The Proposition (The Plus One Chronicles) (4 page)

This pain? Not happening. He would not go morose over this. He’d just find more doctors, had to be one out there somewhere who had an answer. People beat cancer all the time.

“Totally would,” Drake said. “But they got me hooked up to all these wires.”

Sloane snorted. “Excuses.”

Drake moved his hand around until he found the remote, clicked a button and the light behind his bed snapped on. He raised his bed. “Spill it, Michaels.”

He knew Drake was a sick man by the gauntness ravaging his face, the shadows chasing the vitality of his eyes. Yet sometimes with the right turn of his head, Sloane caught a glimpse of the man who fourteen years ago had lifted a six-and-a-half foot Sloane off the ground and heaved him into a wall. Then he’d dragged him onto a workout mat and forced Sloane to vent the violent rage boiling inside him.

When Drake had pinned Sloane in a pool of his own sweat and blood, the man had gotten right in his face and said, “Either you control violence or it controls you. Choose.”

Sloane had lived by those words ever since.

But right now he needed to appease the man waiting for him to spill his guts. Unwilling to talk about Kat just yet, Sloane chose a topic that was close to Drake’s heart. “It’s Isaac from our Fighters to Mentors program. One of the other kids in the program came by the gym and told me Isaac’s skipping school, searching for ways to make money.” Drake had been mentoring Isaac, but since he’d gotten too sick, Sloane had filled in, bringing the boy along with the two kids Sloane currently mentored. Isaac wasn’t dealing with the change well.

Drake’s face darkened. “What happened? Is he hurt?”

“No,” Sloane assured him, even as he felt himself dragged back through time. He’d been younger than Isaac’s thirteen years when he’d begun finding ways to make money. To keep them going until his mom found her next Prince Fucking Charming. He ignored the ball of rage lodged in his solar plexus. Anger was not productive, action was. Pulling himself back, he said, “Kid’s okay so far. But it turns out that Isaac and his grandmother are in the process of being evicted.”

“Fix it.”

“On it. Already had one of my assistants pull the records. We’ll pay up their rent through the end of the year. But damn it,” he nearly growled. “I’m not reaching the kid. He, or his grandmother, should have contacted me.”

“Pull your head out of your ass. These boys, all they know is rejection, constant fear and desperation. They don’t believe words. Only actions.” Drake ground his jaw then added, “By getting sick, I abandoned him too. Just like everyone else.”

The ugly reality in his mentor’s words twisted with his own helplessness chomping at his guts. “Look, I’ll bring the kid by tomorrow. You talk to him. Keep his ass in school and off the streets.” Sloane knew the streets too well, knew the degradation and hunger that stripped a boy of his soul. It’s part of what drove him to work relentlessly. He was never going to be that powerless again.

Drake nodded. “I need to keep in contact with the kid.” His gaze sharpened. “Now tell me the real reason you’re haunting my room when I should be dreaming of hot nurses and sponge baths.”

Notching his chin down, Sloane scowled. “Dude, I don’t need to know what kind of sick shit you dream about.”

The other man flashed a merciless smile. “If you don’t start talking, I’ll describe the dreams. In boner-inducing detail.”

Sloane grimaced, then sighed. He was cornered and he knew it. “A woman and her friend were attacked by two carjackers earlier tonight. One of them had a knife.”

Drake reached over to his bedside table, latched on to a puke-colored pitcher and poured some water in a plastic cup. “Not seeing the problem yet. Two thugs, one knife. That’s not even a workout for you.” He took a sip of water.

“The woman. I recognized her earlier in the night but couldn’t figure out from where until she told me her name. I saw her once a dozen years ago when I was a dishwasher at the country club. It was her sweet-sixteen birthday party.”

Slowly, Drake lowered the cup until it rested on a thigh. Said nothing.

