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But first things first. What were the chances that the Jacuzzi was near the pool and far, far away from the weight room? With the way her day was going...

“Where the fuck did
she
come from?”

Sophie’s heart dropped. Turning, she found a tall, wiry man glaring daggers at her from across the lobby.

“You’re on your own, kiddo. Off to call the wife. See ya, Jerry.” Sal laid the camera bag next to her large suitcase and grabbed his key from the receptionist. “Don’t forget your other bag on the...” Sal nodded toward the parking lot and bus.

“I’ll handle Jerry. All I need from you is to fill the Boys in, get them onboard and do whatever it takes to make them agreeable to being filmed,” she urged in a low voice.

With an apologetic glance delivered quicker than a blink, and as fast as his short legs could carry him, he left her to face the music alone. Jeez, she’d take a country ballad over having to listen to Jerry’s hotheaded chorus any day.

Sophie adjusted the puffy sleeves on her blouse and mentally prepared for battle. She’d show this bundle of joyless that bunny had a set of teeth bigger than his cojones.

Judging by the red flush on his cheeks, the bundle was rapidly unraveling as he thundered up next to her.

“You career wrecker! If you—”

“Career wrecker?” She calmly picked up her plastic room key off the counter and shifted into full Sophie Morelle mode. “You destroy everything you touch with that foul mouth and even fouler temper. Heard talk about how your wife left you, Jerry. I’d say your temperament had something to do with it.” She gave him her back as she pulled up the handle on her suitcase, picked up her camera bag, and stepped away.

There was no dealing with Jerry with kid gloves on or he’d plow right over her. She had an ace in her pocket, knew his weakness for money and fame would bring him around to her way of thinking. Except she was tired, grimy, and trying to avoid a nasty scene in the middle of the New Millennium Inn lobby. She’d prefer negotiating with him some other time.

She felt a firm grasp on her forearm a second before she was yanked none too gently back. Her heart pounded, but she ignored it. No one was allowed to mess with Sophie Morelle; she’d brought better men to the verge of tears for lesser offenses. Sophie let her temper rage, replacing the fear that had her heart aflutter. In seconds, she was sure the fire in her cheeks matched the manhandling creep’s coloring.

“My fighters. My arena. You mess with them, you mess with me.”

“If you don’t release my arm this instant, the police are going to have a
mess
to sort out. Assault charges...”

“Bitch. It’s a wonder your network didn’t can you earlier.” His hand dropped, though his fingers formed a fist on the way down. Sophie stepped back, waving her room key in his face like a sword fending off the enemy. Things were about to get ugly if she didn’t defuse the situation.

She bit back her irritation and squashed the numb sensation in the pit of her stomach that appeared each time a man got overly aggressive with her, and calmly stated, “You’re going to have more money than you know what to do with if you hear me out.”

Though the pigheadedness in his piglike eyes remained, Jerry paused. Instinctively she knew the moment for violence had passed, though her stomach churned and her throat burned.

“Lady, I don’t know how you got here, or what you’re up to, but you’re bad news and I don’t like you. Fuck, don’t you think you caused enough freakin’ damage?”

“When you’re feeling more chipper, we’ll discuss how you are going to ride the Tetnus wave and
double
your winnings. And, I’m going to make it happen, whether you like me or not.”

Jerry frowned, considering her words. With a grunt, he turned and marched away, but not before issuing a parting shot. “Like you? Much as I’d like a bullet to the head.”

Join the party...jerk.

She made her way down the long corridor toward the elevator bank in the east wing. The wheels of her suitcase rolled across the carpet, churning along with her thoughts. As a teenager, she’d learned the hard way how to deal with powerful men. Just like so many people in her past, nothing motivated them like money. Jerry was no exception.

Truth be told, she was just as easy. Heck, the reason she’d taken the
Late Night with Sophie Morelle
gig was the stellar salary. She’d sold herself out. Intentionally. Crossed the fine line between morally correct and immorally lurid. Cheap, too. Jerry’d be just another notch on her jaded belt.

