Stone Cold Knockout (House of Pain Book 1) (33 page)

She had to force herself not to run down the aisle and throw herself into his arms. Instead, she walked slowly alongside Hector, her eyes never leaving his face. He looked like her Misha again. Emotion suddenly overcame her and more bothersome tears welled up in her eyes. She wanted him so badly, she didn't want to think about all the things that could have happened or should have happened or would have happened. She only cared about the here and the now.

And right now, she was about to marry to the love of her life.

They finally made it to the end of the aisle and she swiped at her face, trying to keep as much of her mascara intact as possible. Hector pressed a kiss to her cheek and stepped away, leaving her alone with Mikhail. She smoothed her hand over Mikhail's white shirt and pressed her palm above his heart.

“
You look stunning,
solnyshka
,” he murmured, lifting the veil off of her face. She snorted out a laugh, rolling her eyes as she glanced down at her ridiculous dress. With a shrug, she brought her hand up to stroke his smooth cheek, wanting to smother him with kisses.

“
You don't look too bad yourself,” she said.

“
You ready darlin'?” Elvis asked beside her, his white polyester suit stretched over his big belly. Mikhail's eyes lit up with amusement. He was enjoying this. Too much.

“
Yeah, I guess so,” she shrugged and sniffed, feigning nonchalance.

“
Good enough for me,” Elvis said. “How about you?” Mikhail nodded, working his jaw like he was trying hard not to laugh. Elvis nodded. “We're here today to celebrate the hunk-a-hunk-a burning love between this this hound dog and this Priscilla.”

Erica coughed to cover a laugh from the audience and Gennifer shot her a sharp look.

“Sorry,” she mouthed.

“
Do you—” Elvis motioned to Mikhail.

“
Mikhail.”

“
Do you Mikhail, take—” Elvis motioned to Gennifer.

“
Gennifer.”

“
To be your lawfully wedded Priscilla?”

“
Yes.” Mikhail dropped his gaze to meet hers. He stared at her so intensely, Gennifer felt the tears starting to flow again. How she loved this man.

“
And do you—”

“
Yes!” Gennifer exclaimed, cutting Elvis off. “I mean, yes, I do take this hound dog to be my husband.”

“
Love him tender, pussycat,” Elvis said, smiling wide. “By the power granted to me by the great city of Las Vegas, Nevada, I know pronounce you man and wife—!”

Gennifer didn't hear the rest. Mikhail swept her up in his arms and kissed her so hard, her heart felt like it was going to burst from her chest. She threw her arms around his neck and hugged him tight. White rice rained down on them, courtesy of Priscilla, and Elvis hit play on the CD player. Mikhail slid a plain gold band on her finger to match her engagement ring, then hauled her up off her feet.
Viva Las Vegas
serenaded them as he carried her down the aisle. Despite the atrocious music, she buried her face in his neck and smiled so hard her cheeks hurt. Against all odds, she was finally Mikhail's wife.
She was going to have to get used to being happy, she realized. She was going to have to get used to the idea of being married. She was going to have to get used to a lot of things... but she was up for the challenge.

She knew it now more than ever.

Epilogue

S
he didn't know where the idea had come from, but when it struck her, Gennifer immediately knew that she wanted to do it. A women's self-defense class would be the perfect thing for House of Pain, she decided, and she was determined to make it happen. It took over a month, but eventually she wore Big Jimmy down with her persistence, like always. She began teaching the class on Wednesday nights, and since the first class in November, there'd been so many more women around the gym. It was strange. The locker room wasn't her and Erica's only anymore. But she liked having the female energy around. There was Erica and her sister, a new girl named Shay, and several others. She'd even gotten Maria and Tiny in the ring a few times.

Gennifer leaned on the ropes of the ring, watching Mikhail as he bench-pressed across the room. She didn't think she would ever grow tired of seeing him in his element. He was a born athlete, and even though he was retired for good, she knew he would be a lifelong gym rat. Just like her. Just like everybody in her family.

“Rainbow baby, I'm outta here,” Big Jimmy boomed as he stomped down the stairs to the gym floor. Gennifer tossed a smile to her father. “Don't call me, don't come by the house. It's my anniversary and I'm off the clock.”

