Causing Havoc (5 page)

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 cal

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 wil ing to overlook it. Cam pul ed 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 tel ing her that. What Cam thought of him shouldn't matter one iota. But stil he said, "Often enough to be the main event on the SBC card

the last four fights."

"What does SBC stand for?"

"Supreme Battle Chal enge. It's a combat sport with a variety of disciplines like jiu-jitsu, judo, karate, boxing, kickboxing, or wrestling—usual y a combination of al 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 chal enge 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 rol ed a shoulder. "Serious injuries are rare, but I've seen them al ." 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 al 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 actual y 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 fol owed 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, Hol and, 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 that 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. Occasional y 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 wel trained and intel igent, and

doctors are on hand."

"Intel igent?" She nodded in facetious agreement. "Yeah, they sound real y bright."

"Eve."

So now Cam had switched al iances? 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 fol owing me home."

Cam choked on a laugh, but Eve went stiff as a broom stick. "Just like a puppy." Her voice emerged as a near grow! "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 al 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 col ege, 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 col ege educated. Some of the

younger guys are stil in col ege. Others are businessmen or professionals of some sort."

"The two don't real y 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 stil think I'm going to worry about it."

Why the hel 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 stil 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 rundown houses cheap, fix them up, and sel 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 al 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 selfconsciously. "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, "Real y?"

Hoping to convince him, Cam nodded. "It's so ridiculous, given al 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 al ."

"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 chal enge me al 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 al that nonsense."

"I'd have kil ed 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 smal man, either. Did you know he played

col ege footbal ?"

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 stil 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. Recal ing himself, Dean retreated. "No insult intended, just stating facts. But you should tel

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 tal girl with ratty, bleached-blond hair sticking out at odd angles,

likely due to an overload of gel fol owed 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 overal attitude,

she screamed
trouble.

For some insane reason, that delighted Dean.

So his youngest sister had grown up to be a hel 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."

WELL, Eve thought, this ought to be interesting. Dean scrutinized Jacki as if wel acquainted with

rebel ious 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. Personal y she understood Jacki's attitude a lot better than she did Cam's. The sisters hadn't had an easy time of it lately.