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He’d have thought the ballsy late-night host would be flashier. Using her sexy body along with her smart-ass tongue. Still, the blouse was...
nice.
Feminine. Neat and tidy. Suited her softer side—like now, when she was quiet, sleepy, and so contrary to the woman he’d thought he knew, and spent so much time loathing. It was prim, not the kind of blouse someone taking illegal risks would wear, or so he thought.

Last night, the car had been clean. Caden had checked it out, including the trunk, excited to see what his new sweet ride had to offer. Someone had to have stuffed the duffel bag—which was bursting at the zipper with hundreds of prepackaged baggies of green and white pills, not to mention a fair number of stray syringes—inside the car earlier this morning. Performance-enhancing drugs, one of several designer steroids becoming more and more popular. The colorful coating was a dead giveaway. And the needles—supplies for blood injections—spoke volumes. Whoever was dealing was doing so hardcore, and on a larger scale.

In his modeling days, steroids had been just another item on the endless smorgasbord of drugs available. Caden had seen...done...all kinds of shit over the past few years. Cocaine and hard liquor being his go-to poisons. He’d done his share, alright, before leaving it all behind. Fortunately, the high from recreational drugs wasn’t something he’d needed over the long term. Booze, though, had been harder to quit. Cleaning up his body. Life. Freakin’ career choices.

Never steroids.

So what the fuck was a gym bag filled to capacity with the stuff doing in his trunk?

Better to keep the nosy, inquisitive reporter close. Find out if she’d seen anything—after all, she’d have had her eye on his car the entire morning while waiting for her chance to hide inside it.

Fucking great. One more distraction he didn’t need. One that could land him in jail, or just as bad, cause a tabloid feeding frenzy. If Sophie Morelle spotted the pills, if she didn’t have enough common sense to know they weren’t Caden’s, he could kiss his comeback goodbye.

Despite the risk, he was going to hang onto the stash and keep the duffel hidden in the trunk. Until Nevada, where he’d turn it over to his brother Bracken, without any unnecessary fanfare. Let him investigate the source and figure out exactly which fighter was doping and, worse, dealing.

Once more, he studied his companion, now fast asleep, sprawled out in her bucket seat, her long legs stretched out and her head rolled to one side so her cheek pressed against the leather. Her auburn hair was neatly combed into a ponytail, with one long stray strand blowing in the wind. The rich color contrasted nicely against her pale skin. No apparent freckles or birthmarks on this redhead. Long, dark eyelashes, high cheekbones, and full, pink lips, the lower one slightly plumper. Attractive in a natural way. Wholesome.

Far from his usual type of woman.

Caden shook his head and looked away. It was all an illusion—after all, this was the queen of smack, Sophie Morelle, sitting here. The antithesis of wholesomeness.

The sexy reporter must have been up damned early to have stashed herself in the Aston. Or maybe she hadn’t slept at all. He couldn’t blame her for conking out. The flat farm country, stretching on for miles, was starting to look the same in every direction.

Caden didn’t mind the open roadway. And, truth was, he was growing more accustomed to the idea of company.

All that talk about sex had affected him more than he wanted to admit. Hell, he wondered if she knew how close he’d been to following through on his subtle promise. Gotten a room at the Best Western and turned the glimmer of arousal in her eyes to one heavy with lust.

That’d be a fine sight to see.

Fuck
. He should have left her behind at the gas station.

A Rascal Flatts song came on the radio and he turned the volume up slightly. Driving music. Singing music. Lovemaking music.

It was gonna be a long ride to Wichita.

Caden contemplated texting his brother to get his take on this shitty situation. But Bracken would tell him to ditch the drugs. Shield himself from the consequences. Keep his nose clean, and out of someone else’s illegal business.

But the fact that another fighter headed for the championship bout had been doping pissed Caden off. MMA was considered a clean sport. Untarnished by reports of steroids and performance enhancing drugs. Unlike other sports, like cycling and baseball. Dopers cheapened the efforts of someone who’d legitimately trained, who’d put in the physical hours and mental discipline.

