Causing Havoc (11 page)

Spaghetti straps kept the snug bodice in place. The skirt ended just above her knees. No shoes, no

bra. Where he'd held her to his chest, damp spots made the material cling to her breasts. ...

Don't think about it, Dean.

With haste, he turned back to her father. "Thank you." And he lied, "Nice to meet you, too."

He didn't have much practice in dealing with a woman's family, but surely there had to be a way to rid

himself of them quickly.

A woman as petite as Eve held out her hand. "Since my daughter is busy casting evil spel s on the

lot of us, and my husband is too twittered to do introductions, I'l take care of it."

Dean accepted her hand.

"I'm Eve's mother, Crystal. You can cal my husband Ted, and this is our son, Mark."

"It's nice to meet you." Dean wondered if indeed Eve was casting spel s. If so, he hoped they

worked. And fast.

"I know we're intruding," Crystal continued, "but the men are rabid fans of the SBC and the second Eve let it slip that you were coming over—mostly because no one was leaving fast enough to suit her

—"

"Mom."

"—they refused to budge without meeting you first. I just hope you like Eve enough to forgive them,

because it'l be at least a half an hour before I can drag them away."

So no one intended to mention his faux pas in groping Eve? Her family didn't care that he'd been al

over her, that he'd come cal ing with certain obvious expectations?

Apparently not.

He wanted to groan, but Dean kept his smile in place. After the family drama during dinner, he'd

wanted nothing more than casual, uncommitted sex.

Instead he was stuck with more family.

It wouldn't be so bad if he knew anything about families. But living with Uncle Grover, and sometimes

a crew of workers, hadn't prepared him.

"Not a problem." If chatting with them would get them on their way, he'd tel them whatever they wanted to know.

Mark, who looked to be close to Jacki's age, started the interrogation. "Who do you fight next?"

"Whoever they put in front of me." Eve's foyer opened into a great room with a ten-foot ceiling, and by silent agreement, everyone gravitated forward, taking seats. Dean sank into the corner cushion of

a sectional couch. He watched Eve as she and her mother disappeared into the dining room, which

he assumed led to the kitchen.

"Who do you want to fight?" asked Mark. "I know Marsh has been talking a lot of smack. He says you're too undisciplined, that you lack technical skil s—"

"He's just showboating," Dean explained, "hoping to build up interest. If enough controversy gets going on the fight, the organization wil pair us. That's what he wants, so he's doing what he can to

make it happen."

Mark's eyebrows shot up. "You don't care what he says?"

"No." Worrying about the opinions of others had never been his thing.

Affronted on his behalf. Mark scowled. "He's insulting you."

Dean just shrugged. "He's not the first and he won't be the last."

"Amazing." Ted shook his head in awe. "You could demolish most men, yet you aren't the least bit obnoxious about it."

"Whatever I have to prove," Dean told him, "I prove in sanctioned SBC fights where I get paid and where I won't get arrested. Outside the SBC, I've got better things to do with my time."

"But it wouldn't take you much time to annihilate him," Mark predicted. "You should offer to teach him a lesson. I'd love to see it."

"That's what he's hoping I'l do. But if I did, every upcoming fighter would try the same tack. So I don't make requests or denials. I leave the matchups to the people who run the SBC. It's their jobs to know

which fights wil generate the most interest."

Mark couldn't let it go. "Marsh says that if he gets you in a fight—"

"He'l knock me out. Yeah, I know what he says. He spouts off every chance he gets."

"And?"

Obviously they wanted some assurances from him, so Dean placated them. "Marsh isn't a

marshmal ow. He has KO power. But to knock me out, he'd have to plant his big feet for the punch. If

he did that, I'd take him down, and he sucks on the ground. No submission defense at al . He'd be

tapping out within a minute."

That bit of boasting must have sufficed, because both Mark and Ted beamed at him.

But Dean didn't stop there. "Of course, he could catch me. It happens." Luckily it didn't happen to him often, and not in recent years.

"No way!"

"You never know. It only takes one mistake. Did you see that last fight?"

