Knock Out (Worth the Fight) (4 page)

Twist my tights
. What was going on... Did he just rob this couple?

Keane climbed back into the passenger seat, the irate woman right behind him.
Oh my God
. It was Rosie, with the poor fool who’d gone home with her now struggling to stay clear of her flailing limbs. She’d forgotten him already as she tried to claw her way up Keane’s body.

Something flew across the center console and landed in a black pile on Logan’s lap. A soft, familiar alpaca pile. Searching inside the inner pocket, Logan found her wallet, cell phone and keys. He’d retrieved her coat.

“You son of a bitch! You’re taking her home tonight?” Rosie screeched, her tone like nails on a chalkboard. “After all the...”

Logan’s mouth fell open, and Easywrap struggled to keep the passenger side door from closing, despite the accumulating snow and the parting of her dragon-embroidered silk robe.

“Everything they say about him is true. He’s a heartless bastard. A great fuck—that’s all you’ll get out of him. Commitment phobia, that’s what he has. The only thing he’ll commit to is sticking his big dick in—”

Keane slammed the door shut. Rosie continued her tirade outside the window as they drove away.

Logan was speechless on the drive to her Friendship neighborhood. As was Keane—no surprise there.

Everything about him, from his tight, clenched mouth to his strong build to his dour personality, said run for the slate hills. Yet, perhaps underneath that hard, muscular shell lurked a warm-hearted man? After all, he’d gone out of his way to retrieve her coat and house keys. Dare she approach him once more about fighting?

The Jeep ambled down Friendship Boulevard, fighting snowdrifts all the way. Fortunately, the rooms she rented in the back of an old brick house were close by. Her landlady, Mrs. Debinska, was a widow with an early-to-bed, early-to-rise philosophy. Logan barely saw the reserved, frail Polish woman, though she went out of her way to make sure the old lady had groceries in the house. She hoped Mrs. Debinska was a sound sleeper. Getting busted climbing out of a stranger’s Jeep at this hour might upset the conservative elderly woman.

As she turned the Jeep onto her street, the wheels lost traction. In slow-motion, the vehicle spiraled in a circle and a half, before coming to rest backward, in a snowdrift, on the side of the road. Logan pressed the gas, but the wheels spun uselessly. Unless he lived nearby, Keane was stuck until morning.

Shaken by this realization as well as by the accident, Logan blurted, “So, I guess this means you’re sleeping over.”

He shifted his big body around in his seat and looked right at her. Steady, ice-blue eyes captured her own. She felt the heat creep up in her cheeks at the intense scrutiny.

“Wait, that didn’t come out...” Her mouth fell shut as he reached over, turned off the ignition and pocketed the keys.

His eyes continued to study her until he nodded. “I guess so.”

With that settled, she reached for the handle to her door but stopped when he rested a hand on her arm. Surprised, she turned back his way.

“Everything that happened back there, everything Rosie said...” he began.

Logan jumped in, feeling the sudden need to reassure him. “The woman stole my coat. Do you think for one second I’d believe anything she had to say?”

He shook his head. “Listen...” Pausing, he adjusted his knit cap over his ears, flexed his swollen knuckles and then glared down at the gloves he’d placed on his thigh.

“I have a package of frozen peas in the freezer. Not that you want something cold on you on a blustery night like this—”
Did she really just say that?
“Um, I’ll warm some port. It’s a habit I picked up during my trips to Paris. So, I’m offering you peas and port.”

He didn’t so much as crack a smile. Rather, he frowned. She felt like sliding under the seat.

“Logan.” Her name rolled off his tongue like sweet butter. “Just so you know, everything Rosie said...is true.”

Chapter Three

ANKLE PICK: A wrestling move, where a fighter uses a foot or hand to sweep an opponent off his/her feet and onto the mat

Keane thought it was only fair to warn her. Something about this woman, Logan, appealed to him on many levels. It was best she understand exactly what she was in for because he fully intended to take her up on her invitation. Hell, the high from his fight a week ago had long worn off. Another physical release sounded really good right about now.

