My Man Michael (43 page)

Don’t miss the next
SBC Fighter Romance featuring Drew Black
Following is a special excerpt from this
upcoming novel from
Lori Foster
Coming soon!

G
ILLIAN Noode stood against the back wall of the popular bar, Roger’s Rodeo, where many fighters hung out. She was close enough to observe him, but not close enough to get noticed. Yet. At least, not by him. Plenty of other men had already given her the once-over, showing appreciation for her trim black skirt, her low-scooped white blouse and strappy sandals. A few had even tried to strike up a conversation. She’d politely declined.

She’d come here for a reason, and Drew Black was it.

Dressed in well-worn jeans and a comfortable black T-shirt bearing the logo of the SBC fight club, the president of the sport sat at the polished bar. Currently, he was holding close conversation with two long-haired young women whose bloated busts defied believability. No woman
that
slender had breasts
that
large.

But Drew showed no signs of disbelief. Like a king of his own making, he ogled with commitment to the boob ruse.

From the many interviews and television spots she’d watched, as well as her current scrutiny, Gillian surmised he had a fighter-type physique, not quite as shredded as the actual fighters, but sculpted with muscle, strong and capable. Obviously his ego demanded he stay in shape since he was often surrounded by younger men in their prime, elite fighters with rock-hard bodies and astounding ability.

Drew Black intrigued her beyond the job at hand.

As an entrepreneur he showed great intelligence; no one could have accomplished what he had without smarts. He’d taken a mostly dead sport, banned in many states, and turned it into an astounding success.

And motivation? The man had it in spades. He couldn’t possibly sleep more than six hours a night given his enthusiastic workload and insane social calendar.

Good looks, great body, intelligence, enthusiasm and money . . . Drew Black would be quite the catch if he wasn’t such a sexist foulmouthed jerk with the tact of a goat.

Her external analysis complete, Gillian moved closer, just a short ways down the bar. She could now hear Drew’s deep voice—not that she expected much enlightenment from his conversation.

But Drew surprised her.

“Will you call me?” Bimbo One asked him with a pout.

“No.” His laugh was low and mellow, but lacking malice.

Look-alike Bimbo Two said, “How about me?” She toyed with his ear in a way that made Gillian twitch. “I can promise you a good time.”

“I bet you can.” Drew took her wrist and moved her teasing hand away. “But I’ll pass.”

Gillian raised a brow. She’d expected him to suggest a threesome, and instead he’d rejected them both.

Interesting.

The bimbos combined their whining complaints and attempts at persuasion until Drew sent them away. “Girls, what the fuck? C’mon, I have shit to do and it doesn’t include having my ears ring. Go find something—or someone—else to do, okay?”

“We waited a long time to get to talk to you.” Bimbo One sulked in a juvenile fashion.

Drew leaned around the woman to eye his male companion. “A little help here?”

The man, who Gillian recognized as a fighter, held up big, capable hands. “Sorry. I have a girl waiting at home.”

“We aren’t at your home, Brett.”

He smirked. “Yeah, well, Sarge doesn’t like to share me.”

Drew pulled back. “Sarge? What the fuck kind of name is that for a female?”

“The kind that suits her.” Unruffled by the implied insult, Brett finished his drink. To Gillian, it looked like juice. She gave Brett points.

“Look,” Drew said to the closest bimbo, “you’re too fucking young and frankly, too pushy.”

“We have to be pushy to get near you. You’re just so popular—”

“How about I give you a couple of tickets to the next SBC fight instead? Good seats. How’s that?”

The girls bounced with enthusiasm. Gillian couldn’t take it. She asked the bartender for a martini. By the time she’d been served and taken a few fortifying sips, Drew was alone at the bar with Brett.

“You’re brutal, Drew.”

“Did you see those girls? Not only were they phony from head to toes, the damn giggles were wearing on my nerves.” He worked his shoulders, as if releasing tension. “Jesus, I do have some standards you know.”

“Yeah? Like what?”

“You want the whole list, huh? Well, it doesn’t apply here, but she has to be less than forty. Older broads are too independent.”