“
Where are you taking Maria tonight? You have big plans?” Gennifer called out after him.

“
We're going dancing,” Big J said with a laugh that echoed through the gym. “Then I'm going to take her home and make sweet love to her—”

“
Agh!” Gennifer clamped her hands over her ears. “I don't want to hear all that!”

“
You asked, Little Miss Newlywed,” Big J chuckled as he exited the door of the gym. She shook her head and stuck her tongue out at him. He was never going to let her live down the fact that she'd eloped without telling him. She could hear his laughter still echoing from the street, only fading as he moved further away.

Erica and her sister Joanna, a lanky brunette, emerged from the women's locker room, changed from their gym attire back into their street clothes. They waved goodbye to Gennifer as they too headed for the door. Gennifer followed Erica's gaze up to the office, at Hector sitting in Big J's old creaky chair, his back to the window. In the weeks since they'd gotten back from Vegas, Hector and Erica didn't seem to be as close as before. In fact, Hector rarely came down to talk to anyone. She could tell he liked Erica, but whether he was going to be an idiot and not fight for her was yet to be seen.

With a sigh, Gennifer turned back to the front of the gym. The sky outside the window  was ink blue and the streetlights that dotted Greene were already on. It was already December and the days were getting shorter and shorter. Usually the changing of the seasons would make Gennifer melancholy, but not this year. This year, she was in love and all was right with the world. She watched Mikhail sit up after finishing his reps, sweat glistening on his biceps. He winked at her as he stood, and she crooked her finger at him, beckoning him to her side.

“
You are very distracting, you know? I try to lift, but I can not stop watching you move around the ring,” he said as he sauntered over, tossing a towel around his neck.

“
I think you were trying to distract me, Mr. Ivanhof. I saw you take your shirt off halfway through my class. You want all my girls to admire you?”

“
You are jealous?” he asked, a smile spreading over his face. “I like it when you are jealous.”

“
I wasn't jealous,” Gennifer said as he gracefully hopped up on the side of the ring and grabbed her around the waist, the ropes creating a barrier between them.

“
I think now you know how I feel.” He snapped the band of her skimpy sports bra and Gennifer couldn't help but laugh. She'd worn it just for him. She knew how much he preferred that she work out in a bulky T-shirt, but she much preferred the wolfish, possessive look on his face when she didn't.

“
Shut up and
potseluy menya,”
Gennifer said, throwing her arms around his neck.

“
Your Russian is getting better,” he said before he kissed her. She moaned into him, loving the way he tasted, as always. She was still trying to get used to the fact that this big beautiful man was all hers. It was still so crazy and unbelievable, but also, so right. She'd never felt more right about anything in her life. There had been tears and apologies when she'd told Big J and Maria about the elopement, but she didn't regret anything. Not for a second.

Well, maybe she regretted Elvis, but that was neither here nor there.

“I need a sparring partner,” she said when they finally parted. “You down?” He smiled wide in response, revealing his shiny brand new upper bicuspid, as he dipped under the ropes and entered the ring. Gennifer felt the familiar rush of excitement ripple through her as soon as he was in the ring with her. This was her favorite part. He strapped on his gloves, then stretched his arms above his head. Goddamn, her man was sexy. She stared unabashedly at his naked chest, just as excited to watch him stretch as she was to spar with him.

“
You know I am an old married man now,” he said. “You take it easy on me?”

“
In your dreams.” Gennifer cocked an eyebrow as she held out her gloved hands, ready to tap in.

“
You know what I want, when I win,” he said, the dangerous, competitive glint shining in his eyes as he stepped close. He was ready to bring it, and Gennifer squared her shoulders, ready for him.

“
Oh, I know,” Gennifer said with a sly smile. “Too bad you're not going to win.”

“
We shall see,
solnyshka
,” he said, pursing his lips and blowing her a kiss. Gennifer narrowed her eyes, accepting the challenge.

Then they tapped gloves and the fight was on.

The End

***

COMING EARLY 2015

SPITFIRE SUCKERPUNCH

(HOUSE OF PAIN #2)

When a cop fights for his life, a criminal meets her match...

