Harlequin Superromance March 2014 - Bundle 2 of 2: The Secrets of Her Past\A Real Live Hero\In Her Corner (52 page)

“Stop, stop, stop.” He took her by the wrists as she reached for her T-shirt. “What's the rush?”

“You don't want me to interview you topless, do you?” A single, plucked eyebrow arched. “You wouldn't be altogether there if I did.”

“Hey, I've had to wheel and deal with guys running around with their junk hanging out in the locker room. I think I can handle a little boob.”

“‘Little'?” She feigned outrage and placed her hands on her hips, making her chest jut forward. Of course, Hadrian had seen bigger. But he opted for the politically correct response.

“No, perfect.” He tried to give those perfects a squeeze. She evaded him.

“Sorry, babe. Mood's gone, and I've got a story to chase.”

He moaned. “Damn it, I shouldn't have answered that phone.”

“Told you so.” She grabbed a pen and notepad from her overnight bag then turned on a digital voice recorder. “Okay, so McAvoy's out of the big tenth anniversary matchup?”

He sighed. He should've asked her to go home and change into her reporter's outfit—the ugly almost ten-year-old burgundy pantsuit and white button-up shirt she'd been wearing to UFF press gigs since she'd started her career. That suit was as effective as a chastity belt.

He tore his eyes from her jeans and bra combo, and turned his back to her, mustering up his public voice. “The word from the McAvoy camp is that Wendell suffered a serious ACL injury and will be in recovery for at least six months.”

“Do you have a replacement in mind?”

“Gimme a break, Quinn, I heard about this exactly thirty seconds ago.”

Lips pursed, she waited.

“Fine. We're working on finding an appropriate match against Darren Dodge.” He'd be making a lot of calls that weekend. He always had backups for the main event, but he'd already used four of them to fill other holes on the card.

“This is the fifth fighter to drop out of this event. People have said the anniversary is cursed.”

“Off the record, people are idiots.” When Quinn gave him her “be serious” look, he went with the company line. “Injuries happen, and the health and welfare of my fighters is important. A torn ACL is nothing to take lightly.”

“But the last three cancellations—DePolo's doping scandal, Vasquez's battery and assault charge against McCaffrey, Brown's controversial remarks about—”

“I read the news, Quinn.”

She sucked in a lip and plowed on. “These infringements are indicative of something more pervasive and widespread in the UFF. You've got bigger prizes, more at stake, and more fighters and gyms competing with each other every day. Is the increasing pressure to perform driving fighters to justify unsportsmanlike behavior?”

Hadrian stared at her, trying to sort out her eye-crossing question. “That's a lot of ten-dollar words to be throwing around on a Saturday, Quinn. Sounds like you've been holding on to that question for a while. When were you planning to spring it on me?”

“Sunday night, probably.” She shrugged. “It's just business, babe.”

He stuffed down his irritation and the resentment that her answer had tweaked. “I have a deep respect for these fighters,” he said, clearing his throat, “and I put all my confidence in them to behave appropriately. Whatever beef they have with each other, whatever they're doing to their bodies—legal or otherwise—that's their deal. I can't control them every second of every day. They know the rules. They should know how to conduct themselves.”

“But you have to admit, you've made the stakes such that the UFF is the only game in town.”

“That's not true. There are dozens of other leagues—”

“That can barely compete, and you know it. That's why you've been buying them up, isn't it?”

He threw his hands in the air. “I thought this weekend was supposed to be about having fun.”

She shut off her recorder. “I'm not attacking you, Hadrian. I'm asking a valid question.”

“Yeah, but why the third degree? What story are you working on, exactly?”

“It's a feature,” she said vaguely. “I'm freelancing it out.”

“About what?”

“I have an idea, but it's all about research right now. I don't have a bigger picture yet. Just some ideas. And I won't say any more until I know exactly what I'm going to write about.”

He set his jaw, eyes slipping back down to her chest. If he didn't know better, he could have sworn she'd planned the whole topless inquisition. Not that he really minded.

“Will you stay for dinner?” he asked, trying hard to keep hope out of his tone.