Sophie wasn’t proud of what she’d become. Often she didn’t even
like
herself. But it was a world better than those early years, when a pigheaded man just like Jerry had snatched away her dreams. Temporarily, anyway.

The scars on her soul didn’t count.

* * *

“Woot! Woot! That’s twenty laps, Caden honey. That means—”

Caden dove and held his glide, effectively silencing the chatterbox. God, that woman loved the sound of her own voice. More annoying was that the chatter consisted of a single topic—him. Not that he let the constant praise—even of the most minor stuff, like the way he flossed his damned teeth—feed his ego. Caden was tired of his fame, and the bullshit that accompanied it.

Mouth closed and legs spread wide. Fuck, that’s what he wanted. Just like any average Joe. Her moaning and him coming hard. Not all this yacking about his pecs or underwear collection.

Maybe if he stuck it out for twenty more laps, Chatty’d get the hint and disappear? He’d been more than direct after the Oral-B remark this morning. It’d been fun, but her number was up. Which was why her appearance at the end of the pool had him swimming more laps than necessary, considering the ten-pound weights strapped to his biceps and ankles.

Despite Cathy—or whatever her name was—being an enthusiastic bed partner, his boredom had returned full-force. Exactly what he’d come to expect from the countless relationships he moved through as swiftly as the tepid pool water. It didn’t pay to bring anyone in too close; taking a shallow dip every now and again fulfilled his physical needs just fine.

Caden kicked harder, feeling the burn in his thighs. The gym attendant had more than enough money to update the entire exercise room with what Caden had paid him for the weights. Worth every penny too, judging by his fatigued muscles. A shame the slight-yet-never-ending headaches, which plagued him since his concussion a few months back, wouldn’t tire out as well. His path down comeback road wasn’t as easy as he’d thought. But it was bound to be a hell of a lot easier than when he’d first started out fighting, when he’d had to dig in deep and keep on going. Mind over matter.

Starting today, things were going to change. Hey, he’d already made some progress by finding a way off that yellow freak-show ride.

Breaking the surface, he forced his arms and legs into action and sliced through the water freestyle with precise, fluent strokes. The wall of the Olympic-sized pool came up quickly and he turned, pivoted, and pressed off the side without hesitation, though his muscles screamed in agony. No pain, no gain—he’d learned that lesson long ago, though was only reminded of it recently.

Several more laps followed—he lost count, and along with it, the chatterbox, who’d deserted her spot at the edge of the pool somewhere between laps twenty-five and twenty-eight. Probably headed off to greener pastures, likely joining the Boys and other MMA groupies for some late afternoon fun in the oversized hot tub. Though Caden couldn’t see them, the racket coming from behind the rattan fence was reminder enough that it was time to finish up. The party was a distraction he couldn’t afford, on so many levels.

Hell, back in the day—days way too recent to count—he’d have been the main attraction. The life of the party. The guy everyone loved to be around. Back when his life had been one endless booze fest. Endorsements, liquor, women, money, fame—all one suffocating blur. Caden ignored the burn and kicked harder. Fighting the hollowness inside. Hell, for three wild years, he’d managed to lose himself in all the who’s, what’s, and where’s, dull everything, except the memories.

Which was why, this time around, he had to get his shit together. Clean his act up and not give into temptation. Shake off his bad habits and make a crack at controlling his numerous appetites. Finally accomplish the one thing that had been within his reach until he blew it: the MMA welterweight title.

Four more blissfully peaceful, agonizingly brutal laps, he decided, and he’d call it a day.

Since he’d begun training for real, he felt stronger and more in control. It felt...good. Damned good. He picked up the pace into a full on sprint, determined to do it right this time. This time, no one—not even himself—was going to get in his way.

Chapter Three

GUILLOTINE CHOKE: A move a fighter had best beware of, especially if his opponent is French

How many fighters does it take to fill a hot tub?
Sophie wondered, trying to find humor in an otherwise exhausting day.
One.
Two
,
max.

