Knock Out (Worth the Fight) Read online

  Her mind raced, so when Keane’s fingers touched her arm, she jumped. Gently, he tugged her closer. And closer still. Leaning forward, his husky whisper sent tingles down her spine. “Did we shake on it yet? You know, seal the deal?”

  Dumbly, she shook her head no.

  “Good. This doesn’t count, then.”

  Before she could guess his intent, he yanked her up against him, angled his head, and pressed his lips over hers. He gave her a toe-curling kiss that made her knees wobble and thoughts swim. A kiss that erased away the day’s bitterness and replaced it with something more alive. Something special.

  Chapter Six

  SWEEP: When a fighter changes positioning, from being on the bottom to being on top

  “Oh my God,” Logan exclaimed. Keane had barely put the Jeep into park, and she was out the door and up his sidewalk. “This is your house?”

  He lifted her bags from the trunk and followed. Having a housemate was going to take some getting used to. Usually it was way too dark for his short-term—very short-term—guests to make much of a stink about his home. Plus, he kept them occupied with more important and pleasurable things.

  Keane paused on the bottom step and watched Logan follow the wrap-around porch from one end to the other. The night was young. Still time for this houseguest to nose her way right back out the front door. Low key, quiet, and non-meddlesome, that’s how he liked to keep things. Logan’s antics made him feel uneasy. Once again, doubts about this idiotic plan plagued him.

  He unlocked and opened the door, allowing her to enter ahead of him, and almost barreled into her as she stopped short inside the foyer.

  “You own this house? And here I imagined you living in a fratlike apartment. No offense.”

  Without responding, he nodded toward the living room.

  “Um, can I have a tour?” she asked him, her voice breathless like she’d been dancing or something. “Afterward, you can tell me how I can help you out with training. I want to be useful, plus I’m not one to lounge around, unproductive.”

  Hmm, he’d like to see her do that, lounging around. Preferably naked. That would be a great help.

  He led her through his home and in brief, clipped sentences, answered her prodding questions about his plans for each room. Shame made him hesitant and irritable. Technically, all his renovations could have been completed by now, if his life hadn’t gone to hell.

  Yet Logan didn’t seem to mind the partially sheet-rocked walls or the unvarnished trim in the doorways. Instead, her enthusiasm bubbled as she gushed over the potential in every unfinished project. An enthusiasm reminiscent of Jimmy’s. The person who, for the better part of the year, he’d been trying not to think about.

  The minute she’d started in about the place, he’d had visions of Jimmy doing exactly that. He would have loved the challenge of it. Of renovating the Victorian back to its glory, then flipping it for a profit. Fuck, what was he doing, moving her in here?

  An hour later, Keane found the knot in his stomach tightening as he still played reluctant tour guide and revealed small bits about the plans for the house: the re-sanded and re-stained railings on the winding staircase in the foyer, the built-in cherry-wood shelving that matched the window trim in a bedroom, and how the largest room, upstairs and at the back of the house, would make a great—though modern—gym.

  His head throbbed like it had been hit by a two-by-four by the time they’d reached the already renovated living room. His stomach rumbled, demanding satisfaction.

  “I heard that,” she laughed, oblivious of the tension building within him. “Let’s talk about tomorrow and then I’ll leave you be. I’d like to tag along if you don’t mind? A little exercise will do me good. So, what do you think, should we head down to the Pittsburgh Fight Club? There’s a boxing bag and plenty of weights for you to use.”

  “I have weights,” he muttered.

  “But Sal says alternating various-sized weights give muscles a burst...wakes them up, I guess.”

  Keane raised his brows. “Sal had you lifting?”

  “No, I heard him telling this to another fighter after you...refused me. There’s nothing to it, so Sal says.”

  “Is that right? Seems I’ve been going about things the wrong way.” His tone was sarcastic. Did she think he was a friggin’ amateur? He caught her eyes wandering over his chest, assessing the measure of his words. Until she looked away, and a lovely, rosy flush colored her cheeks.