Sloane drew in a breath. “She had it all. Rich parents who adored her. Huge party. I hated her.” He knew it had been irrational. But he could still remember watching her from the kitchen. He didn’t recall her dress or any of that shit, but he remembered her eyes—such a clear green blue, huge in her face, and completely guileless. “I hated her for being alive and having a perfect life.”

“When Sara was dead,” Drake filled in.

Refusing to shy away from the truth, Sloane said, “Yeah.” He was a cold man. A hard man. He didn’t know how to be any other way, nor did he want to be. Tonight, Kat had tripped something inside him, but what? And why now? “She’s different.”

“A dozen years will do that. So will life.”

That woman he saw tonight was light years away from the girl he remembered. He’d hated that girl, but the woman?

Intrigued him. Roused something in him. Made him need to know more about her.

He tried to explain. “Back then, I’d been the dishwasher no one even noticed. And she’d been the princess, the star. And tonight…” He let it hang, still trying to get his head around it.

“You dominated the room as you always do. And she?”

“Brought the cake. Stood against a wall partially hidden by a pillar. Observing. Maybe hiding. Then she vanished to the kitchen.” What had happened to change her?

“Hiding?”

He lifted an eyebrow. “She’s a contradiction. Hiding,” Sloane confirmed. “Yet she has these pink streaks in her brown hair.” He’d liked that. Hell he’d fucking loved it. Had wanted to pull off the band that held her hair back in a ponytail and run all the strands through his fingers. Find every streak in there. The urge had been strong. Visceral.

She gave off conflicting messages. Timid women did not put streaks in their hair. Nor did they tell him to get out of their space. Yet she kept her purse in front of her like it could protect her from him. She’d done the same thing in the ballroom with the decorating kit.

He added the obvious. “Trouble, she’ll be trouble for me. Right now, when I need to focus.”

“A distraction is exactly what you need.”

Sloane unlaced his hands from behind his head and sat forward. “Foster will be out in a few days. I’ve waited fourteen years. I won’t be sidetracked.” Not even by stormy blue-green eyes and pink-streaked hair. And those curves…yeah he needed to stay far away from that. She was way too tempting.

Drake held his stare. “There’s a price for taking a life, Sloane.”

His thoughts iced to pure vengeance. “Damn right. It’s time Lee Foster paid it.”

“Look around you, son. This is how it’s going to end for me. Alone.”

Sloane surged up out of his chair. “I’m not letting you die.” He’d said the five words with the same cold determination that had won him championship fights and built his company.

“Death doesn’t need your permission. And you’re missing the point. Do you see any woman shedding tears? Anyone who gives a rat’s ass?”

Sloane crossed his arms over his chest. “Dude, you’re a man whore. No woman could trust you.” He wasn’t doing this little pity-fest thing. It bored him. Okay, it pissed him off.

Drake shook his head and reached over to set down his water cup. “I’ve had time to look back over what I did with my life, and the view sucks. I made a choice, I killed a man. And that single act poisoned every goddamned thing from that moment on.” Slapping his hand down on his thin thighs, he said, “It’ll poison you too.”

Sloane didn’t flinch. “It’s not murder if he steps in the ring with me voluntarily.” He’d made sure Lee Foster would do exactly that.

Drake gripped the material of the hospital gown in his fists. “You once stopped a fight, sacrificing the win because you refused to seriously hurt your opponent.”

Sloane shrugged. “I know a concussion when I see one. The ref was sleeping on the job.”

“You’re not planning on stopping this fight. It’s murder. Doesn’t matter how you stage it, it’s still murder.”

Sara’s death was murder. Foster’s death would be justice. “That day you stopped me from killing Foster, you told me that if I was going to get vengeance, do it right. That’s who I am.”

The older man sighed. “That’s on me. I tried to give you a reason to live. Instead, I gave you a reason to kill.”

Chapter Four

Drake’s words echoed in Sloane’s head as he exited the hospital through the emergency room since the front doors were locked at this hour of the night. Or early morning, actually. He strode out the doors into the cool air scented with the tang of the ocean and stopped.