Life is finally starting to go Tate Grayson's way. His promotion to sergeant with the NYPD comes through just as he has a steady girlfriend for the first time in years. He's finally come to peace with his painful past and has accepted his place in Big Jimmy Domino's rag tag family of outcasts. Life is good. But the shy, not-so-gentle giant has no idea that a sexy spitfire from his past is about to reappear and punch a big messy hole right through his quiet existence.

Growing up in Harlem, Shay 'Sugar' Spears was taught to never trust the police. Why she ever thought she could trust the big blonde cop with the shy smile, she'll never know. The joke was on her when he arrested her for a crime that she didn't commit. She went to prison for five long years, but now she's free and she's looking for revenge. Tate may be irresistible, but there's no way in hell Shay is going to let him get away with what he did to her. She's on a mission to make him just as miserable as she is.

But strangely enough, every time Shay looks at Tate, all of her plotting and scheming becomes less about making him pay and more about making him hers...

Enjoy this preview from Lavender Parker's THE BURNING ONE, available now!

Chapter One

February

New York, New York

C
hadwick Benedict entered the art gallery on the far side of Chelsea with much fanfare. It seemed he couldn't do much these days without garnering attention. Paparazzi bulbs flashed and people in the small crowd gathered outside screamed his name, but he couldn't make out any particular faces. He didn't take the time. He moved quickly from the big black SUV he arrived in to the cool white loft. Finally the door was closed firmly behind him, and things quieted down. Rolando and Freddy, his two bodyguards, positioned themselves in front of the door and Chadwick was free to roam the art-filled space. It was blissfully, if deceptively, empty of human activity. He knew her people were buzzing around in the back, prepping for tonight. Tonight was the opening, but he'd thrown his weight around and gotten in early to see her work. A perk of being famous. When he heard she was finally back in the states and out of her self-imposed exile in South America, he knew there was no way in hell he would miss seeing her work. And buying whatever pieces he liked the best, no matter the cost.

The last three years had been a whirlwind of mind-blowing success and excess, but even before he was rich, he had been no stranger to the art world. He'd grown up around artists, successful and starving. His mother Colletta had been of the starving variety for most of her career. It was only after her death that her name grew famous and her pieces grew expensive. Indira was his mother's superstar student, taught during Colletta's stint at Columbia University. Although he had never met the reclusive woman, he knew her story well.

Born in India in the late '70s, but raised all over the world, Indira Zacharia Frederickson was the daughter of a British aristocrat and an Indian woman. She'd grown up rich and sheltered, and was considered by many to be charmingly eccentric. She found her first success in her early twenties, when Archie Travers, the famous art critic, discovered her toiling away in her Brooklyn studio on her most well-known piece,
Ophelia On The Bank
. As a teenager, he had seen the massive
Ophelia
when he visited the Tate Modern in London, where it hung. Since then, he'd been somewhat obsessed with the mysterious woman. He was drawn to her style. Her work was primitive. Unhinged. Now somewhere in her thirties, she was bordering on irrelevant. But this show would be her comeback. He knew it the second he saw her new work.

He was no art critic
―in fact, he disliked the elitist, racist assholes―but he could sense that her work was powerful. He was immediately drawn to a large, textural canvas, hanging from the ceiling. The slick black oil paint bulged and dripped, the imperfections catching the light, and it made him think of sex, somehow. Unforgettable sex, rough and hard and messy. He raised his hand to the gold chains on his chest, flipping one of big diamond pendants between his fingers.

“
Hey, Georgie,” he called out. His personal assistant, his baby cousin Georgie, sashayed over, her eyes not leaving her iPhone. She was nowhere near as impressed with him as everybody else.

“
What up, Cee?”

“
What do you think of that one?” He pointed above. She glanced up and cocked her head. His father's side of the family, to which Georgie was a part, had very little understanding or appreciation of the arts. Georgie shrugged, her big gold earrings brushing her shoulders.

“
I don't know. It looks dirty. And... wet.”

“
I know, right?” Cee nodded, slowly. “I want it.” Georgie slid her phone into the back pocket of her neon green skinny jeans and nodded.

