Outmatched

She damn near broke my heart the other night when she told me about Theo. I had no idea what it was like to love someone that way, but I knew about loss. Her pain pierced me, and I never wanted to see her cry again.

Crazy thing was, I damn near cried when she’d looked right at me and said it took courage to quit, that I’d done something right. In that moment, I’d felt seen. I’d felt understood. I’d never had that from anyone. That a whip-smart, small but mighty woman like Parker saw something worthy in me was a gift I didn’t know I needed until she gave it to me. A gift like that made a man crave more.

It was a fine line I walked now. Tenderness and the need to protect her nearly overwhelmed me every time I looked her way. But this was business. It did me no good to get attached. Even so, it was nice being with her, laughing because we could.

Still chuckling, I stopped the car.

“Did you really name your car Ruby?” she asked as a valet jogged over to open her door.

“Yep.” I patted the gleaming black dash. “My girl here. Her name is Ruby.”

Her reply was lost to me as she stepped out of the car.

I handed the valet the keys and followed Parker into the house. “Mansion” was the better word. I was a big guy but standing in that center hall with its soaring ceilings and gilded oil paintings, I felt small. Maybe that was the point. You put your guests in their place the second they walked through the doors. Or maybe the owners just liked a lot of light and air, because, looking around, I kind of wished I could still afford a place like this.

Parker seemed right at home here by the way she moved with ease through the scattered crowd. “Jackson is probably somewhere on the lawn.”

The lawn in question was visible through the massive and ornately carved French doors at the far end of the house. The blue of the harbor winked at us in the distance.

“So, this is Fairchild’s summer house?” I asked as we stepped outside. Garden terraces flanked either side of a wide flagstone patio. A set of central stairs went down to a pool straight out of The Great Gatsby. Well, if Gatsby had women wearing string bikinis. Fairchild definitely liked the whole bikini-model cliché.

“One of them, anyway.” Parker didn’t look impressed. “I believe this one was his late parents—oh, shoot.”

Shoot?

My lips twitched. “You can say ‘shit,’ sweetheart. Your mom’s not gonna pop out of the bushes and point the finger at you.”

But Parker wasn’t listening. Panic flared in her eyes as she did a half step away from me before whirling back to grab my wrist. “Quick, this way—”

“Parker Brown?” a woman called out, as though surprised.

Parker went stiff as a pipe. “Fiddlesticks,” she said under her breath. She plastered on a fake smile—more like a grimace—and moved to greet an elegant older woman with sleek dark hair. They did that kiss-on-the-cheek thing some women liked.

“Vida,” Parker said a little less stiff but clearly still pained. “It’s nice to see you again.”

“And you, sweet girl.” Vida drew back and gave Parker an approving look. She was clearly aware of me; I just hadn’t been acknowledged. “It’s been too long.”

“My new job has been keeping me busy.”

“Ah, yes, of course.” The woman glanced at me, calculation in her dark eyes. “You’re working for Franklin.”

“Well, in a way, yes,” Parker replied. “I didn’t realize you knew him.”

Vida laughed, her red lips parting to reveal some truly white teeth. “Doesn’t everybody?”

Parker’s cheeks turned pale, and her slim shoulders hunched. “Seems that way.” She gave Vida another plastic smile. “Well, I’ll just go say hello to the host …”

“Aren’t you going to introduce me to your friend?” Only then did Vida look my way. Her gaze slid over me with slow appreciation.

I was used to that look. I got it before and after every match. Women wanted to fuck me for the thrill of it, for bragging rights. I made the mistake of accepting a few of those advances, only to have some of their friends contact me afterward, so very certain I’d do them too. After all, I was nothing more than a sexed-up, muscle head.

I should be grateful; I learned what it was to feel cheap and used. That familiar crawling sensation writhed in my gut. Then it occurred to me that Parker hadn’t introduced me. I was here to be her arm candy, and she was leaning away from me as though she wanted to be anywhere but here.

That sure as shit didn’t sit right.

Parker eyed me, and I saw another flare of reluctance. Shame. Regret.

I felt sick.

“Yes, of course,” she said, her voice dull through the buzzing in my ears. “This is Rhys.”