  “That’s what Sal told me...” she replied in a low voice.

  His patience was running thin and his stomach demanded nourishment. He cut her off mid-sentence. “You hungry?”

  “Not really. It’s kind of late to be eating...”

  Keane frowned. When he’d agreed to this insane idea, the thought of someone monitoring his food intake, and even what foods he ate, hadn’t crossed his mind. Neither did hours of discussion about his home, his private life, refurbished or not.

  Stalking to the foyer and picking up her bags, he barked, “Follow me.”

  “Yes, sir.” He heard the sarcasm loud and clear. At least the woman had a backbone, he’d give her that.

  “The bedroom with the wood-burning fireplace is yours for the duration.”

  “Really! Can I make a fire? Or rather, would you help me with it later?”

  He shrugged. If a fire is what it took for him to find some peace, so be it.

  Five minutes later, while Keane wolfed down some leftover boiled chicken and brown rice, his mood lightened. Truth be told, his exasperation with Logan was minor compared to the frustration he felt within. Kicking the booze and pills was a lot harder than he’d anticipated, especially after a series of sleepless nights and the nightmares plaguing him.

  It was common knowledge that war veterans experienced extreme mindfucks, where the harshest moments of combat replayed in their dreams like a DVD menu screen before you hit Play. But the adage “misery loves company” didn’t help much. Which is why Logan’s comments about homemade remedies, those herbs, had caught his interest.

  Yep, he did it for the herbs, not because it pissed him off thinking about that asshole Bouvine following her home. Or how he signed on to kicking Pierre’s ass for her. So he tried to convince himself. What did he have to lose? Tossing back a few herbal teas might replace his self-medicating habit. It was worth a shot. Worth a nosy, distracting housemate. And hell, if the herbs didn’t work, there was one more way to ease his pain—a method proven on more than one night.

  The irony of the situation made Keane’s mood lighten further. He liked how she liked his home. Hell, he liked her. Looking at her. Touching her. Making her come hard on his fingers. He liked her spirit, the grit it took to pursue him like this. And, fuck, he related to her on a deeper level. Her pain.

  Why not keep a smile on those luscious lips of hers?

  If her pain was his burden right now, then so was her pleasure.

  Hell. Maybe the opposite was true. A heavy dose of pleasure in his life might be just what the doctor ordered.

  Logan had had a grand tour of his place, yet there was something he hadn’t shown her. Something about the house all his late-night visitors—who were, let’s face it, confined to one room in particular—commented on. The old tin ceiling in the master suite. Yep, if those herbs failed, he’d pencil that in on Logan’s ways-to-help-him-train schedule. Time on her back viewing his tin ceiling, him between her thighs. Considering her eager response to his kiss earlier, she’d likely be presented with the view, even if the herbs did work out.

  * * *

  Later that night, it was Keane on his back, studying the ceiling. Alone. Awake with a pounding migraine. Trying to keep the demons at bay. Having Logan take such a liking to his house stirred up memories best forgotten—ones that persisted like a bad toothache.

  All his buddy
Jimmy had talked about doing after his tour ended was flipping properties in good neighborhoods. A partnership, with the work and the reward split right down the middle. But Jimmy had picked up another tour, and Keane had returned to Pittsburgh alone. The seed had been planted in Keane’s head, though. When presented with the listing for the old Victorian home in need of some TLC, he bought it as their first flip.

  For a while, the physicality needed for renovating made for a solid night’s sleep. The spare bedroom, along with the master bedroom and living room, had been gutted and remodeled his first year back from active duty. All was going okay. Until word that Jimmy’s fourth tour had come to an abrupt end—as did his life. The autopsy report was issued. Then, everything went to shit.

  He rolled out of bed in need of something to quiet his mind. Her door was open and he tapped the wooden frame, skeptical yet willing to try one of those damn teas she’d packed. No answer, not even a murmur. Why would she be awake at this hour?

  He turned to leave but the crackle of the red log smoldering in the hearth drew his attention. The room was cold, the fireplace the only source of heat. Swiftly, he strode over to it, grabbed two logs he’d brought in earlier, and banked the fire.

