Knock Out (The Billionaire's Club: New Orleans) (2 page)

“Thank you for agreeing to meet with me, Mr. Duparte,” Renata said, extending her hand as she walked to his desk. “I really appreciate it.”

“Renata.” He rounded the desk with a genuine smile. “What’s with this Mr. Duparte nonsense? You’ve been in my gym, had dinner at my house. You can call me Armand. I know you called me worse than that when I trained you.”

She laughed as she stepped into his embrace. “You were tough, but always fair, and outside of my dad, I’ve never had a better trainer.” She sobered for a moment, then brightened. “I’m hoping I can make use of your expertise again.”

He gestured her toward one of the battered guest chairs that had been in the gym since Nixon was president. “You looking for a trainer?”

“Not just any trainer,” she answered, sliding into the chair with more confidence than she felt. Getting Duparte to train her was her Hail Mary pass.

“I’ve got a contract to fight Maria Andropova for the welterweight championship title in just over three months,” she told him. “I was second choice—her first opponent was injured in a Jet Ski accident a couple of weeks ago and tore her meniscus—which is why I have such a short runway to prepare. I know I’m a long shot for the title, but that doesn’t make me want it any less. I want it bad. I’m hoping the best trainer this side of the Mississippi will help me.”

Duparte gave her a measuring look across the desk. “What about Cooper? I thought he’d taken over those duties with your father’s passing.”

She curled her hands into fists, not wanting to beg but knowing she’d do it if she had to. She needed Duparte’s help. Buying out Roddy had wiped out her savings. With their breakup, Roddy had gotten revenge by using a combination of lies and innuendo to make sure she’d never get trained in Vegas again. That betrayal hurt worse than ending their physical relationship had, especially since his reputation and standing had resulted from her father’s hard work, not his. “He did. Things went sour a little over two months ago. I bought him out and we parted ways. Now I’ve got this golden opportunity and no team to support me.”

“I’ll support you.”

Ice flooded her veins, followed immediately by fiery rage. She spun out of the chair and to her feet, Duparte momentarily forgotten as she experienced her first face-to-face with Sebastian Delacroix in five years. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“Hello, Renata,” Sebastian said, his pale gaze doing that slow sweep thing that always made her nipples tighten. Which they were not doing at that moment. “It’s good to see you.”

“Like you care,” she shot back, settling her hands on her hips so she wouldn’t do something fundamentally stupid like try to knock his damned teeth out. “I asked you what you’re doing here.”

He tossed a gym bag onto the floor. “Any particular reason why I shouldn’t be?”

“Cut the bullshit, Bas,” she retorted. “You live in LA.”

“You know where I live?” He smiled in obvious pleasure and damn if her girly parts didn’t react. His smiles used to be rare events and she’d hoarded the ones he gave her like precious treasure. Back then. Not now. Not ever again.

“How could I not know when every social media and gossip site follows your every move like you’re some pop star with too much time and money on his hands? Besides, if I know where you are, then I know where not to be. So for the last time, why the hell are you here now?”

“I live here. We’re in the process of relocating DJD Holdings’ corporate headquarters here. Raphael just signed a lease for our new digs in Place St. Charles.”

Renata fought to maintain the stoic demeanor that always intimidated her opponents. Inside though, she seethed with a maelstrom of emotion. Sebastian Delacroix. World champion boxer, billionaire, bad boy, lover. The man who had taken her heart then pummeled it to a pulp.

She wasn’t prepared to see him, much less be so close to him. Duparte should have warned her. She could have met the trainer somewhere else, made other arrangements, bailed on the meeting altogether. Scratch that. Hard Knocks was her best chance of getting that title, even if it meant seeing the devil himself.

But damn—did the devil have to look so good?

The years had improved Sebastian like a fine wine. Mink-brown hair now almost black with sweat, slicked back from his wide forehead to accentuate the dark wings of his brows and piercing glacier-blue eyes. The previously broken nose only added to his appeal, easing the devastating effect of his lips and giving his beautiful face a harder, more masculine edge. The man even looked damned sexy after a fight.

