by Lori Foster
“No, thanks.”
“Soup? We have some left over from yesterday. Or I could make you—”
He cut her off, saying, “I’m not hungry.” Good God, Cam could talk a mile a minute. He supposed some of that was excitement.
At seeing him.
Fuck.
“Then how about a cookie? Homemade. I baked some fresh this morning. Oatmeal and raisin.”
Protective, with a Martha Stewart inclination? His sister was an interesting paradox. “I don’t eat sweets very often.”
He might have said he had two heads, with the way she reacted to that. “You don’t? Why ever not?”
“I have to stay in shape.”
With a half laugh, she scoffed at him. “You’re in shape, all right.” Plopping her hat and sunglasses on the counter, she strode to the refrigerator to get his drink. “Just look at you. You’re all bulging muscle.”
Dean didn’t want her thinking him a fanatic, so he explained. “I’m a fighter, Cam. My diet is an important part of my lifestyle.”
Drawing to a halt, she turned to gape at him. “A fighter?”
Unsure if her look meant revulsion or intrigue, he said nothing.
“No cookies, but beer is okay?” Suspicion brought her brows down and she propped her hands on her hips. “How’s that work?”
He realized she was teasing, and he smiled with her. “Hey, I have to draw the line somewhere. No way am I going to give up everything, and I’d rather watch the sweets. But I limit my drinking to the times in between fights. When I’m training, I cut out the alcohol, too.”
“You must have amazing willpower. I try, but I’m a sugar junkie.”
It didn’t show. Cam had a trim, athletic figure. He supposed that was part of their gene pool. He remembered his mother as a slender woman and his father as leanly muscular.
As Cam filled the glass with ice and tea, she kept glancing at him. “You’re a professional fighter? Like a boxer, you mean?”
“Not exactly a boxer.” Rather than continue to hide, Dean removed the mirrored sunglasses and laid them on the table. When he looked at Cam this time, she saw his eyes—and immediately jumped subjects. Again.
“Dean! We have the same eyes, too. Isn’t that amazing?”
He couldn’t help but grin. Cam amused him with her overload of enthusiasm. “Are you always this upbeat?”
Eve strolled back in. “Yeah, she is. Sickening, isn’t it?”
Swiveling in his seat, Dean looked at her. She avoided meeting his gaze, but he didn’t mind. They both knew how she felt, just as they both knew what would come of it.
She’d pulled her wet hair into a ponytail, emphasizing high cheekbones and a stubborn chin. Short jean shorts showed off her ass almost as good as the bikini bottoms had. A thin tank top advertised her lack of a bra. Her bare legs were beautiful.
While checking out every inch of Eve, Dean said, “Cam and I might share coloring, but our dispositions are polar opposites.”
Cam laughed. “Meaning you’re a bear? I don’t believe it. Look at how you’ve put up with me already.”
“I believe it.” Eve went on tiptoe to reach a glass, then helped herself to the tea. “His fighting name is Havoc.” She tipped the glass at him in a salute. “That oughta tell ya something, right?”
Now this was familiar. Sparring with an attractive lady, cultivating the sexual tension. Much, much easier than that…that sentimental mishmash Cam kept slinging his way.
Relishing the new game, Dean made sure Eve saw him eyeing her breasts before saying, “They call me Havoc because, to some, I appear a disorderly fighter.” His gaze came up to meet hers, and he caught her arrested, flustered expression. He smiled, just to let her know he knew what she felt and what she thought. “Most guys have a technique that can be pegged. It gives other fighters something to study, to prepare for. But I’m unpredictable. I change from one fight to the next.” Boldly staring, he explained, “I do whatever I have to do to win.”
Eve’s eyes narrowed. “Is that a warning?”
“Absolutely.”
Oblivious to their sexual banter, or willing to overlook it, Cam pulled out a chair and sat opposite him. “Do you win a lot?”
“Yeah. I do.” Damn it, he had no reason to feel so proud when telling her that. What Cam thought of him shouldn’t matter one iota. But still he said, “Often enough to be the main event on the SBC card the last four fights.”