  Firelight cast an amber glow on her. She’d showered, he could tell by the damp curls on her pillow. He caught a whiff of sweet vanilla cream; it suited her personality—all proper and feminine. She was a naturally attractive woman, wholesome and clean. He liked that, too. Waking up next to a raccoon-eyed woman, and a trail of lash prints crossing the pillowcases, was a huge turn-off.

  The logs took, and he made to leave. Logan shifted, unaware of her visitor. The comforter fell to her waist. His eyes followed but stopped short.

  The focus of much debate and discussion rounded snuggly against the material of her large collegiate sweatshirt. A perfect set of tits. She always seemed self-conscious about them—he couldn’t blame her with all the buzz caused by her moron of an ex’s trash talk. Keane would make it his priority to show her, first with his hands, then with his mouth, and then...well, she’d discover soon enough just how pleasurable a well-developed rack could be.

  A sigh escaped her, and his cock stirred at the sound. It was obvious Logan was a ball of unreleased sexuality. The way she watched him finger her in the mirror—man, that was hot as hell. One kiss, and he’d have her kissing her so-called rules goodbye. No sex? Yeah, right, like that was going to happen. If it hadn’t been for the paparazzi stalking her, he’d have taken her right there, standing up against her front door.

  For a moment, he contemplated waking her with his hands and his mouth, envisioned her eager response as he ran his tongue from her ear to her neck, and lower. But a good fuck wasn’t why he’d invaded her privacy. He’d come for those damned teas.

  Once more, she sighed. With narrow eyes, he studied her face for signs of awareness. Her mouth parted slightly but she slept on like the dead. She’d last a day—tops, as a Marine. He was about to reach over and gently shake her awake when he noticed the lift of her mouth. His cock lifted too, and thickened at the sight of her smiling in her sleep.

  Shit. Whatever she was dreaming about was doing it for her. As troubled and ornery as he was, he couldn’t do it, couldn’t wake her. At least Logan’s dreams were pleasurable.

  Quietly, he made his way back to his bedroom. And resumed his prior activity—examining the tin ceiling.

  Hours later, he was up and dressed, but anxious and in desperate need of release. He flicked on the lamp next to Logan’s bed and flooded the room with light. “Let’s get going.”

  Logan rolled to her side. Blinking, she struggled upward, suddenly aware of her surroundings.

  “What time is it?” she demanded, groggily.

  “Time for a run.”

  She rubbed her eyes, then looked at him. “Run? What run? The sun isn’t even up. This wasn’t what I meant when I said I’d tag along. Why don’t you go pump some weights?”

  Keane grunted. Power wasn’t exactly his weakness, never had been. Endurance was what mattered. The only way to survive fighting two different opponents each night for three nights was by getting the old ticker pumping.

  “Meet me in the kitchen in five. Wear layers of sweats.”

  He ignored her murmur of irritation and went to put on some coffee. Caffeine might help somewhat. A vigorous run, possibly. Still, he regretted not waking her last night, and asking about those natural herbs she spoke so highly of. Regretted not waking her earlier, and seeking relief within her body.

  Shit, better keep these thoughts to himself until he was less strung out. Time enough for Logan to find herself flat backed and studying the architectural wonders of his ceiling. That is, after he’d had his fill.

  * * *

  By daybreak, Logan was ready to call it quits. All she wanted was a cold Evian and a comfortable bed to fall into. Exercising to this extreme wasn’t normal. Yet, as she turned the corner and spotted Keane on the sidewalk, her thoughts remained just that—thoughts.

  No way was she going to piss him off and ruin a chance at reclaiming her life. Even if she’d run miles more than any reasonable ex-ballerina would run in her right mind. She could do this.

  Dancing had made her lungs strong and stamina high. And if anyone cared enough to notice the truth, she didn’t have two black eyes from her gargantuan breasts knocking her in the face.