MMA fighters were well-known for steering clear of chemicals, for following a natural diet of lean protein, carbs, and greens to round out their extensive physical training. Prided themselves on their mental preparation too—Zen shit, and all. Polluting their bodies wasn’t part of their sports culture. Caden wasn’t about to let some asshole tarnish the sport he loved or sabotage his comeback.

He considered asking Harold how to deal with this, but he thought better of it. His manager wasn’t in a position to help. Hell, the only person he could trust this fucked up problem with was Bracken.

Tetnus was more than a championship fight. It was a chance to prove to his brother—fuck, who was he kidding, to prove to
himself
—that Caden Kelly was no joke. His shit was together. Those restless years were behind him. He was capable of committing to something worthwhile, and finishing it. He was in control. Focused. In the present. Not so deep inside his head that his thoughts were defeating him quicker than any opponent.

Fighting was his choice. Within his power. Not something he’d been forced to do.

Not like when he was a kid.

* * *

“Let me get this straight,” Caden summarized, his tone sarcastic and light. “You’re saying Sal was inside the hotel lobby, waiting for the prick patrolling the bus to turn the other way so he could stick your luggage underneath the bus. That that prick Jerry was like a fly in a fly trap, stuck to the bus and nothing but the bus. Unbeknownst to Jerry, you, being a shrewd operator, slipped by him and stowed away in my car. And that no one else was in the parking lot?” He placed his well-defined forearms on the red tablecloth and cocked his head.

“Um...don’t you think one of the Boys would have sounded off a Sophie-alert? It’s not like they’ve come around to my way of thinking. Yet.”

“Heaven help them.”

Roughly half an hour ago, he’d pulled off the highway into a run-of-the-mill diner for lunch. She’d conked out during the ride, which of course only added to the awkwardness between them now. Her darn narcoleptic tendencies were a nuisance. Back in the early days—before selling out—she’d spent a good portion of her time on the road. A good reporter needed to keep alert. Who knew when a story might be around the next bend? Airplanes, cars, the Pittsburgh T—she’d nodded off in the worst of places. It was downright embarrassing.

Like today, when she’d woken, found the car idling in front of a diner, and Caden’s face parked inches from her own. So close, she could smell the cinnamon gum on his breath. Close enough to kiss, if her foggy mind had connected the dots a bit quicker. Falling asleep wasn’t exactly a savvy reporting strategy but perhaps his willingness to talk would make up for the missed opportunity.

His silence before she’d fallen asleep had been like a third travel companion, and the subtle undercurrent of tension emanating from his beautiful body, a fourth. Given the size of the Aston, something had to give. What was up with him, anyway?

Gone was the light banter and sex talk. His shift in manner dumbfounded her as much as the complexity of him unnerved her. Who would have expected it of an underwear model and a man who fought for a living?

Caden leaned in, closing the distance between them, and she sensed that he was waiting for her to do the talking.

With a flat-out faked calmness, she sipped her coffee. “I didn’t call Jerry a prick, or myself a shrewd...an opportunist, but yes, in effect, that’s what I said.”

He nodded and jabbed his fork into the last slice of steak on his plate, looking away as he did so.

Sophie relaxed and shifted the few remaining leaves of lettuce in her Cobb salad around with her fork.

“Did you see anyone else but Jerry near the Aston before you pulled your stowaway act?”

“A smooth act, you have to admit. I might have made it to Wichita if not for the parade of panties. To answer your question, no. I waited for Jerry to disappear around the back of the bus and then climbed inside the Aston. Why the inquisition? Did someone put a ding in the bumper or something?”

He shot her a bemused smile, and relaxed back into his seat. “Sweetheart, it’s not the car that’s got me thinking.” Caden pinned her with his gaze, making sure she was watching him as he licked a drop of salad dressing oil from his bottom lip. Purposefully. Knowingly. And dang it, if Sophie didn’t just about slide off the bench.

His come-on—lame as it was—was still a turn-on. Caden was smooth, she’d give him that. Tossing her napkin at him in an attempt to recover, she opened her mouth to comment, but was cut off by the return of their waitress.

Or rather Caden’s waitress, Miss Attentive.

“How was your steak and salad?” Her words were slow and deliberate, like she was asking him how he’d liked a rub down with a happy ending.

“Never tasted better. Thanks.” Amusement roughened his voice but his answer wasn’t directed at Miss Attentive.

