Knock Out (Worth the Fight) Page 5

  For some unknown reason, the thought annoyed him.

  Women threw themselves at him all the time, though he hadn’t expected an Octagon Girl to hurl herself into his chest in a full body slam. Or block his exit from the arena. This woman was determined, he’d give her that, tracking him down at Finnegan’s and maneuvering Rosie out of bed, so to speak.

  “You certainly don’t like to mince words,” she said sarcastically.

  He liked that. She had spunk. He shifted and the movement of the cushion forced her closer. Yeah, she was just what he needed—a temporary distraction from all his problems.

  Logan had done something to her hair, pulled it up into a loose bun. Blond wisps escaped and settled around her face. She was prettier than he remembered. Attractive, and eager.

  Picking up on the heat within his stare, she flushed a pretty pink. He waited for her to act on it. A few seconds passed, and then she spoke. “You knocked Andy the Annihilator out in ten seconds. You’re a champion, that’s why Jerry wants you on his fight team.”

  “Seven seconds, in a guillotine.” He flexed his fingers. This conversation was going nowhere. The raw insistence in her voice pissed him off. Not at her, at whatever caused it. Shit, he could relate. But him fighting, that wasn’t gonna work out for him. Or her. A good fuck—now that would help.

  His hand found her thigh and shifted upward. The spark of hunger in her green eyes made his cock thicken. No surprise there, yet he was tempted to smile.

  Man alive, she was willing. He leaned further back onto the couch and stretched out his legs. Better if Logan initiated things. Less drama that way, by making her work for it, having her be the aggressor. Someone who’d enjoy exactly what he was offering. Someone who wouldn’t break into tears if he didn’t talk to her afterward. Or ever again—which he tended to do more often than not.

  He relaxed, and waited for her to make good on her earlier invitation.

  * * *

  Keane’s smoldering glances—heated I-want-to-get-into-your-panties kind of looks—were getting more frequent and hotter by the minute. Sprawled on the couch next to her, he didn’t say much. Yet he more than made up for the lack of words with the bold caress of his eyes. Not that Logan minded. In fact, she found herself wanting more. But aside from the whisperlike feel of his finger, he hadn’t moved to touch her at all. Sharing her albums had been a bad idea.

  Twist my tights. Why did she let him open the damned thing in the first place?

  An hour had passed while he looked at the photographs, newspaper clips and programs from her most treasured scrapbook, arranged chronologically to showcase the best moments of her life—the story of a dedicated ballerina who had taken Lincoln Center by storm.

  “So?” His question made her jump. The port made her mind slow and dumb as she turned over the possibilities of that one word in her mind... So, what are we waiting for? So, take off your sweater? So, let’s take this into the bedroom?

  With a shake of his head, Keane flipped the page of the album balanced between them on his thigh.

  Her breath caught. The headline “Ballet’s New Royal Couple” was centered on the front page of the New York Times. And there they were. A close-up of her beaming like a new mother and Pierre looking at her with loving stars in his eyes. The lying jerk was as smug as could be.

  Logan grabbed the offensive scrapbook, snapped it shut and tossed it to the floor. She’d forgotten she’d saved a few photos and articles from the Pierre bonfire. Leave it to her asshole of an ex-fiancé to put in an unexpected appearance and do the one thing he was great at doing...ruining everything.

  Just when Keane seemed relaxed and reasonable. And so damned sexy her mouth felt dry. Just when she’d been building the courage to approach him again about helping her, about fighting, Pierre resurfaced. Just you wait, she promised, and braced herself for the forthcoming questions.

  “So?” Keane prodded, unaware of how everything she’d ever wanted was lying there, in the album, on the floor. How all the pain from the past year simmered just below the surface, primed and ready to burst. The port and her hopelessly heightened libido didn’t help, either.

  Stupid. One glance in a mirror would verify it—the ridiculous expression on her face as she stared blankly at Mr. Few Words next to her.

  “You’re a dancer, a ballerina. So, dance,” he stated.

