Passing His Guard (Against the Cage #2) (3 page)

As that bold stare traveled south, she found herself thankful for those many hours of Pilates that kept her stomach flat and her waist narrow. By the time his eyes met hers again, all trace of seriousness was gone, and in its place was a flirtatious cad.

“Hey, baby girl. What can I do you for?”

It took her a moment to find her voice. “Are you Aiden Kruze?”

His roguish grin faltered for the briefest moment. “That depends.”

“On what?”

“On who wants to know, because I’m sure we’ve never met before.”

“Oh, and how’s that?” With all the tail this fighter was obviously getting, how could he possibly keep it straight?

“Because I’d remember meeting the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.”

Oh, he was good . . . dangerously good . . . “I’m here because—”

“I know why you’re here.” He cut her off, his voice a husky growl that should not be warming her in all the right places right now.

“You do now?”

He smiled, and she felt that panty-dropping grin all the way to her toes. Oh, boy, this was not good. Not only was Aiden Kruze a breathtakingly handsome handful, he was also engaged to be married, and she would do well to remember that. That thought alone stopped her cold. What kind of a moral-less asshole eye-fucked a woman he just met while he was engaged to marry another? Seriously. It didn’t matter how gorgeous this guy was, he was a total douche bag.

Hanging on to that ire, Ryann scowled and folded her arms over her chest, which only seemed to succeed in drawing that arrogant gaze back down to her well-endowed cleavage. She cleared her throat loudly to say
My eyes are up here, buddy
, and arched her brow. “Why is it, exactly, that you think I’m here?” she asked, her tone saccharine sweet.

“You want a ticket to the fight.”

“The fight?”

“Yeah, at the Mirage. It’s sold out and you want me to get you in. I tell you what, baby girl. I’ll do you one better. Go to the ticket office and I’ll have a front row seat waiting for you with a pass to the after party.”

“But—”

“Now I gotta get back to training,” he said, cutting her off again.

The man slipped his arm around her shoulder and guided her toward the door, not caring that he was getting his sweat all over her. She would have corrected his assumption—informing him he was a self-absorbed pompous asshole-cheater, if all rational thought hadn’t fled her mind the moment he touched her.

Holy shit . . . every nerve ending inside her lit up with feminine awareness. This was unreal. She’d never had this strong a reaction to a man before. Even the sound of his voice was like sex to her ears.

He pulled her closer, hugging her against his side, and bent his head, whispering, “I’ll see you after the fight, and we’ll pick up where we left off.”

His breath smelled of mint, mixed with the vaporous undertone of alcohol. Was he . . . drunk? The heat of his exhale skated down her neck, sending a shiver of goose bumps prickling over her arms. Her pulse quickened at his wicked promise as he ushered her out the front door. Before Ryann could respond or string two coherent words together, his hand connected solidly with her ass in a parting farewell and the gym doors rattled shut behind her.

And there she was, standing on the sidewalk with wet panties, wearing his sweat all over her, and with a date she never asked for.
What in the hell just happened?

CHAPTER

 3 

A
ide
n was not exaggerating when he said the Mirage was sold out. The only empty seats she could see were the ones beside her, seats she suspected were reserved for family, and sitting there made her feel a little awkward. People eyed her with a mixture of surprise and curiosity. Some gave her blatant glares—mostly the women—while others stared at her like she was some kind of circus oddity.

A guy from the group of men, presumably Aiden’s camp, came over and plopped down in the empty seat beside her. His shirt had
Disco Stick
printed across the front of it and
Take a ride
plastered across the back. How cute. She recognized the man he’d been sparring with the other day, standing among the group. He looked no friendlier now than he had then.

“Don’t let those bitches get to you. They’re just jealous,” Disco Shirt said, bumping her with his shoulder as if they were old friends.

Ryann turned an assessing look on the man. He was lithe and muscular. The scar above his brow and over his cheekbone hinted he was a fellow fighter. The man was handsome, though not in Aiden’s league of hotness, but he could definitely hold his own.

