just—”
“Woman, damn.” His forced laugh had an edge to it. “I do know how to run my own business, you know. How the hell do you think I got along before you showed up?”
“As I recall, you were on the verge of being fired.”
That reminder shot his good humor, and his jaw tightened. “Actually, smart-ass, I’m on the verge of taking this sport to prime time.” He looked at her mouth. “And when I can finagle some free time, I’d rather spend it getting sweaty in bed with you, instead of trying to convert a bunch of prissy-ass wallflowers who faint at the sight of blood.”
She preferred that, too, but his cynicism wounded her on a fundamental level. She wasn’t exactly a fan of WAVS herself. Fanatics never appealed to her, and from what she’d seen, they touted radical views. But she hated to hear Drew continually degrade an entire group of women. After all, she was a woman, and throughout her career, she’d met plenty of men who discounted the concerns of women. “You really resent them, don’t you?”
“If someone negated all your hard work, twisted your every motive, and always painted you in a bad light, wouldn’t you resent them?”
Of course she would. “I realize the fault doesn’t lie entirely with you.”
“Gee, thanks for the endorsement, baby.”
Trying to hide her smile, Gillian leaned forward and gave him a brief, apologetic kiss. “They don’t really understand the sport, Drew, which is all the more reason why you should try to resolve things.”
He shook his head at her. “I’m impressive, Gillian, I know, but even I can’t do everything.”
Hand over her heart, she feigned a gasp. “Say it isn’t so.”
He straightened away from her. “You know I’m working on a big contract for Brett and juggling misbehaving fighters like Dickey Thompson. I’ve had three trips to L.A. in the past month and another to Canada. I’m negotiating a shitload of deals from sponsors and finessing a new cable show. On top of that, as Officer Sparks warned us, rag-mag reporters are trying to make more out of that damn bomb scare than was there.”
His schedule sometimes left her exhausted, but a man like Drew needed to stay busy. “I’m not sure a bomb threat requires embellishment.”
“You know what I mean. Someone blabbed that I was supposedly a target, and now every groupie reporter out there wants the inside scoop on my ‘death threats.’” He huffed. “Those WAVS broads are probably having a party over it.”
At the very least, they probably felt vindicated. Why hadn’t Drew told her about this before now? “Who’s been in contact with you?”
“Nobody big. I don’t think CNN gives a shit, you know? But people from the fighter magazines have called, and a few cable news programs. I accepted a couple of interviews for that, by the way. After we eat, I’ll give you the dates and times.”
Gillian’s feet dropped from the seat to the floor. “Drew!” It was her job to handle all his press right now. She wanted to control the outgoing message by handpicking only the places that she knew would improve his image.
If he sabotaged her efforts, she couldn’t do her job.
As if it didn’t matter, he said, “Playboy magazine called, too. They want to set up something.”
Her jaw loosened, then clenched. Fury stirred. Through her teeth, she asked, “Anything else?”
“Yeah. Some of the online MMA sites are talking about it. You know how gossip-worthy news goes viral. Next thing you know, it’ll be the hot topic on every message board out there, so I offered a firsthand account, just to keep the record straight.”
Struggling to maintain a calm façade, Gillian came to her feet. She was suddenly very aware of not being appropriately dressed with him, but she wouldn’t let that hold her back on something this important.
Stiff with indignation, she said, “You will make out a list.”
One of his brows went up. “I will, huh?”
His infuriating attitude ramped up her annoyance another notch. “I want to know each and every reporter you’ve spoken with, so that I can contact them myself. After I’ve spoken with them, I’ll make a final decision on which appointments you’ll keep, and which ones I’ll cancel.” Her hands tightened into fists over the task ahead. Thanks to Drew, her workload had just doubled, and her carefully thought-out plan was awry. “From now on, I will vet any and all interview situations and choose only the—”
“Too late.” He tweaked her chin. “I already said I’d do them, so I can’t back out now.”
Gillian’s eyes widened. He’d not only disregarded her order, he’d tweaked her chin. Of all the condescending, obnoxious gestures he could have made, that had to be the worst. It reeked of superiority.
The doorbell rang, and Drew said, “About damn time. I’m starved.” He swatted her butt as he passed. “Someone wore me out. Not saying any names or anything.”
Gillian stood there, flummoxed, mute. Definitely, a slap on the butt was worse than a chin tweak. He’d smacked her hard enough that she could feel the imprint of his hand, tingly and warm, on her backside.
Disbelief melded into fury.
She’d kill him.
Almost heaving in her agitation, Gillian turned to stare toward where Drew had gone. At the very least, she’d make him wish he was dead.