From the sound of things, the entire entourage from the bus was putting it to the test. They’d congregated in and around the Jacuzzi, cordoned off from the pool area by a tall, rattan fence and some artificial palm trees. Drinking. Surrounded by giggling women. And partying so raucously that everyone else around the pool had headed over for a piece of the action.

Everyone except Sophie, and the lone swimmer making his way across the length of the pool.

Sophie filtered out their laughter. Being that the Boys were preoccupied and had forgotten her, she’d settled down on a clean patch of tile and had dangled her legs over the side. A cool drink would have been nice, but the Tiki bar had been wheeled over to the party.

Probably Caden’s idea. The unwelcome image of him flitted through her mind—his big body filling the hot tub, drinks in both hands and two bikini-clad women vying for a spot on his lap. Leaning back on her elbows, she concentrated on the blissful lapping sound. Content to simply kick her legs and create tiny waves with her feet.

She was definitely out of place with her silk blouse unbuttoned and her pencil skirt hitched up on her long legs. A swimsuit would have been a better idea but she’d have to make do. The suitcase with her lingerie and swimwear was currently held hostage on the bus and Sal had informed her that Jerry had the keys. Being she’d had her fill of
him
for the moment, she didn’t pursue it any further.

At least she’d had her flip-flops. Always kept a pair on hand—this pair being her favorite because of the bright, cheerful daisies. A habit, she supposed. Kids from Hawley spent a better part of the year in flip-flops. More affordable, and practical, than the Prada pumps she’d grown so fond of as an adult.

She kicked her legs, deciding never to think about Hawley again. Letting herself enjoy the smell of chlorine and the feel of the water washing over her skin. Letting the pool rinse away her troubles. Letting herself contemplate something,
someone
, much more appealing.

She took in the swimmer’s broad shoulders, thick arms, and tight butt in a long, gawking gape. His build rivaled any of the Boys’. Her trainers at the fitness club—when she’d had time to go—always encouraged her to take up swimming. Exercised all the muscles, or so they claimed.

Mildly curious, she eyed the eye-candy slicing through the water and heading toward the other end. He wore some kind of black armbands on each bicep. Floaties? No, not the way he cut through the water with long, powerful strokes. Certifiably hot.

Sophie leaned back, let the sun warm her face, and sent up a silent prayer that the next time she looked, he’d be doing the backstroke, so she could ogle his chest.

Down girl
. She kicked her legs as if trying to tread the murky waters of her thoughts. It had been a while since she’d been intimately involved with a man.

Over the past few years, she could count on one hand the guys she’d dated. Most didn’t get past the first date. A television executive, who after wining and dining her, thought he’d take her for a spin on the casting couch. She’d threatened to file sexual harassment charges—clearly that so-called date hadn’t ended well. A few average guys who turned out to be fans, expecting a raunchy,
kinky
, Sophie Morelle, got instead...nothing, not even a kiss.

Two short-term boyfriends: one who lasted a few months until Sophie’s schedule became so hectic she didn’t have time for him. The second guy, Jeff, lasted a few more months, and was someone who genuinely cared about her—which freaked her out more than the television executive. On one dreary Mademoiselle Freak Out evening, she’d cut the cord and broken his heart.

Commitment phobia? Hung up on her past? Possibly both? Sophie didn’t like to dwell on things she couldn’t control. Or change. As far as relationships were concerned, better to let sleeping dogs lie and live in the present, or so she told herself. And judging by the splashing water, her present was making his way toward her.

The sound of wet feet slapping across the tiled pool deck caused Sophie to snap her eyes open, just in time to spot the two fighters headed her way.

Was it too much to ask luck to work for her, and not against her? She was so sure they’d be too preoccupied. How the heck had they spotted her?

Sophie hurried to stand, slid into her flip-flops, and turned to make a hasty retreat. But she was too late.

“Lookie who decided to join us,” the fighter with the weird scorpion tattooed on his head slurred. Jaysin someone? It didn’t matter. What mattered was getting away from this drunken crew.