“I’m not bothered.” A denial neither of them believed. “I just don’t like large crowds”—which was absolutely the truth.

He shrugged as if her lie mattered not to him either way. “Suit yourself. I’m Regan, by the way.”

“Ryann,” she said, accepting his offered hand. His grip was firm, his palm callused—exactly how she had imagined the hands of a fighter would be like.

“You excited about the fight tonight?”

“Curious is more like it. I’ve never been to something like this before.”

Regan laughed. “Well you picked a great one to break your cherry on, sweetheart. Disco puts on one hell of a show. Wicked talented fighter, that guy. So . . . if you don’t mind me asking, how do you know our boy?”

“I don’t.”

Regan shot her a surprised look. “Yet here you are, sitting in a spot reserved for family and close friends.” The suspicion in his tone suggested he didn’t believe her.

“I assure you I am neither.”

“Wow . . . Disco must want in your pants pretty bad to give you a front row seat to this fight.”

Ryann’s jaw dropped.

“What?” he asked, having the nerve to sound offended. He did a double take, looking between her and the aisle as if expecting “our boy” to come jogging down it any moment. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Like what?”

“Like I just told you something you didn’t already know.”

No comment. This conversation was not happening. Change of subject. “Why do you call him Disco?”

As if on cue, the house lights went out and floodlights clicked on, illuminating the path from the octagon to the doorway where the fighters emerged. Regan leaned closer to be heard above the announcer and yelled over the ramping noise. “You’re about to find out.” Standing, he laid his hand on her shoulder, giving it a friendly squeeze and said, “Enjoy the show, Ryann. It was nice meeting you.”

As the music started up, Regan made his way back to his friends. She immediately recognized the beat coming from the speakers and couldn’t hold back the bubble of laughter.
Lady Gaga? You’ve got to be kidding me . . .
She rolled her eyes, shaking her head as the intro continued to play.
This guy is walking out to “Love Game”? Seriously?

“Ladies and gentlemen, it’s the fight you’ve been waiting for! Put your hands together for Aiden ‘Disco Stick’ Kruuuze!”

The crowd went wild and the music boomed louder.

Ryann followed the gaze of the masses and watched as Aiden descended the aisle, pumped up and moving to the beat of the music. Men slapped his back as he passed them and women pawed at him. Fans waved signs proclaiming things like
I love you, Disco!
,
Go Disco!
, and
I’ll take a ride!
Once he reached the main floor, his team surrounded him. A short, bald man approached, elbowing his way into the throng. After patting Aiden down, he wiped something greasy on Aiden’s face, and the fighter nodded periodically to the questions shouted at him, but she couldn’t hear what he said over the noise.

Her stomach knotted with a mixture of anxiety and anticipation—emotions he did not seem to share, because that cocky grin he wore never faltered.

After a few back-slapping hugs from his team, Disco Stick entered the octagon and promptly began parading around the ring as if the fight was already won. Despite herself, Ryann found his confident arrogance a bit charming, the roar of the crowd infectious. They loved him—then again, who wouldn’t? He exuded a raw, masculine sex appeal that women went wild over, and as much as Ryann hated to admit it, not even she was immune to his charms. She was finding it very difficult to take her eyes off this stunning man.

What she didn’t expect, however, was for the fighter to turn and lock gazes with her. There were easily sixteen thousand people in here, but it was her he stared at, and holy shit if that didn’t shoot a heady sensation right into her core. That glam-cam smile softened, taking on a sensual grin that absolutely melted her heart.

He seemed genuinely pleased to find her here, which made zero sense, because he didn’t even know her. Yet, the connection they shared, although brief, was absolutely undeniable. Perhaps she wasn’t the only one who felt it. But before her heart could gallop away from her head, she sternly reminded herself,
He’s engaged, you idiot. Stop looking at him like
you
want to take a spin on that disco stick. He’s a paycheck and that’s it.