Brett laughed. “The two of them together weren’t forty. So what else?”

“She has to be childless, because let’s face it: The whole kid thing is a pain in the ass. No way am I fucking anybody’s mother. And before you say it, yeah, I know, those two are still children themselves.”

Brett saluted him with juice.

“On top of being good-looking and sexy, she has to have some intelligence—at least enough that I can carry on a conversation with her. And no squealing. God, I detest broads who squeal.”

Brett commiserated. “They were squealers.”

“Can you imagine how they’d be in bed?” Drew laughed. “I’d need fucking earplugs.”

That mouth of his. Gillian shook her head. It was a sexy mouth, but the things he said, the crude language he used, was not befitting the force behind the fastest growing sport in history. That mouth had gotten him into trouble, whether he realized it yet or not.

It was her job to clean up his act, and to make him a more presentable figurehead for the SBC franchise.

Daunting, but maybe not impossible.

The trick would be to beat him at his own game, to always keep the upper hand, and to grow a skin so thick that her feminist core wouldn’t be damaged in the process.

She’d also have to remember that he was a jackass, albeit a sexy one, so it would behoove her to keep her emotional distance.

Sadly, he was the first man she’d found exciting in a very long time.

He was the
last
man she could ever get involved with.

Picking up her glass, Gillian moved down the bar, took the vacated seat beside him and crossed her legs. While watching him, she removed the olive from her drink and ate it.

Both men stared at her, not so much because of her looks, which she knew to be average, or her figure, which was a little more voluptuous than currently popular. But because she’d invaded their space—and was now staring back.

Drew turned on his stool to fully face her. Without a word, he looked her over, lingering on her legs, her cleavage, and her mouth. When his gaze met hers, he said low, “Hello there.”

Oh, men were
so
easy. Gillian held out a hand. “Hello.”

A very warm, firm hand, twice the size of hers, enveloped her fingers—and held on. “I’m Drew Black.”

“Of course you are.” Smiling, she retrieved her hand from his. “Gillian Noode.”

“Nude?”

Of course he wouldn’t let that one slide. With a chastising look, she spelled, “N.O.O.D.E.”

His mouth quirked. “Hell of a name.”

“Yes, and I’ve heard every joke there is from every school-boy out there.” She reached beyond Drew to the fighter. She’d heard Drew use his first name, but she liked proper introductions. “And you are?”

He took her hand gently. “Brett Bullman, ma’am.”

Unlike Drew, who shaved his head, Brett had shaggy brown hair a little too long, a little too unruly, and gorgeous green eyes.

He also had a name familiar to her. “I’ve read about you. You’re touted as a self-taught phenomenon taking the fight scene by storm.”

He shrugged with indifference, and shared a friendly smile that had surely melted many female hearts. “So they say. But I haven’t been really challenged yet.” He gave a nod at Drew. “We’re working on that.”

“And I’m interrupting. My apologies.” She stood to leave. She could wait for their business to conclude. “Congratulations on your recent success.”

“Thank you, ma’am. But please, don’t leave on my account. We’re all talked out. I was just finishing my drink.”

Drew agreed. “I’m all yours, so why not park your pretty ass back on the stool? We can get acquainted.”

Gillian’s teeth locked, but her smile didn’t falter. To Brett she said, “Call me Gillian, please.”

He nodded. “All right, Gillian.”

“When do you fight again?”

“It’s still being set up. After that last win, I got recruited by a team, so I’ll train with them for a while before I fight again.”

“No more going it alone?”

“I started out that way because I didn’t know how to get in a good team.” He shrugged. “I’m always open to learning from more experienced guys.”

Drew lounged back, elbows on the bar, and copped an attitude over being ignored. “After some promotion, I’ll give him a main fight on a pay-per-view.”

“I find it fascinating how this all works.” Gillian turned back to Drew, but did
not
reseat herself. “So. I suppose we really should talk.”

“You heard Brett. I’m all talked out.” His brown eyes challenged her. “But hey, you got anything else in mind, count me in.”