She knew he hadn’t been in a bout in a couple of years, but he obviously continued to train, still cut like a diamond and just as hard. The sweat-drenched tank top showed every muscle in his arms to mouthwatering advantage, shoulders wide enough to ride on, a broad, deep chest tapering down the multipack abdominals to a trim waist. The knee-length shorts hung low on his waist, molded to thick quadriceps, powerful thighs, and the most amazing glutes on the planet. She wondered if he still had those sexy dents on his hips, dents she’d loved to dip her tongue into. Probably did, damn him.

In boxing he was known as the Bourbon Street Brawler. But women had another nickname for him—the Bourbon Street Bad Boy. She’d heard enough about his conquests and sexual exploits over the years from models, actresses, and pop stars who’d graced his arm or adorned his bed, though she hadn’t heard of any of his relationships lasting more than a few months at a time. Not that she followed his love life. If she did, it would mean that she still cared. And she didn’t. She didn’t.

Sebastian made it hard not to care. Suits and ties could make him presentable to the business world, but one look at him and no one would mistake him for anything other than a predator. He had always been a dangerous man both physically and intellectually. His strength and toughness had attracted her from the start. Discovering the tenderness deeply buried beneath the layers of hardness had sent her tumbling head over heels in love. Uncovering the bastard beneath the tenderness had left her angry, humiliated, and determined never to make that mistake again, to never be so vulnerable again.

Bile rose in her throat. Sebastian had done well for himself after breaking up with her. Boxing championships, millions of dollars, then a billion-dollar conglomerate that focused on the fitness industry, including several exercise apps. The differences in their lives were painfully obvious. After giving her mother the last of her savings so she’d be set for a while, Renata had driven across country in a road-worn SUV with the few possession she couldn’t bear to let go of. She’d signed a lease for an apartment in a less-than-stellar part of town that she couldn’t afford to furnish beyond a few thrift-store pieces. She had maybe a month before she’d have to make some heavy decisions about her life going forward.

Sebastian, on the other hand, probably had a Garden District mansion that looked like something out of
Architectural Digest
complete with priceless antiques. Outside of his business, the hardest decision he probably had to make was which tie to wear with his custom-made suit. Even then, he probably had an assistant make the decision for him.

“Congratulations on your success, Sebastian,” she said with saccharine politeness. “Glad to see that your hard decisions have paid off for you.”

His brows lowered and she did a happy dance inside at scoring a direct hit. Before he could say anything, she turned back to Duparte. “I apologize for my outburst, Mr.—Armand,” she corrected herself. “Maybe we could continue our meeting some other time?” Her training schedule was already jacked. Any more delays would seriously curtail her ability to give Andropova a run for her money. Renata wanted that money to be hers, and Hard Knocks could help her get it. She could bring her mother back home to New Orleans and still have money left over to seed her future plans.

Perhaps her desperation showed in her eyes. Duparte stared at her a long moment, then finally nodded. “Be here at six a.m. sharp tomorrow,” he barked. “I need to put you through your paces before I decide.”

“Yes, sir.” Relief swamped her. All she needed was a chance. “Thank you, sir. I won’t let you down.”

“Don’t let yourself down,” Duparte retorted, “especially if you’re serious about this.”

“Yes, sir. See you in the morning.” She gathered her things, then turned. Sebastian was still in the doorway, still looking at her, this time with calculation. She liked that even less. Lifting her chin, she made her way to the door.

“Renata …” He reached for her but she deftly avoided his grasp.

“I have nothing to say to you. You made yourself crystal-clear five years ago. You didn’t want me then and I don’t want your support now. There’s nothing more we need to say to each other.”

She swept out, knowing she’d won that round but also knowing that Sebastian was nothing if not determined. The match was far from over.

***

Four days later, Sebastian stood ringside at Hard Knocks, questioning his sanity. Wasn’t the definition of insanity repeating the same action while expecting a different result? He knew he had control of his faculties, yet here he was at half-past early for the fourth straight day, watching as Duparte put Renata through her paces. She hadn’t spoken to him since she’d given him the brush-off in Duparte’s office.

