Causing Havoc

Causing Havoc

Lori Foster

From the heart:

To a beautiful, remarkable little boy. Josh, with a special dedication to his equal y beautiful mother,

Christie. You inspire me in many, many ways. (Visit Josh at www. eyesforjosh.com.)

From the imagination:

Thank you to the fighters in Pride (www.pridefc.com) and the fighters in the UFC (www.ufc.com).

You're entertaining to watch, inspiring to my imagination, and very, very fun!

A dul ringing reverberated through his brain, and for only a moment, Dean Conor relived that instant

the night before when a meaty fist had connected with his temple. He'd almost passed out.

Almost.

But even as shadows crowded in, he'd maintained his hold on his opponent's knee, hyperextending

the joint, using the very last of his strength... and two seconds later the ret* was there, cal ing a halt.

At first, Dean had protested. He wasn't done for. Not by a long shot. Dean Conor never gave up.

Then the cheers sank in.

Rather than take real damage to his leg, his opponent had tapped out. Dean had submitted the

number one contender with a knee bar. He'd walk away from another fight as the winner—and this

time he knew it was as much luck as skil and strength and speed.

That persistent ringing sounded again, fol owed by low voices. What the hel ?

Dean opened his eyes and immediately regretted it. Bright morning sunlight cut through an opening

in the curtains to slice painful y into his brain.

He felt like his head would shatter.

He felt like his guts would come up through his nose.

Groaning, he turned away from the light, and this time, barely peeked. Yeah, he was in his own

room. How he got there, he didn't remember, but he was thankful al the same. With a slow, careful

query of his body, he knew he was stil whole, but aches and pains screamed for attention. His head,

his shoulder, a rib. That Russian bastard's punch had the force of a tank, and he kicked like a

deranged mule.

Jesus. At twenty-nine, Dean felt too old to continue competing. Already he'd fractured his

col arbone, broken a wrist, dislocated an elbow and put more kinks in his nose than he cared to

contemplate.

Not that he'd quit. Fuck no.

He lied to others, but never to himself.

The urge would return, as it always did. The cheers of the crowd, the satisfaction in getting bloody, in

conquering a worthy chal enger.... It was like a drug in his veins, his one and only vice. As long as the

management cal ed him to fight, he'd keep at it.

Luckily he'd have plenty of time to recoup before going back on the mat. He'd need every minute.

As Dean forced his throbbing body into an upright position, he heard his front door close. So he had

a guest. But who? The last thing he remembered was getting the heavyweight belt strapped around

him, his corner roaring in pleasure, and then the trip to the hospital.

A smal crowd of groupies, both male and female, had tagged along with his trainer and members of

his camp.

They wanted to party.

He wanted to pass out.

The doc had given him some pain meds that dul ed the worst of it. He'd been iced, stitched, taped,

and released to head home for rest.

Everything after that was sketchy.

Glancing down, Dean realized he was buck-ass naked. Not good. But then again, it could mean

nothing.

Instead of feeling like a first-rate fighter in his prime, a heavyweight champion with a score of first-

round knockouts to his credit, his joints and muscles strained like that of an old man.

Shit, he'd hate for anyone to see him now.

After locating boxers in the middle drawer of his chest—he wasn't up to putting on any more than

that— Dean pushed the bedroom door open of his temporary apartment. He tried to stand straight

and tal as he made his way to the kitchen where there seemed to be some activity. He took his time,

working out the kinks along the way. Then he stepped into the open archway and saw a woman

cooking at his stove.

She wore an official SBC fighting shirt that didn't quite cover the nicely rounded cheeks of her ass.

Long blond hair hung down her back, and she swished as she turned pancakes on his stove.

A damned groupie.

Dean had a vague memory of her begging for his signature right before he'd fought. As he'd made

his way down the long aisle to the spotlight, she'd stuck out an impressive bared rack and handed him

a black marker.

Playing to the crowd had made him a fan favorite, so he'd scrawled his fighting name over her left

breast. The roar of the audience almost drowned out the hard-rock music blaring throughout the

events center.

It had been one hel of a night.

Propping his shoulder against the wal , as much for support as attitude, he said, "Morning."

She spun around. "Havoc! You're awake! Final y."

If he didn't miss his guess, she was naked beneath the tee. "I'm awake." He cocked his head at her, racked his brain, but couldn't come up with a name.

She laughed as if she could sense his problem. "Tiffany," she offered.

"Right." Never in a mil ion years would he have guessed correctly. "So, Tiffany, how'd you get in here?"

She turned coy in an instant. "I brought you home."

