by Lori Foster
With Audrey . . . he couldn’t quite drum up that same indifference. Already his feelings for her were noticeable beyond enjoying sex or mere companionship.
Whether he was ready or not, she’d crawled under his skin and was making her way into his heart.
As silently as possible, Brett gathered up the clothes he’d need and, with one final stroke along Spice’s back, slipped from the room. After he dressed, he wrote Audrey a note and put it on top of her purse, still on the sofa. He chugged down a protein drink and then put on a pot of coffee and set out everything Audrey might need.
Wondering if she’d awaken while he was gone, he slipped out of the apartment.
This early, the neighborhood was quiet. In the impoverished area, most stayed up late and slept in till early afternoon. That suited Brett just fine; he liked that his alternate schedule gave him added privacy.
A blanket of dew clung to everything, even the pavement. Up ahead, fog drifted in and around street lamps still glowing. His sneakers made a satisfying splat, splat, splat with each long stride he took.
He loved jogging.
He’d been jogging since he was fifteen, using it as a way to ease tension, to gather his thoughts, to marshal his anger . . . at his parents, at injustice.
At a lack of viable choices.
But mixed martial arts had given him choices. Plenty of them. As he’d told Audrey, he was a fighter at heart—but he was so much more than that, too. He was first and foremost a survivor. No one could ever take that from him.
He’d gotten through his father’s drunken rampages.
He’d muddled through the humiliation of his mother’s drug-inspired prostitution.
He’d survived life on the streets, the cold, and the hunger.
Drew called him a wonder boy, but Brett knew that wasn’t right; everyone was born with an instinct to endure. What else could he have done? Give up?
Trying to escape his own private demons, and the guilt that sometimes niggled at him, he ran a little harder. The guilt pissed him off. So he hadn’t seen his mother in a long time?
He didn’t want to see her ever again. For him, she ceased being his mother long ago. She’d allowed his father to vent on him physically during drink-induced fits. She’d relegated him to least importance in their family by begging the bastard to stay. And she’d gone against his pleas by not only drugging away her pain, but selling her body for the money to do so.
No, Brett didn’t miss her. He wasn’t even sure he pitied her anymore.
Fighters dubbed him “the Pit Bull.” Appropriate, he supposed, recalling how his mother used to curse him for refusing to see things her way. Even after his dad had smacked them both around, leaving behind bruises and blood, she’d wanted the bastard to stay.
For her, accepting verbal and physical abuse was better than being a woman alone. Then, when his dad had skipped out, his mother had a complete meltdown; and she became an addict and a whore in less than six months.
A flush of heat, of remembered shame, washed over Brett.
Thanks to his mother, he’d learned that anything and anyone could be left behind. And knowing that had made him a stronger person.
He loved the idea of fighting for the SBC; it had been a goal from the day he started serious training. But, as with everything else in life, it’d have to be on his terms.
Luckily, Drew had backed down from his insistence that Brett’s background could be used as a sideshow attraction to pull in viewers.
He put his head down and pounded the pavement in a furious sprint.
When the flush of resentment eased, he slowed again. Last he’d heard, his mom was sitting in jail, and truthfully, it was a blessing. At least while she was incarcerated, Brett didn’t have to think about someone killing her with a dirty needle, disease, or just for kicks.
An hour later, with dawn casting hues of pink, orange, and red over the horizon, Brett came back up to his apartment. Sweat soaked his hair, his shirt, but he felt physically good. Loose, relaxed.
He thought of Audrey, either at the table sipping coffee or, better yet, still snuggled in his bed. The now familiar tightening of desire rippled through him.
He opened the front door and found her wrapped in the quilt, sitting on the sofa and talking on her cell phone. She glanced up, her big brown eyes warm with welcome. After a small wave, she went back to talking with her caller.
Brett paused inside the door to look at her.
Her bare shoulders above the quilt looked soft and sleek and pale. Fresh from the bed, her blonde hair flowed down her back in long twining tendrils. Cute bare feet poked out from the bottom of the quilt.