Ted nodded. "We watched it on pay-per-view. We never miss a fight."

Dean touched the colorful swol en bruise high on his cheekbone near his temple, remembering the

numbing pain of the blow that landed there, a blow that had nearly knocked him out. "I damn near lost that one."

"Yeah, but Dima Cheslav is a freakin' monster. You're huge, but he's two inches tal er than you and

outweighs you by twenty-five pounds." Mark sat on the very edge of his seat. "And that tattoo! It's like Death or something on the back of his head and neck."

"He's a bil board for every asinine tattoo out there. He's even got a couple on his ass now."

Eyes wide, Mark said, "Seriously?" He barked a laugh. "Wel no wonder he came out so crazy—

roaring and foaming at the mouth like he was real y pissed off or something."

Dean half smiled. "He always carries on like he's berserk. The audience loves it. But outside the

SBC, he's a regular guy."

"I don't mind tel ing you," Ted said, "thinking of Dima as a regular guy is tough. They say he has a hard time getting anyone to accept fights with him these days. But from the start of the fight, you

looked as cool as ever."

"Against a man like Dima, you have to stay focused. Otherwise, you lose."

"You were focused al right." Ted shook his head in wonder. "He plowed his fist into your face, you went down, and I hate to say it, but I thought it was over."

For a moment there. Dean had thought so, too.

"Then in the next second you had him in a perfect knee-bar. It was like an automatic thing for you.

just going with the momentum. He never saw it coming."

"Yeah." To Dean's surprise, he actual y enjoyed the conversation. "Dima's so used to knocking people out in the first round, he tends to get cocky."

"Can I ask you something?"

Dean took in Mark's anxious expression, and he shrugged. "Shoot."

"You've fought with injuries. You've been knocked down, caught in submissions. You've gone up

against guys known for doing real damage." Warming to his subject, Mark eased closer to him.

"Does it ever scare you?"

With no hesitation. Dean shook his head. "No."

"Never?"

Not since he was a kid kicked out of his own home, sent to live with an uncle whom he didn't know,

had Dean experienced real fear. In those early days, he'd learned that fear was a waste of energy.

"Being afraid doesn't change the circumstances. It only affects how wel you deal with them."

"Wel .. . yeah. But stil —"

"It's counterproductive," Dean continued. "You get scared, and you make mistakes. You take your eyes off your opponent to flinch, and you can't see where the next punch or kick is coming from. You

lose the offense and turn defensive, and any good fighter wil take immediate advantage of it."

"The way you took advantage of Dima."

Dean nodded. "They dubbed me Havoc because when I first started everyone thought I didn't have

a plan. It didn't take them long to realize that they were wrong. My plan is to win. One step at a time,

whatever I have to do, however I have to do it. When the fight changes, I adjust. I couldn't do that if I

let fear take over."

To Dean, it seemed a simple philosophy. Being afraid could never be part of his plan.

Yet. .. seeing his sisters had shaken up some strange sensations that felt too close to fear. He

didn't want to admit it, not even to himself, but it did unnerve him that, despite everything, it would be so easy to get sucked into the family dynamics.

He didn't know jack about being a big brother or caring for siblings. He didn't know how to fit into an

existing family atmosphere. He didn't know how to offer security or how to say the right things at the

right time.

For Cam and Jacki's sake, as wel as his own, he'd have to remember that he was an outsider, here

for a visit.

Nothing less—and definitely nothing more.

HOW big are your biceps?" hat question threw Dean, but one look at Mark, and he knew he was

serious. "Hel , I don't know."

"You're kidding? You have guns like that and you've never measured them?"

Because Mark looked ready to hunt up a measuring tape, Dean added, "No, and I never wil ."

Where the hel was Eve? He looked toward the arched doorway where she'd disappeared, but she

didn't return.

Ted and Mark had an endless store of oddbal questions, but at least they weren't prying into how

much he made. More often than not, that question was the first. Most people considered the fighters

celebrities, and while he couldn't complain about the pay, he worked damn hard for what he made.