"Simon al owed that?" His trainer-slash-manager-slash-agent was so watchful that Dean couldn't

imagine him sending him off with an unknown broad bent on screwing him to death. Most of the more

successful fighters had a team of people working for them. Dean had Simon Evans. He didn't need

anyone else.

"He was here, too. But he couldn't stay. Something about live interviews on your fight."

Yeah, that made sense. He hadn't been in any shape to be interviewed, so natural y Simon would

take up the slack. "And you're stil here because . .. ?"

Her smile slicked up a few notches. Strutting toward him, making sure that everything bounced just

so, she said with a purr, "I couldn't rouse you last night."

"But you tried?"

Her laugh rubbed up his spine and wormed into his aching brain. Obviously rudeness wouldn't make

a dent in her determination.

"Forget I asked." Dean had a vision of her molesting his drugged and down-for-the-count body.

To his surprise, the thought stirred him even as it disgusted him.

She stopped right in front of him—and cupped her hand over his crotch.

Uh oh.

The corners of her soft mouth lifted with satisfaction. "Let's hope I'l be more successful today."

Self-preservation kicked in and Dean grabbed her wrist. "I need a shower."

"Want me to wash your back?"

He thought about it, considered tossing her out, then decided what the hel . He hurt, but not bad

enough to turn down her offer. After al , he wasn't dead.

"Yeah." As he turned away, stil holding that slender wrist, he noticed the envelope on the table, and belatedly remembered the ringing doorbel . "What's that?"

"Just a letter." She cuddled up close to his side and rubbed herself against him. "It came special delivery."

Which explained the bel and voices. While Tiffany plastered her boobs to his back. Dean lifted the

thick envelope.

Seeing the return address sucked al the air out of his lungs.

In the twenty-one years since his parents' deaths, he hadn't received a single card or note from that

address. For him, Harmony, Kentucky, had ceased to exist. Uncle Grover had taken him away, and

he hadn't been given the opportunity to look back. Ever.

"Hold up." He pushed the blonde away and started to open the envelope . . . but he hesitated. God, had something happened to one of his sisters? That thought annoyed him. Hel , could you cal

someone you hadn't seen or heard from in over two decades a relative?

He slipped a finger under the envelope flap and tore it apart.

"Havoc," Tiffany complained. "Can't you read that later?" To punctuate her impatience, she took a stinging love bite on his back.

"Ow, damn, leave off, wil ya?" He shrugged Tiffany away.

In thick tones of petulance, she whined, "But I have to leave soon. I have work."

While unfolding several sheets of paper, Dean said absently, "Something's come up. I need you to

go."

A huff nearly parted his hair. "I made you pancakes!"

He glanced at the stil warm stove top. Oh yeah. But he hadn't invited her in, damn it. Groupies were

like that: pushy, outrageous, and looking to add another notch to their bedposts.

"Thanks." And he meant it. The breakfast would be good. Then he held up the letter. "But this is important, so how about a rain check?"

Her bottom lip stuck out and she pouted—for about two seconds. Then she turned calculating. "Al

right. If you'l also get me ringside tickets to the August fight in Atlantic City."

Those tickets would go for about six-hundred a piece— if bought now. In a few weeks, they'd go for

double that. "Sure." He turned away, already distracted again. "Write your name and address down.

I'l see that you get them."

"You'l be there, too?" She trailed a ringer down his spine to the waistband of his shorts. "For the rain check?"

Lying through his teeth, Dean muttered, "Wouldn't miss it."

She squealed, went on tiptoe to put a wet, sucking kiss on the nape of his neck, then whispered,

"You won't regret it."

"I'm sure you're right." His attention back on the letter, he noted a three-month-old date in the upper left-hand corner. So his mail had been fol owing him around for a while?

He glanced at the feminine handwriting.

Dear Dean,

I hope this letter finds you well. I know it's been a lifetime and I regret that. Aunt Lorna always

said there was no way to reach you. But I finally did some research when Uncle Grover died.

said there was no way to reach you. But I finally did some research when Uncle Grover died.

That's how I found your address.

Dean flipped the page and skimmed to the bottom of the next sheet. It was signed,
Hopeful, Camille.

His sister, Cam. She'd be ... what? Twenty-three now. And Jacki would be twenty-one. The image of

them both as babies—Cam a toddling two year old, Jacki stil an infant—sent a melon-sized lump into

his throat.

They were grown women now, wel past the age of needing a big brother. If they'd ever needed him.

A pain clenched in his chest; it was unlike the aches rippling through his bones and muscles.

It was fucking worse.

Knotting his hand in the papers, Dean tried to make himself toss them away. But he couldn't. His

teeth locked. His eyes burned.

Slowly his fingers opened again.

"Here you go, sweetie."