Brash (12 page)

Grace had the reputation of a woman with an iron stomach. Nothing turned her. She could go on boats, fly for hours in constant turbulence, put animals' guts back inside their bodies and sew them up. And yet the second she walked into the gym and saw a man in the ring hit another man so hard one of his teeth flew out of his mouth and landed not six inches from her shoe, she nearly lost it.

Yep. Horrific.

Is this what I came to see?
she'd asked herself. And worse, when Cole came out would he be doing the dental work?

“You all right, little lady?”

Grace glanced up and shook off her thoughts. She was sitting on a bench beside Cole's trainer. His name was Matty, and she was pretty sure—
after the introduction they'd had and her bout with tooth-flying nausea—he didn't like her.

“Fine, thanks,” she said, forcing a smile.

Matty inhaled deeply, looked around the decent-sized gym with its two sparring rings, a large, square-matted area that was dotted with punching bags, and a full weight room. “I got to tell you, I don't think you should be here.”

Yep, the man didn't like her.

“You and Cole an item?” he asked before she had a chance to respond.

“No. Just friends.” The ancient trainer didn't need to know anything that Grace herself didn't know. What she and Cole were.

The man's eyes narrowed. “Here's the deal. My fighter needs to be one hundred and fifty percent focused next week.”

“I'm sure he will be.”

“You don't know much about this sport, do you?” he asked.

“Practically nothing,” she admitted.

“If a fighter doesn't want to get killed in the ring, he needs total focus. If he wants to win, he eats right, drinks nothing that'll cloud his head and make him slow. And he doesn't partake in bedroom activities—if you get my meaning.”

Oh, she got it all right. Just didn't want to hear anything more about it. “Isn't this a conversation you should be having with your fighter?” she asked.

“I have.”

“Then why bring it to me? Like I said, we're friends.”

“I wish I could believe you,” he said, studying her. “But this is too important. When Cole brings a pretty gal in here to watch him train . . .”

“I'm sure he's brought plenty of gals in here,” Grace said with a laugh.

Matty's brow lifted. “See, that's the thing. He hasn't. In fact, he's never brought anyone to a training session or a match.”

You could've knocked her over with a light wind. “Never?”

He shook his head real slow. “He's been smart, savvy, and focused until now.”

“He's not unfocused,” she assured him, then felt absolutely ridiculous for doing so. “For heaven's sake, it's one practice, one gal.”

But Matty was unconvinced. Looked at the ring and just kept shaking his head. “I don't like it. Don't like it at all. And if he gets knocked out today, I'm blaming you.”

Grace stared at him, stunned. “Oh, come on.” This was insane. What had started off as a date was slowly turning into a badly scripted drama.

“Stop talking to her, Matty,” Cole called out good-naturedly.

Grace glanced up, spotted him coming out of the bathroom and getting into the ring. As if on cue, and completely without her consent, the breath inside her lungs promptly evacuated.

“I ain't doing nothing,” the man said.

“Better not,” Cole said, dancing in place, releasing some of the tension in his muscles.

Damn, that had to be a lot of tension, she mused as she took him in. He was shirtless—of course—his muscles bunching and flexing beneath tanned skin sharp with tattoos. She'd heard someone refer to tattoos on a man's body as “tongue tracers” once. She'd thought that sounded bizarre and kind of gross. Now she could very well imagine it. Imagine herself—her tongue—running over each design, the salty taste of his skin turning her mind to . . .

She scrubbed a hand over her face, hoping to erase the inappropriate thoughts she was entertaining.

It didn't work.

Another man bent down and slipped through the ropes, entering the ring. Cole hadn't introduced her to him, but he'd talked about him on the flight there. He was Cole's sparring partner, Reg. Reg wasn't as broad as Cole, but he stood maybe three inches taller and he looked mean. 'Course, so did Cole. In fact, they both looked like bulls ready to strike. As Grace watched, the pair talked back and forth, then gave each other a double fist pump.

“You ready, ladies?” Matty drawled. “Or would you like a cup of tea first?”