Gillian might not have an extensive social background, but neither was she obtuse. Drew was sexually interested. “I’m sure nothing more than talk would interest you.”

A brow went up. “The hell it wouldn’t.”

This time her smile was snide. “But I don’t meet your many requirements.”

His gaze went over her again, slower this time, lingering in places in a way meant to discomfort her. “Honey, I think you fit the requirements just fine.”

Rather than be offended, Gillian felt . . . warmed. That annoyed her. So he had a type of raw sex appeal. It was so raw as to be dangerous.

She put an arm on the bar and propped her chin on a fist. “But Drew, I’m forty-one,” she lied. “That puts me beyond your age stipulation.”

His mouth twitched into a grin and he took up the game with practiced ease. “You sneaky broad. You were eavesdropping on us.”

“Yes, and on top of being ancient, I have five . . . no, let’s make that six children.”

“You’re a terrible fibber.” He turned his head to study her waist in the snug skirt. “I’d put you at no more thirty-three. And any idiot can see those are not the hips of a childbearing woman.”

Brett coughed, then made a point of looking at the ceiling.

Gillian leaned in closer to Drew. “Perhaps you’re right. But why do you think I’d lie?”

“Modesty?”

Gillian pursed her mouth. “Or maybe I stretched the truth to deliberately place myself on your list to avoid your personal interest.”

Drew got closer, too, looking at her mouth. “So you assumed I’d be personally interested?”

“You did suggest certain things you’d like to do.”

“Yeah. They involve getting naked and sweaty. You interested?”

“Ah . . . no, I’m afraid not.” For her own peace of mind, she moved away from him again. “You were probably too hasty in sending away the groupies who, I’m sure, would have been more accommodating.”

“They didn’t interest me.” He made a face. “Too artificial for my tastes.”

“The laughs?” she guessed.

“The boobs.” He gaze veered to her cleavage and stuck there. “I like things a little more natural.”

Gillian fought a blush. “I don’t see much difference between breast implants and the bright red lipstick I’m wearing. Both are meant to make a woman more attractive.”

“Yeah, but one is surgery, and the other”—he closed the space between them again—“can be licked off.”

Shocked both at his audacity and her innate response to it, Gillian straightened away. The man had no shame, no boundaries. She was out of her league, so she’d have to play it a little safer.

“Now don’t run off,” Drew said. “Things were just getting interesting.”

Gillian shook her head. “You might be willing to bend your rules, but I’m not. And mixing business with pleasure is considered my number one no-no.”

Caution replaced some of his amusement. “If we have business together, I don’t know about it.”

“I’m here to inform you.” It was evil of her, but Gillian felt positively gleeful to set him straight. She put her shoulders back and smiled. “I’ve been hired as your new publicist, slash handler, slash miracle worker. And I daresay that with a lot of hard work on your part, I’ll transform you into a man fit for polite society.”

Drew came to his feet. His face tightened and his brows came down. “What the fuck are you talking about? I never hired a publicist.”

“Slash handler, slash miracle worker,” Gillian clarified.

Brett came off his stool. “I think that’s my cue to excuse myself.”

In a sotto voce whisper, Gillian said, “You may be right. It’ll be safer from across the room.”

Brett looked her over. “You don’t look worried.”

Gillian shrugged one shoulder. “I get paid the big bucks to take all the risks.” She swung her gaze back to lock on Drew’s. “And the owners of the SBC are very big payers.”

And now a special excerpt from the next book
in the chilling new series by
L. L. Foster
Servant: The Kindred
Coming soon!

G
OD
,
please, not now.

For long minutes, what began to feel like an eternity, Gabrielle Cody fought the inevitable. Naked on Luther’s king-sized bed, she stretched taut as sweat beaded on her skin and her teeth locked.

The agony grew.

And she fought it.

As her heart buffeted too hard in her chest, she repeatedly fisted her hands, clenching and unclenching them as she grasped the smooth, clean sheets beneath her. Exiguous moonlight snaked through a part in his heavy bedroom drapes, sending a silvery dart to cross the floor and crawl, with painstaking slowness, up the wall.