He recognized Kat from her long ponytail streaked with pink. Her shoulders were tense, and she stood with her hand on the open back door of a cab. From the angle of her head, she was staring inside.

Utterly frozen.

Sloane took two steps closer. Her fingers on the edge of the door were white-knuckled. Her breathing was tight. And she had her other arm holding her purse against her stomach.

Walk away from her, he told himself. Whatever her deal was, just walk away.

“Lady, are you getting in?” the cabbie barked.

Sloane shifted his attention to her profile. Her eyes were wide, her jaw bulging at the joint.

Walk away, damn it
.

Slapping a hand on her hip, she muttered, “Do it.”

The two words took him by the throat. Sloane recognized the iron will fighting to dominate whatever terrified her.

Not only was he not walking away, God help anyone who got in his way.

He stepped up next to her. She was breathing in her nose and out her mouth, determination crystallizing her blue eyes into jewel tones. He kept a small space between them and said softly, “Kat.”

She whipped her head around and sucked in air. Frown lines hovered between her eyebrows before recognition smoothed them out. “Sloane. I was just leaving.”

Unlikely, given the death grip she had on the doorframe and her dilated pupils. “Okay,” he said.

She turned back to the cab interior. “I need to get in.”

“That’s usually how it’s done,” Sloane assured her.

“People do it all the time.”

“Without a doubt.”

“Right.” She frowned. “I thought you went home hours ago.”

Ah, there she was, coming back online. “I rarely do the expected.”

She sucked in her lips and blew out a breath. “I bet you could get in the back of a damned cab.”

He leaned against the side of the idling cab. “I don’t know why I would. I have two cars, plus a limo. Getting in a cab seems redundant.”

She pulled her mouth tight. “Do you have one of those cars with you tonight?”

“A Mercedes CLS63. Black. Perfectly safe. I even know how to change a tire should the need arise.” He was taking her home, however, he’d let her come to that realization on her own. But damned if he didn’t want to pull that band out of her hair again. Or just touch her in general.

“The meter is running, lady.”

Sloane leaned back a fraction to glare at the annoyed cabbie.

The other man shut his mouth and turned around.

Finally Kat sighed, stepped back and shut the door. “I don’t suppose you’d let me drive?”

Sloane handed the cabbie a couple bills before Kat could get her wallet out. “Tell you what. I’ll drive, you pick the music.”

She raised her chin. “I can pay the cabbie.”

“Move faster next time.” He closed his hand around her elbow, keeping his hold gentle.

She stiffened.

Time to get serious. “Use your words, Kat. You’re in control here. All you have to do is tell me to get my hand off you, and I will.”

She looked up at him. “You’re blunt, aren’t you?”

Pleased that she hadn’t snapped at him to let go of her, he steered her toward his car. “In most cases, bluntness works.”

“And in other cases?”

Opening the door, he waited until she slid in and said, “I do whatever it takes to win.”

***

Kat sank into the butter-soft leather, her body heavy with fatigue and aches. Her eyes were gritty, her head throbbed, yet she was vitally aware of the man next to her in the driver’s seat.

Sloane guided the car through the quiet streets of San Diego. He had his shirtsleeves pushed up, revealing strong forearms dusted with hair and lined with veins.

“Music?”

Normally, she loved music. She’d blare it when creating recipes, doing her version of dancing. But right now she was just too overwhelmed. “None, thanks.” Scoping out the interior, she said, “Nice car.” Like a hundred-K nice.

“Big enough for me. The other car I have is a Fisker Karma.”

The name didn’t register with her. “What’s that?”

“Electric car with solar glass roof.”

“You have an electric car and a limo?” Wasn’t that counterproductive? A limo had to be a gas guzzler while the electric car was all about new energy and protecting the environment.