Unable to resist, Brett went behind the sofa and touched his hand to her soft hair, her shoulders, her collarbone. She went still, paused in her talking, and then leaned into his hands.
He needed a shower, but that didn’t stop him from brushing aside her tumbled hair so that he could kiss her sensitive nape. A small shiver ran through her.
Damn, she enticed him.
“Millie,” she said in a voice gone high and thin, “I need to go now.” She stammered and then said, “No! Don’t do anything until I get there. Yes, I’m serious. Forget dead-lines. It’ll wait. I won’t be”—she glanced back at Brett—“too long.” A pause. “That doesn’t matter. I want to hear it all for myself before we start posting the story, okay?” She looked at Brett again, over his sweaty shirt and his loose jogging pants. She licked her lips, and her voice went husky. “I’ll be quick. I promise.”
Brett grinned. By quick, she better mean an hour from now, because he’d have to have her before he drove her back to her place.
After a few more verbal exchanges, she disconnected the call and tossed the phone near her purse. “I left my phone out here and missed a bunch of calls.”
Nothing important, he hoped.
Still looking at his body, she said breathlessly, “You need a shower.”
“I know.” When she finally met his gaze, he held out a hand to her. “Why don’t you take one with me?”
CHAPTER 13
ALL her life she’d been a responsible person. For years now, she’d felt a driving sense of duty that kept her from most social endeavors, particularly romantic involvements. She knew she shouldn’t leave Millie waiting, especially under the circumstances: Millie claimed to have solid proof of the brutality and corruption in the SBC.
But . . . for once her heart overruled her head.
She stood and took Brett’s hand.
As if she’d accepted more than his offering of shared intimacy, his gaze darkened, heated. She felt it, too. They were on a precipice of commitment, and she couldn’t be happier—or more nervous—about it.
Walking backward, her hand held securely in his, Brett led the way into the small bathroom. “What do you have going on today?”
Audrey bit her lips, cleared her throat. Knowing what was about to happen, and how new it still was for her, it wasn’t easy to think right now. “A meeting with Millie, work, and then just errands.” She tried to sound blasé and failed miserably. “Why?”
He towed her into the room and shut the door behind her. With excruciating slowness, he tugged the quilt away from her one-handed grip and held it open wide. His gaze on her belly, he whispered, “I liked sleeping with you last night.”
Her heart swelled. “Me, too.”
Expression warming, he continued to look at her with the quilt at her back as if it were a barrier from escape. “Want to stay again tonight?”
She couldn’t breathe. “Yes.” Inhaling, she said again, with more conviction, “Yes, I’d like that.”
Brett smiled, and it was unlike any other smile she’d seen from him. Dropping the quilt to the floor, he took a step back and peeled off his sweatshirt. “This could become a habit, you know.”
Mesmerized by his casual striptease, Audrey croaked out, “What?”
“Showering together. Sleeping together.” He shucked off his jogging pants, soc
ks, and shoes and straightened in front of her. With a load of heart-melting meaning, he whispered, “Being together.”
For long moments, Audrey just concentrated on breathing, on refraining from throwing herself at him. But she was clear on one thing: “I’d like that, too. If . . . if it became a habit, I mean.”
Seeing how she looked at his body, Brett hauled her up close for a devastating kiss. But when she let her hands wander down his torso, he caught her wrists and laughed out an apology. “Sorry. I definitely need a shower before that gets out of hand.”
He turned on the water and retrieved towels; Audrey stood there watching him, thinking that she loved his heated scent, the feel of his sweat-slick skin over solid muscles. When he had everything arranged, he stepped under the spray and waited for her to join him.
Showering with a man was a unique experience, one of many that she’d had with Brett. In such a short time, he’d given her so much and made her feel more like a self-assured woman and less like a protester on a mission.
Having fun, they took turns washing each other—and it became a special brand of foreplay that tortured her already heightened senses.