Sophie tried to reason with them. “Listen, Boys. You have company...better company than me, over there in the hot tub. We’ll talk tomorrow about how I am going to make you superstars.” Both men paused, listening.

Suddenly hopeful, Sophie continued, “Men who’ll be admired by every athlete out there, including Jeter and both Mannings. You’ll see I’m not the ‘washed up clumsy bitch’ Jaysin here accused me of being on the bus ride over. I’m the woman who’s going to rock your worlds.”

She eyed them both as they processed her words. She took a few measured steps backward, just in case.

Jaysin grunted. “Think you can make me a bigger star than him?” He angled his head toward the pool.

She frowned, her eyes following his gesture, but a loud shout made her jump and turn in alarm.

Two more Boys sprinted up to them, both grinning like devils. Jaysin tried to run interference, only to be jostled to the side.

“Where’s your bathing suit, sweetheart?” An arm snaked around her waist and she was lifted off her feet. His grip wasn’t too tight and if she arched her body just so...

“Hey, Anthony, I think she wants you to let go.”

Sophie stopped squirming, realizing the brute holding her had stepped to the ledge of the pool.

“One.”

“No. I—”

“Two.”

“—can’t—”

“Three!” They yelled in unison, drowning out Sophie’s own scream.

“—swim!”

Sophie hit the water face first, landing hard and flat into a body-jarring belly flop. A childhood spent in a coal town didn’t exactly lend itself to swim lessons. Oh, she
owned
several bathing suits, for hanging out in hot tubs, sipping piña coladas and networking with celebrities, whomever her feature guest was going to be, back in the day. Not for swimming. Ever. She’d likely
drown.

Fire spread across her midriff and her cheeks stung. The undignified belly flop hurt like dang-diggity. She literally had the wind knocked out of her, like she’d slammed up against a brick wall. Stunned, she felt the water wash over her.

As she sank, regret is what surfaced. The kind that came with the realization that her life had taken the wrong path, when in one huge gulp of chlorinated water, she regretted not sticking to her dreams, the goals she’d set for the future. Goals that didn’t include talking trash on late-night television. Sure, she had something to prove to her former network. But more importantly, she had something to prove to herself. And now, she might not get the chance.

All I wanted was to be like Christiane Amanpour.
A
genuine journalist
,
one making a difference in the world.
Really do it right this time.

A knee connected with the bottom—oddly malleable, but hard enough she thought she heard her teeth rattle. She pitched sideways.

I
need this documentary!
Is this really how I want to go out?

The pool floor
gyrated
.

Did she really want to go out wearing a silk blouse and skirt, and one yellow-flowered flip flop, with her biggest story being not one she covered—but caused? Be remembered for all time as the woman who’d knocked out cold the most celebrated of celebrities and winningest of fighters, Caden Kelly? Nearly ruined his multiple careers. Completely ruined her own.

No siree.

Sophie flailed her arms overhead and kicked her feet hard. The sole of her foot connected with the pool’s bottom, which felt more like a carnival moonwalk ride, but she didn’t dwell on it. The lightbulb in her head had switched on to survival mode. With every ounce of strength left in her, she pushed off and shot upward toward the light.

Pumping her arms and legs wildly, she cleared the surface.

The welcoming rays of sunlight greeted her. With one long, jagged inhale, she realized her head was above water. She opened her mouth and let life’s breath fill her lungs. Her future was hers for the taking. It wasn’t all over.

The next instant, she was underwater.

Wildly, she kicked her legs, attempting to break free of both the water and the vise gripping her ankle. Something, or rather
someone
, had yanked her back under.

She reached out. Her hand connected with something soft and slippery, something to grab onto and use as leverage. Hastily, she worked her fingers up to the elastic waistband and wrapped them tightly around it. The material resisted, dragging the top of her hooked-on-for-dear-life fingers down along a warm, hard surface in a wet caress.