People didn't realize the amount of commitment and the hours of hard work that went into training. He

more than earned every cent he made.

"You're a credit to the sport."

Again surprised, Dean looked at Ted. "Yeah? How's that?"

"You don't talk trash. You don't boast. You're respectful of the other fighters. You've got a quiet

dignity instead of al that showmanship."

Dignity? Ted had to be kidding.

Rubbing his chin, Dean tried to figure out how to set Eve's father and brother straight. "Look, I don't sound off because I know there's always the chance I can lose. I say I'l do my best, and that's what I

do."

Ted smiled. "There, you see? A class act al the way."

Oh God. The man was delusional. If Eve didn't show herself soon, he'd—

As if on cue, Eve strol ed back into the room. "Here." She handed Dean a beer. "If we're going to have a social gathering, you might as wel have a drink."

Dean noted that her family didn't harbor the same hangups about alcohol as his own. He accepted

the long-neck bottle. "Thanks."

She plopped down next to him, curled her bare legs up beneath the skirt of her dress, and leaned

into him. To the casual observer, it would seem they'd known each other a lot longer than a few

hours. Eve showed no reservations at al in front of her family, which meant she felt very comfortable

with them. He liked that.

Ted sat forward with his elbows on his knees. "Do you know when you fight again?"

"Not for a while. I took a smal leave."

Faces fel . "You aren't going to be in the bout with Canada?"

"No. Maybe not the one after that, either."

"I told you," Eve said. "He's here to get acquainted with Cam and Jacki. They haven't seen each other for years."

Dean slipped his arm around Eve's bare shoulders. Even in the cool interior of the house, her skin

felt like warmed silk. "Actual y it has nothing to do with them. I'd already decided to take a little time away."

"Why?" As Eve turned slightly toward him, her breast pressed into his ribs.

Dean forgot what he wanted to say. He stared at her. "Why what?"

Her smile flickered, then warmed. "Never mind."

"To think Cam had a famous brother and I never knew it." Ted shook his head. "She's practical y part of the family. The girls have been friends for years."

"Since grade school," Eve admitted.

"But Cam's never mentioned you." Ted sounded very confused about that.

Dean went stil , but only for a moment, then he forced a smile. "No, I don't suppose she did." He took a swig off his beer and tried to ignore that niggling of unease roiling in his guts again.
Cam hadn't

know of him, so how could she have mentioned him—or missed him?

"If I start dating Jacki," Mark asked, breaking the tension, "can I get free tickets to the fights?"

Eve tossed a round decorative pil ow at her brother's head.

"It can't hurt to ask." Mark threw the pil ow right back, nearly causing Eve to spil her drink on Dean.

Unused to sibling antics, Dean snatched the pil ow away. "Sorry, Mark, but I'm not that type of

brother."

Mark settled back with a grin. "Then I think I'l keep a safe distance. Truth is, Jacki scares me

anyway."

"Mark."

"Stop squawking, Eve." Her father frowned at her. "I'm sure Dean knows he's kidding."

Actual y Dean didn't know what to think. At Mark's words, some strange disquiet squirreled through

him. Mark was a decent-looking kid, tal and lean. Young and goofy. So why did Dean suddenly want

to smack him upside his head? "What's scary about her?"

"She's outspoken," Mark explained. "You never know what she's going to do or when she's going to do it. She used to be different—wel , she was never like Cam."

Dean knew he shouldn't ask, but what better opportunity would he get to find out more about his

sisters? Cam and Jacki weren't here to mistake his curiosity for caring.

And he was curious—nothing unnatural in that. It didn't mean anything. "Like Cam how?"

"You know, private and quiet. Real... contained."

Using her fingertip, Eve traced a smal circle on Dean's jean-covered thigh. "Cam's always been that

way." She looked up at him, and he noted the darkness of her blue eyes, the thickness of her lashes.

"I'm not sure why, but even back in high school, she always seemed more mature, more responsible

and aware of things."

Beautiful eyes, Dean thought, ful of emotion and, when she looked at him, ful of attraction. He