Logan brought her finger to her lips in a shushing gesture and motioned him inside. Yeah, fucking her was just the thing he needed, and he’d start with those lips.

Wooden floorboards creaked beneath his weight as she led him down a long hallway. The keys jingled in her hand as she unlocked the door on the end.

“You can hang your jacket there,” she whispered, pointing to the coat rack next to the door. “I’ll be right back.”

Keane hooked his coat over a knob and glanced around. The small room was dominated by a worn leather couch, with a glass coffee table in front and low end tables at each side. An old, oak hutch holding an enormous outdated television was against the opposite wall, and on the shelf above it sat a neat stack of photo albums. An expensive-looking painting of young ballerinas dancing and two fancy lamps seemed a little out of place, but what did he know about decorating?

He picked up a miniature china figurine, a ballerina with her leg stretched up to the side of her head. With a slight squeeze of his fingers, this little dancer would easily crush. He set her back in place, and settled himself onto the couch. Closing his eyes, he listened to Logan move about.

“Here we go, just as I promised. We need more light. Would you mind turning on the one on the side table for me?”

The small movement of twisting the light’s knob reminded him how his knuckles hurt like hell.

Temporary relief came in the form of the tall cup of warmed red wine Logan placed in front of him on the coffee table. Later, he promised himself, he’d forget everything, except the feeling of being buried deep within the attractive female next to him. Resting a hand on his pocket, his fingers wrapped around the bottle of pills inside. After, when he was spent, if it hadn’t been enough to quiet his mind, he’d medicate.

“Here you go. Let me see your knuckles.” She grabbed his wrist, brought it over to rest on her thigh, and arranged a Ziploc bag of frozen peas over the swelling. “Secret of the trade. An icepack won’t wrap around your fingers the same way. I can’t tell you how many nights I sat with these homemade packs on my feet. Didn’t help the blisters much but nothing beats it for bringing down the swelling.”

At the mention of her feet, a memory of her on the ramp in those ridiculous pink Nikes made him frown in confusion. What was a woman like her—dressed in a fancy sweater and classy boots, conservative—doing strutting half-naked in the ring? She brought her legs up Indian-style on the couch and turned slightly to better face him.

Tonight, clothing covered almost every inch of her, from thick, wool socks, to tight, black pants, and on to a large, soft sweater. Effectively hiding the shapely body he’d felt pressed up against him. The memory of her hot little body, her nipples pebbling up hard against him, that tight ass flexing beneath his arm, caused his cock to stir. Those layers did nothing to dim how freakin’ sexy this ring card girl was. Fuck, every red-blooded male in Pittsburgh had been talking about this Octagon Girl.

For some unknown reason, the thought annoyed him.

Women threw themselves at him all the time, though he hadn’t expected an Octagon Girl to hurl herself into his chest in a full body slam. Or block his exit from the arena. This woman was determined, he’d give her that, tracking him down at Finnegan’s and maneuvering Rosie out of bed, so to speak.

“You certainly don’t like to mince words,” she said sarcastically.

He liked that. She had spunk. He shifted and the movement of the cushion forced her closer. Yeah, she was just what he needed—a temporary distraction from all his problems.

Logan had done something to her hair, pulled it up into a loose bun. Blond wisps escaped and settled around her face. She was prettier than he remembered. Attractive, and eager.

Picking up on the heat within his stare, she flushed a pretty pink. He waited for her to act on it. A few seconds passed, and then she spoke. “You knocked Andy the Annihilator out in ten seconds. You’re a champion, that’s why Jerry wants you on his fight team.”

“Seven seconds, in a guillotine.” He flexed his fingers. This conversation was going nowhere. The raw insistence in her voice pissed him off. Not at her, at whatever caused it. Shit, he could relate. But him fighting, that wasn’t gonna work out for him. Or her. A good fuck—now that would help.

His hand found her thigh and shifted upward. The spark of hunger in her green eyes made his cock thicken. No surprise there, yet he was tempted to smile.