Was it their intimate relationship that made him think he could overrule her business acumen without even the consideration of a discussion? She’d been hired to do a job, damn him, and despite his outrageous provocation, she would succeed.
Dire thoughts of retribution flickered through her mind—until she heard a conversation that sounded nothing like a pizza delivery. Straining her ears, she paused to listen.
Those raised voices were definitely not part of idle conversation
with a deliveryman.
With an unsettling sense of déjà vu, Gillian went to investigate. Staying out of sight, she eavesdropped and recognized Dickey Thompson’s voice.
Oh, crap.
Here she was, once again caught in dishabille inside Drew’s home. What could Dickey want? Drew claimed he had that situation all taken care of, but to Gillian, it sounded like another fire blazing.
“You fucking dare come to my house? Are you out of your fucking mind?”
Gillian winced. Drew was truly furious. She’d seen him rage in online video interviews, and heard about his temper in articles, but she’d never personally witnessed him like this.
“I don’t have your phone number,” Dickey complained.
“That’s because you don’t need it!”
Gillian peeked around the corner, saw the two men facing each other, and her heart stuck in her throat. Drew wasn’t a “little guy” by any stretch, but he didn’t match up to Dickey’s colossal size.
If he got in a physical altercation with Dickey, it could be devastating on many levels. She might want to kill Drew, but she didn’t want some muscle-bulging behemoth to dismember him.
Voice low, Gillian hissed, “Drew.”
Either he didn’t hear her, or he chose to ignore her. Most likely the latter.
Well, maybe she should let Dickey have him. But no . . .
“Drew!”
Pointing at Dickey, Drew said, “You need to get your shit together, man. There’ll be other opportunities, but not if you keep stepping over the line.”
Dickey braced his hands on the door frame and leaned in. “That drunken shit the other night was just a fluke. It won’t happen again, Drew, I swear it.” He pulled in a deep breath and blurted out, “I want an opportunity in the next televised fight.”
Without even a second’s thought, Drew said, “Ain’t happening. Forget it.”
Discouraged, Dickey pulled back. “I guess your wonder boy, Brett, is in?”
“That’s none of your damned business, but no, not yet he isn’t.”
Skepticism pinched Dickey’s brows. “I don’t believe you.”
That was the wrong thing to say; it smacked of calling Drew a liar and snapped his barely contained temper. “And I don’t give a flying fuck what you believe! Now get the hell out of my fucking house!”
He didn’t. Instead, he looked over his shoulder at the street, then back to Drew again. Low, so low that Gillian barely heard him, Dickey said, “Listen, Drew, I didn’t just come for that. Some women were talking to me earlier, asking me all kinds of questions about you. I dunno, but I think they expected me to . . . rat you out somehow.”
Unconcerned, Drew snorted. “About what?”
“That’s just it. I have no idea. But they hinted something about your position being in jeopardy.”
Uh-oh, Gillian thought. Had news gotten out about her assignment to pretty up Drew’s reputation? Not that she was surprised. Nothing really stayed hidden for long.
“That’s bullshit,” Drew said.
“I figured. But when I got here, I saw someone across the street taking pictures of the cars in your driveway.” Dickey scratched the side of his head. “I’m guessing most know that little compact isn’t your car, right?”
Drew ignored the reference to her small rental car. “What are you talking about? Who was taking pictures?”
“I dunno. He took off when I got here. At least, I think he did.”
“You’re shitting me. Someone was on my property?” Drew shoved Dickey aside and stepped out the door.
“He was across the street, hanging behind those shrubs,” Dickey told him as he stormed out.
“Drew!” Forgetting her modesty for the moment, Gillian dashed after him. The idea of anyone snooping around his house left her shaken.
The second Dickey saw her, he said, “Whoa,” in surprise, then quickly got out of her way.
“Drew, get in here! Are you out of your mind?” She reached out the door until she could snag the back of his jeans, then she tugged, hard.
He didn’t budge.
She looked to Dickey for help, but he held up his hands, and Gillian realized that Drew was never in any danger from this particular fighter. Dickey had no intention of getting physical with Drew in any way.
“Drew,” she implored without results. “There was a bomb threat against you, you idiot. Get in the house.”
“Bomb threat?” Dickey went on the alert.
At her screeched order, she finally had Drew’s attention. Glancing at her, he frowned and pried her hand from the waistband of his jeans. With a sound of disgust directed at her concern, he left the porch and went down the walkway to investigate.
“Oh. My. God.” Gillian couldn’t believe his lack of caution. “Call the police,” she told Dickey.