Sophie’s heel shot forward, a natural reflex, and connected with his leg.

Caden’ gave her a lopsided grin.

Sexy devil.

She scowled, hoping Miss Attentive would catch her drift, but the waitress was fixated on Caden. Heck, who could blame her?

The desire for some major heel thumping rose up inside Sophie. Her reaction surprised and angered her, to the point that contemplated smacking her own head with her heel. Knock those ugly images of Miss Attentive bent over a bed and asking Caden how he liked his steak and salad clear out of her brain.

“Can I get you dessert?”

Enough already
. “He ate enough salad to feed the state’s entire rabbit population. I’ll take the check.”

The waitress flounced off with a huff.

“How’d you know I’m saving dessert for later?”

“Do I have
amateur
written on my forehead? You’re deflecting again, Caden. You promised me an exclusive. All these questions, your lame attempts to rile me up with enticing words...gestures...”

Caden leaned forward again, his forearms on the table. She wondered what was playing out in his mind, for his eyes changed with his mood, deep emerald one moment and an almost transparent green in another.

Big-O-factor material, those eyes.

A rush of adrenaline made her heart quicken. He winked. A confident gesture, full of intent. Pure trouble. “Who would have thought a bit of verbal foreplay would make you, of all people, blush. Such a pretty red, too. Matches the color of your hair.” His grin broadened. “Maybe it’s too hot in here. Maybe it’s time to go.”

The devil was full of innuendos. Sophie didn’t know how to respond, so instead she pushed her plastic glass of water toward him. “Here. It’s on me. Cool yourself off.” It didn’t matter that the waitress had refilled his glass of water at least six times already.

Whereas before she’d been perched ramrod straight on her bench—her late morning siesta in the car had wrinkled her blouse and she was trying give them time to fall out—offering him her water brought Sophie closer to him, within arm’s reach. And dang it all if Caden didn’t take advantage.

Reaching out, he clasped a lock of her hair between his fingers, winding it around his pointer and rubbing it with his thumb. “A natural, earthy redhead. Like chili powder. Suits you.” He stopped rubbing and leaned in closer, like he wanted to whisper naughty words to her.

She’d interviewed a lot of hot guys, but none of them brought out the crazy in her like Caden did. Spoke to her baser instincts. Had her consider the possibilities of him, her, and them performing a horizontal tango. Yep, Caden was charming, charismatic, with a sexual energy about him that made promise of a good time. Promise of an almighty O-factor.

Correction. Multiple-O-factors.

No wonder he drove her crazy.
Promises.
Promises.

“You’re prettier in person than on television, chili cakes,” he remarked. His head cocked to the side as he studied her, a hint of his infamously naughty grin on his lips. Her cheeks flushed warmer, heart raced quicker, and her imagination ignite with the possibility that maybe, just maybe, Caden saw right past her carefully constructed persona, and
liked
what he found hidden there.

She angled in, his tender touch as surprising as his gentle words. Yet it was her response, the wonder at what it’d feel like to let go, let him inside, bask in an intimacy had always been on the horizon but never within her grasp—heck, she never wanted it to be attainable, until now—that was the greatest surprise of all.

A second later, his fingers released her hair and he leaned back, breaking contact. Breaking the connection that had been sizzling between them. A fork replaced her lock of hair in his hand and as he shifted restlessly in his seat, his attention wandered about the diner, everywhere but on her.

She ignored the sudden feeling of loss sweeping over her. A familiar feeling that wrenched at her soul and robbed her of air. She was a teenager all over again, discovering her reputation had been twisted and crushed through no fault of her own and she was left to pick up the pieces of her shattered life. Uncomfortable feelings she’d fought to silence. Forget.

A kick in the stomach would have been less of a wakeup call. So Sophie did what she always did. She focused on her objective.

Three years ago, the fighter across from her was the guy to beat. He’d had it all, and was on the verge of winning Warrior’s Wager, the first-ever MMA title. Had battled some fierce opponents to get there. The news channels buzzed with excitement over the handsome warrior’s rise to glory. Even Sophie, who didn’t know a thing about MMA at the time, knew about Caden. She’d gone as far as placing him on her guest list.