“I don’t have a rubber in here.” Brett kissed her throat, her shoulder. “If I don’t stop now, I might not be able to. And neither of us wants that.”
She wasn’t so sure what she wanted anymore, but Brett had too much planned for his future to take unnecessary risks. Never would she want to be a burden to him.
She stepped away with a smile. “I’ll race you to the bedroom.”
Brett laughed, and even that, the husky timbre of his humor, excited her. After rinsing, they hurriedly dried and, still damp in places, rushed down the hall like children.
Very conscious of Brett trailing her, Audrey was only a few feet away from his bedroom when he scooped her up from behind and stepped into the room with her held in his arms. She squealed and laughed—and learned that lovemaking could be amusing as well as sizzling.
She hadn’t been this lighthearted for a very long time.
Spice leaped from the bed when they came down together onto the mattress, making it bounce.
Rising on his elbows, Brett smiled down at her. “I really like you, Audrey Porter.” He stole a soft, quick kiss from her mouth. “Everything about you.”
She smiled, too, but she knew it was a lie. As good-natured and accepting as Brett seemed, he couldn’t like her disapproval of his chosen profession. It was like a giant roadblock in the way of any real, lasting relationship between them, and it almost made her feel ill.
And if Millie had her way and they exposed the ugliness of the sport even more, what would Brett do? Could she let her personal feelings for him get in the way of what she believed was right?
“Hey.” Brett tilted his head to study her. “I didn’t expect my declaration to make you so gloomy.”
“No.” Shaking her head and wrapping her arms around him, Audrey denied it. “Your declaration makes me want to cry with happiness, because I really like you, too.” She pulled him down to her, desperate to take what she could before it all fell apart.
“Yeah? Show me.” And with that, he kissed her with the intent of making them both nuts.
There were no more words, and though Audrey knew she shouldn’t linger, she couldn’t find the strength to hurry things along, either. Luckily, Brett was in a rush of his own, taking her as if his control had left him, as if he wanted her every bit as much as she wanted him.
He was braced on one arm over her, thrusting inside her, pushing her hard while plying her breasts with fascination, when Audrey gave in to an all-consuming climax. Through a haze of pleasure she watched Brett’s face, saw his nostrils flare, his jaw lock, and then he, too, came.
When they’d both quieted their laboring breaths, he fell to his side next to her. Audrey stared at the ceiling and relived each incredible moment. How Brett seemed to know exactly what to do, and when, amazed her. He was so in tune to her and her needs that he made her feel very special.
With him, she felt things she hadn’t known existed—but not just during sex.
Like . . . right now.
She turned her head to look at him, and there was such a connection to him that it humbled her. “Brett?”
“Hmmm?” He scratched his chest and then turned his head toward her. His small smile was one of pleasure and contentment.
God, she hated this. Best to just get it over with. “Millie wants to do a story.”
Maybe it was the way she said it, the dread she felt, but Brett went still and the smile disappeared. “What story?”
Because that one was hard to explain, Audrey said instead, “She called last night, but I didn’t hear my phone.”
“I know. You left your purse and phone on the sofa.” Now frowning, Brett rolled up to one elbow. “What story, Audrey?”
A deep breath didn’t help at all. Audrey sat up and wondered where her clothes had gone. She found them crumpled on the floor and gathered them into her arms.
She didn’t want to remain naked while explaining this. “Let me get dressed and you can”—she nodded toward the condom—“take care of that, then we’ll talk.”
After appraising her with a long look, Brett left the bed without a word and headed for the bathroom. Audrey was dressed by the time he returned. He walked past her to the closet and got out a clean T-shirt, then boxers, socks, and jeans from his dresser.
Standing with the clothes in his arms, his feet braced apart, he studied her. “There’s coffee in the kitchen.”
Nervousness growing, Audrey asked, “Will you join me for a cup?”
Seconds ticked by before he said, “I don’t drink coffee, but I’ll sit with you.”