  At least today’s weather was reliable. The sun had melted the blackened snow mounds lining the city’s roadways and sidewalks. A few blocks back, she’d even walked past a carrot and a hat on a patch of lawn.

  The sidewalk ended and she caught sight of Keane working out in one of their designated meeting spots off in the distance. With a deep inhale, she sprinted off.

  Reaching him, she stood panting while he completed an insane amount of pushups. Her eyes fell on his biceps, and how they tightened beneath the snug arms of his sweatshirt with each upward push. If it hadn’t been so damned early, rush-hour traffic would be backed up for miles from the heart-skipping sight.

  At first, she’d thought this was his everyday drill, run three miles and pump out some squats or sit-ups, run three more and stop for push-ups or boxing thrusts. Until she realized it was his way of waiting for her. Oh, she tagged along, all right, falling far back and jogging along at a comfortable and reasonable pace.

  Unable to keep up with his intense running regimen, she tried to make herself helpful in other ways.

  “How many was that?” she rasped, still searching for breath.

  “Hundred twenty.”

  The trouble with keeping count of his repetitions was she kept losing count. Too focused—and oh-so aware—of his every movement: how the muscles in his forearms flexed while jabbing, the way his sweatshirt rose up off his abs during sit-ups, and even the fine, set line of his jaw as he pumped out a few final push-ups. Transfixed, she could only watch, wait and admire him. If it wasn’t so dang cold, she’d be drooling like a puppy over a fine, meaty bone.

  Keane jumped to his feet, and belatedly, she realized he’d spoken. Wide-eyed, she stared at him, hoping his intense focus prevented him from picking up on the fact she was turned on—so turned on she felt like running her hands beneath his sweatshirt to feel the warmth of his abdomen from all those sit-ups. Or touch the bulging arms, thick with muscle. Or...

  “Ready?” he asked while jogging in place.

  Am I ever. Logan wanted nothing better than to sprawl out on the sidewalk, preferably with him cuddled up next to her—but Keane was a machine in motion.

  For a split second, she thought he was going to hit the ground and pump out a few more. God, yes, please.

  With a brief, quizzical look, he said, “We’ll take it slow. Cool down.”

  Take it slow. Cool down. The sexy innuendo had her heart doing push-ups. If they weren’t standing on a crooked concrete s
idewalk on a soon-to-be-busy street...

  Keane stood with his head angled to the side and his hands on his hips, studying her.

  Fearing he’d guessed her thoughts, she hurried to reply. “Ha, who are you kidding? Your slow is like Manhattan during rush hour. As I said much, much earlier, don’t wait for me. I’ll either catch up or meet you back at your house.”

  “No need. We’re done for the morning.” He nodded toward the roadway and waited for her to jog ahead. Yet, true to his word, this time he ran next to her at a comfortable speed.

  “Time to refuel. Are you hungry?”

  “Uh-huh.” Yes, but for a taste of you. How in the heck was she going to make it through the week with him? The man was sexy as sin, and as she spent more and more time with him she discovered that beneath that heart-dropping body, lay a humble soul.

  She’d come to that conclusion last night during his house tour. He’d painstakingly answered her barrage of questions with short, concise explanations—no surprise there. But something had been playing out within him, an intangible tension she couldn’t put her finger on. He seemed almost uncomfortable. Modest about his renovations. Which Logan couldn’t quite understand.

  His old Victorian house was the home of her dreams. She itched to pick up some sandpaper and scrub off the chipped windowsill paint in the guest room. Paint an eggshell cream color for the plywood walls and fix a new mantel for the fireplace. And she had told him so.

  Painfully embarrassed, that’s what his reaction last night seemed like. Clearly, he felt funny about owning such a magnificently dainty house. And this show of fragility made her want to tug him in close.

  They jogged through Market Square, side-by-side, passing a woman cleaning a For Sale sign on the window of Rachel’s Antiques, and other early-risers preparing for the day.

  “Here we are,” Keane murmured. He had stopped in front of a small luncheonette with warped marine-blue siding and a crooked neon sign in its window. The word open flashed brightly.