“The Fisker is for fun, the Mercedes useful, and I get a lot of work done in the limo.”

“Do you keep a driver on call?” Who was Sloane Michaels? Curiosity bubbled through her exhaustion.

Sloane glanced over at her. “He lives in a guesthouse on my property.”

She tried to figure him out. Who was that rich and yet took down a thug with a knife? Hell, who was that rich and ran toward a knife? “How did you disarm that guy so easily?”

He guided the car around a corner. “Used to fight.”

Her stomach clenched. “Fight? Like…get in fights, or fight professionally?” Had he been like those thugs tonight? Why had she thought she’d be safer with him than in a cab?

His mouth quirked. “Both. I fought in UFC for a few years. Before I started my company.”

Oh God. She couldn’t be in the car with him. A smoldering commenced in the center of her chest, but she forced herself to breathe. In the last years, she’d been getting better at controlling her panic attacks. Tonight, however, they were kicking her ass in unrelenting assaults. “Why? Why would you want to hit people? Hurt them?”

His granite jaw clenched in silence. Finally, he said, “I like to win.”

A loaded statement. Wanting to win might be simple, but the drive behind it tended to be a complicated snake pit of emotions and experiences. She focused straight ahead, on the dark and quiet streets as the powerful car slid through the night. Needing to fill the thick hush descending over them, she asked, “And did you?”

“Two heavyweight championships before I retired.”

I do whatever it takes to win.
That’s what he had said when he handed her into the car. “Impressive.” It was all she could think to say. The tension in her chest kept twisting and constricting. He liked violence. He hurt people.

“You don’t sound impressed.”

His gaze raked her skin, making her feel exposed and vulnerable in the car with him. “I don’t like violence. I just…don’t.”

“It’s a violent world. You might not like it, but it’s there.” He paused, then added in a softer tone, “Like tonight when you were attacked. It took controlled violence to deal with that situation.”

She closed her eyes beneath a hot wave of nausea at the memory. “You broke that guy’s arm. I heard the bone snap.”

“Quick and effective. And then I stopped once he was down. That’s the control.”

She faced him. Visually explored his darkly sensual mouth, the nose that had an unnatural bend, and eyes that seemed to pierce through her. Intense. Dangerous. Sexual. When he shifted his attention back to the road, she asked, “Did you want to keep going? Keep hurting that guy?”

His jaw scissored. “When I opened that door to the alley and saw you crawling on the goddamned asphalt with that look of raw terror…” He clamped his lips together.

Kat fought the need to hunch her shoulders. “Go on.” She had to know.

“I wanted to kill them both.”

Tightly leashed violence bled through his voice, and she shivered. Wrapping her arms around her waist, she said, “You didn’t.”

“No. Control, Kat. I live by it.” He rubbed his neck. “Anyway, I retired from fighting years ago. I run a company now.”

She struggled to get onto safer footing with him. “What’s your company?”

“SLAM Inc. I have gyms all over the nation. We develop fighters, do merchandizing, own an entertainment company. Various things.”

“All having to do with fighting.”

Challenge flowed from him. “Not all. But that’s where I got my start and where I built my wealth. I’m not apologizing for it.”

“You don’t owe me an explanation.” Noting where they were, she said, “My building is there on the right.” Kat tried to get the censure out of her voice. She had no right to pass judgment on the man who had rescued her and Kellen. She was tired, sore and dreading being alone. “You’ve had two very successful careers and you can’t be more than what, thirty? That is something to be proud of.”

“Let’s talk about you. You do cakes?” A grin worked his mouth, teasing the left side into a sexy curve. “And emergency brownies, if I recall correctly.”

Bubbles of amusement tickled her throat. “Sugar Dancer is my bakery, and emergency brownies are helping make us a success.” Pride chased out some of her fatigue. In that respect, she understood what he meant about not apologizing. “My condo is there, just drop me anywhere.” She released the seat belt and reached for her purse.

