The Fighter's Prize

Repugnance clobbers me when I see the message is from Banner.

Banner: I still want you, Whitney.

Acid climbs my esophagus. He has been saying these kinds of things to me since I was barely old enough to drive. And my father allowed it to happen, hoping the attraction would work to our advantage one day. It might have, if everything about Banner didn’t make my skin crawl. There is something about him that makes me scared, too.

Maxim looks at me with lust, yes, but there is affection there, too. Reverence.

There is roughness when we make love, but he would never hurt me.

Something in Banner’s eyes says he would inflict pain on purpose.

That he would enjoy it.

Quickly, I punch out a reply.

Me: Don’t contact me again.

Banner: Your father is here with me. He is very upset with your actions.

Me: I haven’t been thrilled with his actions for the last eighteen years.

Banner: You have such a feisty spirit.

“Gross,” I mutter, wishing I hadn’t replied in the first place.

Banner: Are you with the Russian madman now?

Me: Yes. And if he finds out you’re texting me, a concussion will only be the beginning.

Banner: He can’t give you Scout. I can.

My breath catches in my throat. What is he talking about?

My fingers hover over the screen, hesitant.

Banner knows that Easton Brawn has Scout? He must. And as much as I loathe Banner, he does have connections to everyone in the MMA community, including Brawn. The news that the gangster has taken my sister must have gotten around. I know Maxim is working on making a meeting happen between me and Scout—and I have confidence he’ll pull it off—but he is from a different country. He has not come up through the ranks on American soil, like Banner. Like Easton. They could have a relationship. One that will get me face to face with Scout.

I shake my head.

No. No I won’t do that.

As badly as I want to make sure she’s all right, to hug her, I will not trust this man. Or my father, for that matter. More importantly, I won’t go behind Maxim’s back. It doesn’t matter that I’m mad at him right now and feeling conflicted about our relationship. I care about him.

I’m falling for him. Fast.

I must be. The thought of hurting him makes me dizzy.

Me: Delete my number. Next time, I tell Maxim.

Satisfied with my decision, I toss my phone onto the bed and continue getting dressed. I didn’t expect a trip to a nightclub, so I’ve had to improvise. I have a little black nightie I wear to bed sometimes, but even with the low back, it easily passes for a slip dress, so I pair it with some ice pick heels and call it a success. I’ve just finished putting on makeup and dabbing some perfume between my breasts when there’s a knock at the door. Without waiting for an invitation—of course—Maxim steps inside and stops short.

“Whitney,” he rasps, heat flaring in his face. “You…you will not leave my side dressed like this. Not for a second. You look like sexy little angel.” He closes his eyes, chest expanding. “Please.”

He says please like he’s playing a magical trump card.

Why is that so endearing?

“Okay,” I say, easily, feeling guilty that I answered Banner’s texts. “I won’t.”

Maybe I should tell Maxim that the fighter he defeated made contact. I’m about to confess when I remember he wants me to quit acting. How easily he decided my livelihood was no longer an option.

“You look really nice, too,” I say lightly, instead, unable to keep from noticing the tight hug of his jeans in the thigh and crotch area. How his black dress shirt molds to his mountainous pecs, his biceps, stretching the buttons that run down the front.

“We will make appearance, then return home.” His voice is strained. “Quickly.”

I hum as I saunter past him. “Good.”

When I’ve made it a couple of steps past Maxim, I feel a breeze on my backside and realize he has trailed behind me, lifting my dress in back, the delicate hem pinched between a blunt finger and thumb. He’s ducking his head to look underneath.

“What are you doing?” I laugh, smacking his hand away.

He groans loudly. “Where do you buy these little strings you call panties, kotik? And can I get more?”

“Don’t worry,” I say, tossing my hair. “I have plenty of them to torture you with.”

Maxim strides in front of me to open the door of the house, like a gentleman, and he does the same when we reach the SUV idling in the circular driveway. He boosts me inside and climbs in after, buckling me into the seat, brushing a kiss across my shoulder, the crown of my head. And yeah, I’m finding it very hard to be angry with him when he’s looking at me with such naked hunger and awe. Treating me like a coveted treasure.