  “I broke my ankle,” she said, and studied her hands in an attempt to mute the frustration in her voice. “I spent years training, hours every day, since I was a little kid. I’d finally landed a spot in a major dance troupe, a chance at fully living my dream, and now...”

  “Let’s see,” he said, his voice throaty, whiskey-toned.

  “Let’s see what? You want me to dance right now?”

  Without responding, he grabbed her legs and brought her feet over to rest on his calves. With big, sure hands, he rolled down one long wool sock and then the other.

  Stunned, she tried to pull away.

  “Tsk, tsk,” he mouthed, his beautiful lips pursed together.

  She’d imagined a fighter’s nose would be notched and crooked. Instead, Keane’s was straight and perfectly proportioned to his face. With the exception of a square jaw, his features were surprisingly delicate. The sexual tension rolling off of him, however, was pure male. And her reaction was all female, with the way she itched to run her fingers along his high cheekbones.

  He tossed her socks to the floor, and arranged her bare feet upon his knees.

  Tiny jolts of pleasure rippled through her at his touch. Her feet had never been sensitive—years of dancing had hardened and calloused them. She jumped with surprise when the tender skin on her sole yielded beneath his thumbs. Not dancing professionally had one advantage, it seemed.

  His thumbs moved up to the indentation between her ankle and heel.

  “Hmm, this one,” he remarked as a finger ran along the raised scar tissue crisscrossing her ankle. Instinctually, she pulled away. Having him touch her there—it felt like he’d skimmed over a vulnerable point deep inside her, the ugly scars hiding the pain within.

  He tugged her closer, nudging her bottom upward so that she was balanced on his thigh. Ignoring her gasp, he hoisted her leg straight up in the air, causing her to fall backward onto the couch. Before she could guess what he was about, warm lips pressed against the spot of her injury.

  Her hips arched up off his thigh involuntarily.

  “No one’s ever... What are you doing?” she gasped, as the first flick of his tongue rasped the sensitive flesh of her ankle.

  “Relax,” he murmured against her tingling skin. Logan’s senses had shifted to high gear and she gripped the upholstery beneath her, desperate for something to hold on to.

  His tongue swirled over the sensitive skin beneath her ankle bone, over the peaks and valleys of her scar. A light, moist caress, causing a warm tingling sensation to shoot up her leg and burst to life between her thighs. Sweet heaven. Keane’s wicked tongue laved at her skin. Right on the very spot that had brought her career and her life to a screeching halt, shattering all of it.

  Her thoughts spiraled like fireflies on a hot summer night. She wanted to let go. Let her body take over. Forget the agonizing year she’d been through. Give in to just feeling...good.

  How could so much pleasure cause so much pain?

  His tongue. Him. Her messed-up psyche. She bit back a frustrated cry. It was too much to bear.

  She shimmied backward and yanked her leg away.

  A low grunt of displeasure was his only response.

  Thankfully, her bottom connected with the remote, and the TV clicked on, breaking the awkward silence. Even better, a commercial advertising the qualifying bouts for Tetnus filled the screen, capturing Keane’s attention.

  She imagined herself a wallflower at the prom, one too embarras
sed to dance with the hottest guy in school. The foolish feeling was exactly right, even if she had missed her prom for a ballet recital.

  The commercial ended and Keane rose from the sofa. Apparently, he was leaving.

  “No! You’re in no condition to drive, the roads are a mess, and I still haven’t talked to you about fighting...”

  He glared down at her. “You can forget that. I’m not fighting anymore.”

  Logan felt like kicking herself. She’d sidetracked, so focused on him, his wicked tongue and her neurosis, she’d hadn’t yet convinced him to fight. And now, she’d not only chased him off, but ruined her chances of reasoning with him.

  “Look, you seem like a nice person. But I’ve gotta go. Brave it on foot.”

  He bent over and retrieved something—a small orange container—from the floor. Then, he moved toward the door.

  She jumped up. Her head spun from the port.