He slid the car into a guest space and turned off the motor.

She pulled out her keys and said, “Thank you for—”

“Christ. You really think I’d just dump you off here? And drive away?” He shoved open his door and got out.

Kat snapped her mouth shut and opened her door. She was sore in general, including a headache from that thug trying to drag her out of the car by her hair. The worst was her leg though, it hurt like a bitch. She used the seat for leverage and managed to shift her right leg out, then her left was easy enough.

Sloane crouched down in the opened door. “You’ve been limping on that leg all night. How badly were you hurt tonight?”

“Just cuts and bruises. I’ll be fine. Sloane, I appreciate everything you did tonight.” She made her voice firm despite being so damn tired. “But I need you to move back and not trap me.”

A second ticked by. Then another. Just Sloane’s gaze on her, digging through her protective walls. But she refused to explain or justify herself.

“I scare you. Not intimidate, but downright scare.”

Yes, but she hadn’t backed down. Didn’t that mean she was getting stronger?

Except tonight when Kellen had needed her.

Sloane rose and gave her room.

Kat got up, although nowhere near as gracefully as he had, and why did she even notice that?

He reached around her and shut the door. “Give me your cellphone. I’m going to put in my phone number.”

Confused, she frowned at him. “What for?”

“Because I’m going to watch you get into your condo. You’re going to check around, make sure it’s safe, then lock the door and text me that you’re okay.”

“I’m safe. I have an alarm.”

“If you don’t text me, if I think you’re in trouble, I’m coming in. Give me your phone, Kat.”

“But you don’t even know me.” Why would he care this much? Be this intense? And why did that make her less afraid and more…interested?

He leaned back against the car. “I know you now. I’m not leaving here until I know you’re safe. You want me gone? Give me your phone.”

Kat handed him her phone.

***

Kat lifted the bread dough from the bowl and dropped it on the floured surface. Music pumped through the speakers. She had it synced to her iPod which was on shuffle. This was one of her favorite times of day—early morning, the bakery was still closed and she was in her industrial kitchen, prepping for the day.

In her safe zone. It had been pure luck that she’d had Kellen as her physical therapist, and his parents owned the bakery. Eventually he coaxed her into meeting his parents, and they offered her a part-time job in their bakery kitchen. Here she had begun the process of healing, finding herself and figuring out who she really was.

By the time Kellen’s parents had been ready to sell and retire, Kat knew she wanted the bakery and bought it. Just over a year ago Sugar Dancer became hers, and she hadn’t yet regretted the decision.

She drew in the scent of yeasty bread as she began working the dough with her hands covered in thin gloves. The healing cuts made the gloves a double necessity.

Unbidden, she thought of Sloane’s much larger hands, with the thicker knuckles.

The hands of a fighter.

A shiver raced down her spine. In the solitude of her kitchen, she could let herself admit it—Sloane excited her. Thrilled her. And terrified her right down to her bones. Confident power radiated from him and kicked her right in the libido.

Pounding on the door jerked her out of her musings. Panic slammed into her.

Who was it? Why the frantic hammering when a simple knock would do? She wasn’t expecting any deliveries. No one was due to show up for at least another hour. Yanking off a glove, she grabbed her cellphone while she debated what to do.

“Katie. It’s David. Open the door.”

David. Her ex-fiancé.
A clash of memories and fears rooted her to the spot. Why the hell would he come here? Had something happened to her parents? Her brother? She glanced at her phone screen, but there wasn’t a missed call.

“Katie, I know you’re in there. It’s important.”

It must be. For months after she’d broken up with him, she’d refused to see him, avoiding her parents’ attempts to get them back together. Only something vital would bring him to her bakery doorstep. Curiosity tamped down her anxiety enough to face him. Opening the door, she scoped out the man a few inches taller than her. It had been five-and-a-half years and he’d definitely changed, but then so had she. “What’s wrong? Why are you here?”