“
I'll find someone.” She headed off toward the back of the gallery, in search of the artist's agent. He normally didn't take care of these things himself. He would look at the pieces online, then Georgie or his buyer would purchase it for him. But he couldn't stay away this time. He wanted to experience Indira's work up close and personal. And more than anything, he wanted to meet her. He had hoped she would be here today. But apparently, that wasn't the case.

He continued working his way around the space, his phone vibrating every few seconds. He should turn the damn thing off. He didn't want to be interrupted. But he didn't. He just ignored it, moving on to a smaller pink and red canvas. The paint was caked on and thick, peaked and ridged. Jesus. Maybe he was seeing sex in everything, but damn if he wasn't getting turned on. Turned on by being so close to something Indira's hands and mind had touched.

“Mr. Benedict.” A tall redhead was striding toward him, her simple tailored black suit contrasting with the rough and sexual pieces around her. “I'm Erica Stephens.” She held out her hand for him to shake and he took it, his eyes traveling down the deep V of her blazer, her shadowy cleavage naked to his eyes. She smiled, her eyes lingering on him. He was dressed like the star he was―blue velvet blazer, oxblood-red leather pants, white T-shirt, chains, and loosely-laced Tims―and he knew he looked fly. But he wondered if she was judging him. His dreadlocks, tied back and long, didn't help, he was sure. But his money was just as green as any other rich man's, and he had it to burn. Her eyes moved on to the painting, and she smiled slightly.

“
I love this piece.” She raised her hand to point, the gold watch on her wrist glinting in the light. “The way the line draws your eye in.”

“
Is the artist here?” Cee asked, unable to resist.

“
Oh. I'm sorry.” She shook her head and he felt disappointment flood through him. “She won't be here until the opening tonight.”

“
She'll be here tonight?” he said, a little too sharply. She furrowed her brow for a brief second.

“
Do you know Indira Z.?” she asked.

“
No.” Cee turned back to the painting. “I'll take this one. And that one.” He motioned over his shoulder at the black canvas. The redhead's eyes widened.

“
I'm sure we can arrange that, Mr. Benedict.” She slipped away as quietly as she'd come, disappearing behind the white wall in the back. Wetting his lip with his tongue, Cee's eyes caught on a moving image, projected high on the wall. Indira's dark eyes stared down at him, blinking every few seconds, her oval-shaped face placid. But there were shadows under her eyes and her cheekbones jutted out. Her long dark hair blew around her as if by some unseen force. Then she began to speak, but there was no audio. She looked to the side, turning her face away. Then the video replayed itself, on a loop.

He couldn't tear his gaze away. She was as beautiful and as haunting as any picture he had ever seen of her. She was older now, but more radiant, if it was possible. She had an odd intensity behind her eyes, like a fire, burning brightly, threatening to consume her. He knew that intensity. He saw it in himself sometimes, when he finished a good show and was back in his dressing room, sweat-drenched and out of breath.

“Mr. Benedict.” The redhead was back, her brow furrowed again. “I apologize, but that piece is not for sale.” She motioned to the black canvas, frowning.

“
What?” Cee wasn't used to being told no. “Why?”

“
The artist has not listed it.”

“
Talk to whoever you have to. I want it.” Cee shrugged, no doubt in his mind that the painting would be hanging in his bedroom before the week was out.

***

Indira sat in her car across the street from the Chelsea studio. The paps were waiting around on the sidewalk for the rock star who had entered to look at her work before everyone else. She'd caught a quick glimpse of the tall black man as he fought his way in. She rolled her top lip between her teeth. She hoped he bought something. She needed the money. One piece alone would give her breathing room for the next few months.

She ran her hand through her thick black hair, now enhanced or marred by a swath of blue in the front, depending on the perception of who was looking at her. Maybe she was too old for it. At 35-years-old, she didn't feel young or hip anymore, that was for sure. And she was well aware that this show was probably her last hope. If it went well, she could disappear again and toil away at her own pace. If it went badly, she supposed she would have to pursue a career in academia. The thought was not a happy one. But she'd never been good with money, and she was running perilously low.