Not that he could blame her. Anyone on the outside would think she’d been a deterrent to his success, when the reality was that he owed his success to her. She wouldn’t see it that way, not yet. Not without going into all the sordid details of why he’d pushed her away, and he couldn’t do that. It was better to let her think he’d been a self-centered asshole than learn the truth. Problem was, she still thought of him as a self-centered asshole. He was, but not when it came to her. He just needed her to listen to him for five minutes.

“Enough!” Duparte yelled, cutting through Bas’s thoughts. “Renata, in my office.”

Surprise spread across Renata’s features, then an expression he could only call defeat weighted her eyes. She grabbed a towel, scrubbed it over her face, then began to make her way to Duparte’s office.

“Sebastian, you come too.”

Her head snapped up at Duparte’s order. Emotion smoldered in her expression and he immediately thought of Van Morrison’s song about brown eyes, though that was too tame a description for Renata’s most expressive feature. They went from syrupy soft to gimlet hard in a blink. Which they did now as she and Bas exchanged frowns. Duparte’s order was as much a surprise to him as it was to her. He shrugged at her, then made his way across the floor to follow her and Duparte into the old man’s office.

“Sit.” Duparte moved behind his desk. Bas sat, conscious of Renata in the ancient chair next to him, close but so far away.

Duparte looked from one to the other, making Bas feel as if he’d been called to the principal’s office to account for his behavior. There was a reason he hadn’t made it past sophomore year in high school.

“Renata.” Duparte flicked his gaze to her, making her jump. “Are you serious about winning the title?”

“Of course, sir,” she answered.

“Do you agree you need a team to get you that title?”

“Yes, sir.” Caution crept into her tone.

“Good.” Duparte nodded for emphasis. “Sebastian is now part of your team.”

“What?” Renata spluttered.

“What?” Bas echoed.

“He has the resources and skill you need,” Duparte said. “He knows what it takes to be a winner and he knows what goes into training a winner.”

She cocked an eyebrow at Bas, skepticism clear in her dark gaze. “But training and being trained are two different things.”

“True. But I’m willing to bet that I can adapt my training regimen to suit your needs. If I was successful with it, I think you can be too,” Bas said.

“That’s quite the sales pitch. Being trained by a former world champion is certainly tempting.” She shook her head. “What I don’t understand is why. Given our history, why do you want to train me?”

“Because you’re good,” Bas told her honestly. “Because I know you want to be better, and I think I can help you get to the next level.” He shrugged. “Hell, maybe I miss the ring and this is as a good a way as any to get back into it. Mostly though, I like to watch you fight.”

She folded her arms. “You’ve watched me fight.”

“Of course.” He’d followed her career religiously just to keep a connection with her, not that she needed to know that. He’d even attended a few matches, sticking to club-level boxes instead of prime ringside seats because he didn’t want to be a distraction. Not that anything distracted Renata when she stepped into a ring. “You’ve got good stamina and excellent reach. I think you can be stronger with your uppercuts though. And you get a little stiff on your dance-back about halfway through your bouts.”

Her eyes widened in surprise. “I thought so too, but Roddy said it was all in my head.” She snorted. “One of many reasons why he’s a former trainer.”

“So let me take the job. I’m not just blowing smoke up your ass, Renata. I mean it when I say I want to help you. You deserve that belt.”

Indecision shone in her eyes. “Don’t you have an empire to run?”

“I have talented people whom I pay a boatload of money to make sound decisions on my behalf,” he told her. “But I do have special projects that I prefer to take a hands-on approach with.” And he really wanted to be hands-on with her. Very hands-on.

“How do I know you won’t flake out on me?” she asked. “Get distracted by some personal or professional crisis that’s more important?”

“Nothing’s more important than getting you this championship.”

“Really.” Skepticism lit her eyes. “Why is my championship important to you?”

“Because I want you to endorse Hard Knocks Athletics. We’ve spent a lot of time cornering the commercial and male market, but we’re lagging in the female demo. Featuring you in an ad campaign would be great for us. We’d do a series of ads featuring you wearing our gear, working out on our equipment, preparing for your match with the full line of Hard Knocks products. You win, we win. Even if you don’t win—though I think there’s a very good chance you can—we’d still win, and so would you.”