If You Believe

He felt an arm curl around him, yanking him close. "You done good, kid. Like always," said a gravelly, tobacco-fed voice.

Mad Dog slowly lowered the towel from his face. Sneaky Joe, the fight's promoter, grinned up at him through watery gray eyes.

"Thanks, Joe. " Mad Dog tossed his towel into the corner and patted Joe's humped back. "Where's my cut?"

"Right here. " Joe dug deep in his ratty pocket and pulled out a wad of bills. "One hundred and fifty-two dollars. Should last you till next season. If you're careful. "

Mad Dog pocketed the money without bothering to count it. "When have you ever known me to be careful?"

Joe laughed. "Never. "

Mad Dog went to the corner of the ring and picked up his Stetson, clothes bag, boots, and a bottle of tequila. Everything he owned in the world.

Tearing off the cork, he took a long, satisfying gulp of tequila and wiped the dribble from his unshaven chin and drooping mustache.

Joe scurried up behind him, moving as quickly as his misshapen body would allow.

"See you at Rochester in May?"

Mad Dog took another long, slow swallow and smiled. Rochester was the first fight of the season—and his favorite. There was a particularly pretty widow in town. He'd been in Rochester every May for sixteen years. It was as close to a commitment as he'd ever made. "What'd stop me?"

Joe glanced back at the still unconscious, spread-eagle body of Stewart Redman.

"Not him for damn sure. "

Mad Dog slowed. "That reminds me, Joe. About the talent you been finding to fight me . . . "

Joe winced. "Yeah?"

"They're perfect. Keep it up. "

Joe grinned. "I'll check the veteran's home in Rochester. "

"You do that. " Mad Dog's gaze strayed to the thinning crowd. Paper and debris littered the brown, scorched grass. The yellow-hot sun streamed through the fairgrounds, silhouetting the retreating crowd. Multicolored tents dotted the field.

From somewhere came the musical sound of laughter.

It took him only a second to find her. She stood apart from the rest of the spectators, facing the ring instead of turned away from it. Long, curly blond hair framed her pale face and veiled her arms, its outline gilded by the sunshine. A scandalously low neckline showcased her considerable charms—charms Mad Dog remembered from his last time through town.

A smile curved his mouth. He loved to have a pretty woman waiting for him after a fight—even if he couldn't remember her name. He waved at her. She waved back, and started walking toward him, her movements slow and seductive.

Mad Dog slung the clothes bag over his shoulder and put on his hat and boots.

"Gotta run, Joe. See ya next year. "

Joe chuckled. "You're gonna spend all that money tonight, ain't ya?"

Mad Dog vaulted over the ropes and dropped onto the crisp grass. The woman ran over and threw her arms around him, hugging him with abandon.

He closed his eyes. God, she smelled good. Like hot, sexy nights in a featherbed.

Like passion.

He loved women, all women, but especially the easy, alley-cat types who showed up for his fights. They cost him, but it was worth it. They laughed with him, kissed him, and undressed for him with ease—his money ensured it. And when he left, they waved good-bye with a smile. Just the way he liked it.

He grinned down into her beguiling, promise-laden blue eyes. Suddenly, fleetingly, he wished he remembered her name—it was Susannah or Sunshine . . . something that started with an S, but he couldn't for the life of him recall what. Not that it mattered, of course. She didn't expect him to remember it. That was the beauty of women like her. They didn't expect anything except gold coins and heavy breathing.

"Mad Dog?" She purred his name in a practiced, seductive voice that stirred all the hard, wet memories it was intended to. "You going to stand around here all day?"