“No,” Drew countermanded. “We don’t need the cops sniffing around here again.”
“Um . . .” Dickey looked back and forth between them. He ran a hand over his head and then asked, “Again?”
THE perfect photograph presented itself as Drew Black himself stood outside in opened jeans. That meddling woman was behind him, wearing only Drew’s shirt, proof positive of what they’d been up to. Better yet, next to her stood a disgruntled fighter with plenty of reason to hate Drew.
If the flash went off, escape would be almost impossible.
Was it worth the risk? His heart thundered in indecision. The bomb scare had missed Drew Black entirely, so it was a bust. But this wouldn’t be. This would be the perfect picture. It would bring immeasurable appreciation, and good money to boot.
He had to do it.
Trying not to make a sound behind the bushes where he cowered, he positioned himself on his knees and aimed the camera.
He had them all three in the shot.
A picture painted a thousand words, and there were many interpretations to the present scene.
He focused . . . and captured the image just as Drew Black started back inside. The flash had him jerking back around again.
With the foulest curse, Drew started toward him. Panicked, his camera held tightly in his hand, he vaulted out of the bushes. Running as fast as he could, he sped down the walkway. On the opposite side of the cross street, he saw his car where he’d left it parked.
Pushing himself, praying he’d reach his car before Drew Black got hold of him, he ran blindly into the dark street—and headlights flashed on him.
“What the—”
Accelerating, the car slammed into him, tossing him up and over the hood with bone-crushing force. He screamed as the camera flew from his hands and he went airborne. His limbs flopped out of his control. The hard pavement of the street rushed up to meet him, and then . . . he felt nothing at all.
THE car collided with the fleeing photographer, stopping Drew dead in his tracks. The guy’s body flipped up and over the length of the car and then slammed into the pavement with a sickening thud.
“Holy shit.”
Never slowing, the car sped away. It happened too fast, and the night was too dark, for Drew to get the plates. Within seconds, the car was out of sight.
Limbs grotesquely broken, head cracked open, the photographer lay crumpled in the middle of the road. It was a grisly, macabre scene.
Aware of Gillian and Dickey behind him, Drew turned back. “Dickey, call the cops.”
Somewhat stunned by it all, Dickey said, “But you told me not to.”
“That was before a man was killed, damn it! Ask for Officer Sparks. Tell him you’re with me. Tell him . . . I don’t know. To bring an ambulance or something.” He caught Gillian before she could get any closer. “Don’t.”
Trembling, she covered her mouth with one hand. “Oh, God, Drew. What happened?”
“Hit and run.” A deliberate move, Drew thought. And if he were right, that meant he had bigger problems than an intrusive photographer or reporter. But he’d save that for the cops. “It’s . . . you don’t want to see him, Gillian,
trust me.”
“Is he . . . ?”
“Dead?” Drew glanced back at that demolished body. Enough moonlight shone down for him to see a spreading pool of blood beneath the body. “That’d be my guess.” He could feel Gillian shaking, and it incensed him. “Hopefully the fucking camera is busted, too.”
“Oh, Drew.”
She sounded sad that he’d be so callous, but he didn’t care. He hated that anyone had upset her like this. And no way in hell would their relationship stay private after this.
“Sparks is on his way.” Dickey joined them and looked past Drew to the body. His eyes widened. “Daaaamn.”
God help them.
“Stay here, Dickey, do you hear me? Don’t touch anything. Don’t even get close to anything.”
By small degrees, Dickey got his attention off the photographer and onto Drew. He scowled. “I’m not an idiot, Drew. I’m not going to go poking around on the body or anything.”
“Glad to hear it. Watch for the cops and come get me if I’m not back when Sparks gets here.”
“Where are you going?”
Drew gave him a look. Dickey glanced at Gillian, huddled close to Drew’s side, and he made an Oh expression.
“Right. I’ll wait here.” He looked at the body again and winced. “Make it quick, though. Dead people give me the willies.”
Drew put his arm around Gillian. “Come on. You need to get some clothes on. At least some jeans, okay?”
As if only then realizing how little she wore, Gillian looked down at her bare legs and feet. She turned big eyes on Drew. “I forgot.”
“I know, it’s okay.” He smoothed her inky black hair. “But I think it aged Dickey a year, seeing you like this. Probably a good thing.”
His joke went unappreciated as she followed him back to his house by rote. Drew didn’t like seeing her like this, all withdrawn and . . . lost.
And then, out of the blue, she pulled herself together.
She stood taller, stronger. Her trembles subsided. “Drew?”
“Yeah?” They walked through his house to his bedroom.