Her phone vibrated on the leather seat next to her and she glanced down at the caller ID. Erica, her seller's agent. Her heart gave an excited jump. A good sign. She answered it, holding it away from her ear like it was contaminated. She didn't want bad news.

“
Indira?” Erica was saying.

“
Which pieces?” Indira answered, her heart in her throat.

“
Revanche
and
Pearl
,” the agent replied, referring to a smaller work and a Museum Call, a term she used to refer to the bigger pieces that she wanted to see in famous museums, not in private collections. She felt her lips pull into a pout. Of course. Of course he wanted that one.

“
Pearl
is not for sale,” she heard herself saying, although it pained her to do so. She could easily net a million for the single piece. But some pieces deserved―cried out for!―placement in public spaces. And she knew in her heart
Pearl
was her best piece in years.

“
I'll let Mr. Benedict know,” Erica said then hung up. Indira started her late-model BMW and drove up the cobblestone street to 11
th
avenue. She made a screeching left at the light and made another left onto the street behind the gallery. Jerking to a  stop at the back door, she double-parked and put on her hazards. Climbing out of the low slung car, she hurried to the door, painted to blend in with the back of the building, and knocked. The street was deserted, as streets in far west Chelsea tended to be, and no one paid her any mind. Not that they would anyway. Unlike the rock star, no one was interested in taking pictures of a fading artist trying to make a comeback.

The February day was unseasonably sunny and warm, and Indira tilted her face up to the sky, enjoying the feel of the sunshine on her face. For a few brief moments, she let herself feel good. Let herself feel like everything wasn't on the brink of collapse. Then the door swung open, interrupting her reverie.

“Ms. Indira?” the security guard said, his face surprised. They weren't expecting her back until later in the day. She adjusted her enormous sunglasses and gave him a small smile. He stepped aside and let her pass. She had wanted to take off before the rock star stopped by, but her nervousness hadn't allowed her to do so. Now that he wanted one of her favorite pieces, she was intrigued. Dropping her car keys in her big black leather bag, she rounded the corner into the main gallery, her paint-splotched ballet slippers soundless on the cement floor.

“
Talk to whoever you have to. I want it,” she heard the deep male voice saying.

“
Mr. Benedict―” Erica began, then glanced back at her, surprised. Time seemed to slow as the tall rock star turned to face her. She knew immediately who he was. She should have known from the name, but it for whatever reason, it hadn't registered. Colletta Chadwick. Chadwick Benedict. She kneaded her top lip between her teeth. He was handsome. He looked like his mother in the face, but with a strong masculine jaw. His eyes were big and brown, his lashes long behind a pair of thick black frames. And his hair, pulled back in dreadlocks, suited him. He looked damn good. Young, but damn good.

“
Talk away, but you're not going to change my mind,” Indira said, her voice stronger than she felt. His eyes swept her, from her feet to her hair. Then his lips spread into a wide, charming smile. It was probably the smile he used when he was in the business of getting panties to drop. But she wasn't wearing any panties underneath her long, shapeless black dress, so she didn't have to worry about that.

“
Indira, this is Chadwick Benedict,” Erica said, making the perfunctory introductions.

“
I know who he is,” she said, but she held out a hand anyway. “I used to pick you up from school. Do you remember that?” He blinked, and then enveloped her small plain hand in his big warm one. Dark ink covered the back of his hands and forearms, she noticed. His mother would have hated that. She didn't believe in tattoos. Colletta believed the body held all the beauty it needed simply in being. Body modification was a disruption of the natural body, therefore ruinous to the creative spirit. Indira could practically hear the dead woman's voice in her ear.

“
No.” He shook his head, glancing down at her hand. He towered over her, at least six foot to her five foot five.

“
As a favor to your mother.” Indira let herself look him in the eye, because she was protected by the big sunglasses. “You were about ten or so then. Little know-it-all. Bratty as hell.”

“
Sounds like me. But I don't remember that at all.” He was shaking his head, still holding her hand.

“
I was going by a different name then. Maybe that's why you don't remember me.” Softly, she withdrew her hand and swept around him toward
Pearl
, which was suspended from the ceiling by a rope and pulley system. “You're interested in this one?” She waved Erica off and Chad followed her, his heavy boots clomping behind her.