Still, it worked. Warm sunlight caressed her cheeks as she surfaced, gasping for breath as her head bobbed above water. She’d been given another chance.
This time
,
I’m not going to blow it.
The thought flickered through her mind like a passing sunbeam. Briefly. Before she went under once more.

An arm—the swimmer’s!—wrapped around her waist, pulling her in tight against his side. And, blessedly, upward, until her head broke the surface.

She sputtered and blinked away the pool water from her eyelashes.

Her silk blouse spread out around her like a bright purple jellyfish but Sophie didn’t care.

Laughter rang out loudly. She glanced at the Boys, pointing and fist pumping the air like their favorite wide receiver had just scored a touchdown, and ignored them and their less-than-sympathetic sense of humor. Not even the Boys were going to buzz kill the feeling of euphoria sweeping over her. She’d been given another chance.

“Are you nuts, pinning me to the bottom of the pool like that? You nearly killed me.”

Sophie tensed, horrified. The taut arm holding her pressed up against his side flexed. Caden.

Utter humiliation. Figured he’d be the cause.
Crapola
.

“I barely touched you,” she snapped, trying to figure out how to work herself free of his hold without drowning before he recognized her.

“See this?” He flexed a bicep and her gaze fell to his enormous, well-defined muscle before shifting to the floatie. “Weights. Plus my muscles are shot from swimming extra laps.”

Was there anything unattractive about the man aside from the floatie strapped to his arm? She pushed the wayward thought aside, turning her head to eyeball the rim of the pool. A hopeless cause—she’d never make it, even if she launched herself off his body. Better get their reintroduction over with. Bracing herself, she flipped her hair off her face and glared at him.

“Holy shit on a brick, you’ve got to be kidding me!”

She opened her mouth to give him a what-for but his hold on her slackened and she slid down his wet body. Her nipples pebbled up. Reminding her that not much separated her boobs from his rock hard body, aside from a soaked silk blouse, sheer cami, and thin, lace bra.

Holy shit on a brick is right.
This was Caden.
Her savior?
The cause of her intense
,
immediate arousal?
CADEN.
DANG IT!
She flexed her fingers, frantically searching for the elastic, leverage so she could hoist herself up and off of him. Hoping somehow she’d manage to keep her head above water, then miraculously morph into an Olympic swimmer and sprint the heck away from him. She found the elastic, and then some. And then more some, a heck of a lot of more some.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” He pulled his hips back, breaking himself free from the contact the tops of her fingers had made with...
sweet Mother Mary.

The water rippled as the elastic snapped back into place against his taut stomach. She made a grab for his bicep.
Think documentary.
You just landed—literally—on the hottest welterweight around.
One within reach.
Several long inches of him.
Get a grip
,
Sophie!

He tried to shake her off.

Kicking with both feet, she squeezed her hand, pulled herself up and then managed to weave her other arm around him.

“Are you fucking insane?” His emerald green eyes smoldered with anger. He tugged his arm back but she steadfastly held on even as her body slammed up against his chest.

Caden flexed beneath her. She didn’t have to look to know that, unlike other fighters, his chest was free of tattoos, but her gaze lowered anyway. His body was a work of art in itself. Taut, tanned sculpted curves like sweet caramel on a vanilla cone. An immediate gastronomical-gasm in one long lick. Punch-drunk, that’s what had happened to her, taking in the way his muscles rippled as he tried to break free. She made a sound deep within her throat, something between an exasperated grunt and a short low-toned moan.

He stopped moving, and as she glanced up, his gaze pierced her.

“Let go.”

“No.”

Caden’s jaw clenched.

“Thought the restraining order said if you stepped anywhere near me, no matter the circumstances, you’d be locked up. Where the hell did you even come from?”

Oh, she’d give anything to dunk his arrogant, troublesome head underwater. A warning, that’s all it had been. She’d been thrilled
not
to have the privilege of coming anywhere near the panty pimp. Though the network had reacted...badly. Loss of advertising
and
a temporary restraining order? Reluctantly, Sophie admitted that it had likely been the final blow, the additional ax in her contractual beheading.