For some reason, his words felt like a dismissal, so she started edging toward the door. “Okay. I’ll . . . be in the kitchen when you finish.”
She helped herself to the coffee and was sitting at the table when Brett came in and poured himself a glass of water. “Why do you make coffee if you don’t drink it?”
He didn’t join her at the table, but instead leaned back on the counter. “Other people do.”
He waited without pressing her, but Audrey knew she had no more excuses for not telling him. Millie was waiting on her, and then she had to get to work.
“I don’t have all the details yet—Millie will explain everything when I see her. But last night, when she was at Drew Black’s house—”
Brett’s eyebrows shot up. “She was at his house? Seriously?” He left the counter and pulled out a chair.
“Yes. You see—”
Leaning on the table, he asked, “Why was she there? To represent WAVS in some way?”
Disapproval reeked in his tone, and Audrey felt defensive. “Someone—not from WAVS—was taking photos of Mr. Black and I guess he found out and chased the poor photographer—”
“Poor photographer?” He leaned back in his chair. “Unbelievable.”
Already on edge, Audrey plunked down her cup and almost spilled the hot brew. “Are you going to let me tell this or not?”
Brett ran a hand through his hair, then gestured grandly. “Sorry. Go ahead.”
The beginnings of a headache set in. “The photographer ran away from Mr. Black, and in the process, he got hit by a speeding car and died.”
Going still, Brett muttered, “Shit.”
Vindicated, Audrey repeated what Millie had told her. “In a response to reporters, Mr. Black apparently expressed a total lack of remorse for the man’s demise.”
That locked up Brett’s jaw, but he kept silent.
Audrey leaned toward him. “It’s all very complicated, but . . . my understanding is that the owners of the SBC hired a publicist for Mr. Black, a woman to sort of make him over into a less offensive person.”
“That wasn’t entirely the plan, but yeah, I already know about her. What of it?”
Audrey’s mouth fell open. “You knew?”
“It’s not a big deal, Audrey. L
ots of public figures have publicists.”
“But according to sources—”
“What sources?”
She had no idea. “—This woman isn’t just publicizing him, but rather trying to change his image entirely.”
Brett shrugged. “Trust me, that’s never going to happen. Drew is who he is, and most people either love him or despise him. But I can tell you this: the fans worship him. He made this sport. Hell, some believe he is the sport. In my opinion, the SBC is way off in how they’re handling this. It’s largely due to Drew’s image that we’ve gotten the recognition we have now. Far as I’m concerned, other than the personal conflict you witnessed, Drew Black is fine as is.”
Audrey pulled herself together. “How can you say that?”
“I know him better than you do.”
Smug, she asked, “Well, did you know that he’s sleeping with the publicist? No matter how you look at it, that makes for a huge conflict of interest.”
His exasperation was made clear with a drawn-out sigh. “Come on, Audrey. Why shouldn’t two mature adults get together if that’s what they want to do? Their relationship isn’t hurting anyone, and if you ask me, it’s no one’s business.”
No one’s business. He’d included her in that statement. But how could she ignore this? “Millie was there, and she got the whole thing on her recorder, including the fact that Mr. Black might be replaced within the organization.”
Brett straightened. “I don’t believe that.”
“She says her sources are secure. She . . . well, she interviewed the publicist, too. That’s the basis of her story, that Mr. Black corrupts everyone around him and even seduced a woman who he knew was off-limits to him.”
That brought out a guffaw. “I met Gillian Noode. Trust me, she’s not a weak woman easily seduced. If she’s sleeping with Drew, it’s because that’s what she wants to do, not because she’s a victim.” He shook his head. “And again, Audrey, how is that hurting anyone? Why does WAVS even care what a publicist does, with or without Drew Black?”
Audrey tried to drum up her earlier convictions. Just weeks ago, she’d have had her verbal ammunition loaded and ready to fire away. But now . . . now she saw both sides, and it made everything so much more complicated.