This wasn’t real. It was nothing more than a show for the fans. Unable to hold his amber stare another moment, she broke the connection. Looking into her lap, Ryann took a deep breath, forcing herself to focus on breathing and calming her racing heart. Her cheeks burned with the flush of desire, her body aching in places she’d forgotten existed after such a long dry spell. By the time she rallied the courage to look up again, Aiden was across the octagon and waiting in his respective corner for his opponent to enter. If it wasn’t for her heart still rioting in her chest and the undeniable moisture in her panties, she might have convinced herself she’d imagined the whole thing.

Regan hadn’t been kidding. Aiden did put on one hell of a show. He was a great fighter, as was his opponent. The brawl wasn’t as one-sided as she’d been expecting. The fighters exchanged blows in two rounds of stand-up that had her wincing every time Aiden took a shot, and inwardly cheering every time he gave as good as he got—and then some.

Watching him fight was both exhilarating and captivating, the control and power he exuded, astounding. She’d come tonight expecting to hate MMA, and was only here because this was her job—or so she told herself when she’d taken a painstaking amount of time deciding what to wear tonight. There weren’t a lot of colors she could get away with wearing. Her deep, fiery locks looked almost black in this darker lighting, but once she got into a brighter setting, her flaming tresses could really clash with her clothes if she wasn’t careful. She’d chosen a dark green sleeveless cowl-neck with a lace-patterned back and a black above the knee pencil skirt. Her matching shoes had a modest one-inch heel. She’d chosen something to give her average five-six height a little boost, but not tall enough to scream “I’m easy.” A lot could be said about a woman by the shoes she wore, and Ryann did not want to give this fighter the wrong idea—though she suspected from their last interaction that he might have come to that misconception all on his own.

She gasped when Aiden took a hit to his cheek and then found herself cheering as he shook it off and shot for his opponent’s hips, taking Mallenger “the Mauler” to the mat. The fighter hit the ground hard, and in a matter of seconds he was past Mallenger’s guard, whatever that meant—but it must have been good, judging by the commentator’s excited yelling. Aiden rained fists and elbows onto the man’s face. The right one apparently connected, because a moment later the Mauler was no longer defending himself. The ref pulled Aiden off his opponent, held his arm in the air, and declared him the victor by KO.

Aiden’s team flooded into the octagon, jumping and cheering. They picked him up, spun him around, clasped him in back-slapping hugs. The energy in the room was contagious, and Ryann found herself wanting to join the melee, to congratulate him on an amazing, well-fought fight. A part of her was actually looking forward to seeing him at the after party—until she remembered why she was there.

Not wanting to get caught up in the crowd, Ryann slipped into the aisle and made her way out of the arena. The celebration was supposed to continue on the fourth floor. She’d get there early and hopefully find a few private minutes to speak with Aiden alone.

Where in the hell was she? Aiden searched the crowd for the redheaded beauty and found her seat was empty. The disappointment at discovering her gone resounded solidly in his gut. Ever since she’d walked into that gym two days ago, he’d scarcely thought of anything else. He hadn’t been kidding when he’d told her she was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen, though he’d gotten the distinct feeling she hadn’t believed him for a second. That she might not know how gorgeous she was, he found sexy as hell. Her seeming lack of vanity was refreshing. Most women who approached him were ridiculously vain and superficial, and so cosmetically enhanced that if they’d possessed any natural beauty, it was long dead and buried.

But not this woman—there was something special about her. The moment he laid eyes on her he could tell she was nothing like the others. His attraction to the beguiling redhead had surprised him, a swift and guttural response that just about took him out at the knees. She’d caught him so off guard that, rather than stand there staring at her like a complete dumbass, he’d donned his famed Disco persona and treated her just like every other cage banger that walked into his gym—except this one he wanted to see again.

She intrigued him. Not only was she stunning, but intelligence lit those verdant eyes that reminded him of brilliant emeralds. Brains and beauty—a rare combination found in the circles he ran. When he’d glanced over and found Del Toro talking to her, a wave of irrational jealousy had surged up inside him and grabbed him by the balls—and it had yet to let go.