Grace turned and shot the man some serious
shade. Nothing she hated more than using women or girls as a metaphor for frailty. But Matty paid her no mind. He was up, off the bench, and making his way ringside.

“His weakness is his ankle,” Matty told Reg.

Why would he tell him that?
Grace thought with stunned disgust. Did the trainer want Cole to injure himself further? Why on earth? She was about to stand up and head over and ask him when first contact between the UFC fighters was made.

Reg to Cole. A kick to the face. Grasping the bench to steady herself, Grace gasped, actually feeling the impact. Blood trickled from Cole's left nostril. As she watched, he lapped at it with his tongue, then grinned. Matty glanced back over his shoulder and gave her the stink eye. She glowered at him. This was not her doing. For God's sake! But in seconds there was another strike to Cole's face. This time by the man's fist. Then another to his gut.

TV boxing hadn't prepared her for the intensity of mixed martial arts. Or the scent of sweat and blood and tension and hunger in the air. Why had she come here exactly? To see him at work? See his skill? See him beat someone to a pulp? And why had he wanted her to be here? Did he want her to see what he'd devoted his life to? What kind of man he was?

And what kind is that, Grace?

“Shit,” she hissed under her breath as Reg went for another fist to the face.

But this time Cole reacted. Fast and furious, he hit back hard, three punches, sending the man flying back on his ass. Grace's hands came together in an almost-clap, but she caught herself. Good thing too, because Reg had recovered and was sending the heel of his foot directly at Cole's hurt ankle. The groan/curse that erupted from him nearly had her turning away—would've had her walking away if she could get out of the gym unnoticed. She hated seeing him in pain. And yet she had a sneaking suspicion that, somehow, he reveled in it.

In seconds, everything changed. On a dime. It was like a light switch had turned on and Cole went to work. Forget the nose. Forget the ankle. He was landing punch after punch into Reg's face. It looked like the man was turning from side to side. One, two, three, four, then a knee to the ribs and one last uppercut to the jaw.

Poor Reg cried out, backed up quickly into the corner. He cursed and spit blood onto the mat. Grace assumed the fight was over, but Cole had other ideas. Breathing heavy, eyes blacker than a starless night, he paced a circle in one corner. He looked different, different from the Cole she knew. He looked like a machine. All emotion turned off.

Matty was calling time as he climbed into the ring. He went for Reg, tossed the man's arm over his shoulder, and helped him down. Reg was bleeding badly. His nose was surely broken. Was
this normal? Did they always train to this degree for UFC? That seemed insane.

As Matty moved past her carrying out Cole's sparring partner, a smile curved his lips. “Forget what I said, little lady. You're welcome here anytime.”

Revulsion pulsed through her. Was the trainer truly under the impression that her presence had caused his fighter to amp up his game? Her eyes shifted to Cole. He was still breathing heavy, still pacing, still bleeding from the nose. But his eyes were pinned to hers. They weren't as dark and bottomless as they'd been a moment before. But they held fire and pain and a hunger for something she didn't understand. Something she wasn't sure she wanted to understand. He had wanted her to see him like this. Out for blood. Feral. But why?

And why—after everything she knew and had experienced with him—had she accepted?

May 7, 2002

Dear Diary,

He called! Sweet called me tonight! Maybe he's called before but I didn't pick up the phone so maybe he hung up or something. Anyway, I answered the phone tonight and there he was. He told me he's not in River Black. I guess something happened back home where he's from and he had to go there. But he'll be back tomorrow.

I'm so excited!!!

And I'm so crazy!!!

I thought he didn't like me anymore. But that's not true. It was just some emergency. He wouldn't tell me what it was but he whispered a lot when we talked, so it must be a secret.

We made plans to meet at Carl's tomorrow night. I don't know how I'm going to sneak out but I just have to. I wish I could tell Mac. It'd be nice to have help from a friend. But I think she'll say he's too old. That it's not right.
Maybe she'd even tell on me. That's not going to happen.

Anyway!