“Better not. I have to get to the office, make some calls and see who has the pulse on McAvoy.” She pulled her T-shirt on and grabbed her running shoes. “Besides, you're going to be preoccupied, too, finding a replacement. If I finish early, maybe I'll come back, okay?” She gave him a peck on the cheek and left without saying goodbye.

Hadrian sighed. Well, there went his weekend.

CHAPTER FIVE

K
YLE
WATCHED
THROUGH
his office windows as Bella shadowboxed, pummeling her invisible opponent with the grace and power of a pro. She had perfect form—Wayne had praised her discipline and skill—and what she lacked in strength she made up for with finesse.

Something she obviously lacked when it came to working with him.

He knew he'd overreacted the other day when she'd tackled him. He'd lain in bed awake—which was no new thing—mad at himself and at her. Of course, it was always dangerous pulling stupid stunts like that. She should've known better. But he wasn't about to admit that the real reason he was so pissed off ran much deeper. No, she'd been in the wrong.

Sometime later, Orville joined her, along with Tito, and they began a few grappling and takedown exercises. He noticed she had no difficulty or awkwardness working with either of the men. Apparently, things only got weird when she worked with him.

And whose fault is that?
His self-recriminating thoughts always took his father's berating tone.
Stop trying to put the blame on everyone else. This is all in your stupid head.

He put down his file and rubbed his tired eyes. He had to try harder. He'd been unfair to her, and he was treating her like...well, not kindly, and it was entirely
his
problem.

The phone rang. Liz rarely transferred calls that weren't important, so it was with some trepidation that he picked up. “Hello?”

“Hey, killer.” The soft, husky voice that beckoned from the other end of the line had him sitting up. He'd know that siren's call anywhere. “How's it hanging?”

“Bree Hannigan.” A broad smile spread across his lips. “I thought you were in Australia.”

“I was. I'm in California right now, doing some photo shoots for Chanel.”

“Fancy. How are you?”

“Lonely,” she whimpered. “Henri and I broke up a few months ago.”

“I'm sorry to hear that.” He wasn't. Not really. Bree had followed the photographer to the other side of the world almost two years ago. She'd been crazy about the guy.

They caught up with each other's lives. Bree told him about the dozens of exotic places she'd visited, complaining about how she'd had to live out of a suitcase and eat out all the time.

“Woe is me,” Kyle teased. “Touring the world first-class as a fashion model? What a trial.”

“You laugh, but you have no idea. All I really want is to relax and unwind in a big, comfy bed with a big, comfy man. Speaking of, I'm going to be in New Orleans in February. I was hoping we could...get comfy together.”

Heat rolled lazily south through his chest and lower. The last time they'd been together, they'd spent most of that time in her hotel room. It had been an unforgettable weekend. “I'd like that....”

A sliver of doubt pricked his libido, and he hedged. His performance of late had been subpar. He didn't want to risk a misfire. “Let me know what your schedule's going to be like. Things have been busy here.”

“Too busy for me?” He could hear her pout. “Kyle, have you been working too hard? You know stress only makes you tighten up.”

How she managed to make everything she said sound like sex, Kyle didn't know. His gaze snagged on Bella as she tackled Orville, throwing her legs around his waist and dragging him to the ground. “I'll make room in my schedule.”

“Good. I'll see you soon.”

They hung up. Kyle was still smiling, but inside, threads of anticipation and dread tangled into a tight, messy knot.

* * *

B
ELLA
SANK
HER
fists into the heavy bag, driving frustration into the leather and sand with each blow.

Wayne made her take a break. “You're going at it a little hard today. Everything okay?”

“I want to get a good workout.” She took long, deep, calming breaths as she shook out her limbs. She was still frustrated by what had happened with Kyle. He'd been avoiding her since that incident, and part of her couldn't blame him. She'd behaved irresponsibly—Fulvio would've turned her over and spanked her if she'd tackled an unprepared teacher the way she'd attacked Kyle. She couldn't even say why she'd done it—it was that reckless impulse to mess with him she couldn't control.

Still, she didn't deserve the silent treatment.