  With a snatch of his jacket, he put his hand on the doorknob. “Thanks for the ride,” he muttered, sliding his arm into a sleeve.

  “You can have the sofa. I’d really feel better if you stayed.”

  His glanced at the couch and back at her. His eyes narrowed with displeasure.

  “It’s comfortable—if you want, you can sleep in my bed and I’ll take the sofa. Really, the idea of you leaving during a major snowstorm is ridiculous. There won’t be a cab. What else can I possibly say to convince you—?”

  “Nothing.” He held up a hand in a farewell gesture, and her eyes fell on the small canister in his palm.

  “What is that?”

  “None of your business. It’s been...interesting.” He turned to leave but Logan slid in front of him and blocked the door. Close enough she could smell the sweet wine on his breath. Close enough to read the label on the prescription bottle in his hand. Oxycontin. Not only had he been drinking all evening, but he was taking pain killers. She’d taken a few of them during her recuperation and knew how they dimmed the pain. And everything else.

  “I’m not letting you leave in your condition.”

  He grunted. “Little too late to be passing judgment, honey.”

  “You’re on medication. Ever read the small print on the bottle? The print that says don’t use with alcohol? The same print that says it’ll make you groggy?” She gestured toward the door. “A blizzard is coming down out there. You’re likely to end up like the Jeep, ass planted in a snowdrift.”

  He snorted. “The pills—didn’t take any. As far as drinking, I’ve barely begun...”

  “Are you always this unreasonable?”

  The glare he shot her said it all.

  Still, she tried one more time. Stomping her foot in frustration, she demanded, “What do I have to do to convince you to stay?”

  He ran a hand across his forehead and up through his cropped hair. “Nothing. And forget about me fighting. Not going to happen, no matter what you say...or do.”

  “Forget. Isn’t that easier said than done? Look around you, this is all I have—which isn’t saying much. My Mazda isn’t running because I can’t afford a mechanic. I have big plans for this money.”

  “Hey, you’re not the only one with problems.”

  Logan grabbed his hand and gave a firm squeeze, as if the gesture might stir something inside him, some note of empathy. Hell, at this point, she’d even take sympathy.

  “What if the answer to your problem was standing smack in front of you?”

  “What if she was?”

  “Would you ignore the chance to persuade her to help you? Or would you fight for the chance to climb out from the miserable hole that’s swallowed you up? If I can’t perform as—”

  “Shit,” he muttered, interrupting her. He shrugged off his jacket, placed it back onto the coat rack, and moved whisper soft across the carpet.

  Turning, she swung the door shut with a resounding thud and snapped the two locks into place. The action gave her a second to process that he was indeed staying, rather than reassurance that he wouldn’t leave. Two locks wouldn’t stop a man like Keane.

  “Common sense prevails.” She hoped the satisfied note in her voice wouldn’t piss him off.

  “Hardly.”

  The Road to Tetnus commercial came on again, noisily blaring away in the background. Leave it to Jerry to advertise the heck out of these qualifying bouts. Keane’s back was to her, yet she could see him balling his fingers into a fist. Guess fighting was a subject best avoided for the time being.

  She grabbed him by the elbow and tugged, giddiness mingling with apprehension as he allowed her to lead him into the adjoining room. Her panties were still moist from the job his tongue had done on her skin. She felt herself moisten further at the mere thought of how close they’d come before her freak-out. But recommencing what had been started on the sofa was a bad idea. The emotions caused by his simple, gentle touch on her ankle, on the most broken part of her, were too overwhelming.

  Weakness was something she couldn’t afford. Multiple times tonight, she’d blown her chance. The scrapbook was a blatant reminder—she wanted all the good parts of her former life back. Pierre would be a bad dream hidden within the pages of her past. Her future was going to be golden, just like she’d always hoped it would be.

  But her winning ticket hovered a few feet away, tight lipped and mean. No, Keane was going to fight. There had to be some way of gaining his cooperation, of convincing him how desperately she needed her job.