Man alive, she was willing. He leaned further back onto the couch and stretched out his legs. Better if Logan initiated things. Less drama that way, by making her work for it, having her be the aggressor. Someone who’d enjoy exactly what he was offering. Someone who wouldn’t break into tears if he didn’t talk to her afterward. Or ever again—which he tended to do more often than not.

He relaxed, and waited for her to make good on her earlier invitation.

* * *

Keane’s smoldering glances—heated I-want-to-get-into-your-panties kind of looks—were getting more frequent and hotter by the minute. Sprawled on the couch next to her, he didn’t say much. Yet he more than made up for the lack of words with the bold caress of his eyes. Not that Logan minded. In fact, she found herself wanting more. But aside from the whisperlike feel of his finger, he hadn’t moved to touch her at all. Sharing her albums had been a bad idea.

Twist my tights.
Why did she let him open the damned thing in the first place?

An hour had passed while he looked at the photographs, newspaper clips and programs from her most treasured scrapbook, arranged chronologically to showcase the best moments of her life—the story of a dedicated ballerina who had taken Lincoln Center by storm.

“So?” His question made her jump. The port made her mind slow and dumb as she turned over the possibilities of that one word in her mind...
So
,
what are we waiting for?
So
,
take off your sweater?
So
,
let’s take this into the bedroom?

With a shake of his head, Keane flipped the page of the album balanced between them on his thigh.

Her breath caught. The headline “Ballet’s New Royal Couple” was centered on the front page of the
New York Times
. And there they were. A close-up of her beaming like a new mother and Pierre looking at her with loving stars in his eyes. The lying jerk was as smug as could be.

Logan grabbed the offensive scrapbook, snapped it shut and tossed it to the floor. She’d forgotten she’d saved a few photos and articles from the Pierre bonfire. Leave it to her asshole of an ex-fiancé to put in an unexpected appearance and do the one thing he was great at doing...ruining everything.

Just when Keane seemed relaxed and reasonable. And so damned sexy her mouth felt dry. Just when she’d been building the courage to approach him again about helping her, about fighting, Pierre resurfaced.
Just you wait
, she promised, and braced herself for the forthcoming questions.

“So?” Keane prodded, unaware of how everything she’d ever wanted was lying there, in the album, on the floor. How all the pain from the past year simmered just below the surface, primed and ready to burst. The port and her hopelessly heightened libido didn’t help, either.

Stupid. One glance in a mirror would verify it—the ridiculous expression on her face as she stared blankly at Mr. Few Words next to her.

“You’re a dancer, a ballerina. So, dance,” he stated.

“I broke my ankle,” she said, and studied her hands in an attempt to mute the frustration in her voice. “I spent years training, hours every day, since I was a little kid. I’d finally landed a spot in a major dance troupe, a chance at fully living my dream, and now...”

“Let’s see,” he said, his voice throaty, whiskey-toned.

“Let’s see what? You want me to dance right now?”

Without responding, he grabbed her legs and brought her feet over to rest on his calves. With big, sure hands, he rolled down one long wool sock and then the other.

Stunned, she tried to pull away.

“Tsk, tsk,” he mouthed, his beautiful lips pursed together.

She’d imagined a fighter’s nose would be notched and crooked. Instead, Keane’s was straight and perfectly proportioned to his face. With the exception of a square jaw, his features were surprisingly delicate. The sexual tension rolling off of him, however, was pure male. And her reaction was all female, with the way she itched to run her fingers along his high cheekbones.

He tossed her socks to the floor, and arranged her bare feet upon his knees.

Tiny jolts of pleasure rippled through her at his touch. Her feet had never been sensitive—years of dancing had hardened and calloused them. She jumped with surprise when the tender skin on her sole yielded beneath his thumbs.
Not
dancing professionally had one advantage, it seemed.

His thumbs moved up to the indentation between her ankle and heel.

“Hmm, this one,” he remarked as a finger ran along the raised scar tissue crisscrossing her ankle. Instinctually, she pulled away. Having him touch her
there
—it felt like he’d skimmed over a vulnerable point deep inside her, the ugly scars hiding the pain within.