“What does SBC stand for?”
“Supreme Battle Challenge. It’s a combat sport with a variety of disciplines like jiu-jitsu, judo, karate, boxing, kickboxing, or wrestling—usually a combination of all of those.”
“It sounds confusing.”
“It’s not. Competitors strike using hands, feet, knees, or elbows. You grapple for submissions, chokeholds, throws, or takedowns. There’s no one single discipline that does better than another.”
Eve joined them at the table, sitting at Dean’s right. “Huh. So if you’re that good,” she taunted, “how come you’re so beat up?”
Cam looked put out by Eve’s question, but Dean didn’t mind explaining. “I don’t fight pansies, that’s why. Only the best contenders earn the right to challenge me. Besides, a few bruises don’t count as beat up. Not when the other guy got the worst of it.”
Cam winced. “What could be worse?” Then she rushed to add, “Not that I doubt you. But you do look like something ran over you. I hadn’t planned to say anything. I didn’t want to be rude. But since you brought it up…”
The thought of Cam trying to ignore his stitches, cuts, and bruises almost brought Dean to laughter—and he hadn’t expected that. “Most of what I have is superficial. But cuts that bleed enough to impair vision or pose a threat to the fighter’s health can cost him a win. Broken bones, dislocations, and torn muscles can keep him from competing for months.”
“Broken bones?”
Dean rolled a shoulder. “Serious injuries are rare, but I’ve seen them all.” And had most of them himself—not that he’d share that little tidbit with his sister. “I won that last fight with a knee bar.”
“What’s a knee bar?”
“A Brazilian jiu-jitsu submission technique. It’s one submission used to win, though most SBC fighters know a dozen or more.”
“So what does a knee bar do?”
When he’d imagined their meeting, he hadn’t even considered talking about the SBC. Cam’s interest surprised him, and though he’d like to deny it, he admitted to himself that it pleased him. “The basic concept of all leg-lock submissions is using leverage and control of joints.” Stretching out his own leg, Dean gave a basic idea of how the move would work. “You lock the joint out, and with the right amount of pressure, you can submit anyone.”
Cam’s eyes rounded. “Because if he doesn’t submit, something would dislocate or break.”
“That’s about it.”
“Fascinating.” Eve ran a finger through the sweat on her glass. “Sounds a lot like barroom brawling to me. Do men actually pay to see that now?”
Dean leveled a look on her. So she felt snippy, did she? And just because he’d overheard her mooning on him. Good. He liked a woman with a little fire.
Settling back in his chair, Dean folded his hands over his abdomen. Eve’s gaze followed the movement, then flitted away.
“Unlike barroom brawls, this is one man against one man. No weapons. And the matches are supervised. Scoring is based on athletic-commission approved definitions and rules. They take place before live crowds in Nevada, California, New Jersey, Massachusetts, and Florida. The SBC features experienced fighters, many of them Olympic champions. Competitors come from Brazil, Russia, Japan, Holland, England—pretty much everywhere. More often than not, the tickets are sold out, with prime seats going as high as a grand a piece. The basic concept is that two men go into a fenced-off area and fight until one of them gets knocked out or taps out.”
Cam grew more interested by the second. “What does th
at mean, to tap out?”
“Like crying uncle, sort of. If you know your arm, leg, knee, or ankle is about to shatter, you can give up. Some guys get choked out—meaning they black out from lack of oxygen—or they tap out because they know they’re about to black out. Occasionally the decision goes to judges, but no one wants that.”
“Yeah,” Eve said, “God forbid the fight end without a broken leg.”
This time Dean couldn’t hold back the laughter. “The fighters are well trained and intelligent, and doctors are on hand.”
“Intelligent?” She nodded in facetious agreement. “Yeah, they sound really bright.”
“Eve.”
So now Cam had switched alliances? She wanted to defend him against Eve. He shook his head. “It’s okay, Cam. Where the SBC is concerned, women come in different sets. You have your groupies who are turned on by the celebrity of it. Women who turn their noses up at it before understanding it. And those who are genuinely interested in it as a sport.” He tipped his head. “Which are you, Eve?”