  Her arm nearly came out of its socket when he didn’t move along with her next tug. She released her grip and allowed him to follow her into her bedroom of his own accord.

  Her sanctuary. She caught Keane scanning the large room and grinned. Bet he’d never been in a bedroom of this scale and size.

  Five enormous floor-to-ceiling mirrors were secured along the length of a wall. She’d salvaged one from the trash and the others she’d purchased on credit from Sally. Eventually, she’d add a barre to match the floorboards and construct a wall to quarter off a sleeping area. For now, the bed was situated mid-room, the headboard pushed up against the wall. Armoires for her clothes and costumes dominated the far wall, leaving a long expanse of floor by the mirrors for dancing.

  “Nothing you do will change my mind.” His warning was accompanied by a fierce, foreboding scowl, one that questioned her motives and assumed the worst.

  Don’t be so sure, she thought, but instead replied, “Why don’t you take off your boots and sit on the bed?”

  Ignoring his sour mood, she slid open an armoire door and carefully selected an outfit best suited to the job ahead. The creaking of the hardwood floors, followed by those of the old bedsprings, spoke volumes. He’d complied, making her feel more confident. More daring.

  She glanced in the mirror at the big brute of a man sprawled out on her bed, his back up against the headboard. By giving him a sense of what she was about, maybe he’d be more likely to help her. She thumbed the tulle on her tutu.

  “I’m going to make staying over worth your while,” she stated calmly, drawing on every ounce of port-induced bravado still within her.

  His only response was to raise his eyebrows, daring her. The thumping of her heart was almost enough to send her running from the room, clenching the red-and-gold costume tightly in her hand.

  * * *

  If this doesn’t beat all, Keane thought. Classical music tended to grate on his nerves, his preference leaning more toward rock or heavy metal. Though the lovely, rollercoaster wreck of a woman dancing around on her tippy-toes with those long, bare legs kicking in perfect rhythm to the music might just change his mind. Each time she spun around, the frilly white lace on her red mini skirt-thingy vibrated and lifted, revealing her ample tight ass, displayed in something that resembled a Brazilian bikini. Only smaller.

  A striptease, of
sorts. Keane had had his share of dancers. Male bonding time, his friend Jimmy used to say as he’d dragged Keane into every strip club from Rome to Nagasaki to Ft. Lauderdale. Surprisingly, Afghanistan was a serviceman’s paradise; Jimmy’d had more fun there than anywhere else. War did that—scared the shit out of you, which made the time away from fighting seem unnaturally enjoyable.

  So why did Keane’s itch to fight—a no-holds-barred, full-blown-brawl kind of itch—persevere like a troublesome hangover?

  Keane flexed his fingers. Fuckin’ Jimmy.

  Logan’s arms snaked over her head, demanded his full attention. There’s more than one way to scratch an itch. One faced him now, with an odd, dreamy look on her face. Innocent and seductive as hell.

  She bounced, exchanging one bent knee for the other. The little skirt bounced along with her, and his eyes shot to the V between her legs. Nothing visible, yet the idea of what lay hidden beneath that wisp of red material had his cock straining against his jeans.

  He shifted on the mattress, adjusting his pants, and not a moment too soon.

  Her next move was sexier than any stripper on any pole. Three little spirals and she was beside the bed. Her legs bent, her body lowered, and his breath caught as she pulled one leg straight up alongside her head in a sideways split. Three complete circles followed, her leg held upward all the while. The Brazilian briefs were on full display, much like waving a red flag in front of a bull. A surge of lust grabbed hold of his balls.

  And just like that, Logan unknowingly sealed her fate.

  The music intensified and her movements followed the tempo as she danced around the oversized bedroom. A half circle and her back arched in a perfect horseshoe. She moved away from him, but not before her lids closed and a satisfied smile spread crossed her face.

  A clear challenge there, to ensure that smug, contented look remained while his cock thrust into her or, better still, when he made her scream his name. Keane wasn’t the kind of guy who ignored a challenge.