Obviously Kyle had issues, and that thing between him and Karla was probably at the root of it. But it wasn't as if she was going to put him into a compromising position and get him in trouble. Anyhow, how was she supposed to grapple with other men under his rules? She couldn't jeopardize her training because Kyle was afraid of cooties.

At least the other guys had been generous with their time. Tito and Orville both took turns working with her, and Wayne had given her some terrific tips on her footwork. If it wasn't for them, she might have packed up and left a week ago.

“Excuse me, are you Bella Fiore?”

A man in white shirtsleeves flashed a smile big enough to carry a logo. His thin black tie was loosened and he carried his dark gray suit jacket slung across one shoulder. She got the distinct impression he had to make a real effort to look that casual. He pulled his hand out of his pocket and handed her a business card. “Ryan Holbrooke. I'm a fight manager and agent.”

She wiped her arm across her sweaty brow and took the card with a gloved hand. “Is there something I can help you with, Mr. Holbrooke?”

“Call me Ryan, please. I'd heard you'd come from Brazil to train here and I wanted to stop by and meet you in person. I'm a big fan. I was hoping we could grab a drink sometime and discuss what your future might look like.”

She scratched her nose. “I appreciate the offer, but my family's never used managers or agents. We take care of our own careers and book our own fights.”

“Oh, so you have a fight coming up?”

She bit her lip. “Well, no...”

“Because I happen to know of an upcoming event, and you're exactly what their card needs.”

She gave him a skeptical once-over. On the surface everything about him seemed legit, but he gave off a vibe she couldn't quite put her finger on. “What's the fight?”

“I won't lie, it's local. Kind of small, but it's a well-stacked league. Ever hear of Fury Fights?”

“Vaguely.”

“Well, they do a convention and exhibition card mid-November. Your opponent's from Kansas—Betty The Hammer.”

“Yeah, I know of Betty Heimer,” Bella said. She'd fought and lost against one of Bella's opponents a couple years back.

Ryan nodded. “I've got plenty more details. I'd be happy to discuss them with you.”

He was earnest, and he seemed open. It wouldn't hurt to talk. If nothing else, she'd get free drinks.

They agreed on a time and place, and then Ryan left with a wave.

“Was that Ryan Holbrooke I saw walk out?” Tito asked.

“Yeah. Do you know him?”

“He's a sports agent. He works with a lot of MMA fighters and boxers. You were talking to him?”

“He wants me to meet him for drinks. Says he might have a fight for me.”

“Huh. Interesting.” Tito folded his arms.

“What? You don't think I should?”

“No, no. He's an okay agent, I guess. He's helped get his clients signed with some pretty big sponsors.”

“I hear a ‘but' in there.”

Tito lifted one thick shoulder. “It's nothing personal. For me, anyhow.”

“But it's personal for someone...like Kyle?” she ventured.

His lips flattened out. “They have a
thing.
”

Bella scoffed. Were they in high school or something? Regardless, talking with Ryan Holbrooke shouldn't be any concern of Kyle's. If he had issues, he could bring them up with her. He was good at that.

“Do me a favor. Be careful around Ryan,” Tito warned. “He's a smooth one.”

* * *

R
YAN
H
OLBROOKE
WAS
smooth, all right. He met her at a swank restaurant in the Garden District where they started with drinks at the bar, then, as their conversation lengthened, moved to the restaurant for dinner. If she didn't know any better, she would've thought it was a date.

She had to admit she was flattered by his attention, how he hung on her every word. Then again, if he wanted to snag her as a client, she didn't expect him to ignore her the way Kyle did.

She'd done a quick internet search to check Ryan Holbrooke's credentials, and he seemed to be the genuine article. He was good-looking, too, with flirty blue eyes, jet-black hair and a cocksure smile. He knew MMA, and had even competed for a while, so they didn't run out of things to talk about. He didn't challenge her or make her work too hard to like him. She'd forgotten what it was like to be with someone who appreciated her for who she was rather than someone who tried to mold her into something she wasn't.