Soooooo happy,

Cass

“It ain't fancy,” Cole said, inhaling the killer scent of fire-roasted chiles and hand-rolled tortillas. “But the food is the best I've ever had.”

He watched as Grace took in the Tex-Mex hole-in-the-wall he loved so much. Her sharp green eyes moving from the small bar, wet with margaritas and tequila shots, to the large outdoor eating area with picnic tables and a full moon rising up above.

“If you don't like it, we can go somewhere else,” Cole backtracked, not wanting her to feel uncomfortable. It wasn't suit and tie. Not like somewhere Deac would take Mac. But it was him. And maybe he wanted her to see something of him that wasn't knuckles on bone or blood spatter on canvas.

“No, I love it,” she said quickly, turning to look at him. Her eyes were warm, just like her smile. “I'm not really a fancy kind of girl.”

His gut tightened. “That right?”

She nodded. “And Tex-Mex is my favorite. The spicier the better.” She grinned wide.

His brows went up and maybe other parts of him did too. Good God, this woman continually surprised him. And to surprise himself, he reached out and took her hand. Her breath caught and she bit her lower lip. It was a bold move, and maybe slightly stupid when he was trying to resist the call of Grace Hunter. But it felt right in the moment. She felt right.

He led her to a small table in one corner of the outdoor space. It was pretty busy in Fausto's. Lots of singles, families reconnecting after a long day. Everyone relaxed and having a good time. He needed that tonight.

“
Hola,
Cole!” the owner called out.

Cole waved back. “Good to see you, Fausto.”

“Nice eye shadow,” the man's wife, Maria, called from behind the bar. “You in training again?”

He grinned. “Yup.”

“No chips and queso for that boy!” Maria called out.

Cole laughed.

“They know you here,” Grace said as they sat down.

Cole nodded. “I come in pretty often. Lunch, dinner . . .”

“You don't cook?”

“No. But even if I did, I don't have an oven.”

She picked up her menu. “Wait. How is that possible?”

“I live in a hotel.”

Cole waited for her to look stunned or appalled or any of the other things that showed up on a person's face when he told them about his living situation. But there was none of that. She just nodded, then took a sip of water.

“I'm sure you're traveling a lot,” she said.

“Yes. Exactly.”

“And deciding on a home base isn't practical right now,” she concluded.

He just stared at her. Like he was staring at an alien. Or an angel. Did this woman actually get him? Shit, no one got him. He counted on no one getting him.

“Drinks?”

Cole turned to see Maria sidling up to their table. She was dressed in a jean skirt and a bright orange blouse. Her long black hair was neatly braided and her face was free of makeup except for her standard red lipstick.

“What are you doing?” he chided. “No one waits on tables here. Least of all you.” His eyes narrowed. “What's happenin'? Why ain't you making us order up at the bar like everyone else?”

Maria's eyes flickered in Grace's direction. “I don't think your date here needs to know how ungrateful you can be, Cole Cavanaugh.”

“Oh, I'm not his date,” Grace said quickly and with a soft laugh. “It's . . . a friend . . . thing.”

A friend thing
. It was easy how she just tossed that out. Like she believed it. Needed to believe it.

Maria's eyebrows lifted. “Trust me, honey. If he brought you here, it's a date.”

Grace turned three shades of red and looked down at her menu.

“Can we get some chips and salsa?” Cole asked brusquely. The woman was crossing all kinds of boundaries.

“She can,” Maria put in. “But you'll have chicken, beans, and a large ice water.”

“Come on, Maria,” he chided. “I need some heat.”

Maria turned and winked at Grace. “See what I'm talking about?”

Still three shades of red, Grace shook her head, then started to laugh. “Am I going to be setting myself up for sexual innuendo if I also ask for something with heat?”

Maria burst out laughing. She looked back at Cole. “Oh yeah. Good for you.”

“I'm sorry about this,” Cole told Grace.

“It's fine,” she assured him.

“Can I get you something to drink, honey?” Maria asked her. “We have the best margaritas in Texas.”

Grace turned to Cole. “If I get one of these Texas Proud Margaritas and you are stuck with ice water, will that end our friendship?”