But she was frowning at him now, hoping to turn the tables on him. “When you say groupies, you mean women who throw themselves at you, right?”
“That’s right.” He stared into her eyes. “At the last fight I signed a pair of breasts, and she ended up following me home.”
Cam choked on a laugh, but Eve went stiff as a broomstick. “Just like a puppy.” Her voice emerged as a near growl. “Imagine that.”
“She was young,” Dean conceded, with more good humor, and then with a knowing smile, added, “But old enough.”
Cam leaped into the sudden tension. “If all the fights are in the States, why do you travel so much?”
He let Eve off the hook—for now. “Different reasons. It helps to get experience with the best, and that means traveling to different camps to train. And I have sponsors everywhere, some promotional tours, stuff like that.”
Cam looked suitably impressed. Eve kept her attention fixed on her glass of tea so he couldn’t measure her reaction.
“I do most of that in my off time. When I’m preparing for an event, there’s no extra time. I train up to six hours a day or more. You can never learn too much. Nearly every fighter I know has studied martial arts as a lifelong vocation.”
“You included?”
In younger days, he’d trained as a way to rid himself of anger. Grover had encouraged it, but Dean paid for it himself, and made sure it didn’t interfere with the work schedule. The same applied to his extended education. “I’ve always enjoyed competing. I got into it more in college, after Grover died. That’s when I found out about the SBC. One of the SBC sponsors saw me fight, and he offered to back me if I’d compete. Those first few wins helped pay for school.”
“You juggled school and fighting?”
Cam made it sound like a big deal. “Most of the competitors are college educated. Some of the younger guys are still in college. Others are businessmen or professionals of some sort.”
“The two don’t really seem to go together.”
“A dummy wouldn’t get far in the SBC. It’s as much a cerebral competition as it is physical. You have to be able to think fast under pressure and to outwit your opponent.”
Cam accepted that as truth. “It makes sense. But I still think I’m going to worry about it.”
Why the hell would she worry? Certainly she had no reason to worry for him. She barely knew him. “It’s an intense sport, but doctors are at every bout to ensure fighter safety.”
Eve wrinkled her nose. “It still sounds gruesome.”
“I think it sounds fascinating.” Cam reached across the table and touched Dean’s bruised cheekbone. “This is from your last fight?”
“Yeah.” Luckily his hair hid the worst of the stitches high on his forehead, near his temple. “I got your letter the morning after I’d competed.” His gaze shifted to Eve. “And won.”
“I wish I’d known. I could have watched.” Cam beamed at him with pride. “When do you fight again?”
“Not for awhile. I’m taking some time off.” To visit her, but Dean didn’t say so. “The next fight for me won’t be for months.”
“You make your living at fighting?”
“Yeah. But I also flip houses in my spare time, and that’s pretty lucrative, too.”
The women looked at him in blank confusion.
“I buy run-down houses cheap, fix them up, and sell them for a profit.”
Eve brightened. She sat forward, ready to say something, but Cam quickly hushed her.
“Do you enjoy traveling?”
They’d just covered up something, but Dean had no idea what. “I always have. Grover did construction all over the world. Now I’m on the go for competitions and promotional purposes.” What had Eve wanted to say? And why did Cam not want her to? “That’s enough about me. What is it you do?”
For whatever reason, it embarrassed Cam to have the focus on her. “Nothing as exciting as being a professional fighter who travels the world.” She laughed a little self-consciously. “I’m a manager at Roger’s motel.”
At the mention of Roger, Eve closed down again.
“The same Roger you might marry?”
Cam turned to Eve. “You told him about Roger proposing?”
Eve shrugged. “After good old Rog tried to pick a fight with him, we did discuss him a little.”
“Oh, Dean, I’m so sorry.” Cam let out a long sigh. “Roger struggles with some issues of insecurity.”
Dry as dust, Dean said, “Really?”
Hoping to convince him, Cam nodded. “It’s so ridiculous, given all that he’s accomplished. But he forever feels like he needs to prove himself. I hope it wasn’t too much of a problem.”