Ryan paused and regarded her frankly. “I have to ask...how is it a girl like you is still single? You are single, aren't you?”

Her cheek ticked. “I'm not comfortable talking about it.” It wasn't that the story made her particularly sad, but she'd just met Ryan, and sharing this kind of intimacy with him didn't feel...natural. Besides, it wasn't any of his business.

“I'm sorry. I didn't mean to upset you.” He sounded as though he were the offended party. He was rubbing his left thumb against his bare ring finger, and he held up his hand when he noticed her looking. “Three years divorced,” he confirmed with a wry twist of his lips. “My ex didn't understand the demands of my job. We didn't see eye to eye on a lot of things. Honestly, I'm better off without her.”

“Tell me more about this fight,” she said, hoping to change the subject. They hadn't gotten around to it with everything else they'd been discussing. “You mentioned Betty Heimer, but last I checked, she was in the 145-pound division.”

“She had a kid and put on some weight. This'll be her first fight since she's been back. I think it'll be an easy one to win.”

“I don't take fights because they're easy to win,” she said, irritated he'd even suggested it. There was nothing worse than a mismatched opponent.

“That's not what I meant. Like I said, it's a convention with a small-time exhibition. More to showcase local talent, drum up publicity. Probably two or three hundred spectators, tops, which, at this stage in your career, is pretty good.”

“I've fought for bigger crowds.”

“But that was when you were fighting under your family's banner. Their backing got you sponsors. Do you have sponsors now? Don't answer that, I already know.” He named them. He'd done his research, apparently.

“Everyone knows the Fiore name, but as a fighter, you need to build your personal profile. Get on social media, get your face in magazines, market yourself, that kind of thing. A fight right here in New Orleans will drum up some good publicity to start.”

“And you're the guy to help me?”

“I wouldn't have come to Payette's to see you if I didn't think you were worth it. I don't know if anyone told you, but Kyle and I don't have a great working relationship. In fact, I'm thinking you could do better at a place like Star Gyms.”

She knew of the national chain of high-end, full-service boutique fitness centers. They had a price tag to match the facilities, but that wasn't her issue. Bella fixed her mother's patented listen-to-me glare on Ryan. “I'm staying at Payette's. I signed a contract to stay on for six months. Besides, we're working with an at-risk youth center, and I won't give up on them.”

Ryan raised his hands placatingly. “Hey, no sweat. I'm just here to offer my services to help you become a champ in all the aspects that your coaches can't train you in. What you're doing at Payette's is admirable—plus that community outreach stuff is PR gold.” He flashed those billboard teeth again. “Listen, I'll be totally up-front. I like you, not only as a client, but as a person. In my business, that's rare.” He shifted forward in his seat. “You're twenty-six, right? How many more years do you want to fight for?”

She shrugged. “If injuries don't slow me down? Realistically...I dunno...till I'm thirty-three? Thirty-five?” She hadn't thought quite that far ahead. She knew she'd have to stop for a year or two if she had children. And some fighters continued well into their forties, though she wasn't sure she'd be one of them. Quite frankly, it was hard to envision the future beyond the next match.

“Let's say you decide to quit at thirty-five. That means you've got less than nine years to scrape together enough for whatever you want to do afterward. There
is
an afterward, you know, and a lot of athletes don't realize that unless you get a sweet deal with a big-name brand, sponsorship money dries up pretty quick. Do you have any idea what you'll do once you quit fighting?”

“Train others,” she said automatically. It was what her family had always done—pass on their teachings and raise new fighters on the Fiore system. “Work in my family's gym, I guess.”

“Okay, so picture this—what if you could have your own gym?”

Bella admitted she'd thought about it. She'd always been resigned to the fact that she'd end up working for her father and grandfather and brothers for the rest of her life. But now that she'd broken off from her family tree, she could have dreams of her own.

The idea of that much freedom and autonomy saddened her a little. She missed everyone in São Paulo. Even Fulvio. At the same time, the chance to build and own something that was hers and hers alone was almost too sweet a dream to contemplate.

A gym.
She'd call it Bella's. Her name would finally be featured ahead of the Fiore family name....