Even though Cole knew she was kidding around, playing with him—and damn cute-like too—something inside him kicked. Hard and right to the ribs. She kept calling him her friend. Even knowing how he felt. He'd been honest when he'd told her that he was into her. True fact. Attracted. Would certainly like to try some more kissing. But what he hadn't known then was how she made him feel outside of the heat and curiosity. She was fun to be around. Calm and easygoing. Nice. She made him feel comfortable. That, way more than the desire, was cause for concern.

He shook his head. “Have that drink, Doc. Everyone should experience Maria's margarita once in their life.”

“Let's hope it ain't only once,” Maria put in, grinning. “And what about food, darlin'?”

Grace closed her menu and sat up a little straighter. She seemed to have recovered from the embarrassment. “I love cheese and I love spicy, and I love surprises.”

“Oh, I'm going to make sure you get something special,” Maria said, then leaned down and whispered in Cole's ear,
“No estropees esto.”

Then she was gone and headed for the kitchen. Cole stared after her for a second, then shook his head and returned to his date/friend. Who knew? Not him.

“Can you tell me what she said?” Grace asked, her green eyes glittering with humor. “Or is it a secret?”

“Oh, she was just lecturing me. In Spanish.”
No estropees esto
. Don't screw this up. He shrugged. “Thinks she's my fairy godmother or something.”

“Your fairy godmother?” Grace repeated, cocking her head to one side and grinning.

He laughed, scrubbed a hand over his bruised face. “I had a twin sister. She watched a lot of Disney movies. That's the only excuse I got.”

She lifted both hands. “I'm not judging. But I do recall you mentioning Cinderella to me not long ago as well.”

He sighed as drinks were placed in front of them. “Fine. Maybe I liked those movies too. The
Beast
one is good. And maybe the one about the boy who didn't want to grow up.”

“Peter Pan,”
she supplied.

He pointed at her. “You liked them too.”

She grinned and took a sip of her margarita. “Oh dear baby Jesus.”

“What?” he asked, concerned.

“This is so good,” she said on a groan.

A wide grin spread on Cole's face. “Maria will now be your friend for life, you know that?”

“I'm cool with that.”

“And she'll want to see you in here at least once a month.”

“Is that the standard request?” she asked, laughing. “For any friends you bring here?”

“I wouldn't know.”

Her expression turned thoughtful as she took
another sip of her drink. “So, I take it you haven't brought many dates here.”

The question was unexpected, and Cole's face grew serious. He felt it happen, felt it take over his body. “Does it matter?” He would've really appreciated a beer right about now. Or maybe something stronger. But after his show in the ring, the last thing he wanted was to lose any more control.

“No,” she said. “Just curious.”

He hated ice water. At least she could've thrown in a couple of limes. “The truth is, Doc, I have fun. Enjoy myself. But I don't bring anyone into my life. Not in any meaningful way, so to speak.”

Her eyes caught and held his. “But you brought me in.”

He stared at her. His chest was filling up with air and heat.

“Can I ask why?” she said. “Matty told me you've never had anyone at your training sessions. Now you say you've never brought anyone here.”

“I told you, Doc. I'm into you.” His words sounded forced.

She shook her head. “I sat there and watched you get hit over and over. I watched you make another human being bleed.”

“That's the game—”

“Did you want me to know how dangerous you are? Or can be?” she asked. “Did you invite me here to turn me off?”

“What?”

“So I wouldn't like you back?”

It was as though she could see inside him. “That sounds crazy.”

“It sure does,” she agreed. “But you kind of believe you are crazy, don't you, Cole?”

Cole had never felt his chest as tight as it was now. He was all for being honest. But there was something about being honest with Grace Hunter that scared the ever-lovin' shit out of him. Why had he invited her? He'd wanted to be around her. Wanted to get to know her better. Wanted her to get to know him.

All of him.

“Hot plates!” Maria called, zooming in tableside, putting an end to their very intense discussion. Efficiently, she placed some plain chicken, unsalted beans, and a small cup of mild salsa in front of Cole, then a plate of heaven in front of Grace.