“No problem at all.”
“Luckily,” Eve said, “Dean turned him down on the offer.” She propped an elbow on the table and studied Dean. “And now that I know more about you, I have to wonder why you did that.”
“Idiots challenge me all the time. It’s nothing new.” He finished off his tea in one long guzzle. Just the thought of Roger left a bad taste in his mouth. But it wasn’t his business. If Cam decided to marry him, what did he care?
Eve didn’t let it go. “Most guys would feel pressured to accept, to prove their capability or whatever. Macho pride and all that nonsense.”
“I’d have killed him,” Dean said. “I don’t need that on my conscience.”
Cam stayed silent, but Eve looked provoked. She put both elbows onto the table and leaned in close. “You never know. You’re big, but then Roger’s not a small man, either. Did you know he played college football?”
Dean shrugged. He didn’t give a shit what the idiot did.
“He was a star running back. Probably would have gone pro if a knock on the head hadn’t caused him long-term impaired vision.”
“Good for him.” Dean mimicked her posture, closing the space between them until their breath touched and he could see the thickness of her lashes. “He still wouldn’t have stood a chance against me. He doesn’t have the bearing of a fighter, the reflexes of a fighter, or the brains of a fighter.”
“Sounds like he’s lacking quite a bit, doesn’t it?” Cam teased. “Should I be insulted on Roger’s behalf?”
Damn. Recalling himself, Dean retreated. “No insult intended, just stating facts. But you should tell Roger to keep his hands off other women.”
Eve’s eyes sank shut in dread.
Cam’s eyebrows shot up in question.
And into the silence, another female voice said, “Someone could have warned me that we had company.”
Dean turned, and there stood a tall girl with ratty, bleached-blond hair sticking out at odd angles, likely due to an overload of gel followed by a rough night of tossing and turning. He guessed her to be five-ten, at least, lanky, long limbed, and…his baby sister.
As Dean surveyed her, his heart gave an odd, erratic thumping. By look, stance, and overall attitude, she screamed trou
ble.
For some insane reason, that delighted Dean.
So his youngest sister had grown up to be a hell-raiser. If he didn’t miss his guess, that’d make her dead opposite of Cam. And although Cam would only be two years older, she seemed far more mature than Jacki.
An earful of silver hoops in varying sizes glinted from the sunshine pouring in through the kitchen window. Jacki turned toward him, and he saw a wicked tattoo on her hipbone, displayed by a cropped shirt and super-low-slung cotton pants that, despite her long legs, managed to drag the floor.
Cam blurted, “Jacki, you’re up early.” She jumped to her feet and went to the younger woman. With an enormous smile, she said, “Hon, this is our brother, Dean.”
CHAPTER 3
WELL, Eve thought, this ought to be interesting. Dean scrutinized Jacki as if well acquainted with rebellious twenty-one-year-olds. And Cam, poor thing, looked caught between pleasure at announcing Dean and dread at what Jacki might say or do.
Typical of Jacki, she blinked eyes smudged with black mascara and said, “You’re shittin’ me.”
Cam scowled. “Watch your language.”
“What did I say?”
Dean laughed. “It’s nothing I haven’t heard before.”
“Amen,” said Eve. Personally she understood Jacki’s attitude a lot better than she did Cam’s. The sisters hadn’t had an easy time of it lately.
Because it was obvious Jacki had just gotten up, Dean glanced at his watch. “Have a late night?”
Jacki pursed her mouth, looked Dean over from head to toe, and then turned to the coffeepot as if long-lost brothers were nothing out of the ordinary. “Killer party. My head’s splitting. Cam, you don’t have coffee made?”
“Take a seat before you fall down and I’ll make some.”
Eve watched Dean as he encountered the dynamics of his family. It didn’t take a genius to figure out that Cam mothered Jacki, and Jacki soaked it up.
“So.” Dragging herself over to the table, Jacki dropped into a chair, and after an inelegant yawn that showed her tonsils, smiled at Dean. “Aunt Lorna is going to have a cow.”