He tugged her closer, nudging her bottom upward so that she was balanced on his thigh. Ignoring her gasp, he hoisted her leg straight up in the air, causing her to fall backward onto the couch. Before she could guess what he was about, warm lips pressed against the spot of her injury.

Her hips arched up off his thigh involuntarily.

“No one’s ever... What are you doing?” she gasped, as the first flick of his tongue rasped the sensitive flesh of her ankle.

“Relax,” he murmured against her tingling skin. Logan’s senses had shifted to high gear and she gripped the upholstery beneath her, desperate for something to hold on to.

His tongue swirled over the sensitive skin beneath her ankle bone, over the peaks and valleys of her scar. A light, moist caress, causing a warm tingling sensation to shoot up her leg and burst to life between her thighs.
Sweet heaven
. Keane’s wicked tongue laved at her skin. Right on the very spot that had brought her career and her life to a screeching halt, shattering all of it.

Her thoughts spiraled like fireflies on a hot summer night. She wanted to let go. Let her body take over. Forget the agonizing year she’d been through. Give in to just feeling...good.

How could so much pleasure cause so much pain?

His tongue. Him. Her messed-up psyche. She bit back a frustrated cry. It was too much to bear.

She shimmied backward and yanked her leg away.

A low grunt of displeasure was his only response.

Thankfully, her bottom connected with the remote, and the TV clicked on, breaking the awkward silence. Even better, a commercial advertising the qualifying bouts for Tetnus filled the screen, capturing Keane’s attention.

She imagined herself a wallflower at the prom, one too embarrassed to dance with the hottest guy in school. The foolish feeling was exactly right, even if she
had
missed her prom for a ballet recital.

The commercial ended and Keane rose from the sofa. Apparently, he was leaving.

“No! You’re in no condition to drive, the roads are a mess, and I still haven’t talked to you about fighting...”

He glared down at her. “You can forget that. I’m not fighting anymore.”

Logan felt like kicking herself. She’d sidetracked, so focused on him, his wicked tongue and her neurosis, she’d hadn’t yet convinced him to fight. And now, she’d not only chased him off, but ruined her chances of reasoning with him.

“Look, you seem like a nice person. But I’ve gotta go. Brave it on foot.”

He bent over and retrieved something—a small orange container—from the floor. Then, he moved toward the door.

She jumped up. Her head spun from the port.

With a snatch of his jacket, he put his hand on the doorknob. “Thanks for the ride,” he muttered, sliding his arm into a sleeve.

“You can have the sofa. I’d really feel better if you stayed.”

His glanced at the couch and back at her. His eyes narrowed with displeasure.

“It’s comfortable—if you want, you can sleep in my bed and I’ll take the sofa. Really, the idea of you leaving during a major snowstorm is ridiculous. There won’t be a cab. What else can I possibly say to convince you—?”

“Nothing.” He held up a hand in a farewell gesture, and her eyes fell on the small canister in his palm.

“What is that?”

“None of your business. It’s been...interesting.” He turned to leave but Logan slid in front of him and blocked the door. Close enough she could smell the sweet wine on his breath. Close enough to read the label on the prescription bottle in his hand. Oxycontin. Not only had he been drinking all evening, but he was taking pain killers. She’d taken a few of them during her recuperation and knew how they dimmed the pain. And everything else.

“I’m not letting you leave in your condition.”

He grunted. “Little too late to be passing judgment, honey.”

“You’re on medication. Ever read the small print on the bottle? The print that says don’t use with alcohol? The same print that says it’ll make you groggy?” She gestured toward the door. “A blizzard is coming down out there. You’re likely to end up like the Jeep, ass planted in a snowdrift.”

He snorted. “The pills—didn’t take any. As far as drinking, I’ve barely begun...”

“Are you always this unreasonable?”

The glare he shot her said it all.

Still, she tried one more time. Stomping her foot in frustration, she demanded, “What do I have to do to convince you to stay?”