He just stared at the steaming plate across from him. “You are one heartless woman, Maria,” he ground out, picking up his fork.

The woman laughed, but her eyes were settled on Grace. “Don't you listen to him, honey. And don't you cave when he begs you to share. He's in training and that makes him irrational and cranky as fire ants.” She winked. “You enjoy.”

“Thank you,” Grace said, her voice a little quieter than before. She was thinking. “It looks
amazing.” Before picking up her fork, she felt Cole's eyes on her and glanced up. “What's wrong?”

“That Evil Stepmother gave you my usual.”

One brow lifted. “Really? What is it?”

“Chiles rellenos with green sauce.” He heard the yearning in his voice. It competed with the Spanish guitar music being pumped out from the speaker above them.

She laughed. It was good to hear. And her eyes unclouded too. “Poor Cole.”

“That's right.” He pouted.

“How strict is this training diet you're on?” She cut off a section of chile with her fork.

Cole's mouth instantly watered. “What are you doin'?”

She stabbed the piece, then lifted it to his mouth. “A taste isn't going to get you in trouble.”

“Oh, Doc, that's exactly how I get into trouble. One. Little. Taste.”

He hadn't meant the words to come out sounding all sexed up, but clearly they had. Her cheeks were turning pink right before his eyes. Then he grinned and put his mouth on the fork. A groan escaped him as he tasted New Mexican chiles, cheese, tortilla, a hard bite of spice.

“Good?” she asked.

His eyes captured hers. “I'll never have enough,” he answered.

Her breath caught in her throat, and she pulled
the fork back, cut a bite for herself. She licked her lips in anticipation. He watched her eat. He watched her as if they were the only two people in the place. Melted cheese, tortilla, and he knew she was catching the heat each time she took a bite. It was hypnotic. She had a pretty mouth, straight white teeth, pink tongue.

He shifted in his chair. Below his waist, shit was happening. Shit he didn't want, and certainly didn't need. Not now. He grabbed his water and downed the whole thing.

For a few seconds they ate in silence, listening to the guitar music and the other patrons talking and laughing. Then she said, “Can I ask you something, Cole?”

“'Course.”

Her eyes lifted to meet his. “What is it about fighting that draws you in? Makes you feel that this is your passion, or pride, or your life's work?”

With what was happening inside and outside of his clothes, the question stalled him a bit. He had to put his head on straight. No one had ever asked him anything like that. Not in the thoughtful, interested way she just had.

“I don't know if I see it as a passion of mine as much as a compulsion,” he answered.

“You feel like you have to do it?”

“I do.”

“Or what?”

He shook his head. “What do you mean?”

“Well, what happens if you don't do it?” she pressed.

He'd never thought about it. But now that he did, the idea made his insides quake. It felt like a tsunami churning his guts. If he didn't fight . . . what? What would he be or do? How would he keep himself sane? How would he keep making amends to Cass? He had become a fighter to shut down the weakness that used to live inside him. The weak boy who couldn't protect his sister when she'd needed him most.

“I can't imagine my life without the ring,” he said, then stuffed a piece of chicken in his mouth. He knew it wasn't dry, but it tasted that way anyway. His gaze drew up, locked with hers. “Why did you become a vet?”

For a moment or two, she just looked at him. Maybe deciding if she was going to push him for more of an answer to her question or not. But then she started eating again. “Do you believe in reincarnation?”

He shrugged, wondering where they were headed. “I don't think so.”

“I didn't either,” she said, then slipped a piece of chile between her lips.

Spicy green sauce and Grace Hunter's pink mouth . . . trouble.

“I was a very cynical child,” she said, dabbing
her mouth with the paper napkin. “Everything had to be proven, you know? Until my mom died anyway.” She placed her fork down on her plate and picked up her drink. “At the funeral this very dear friend of my mother's told me that my mom would always be with me. Of course, I told her that was impossible. That I didn't believe in those stupid ideas at the grand age of ten.”