Taking Him Down. Meg MaguireЧитать онлайн книгу.
shot Rich had taken must have been worse than it had looked. A thin ribbon of red trailed from his temple down to his jaw. The announcer held the mike between them and asked, “How does it feel, earning your first championship title?”
Between panting breaths, Rich answered, “Overdue.”
“Good fight?”
“If I ever get another match with Higgins, I want a scrap next time, not a slow dance.”
This was met with major heckling from the Trucker fans.
“Any other words?”
He put his hands on his hips, chest still heaving. “Thank you, Merce, all you guys. Thank you, Mamá. Thank you, Diana. And thank you, Monty, wherever you wound up.” He gave a little heavenward salute and walked away from the mike.
As Rich stepped down from the raised ring, Mercer greeted him with a beaming smile that seemed to ask, “What took you so long?” They shared a manly, brusque hug before a medical guy tidied Rich’s cut. Rich led the way back up the aisle, his corner following. Lindsey’s gaze caught on his back muscles, gleaming under the stark spotlight.
“Wow,” she said, relaxing back in her seat.
“If only all fights were that efficient.” Jenna frowned. “Except that would mean every fight ended with someone getting really badly hurt.”
“Still. What a way to kick off your career.” In a few months, Lindsey could be shelling out a small fortune to watch Rich fight on pay-per-view. The thought was enlivening, except…
Something soured her stomach. Rich wouldn’t be around much longer. Mercer had said he needed new guys to fight, more opponents in his weight class and at his level. He’d be off to a training camp, who knew where.
She’d miss Rich’s ego-stroking flirtation, but it had been nice while it lasted. Exciting, without any messy romantic fallout. A crush. Someone to get secretly nervous about seeing, to put on eyeshadow for, without actually having to do any of the work of an actual relationship. Then again, also without getting to enjoy any of the perks, such as three rounds with Rich’s body in the ring better known as her bed.
As if she’d have had the first clue what to do with him if she got the chance.
With Delante’s and Rich’s victories secured, the final two matches were stress-free. By the time the main event was wrapped, Lindsey had officially caught the MMA bug. Swearwords she’d never uttered aloud had come streaming from her mouth unbidden, and she’d hopped to her feet so many times it was a wonder she hadn’t broken a heel or twisted her ankle.
“Are you coming to the after party?” Jenna asked, organizing her purse. “Nothing glamorous, but free drinks once the press stuff is done. Merce and I could give you a lift later.”
“Count me in. I could stand a little VIP treatment.” It wasn’t every day she’d get a chance to mingle in this strange, feral world.
If she’d known she’d be going to an after party, she’d have dressed up a bit more. It was chilly for early fall and she’d worn jeans. Nice ones, with a cute top, but watching jacked, angry men attack each other had her feeling exceptionally feminine, and she wished she’d dressed to reflect that.
Jenna had a pass to get them behind the scenes, and they followed the noise and activity to the threshold of a boardroom past the lockers. A long table was set up at the far end of the room with microphones, and the fighters sat behind it, all showered and dressed, answering questions for the small cluster of press people. Rich had changed into a suit, and Lindsey could make out the white bandage someone had applied to his temple.
Most of the questions were for the bigger-name guys from the final matches. But when one reporter asked Rich how he felt about his “lucky punch,” he smirked and replied, “If this was archery, you wouldn’t be asking about my lucky bull’s-eye.”
When the meeting disbanded, Lindsey and Jenna followed the crowd. They ended up in a fancy area for the corporate types who had box seats and season tickets, and the open bar was swamped. They spotted Mercer loading stuff onto a dolly, presumably to be taken back to Wilinski’s. Jenna hugged her boyfriend, and Mercer’s return embrace looked eager and possessive, making Lindsey a touch envious. She hadn’t felt the pleasant dig of strong male fingers at her back in ages.
The couple broke apart, and Lindsey clapped Mercer’s arm in congratulations. “Happy, I trust?”
He laughed. “There’s an understatement.”
“What do you think—was it a lucky punch?”
“Rich doesn’t need luck. He hits like a truck.”
“Do you wish he’d gotten a chance to show what else he can do?”
Mercer shook his head. “Nah. Rich has that thing—that thing people love to hate. He’ll be even more of a draw if fans are dying for his win to be proven a fluke.”
“Where is he?”
“Being courted by managers, same as Delante. I need to get over there myself, keep an eye on the kid. You girls should get some drinks—I’m driving.”
Lindsey and Jenna hit the bar, then wound up loitering in the concourse with a small group of guys who trained at Wilinski’s. They spent some time getting to know their mysterious, violent neighbors and trying to follow the postfight gossip.
A bit later Jenna disappeared in search of Mercer, and Lindsey was starting to feel the hour, her adrenaline waning. She took a seat on a radiator, letting her heels drop to the floor, and checked her phone for the first time in hours.
One text, from Brett. What time are you home tonight? It was from a couple of hours ago, and he was probably already in bed. The subtext read, “You’re going to wake me up, aren’t you? I need my beauty sleep. I’m a powerful lawyer.”
Okay, that was a bitchy interpretation, but she had the spirit of it pegged.
She tapped out, Not sure. Late. and shut the thing off. Suddenly wiped, she was tempted to contradict the message and head for the subway. Who knew how long Mercer would need to stay?
Then her mood shifted, weariness gone in a breath as silly, glittery excitement burst inside her like confetti.
She had a second to register Rich’s haughty, blinding smile before he was swarmed by a dozen well-wishers and autograph-seeking kids, Lindsey’s view blocked. Thank goodness, too. The drinks had her feeling loose, and she could use a minute to pull herself together.
Rich was a ridiculously good-looking man. Scary-sexy with his shirt off, and devastating in a suit. His gorgeous, masculine face, dark eyes and shoulder-length black hair had earned him his fight nickname. Broad shoulders and chest, slim waist, then those hips and that butt and those thighs and…ooh, tremble. His shape seemed made-up, like the heroes in those comic books Brett used to care so much about.
Rich could’ve easily skewed toward being too perfect, except for that accent, peppered with swearwords and strong enough to strip the wax out of your ears. It all worked great as a swaggering ring persona, but his over-the-topness wasn’t an act, Lindsey didn’t think, and that was enough to keep smart girls from getting any reckless romantic notions about the man. Though it didn’t keep her body from wanting his.
Lust object? Go for it. But she held herself back from slapping a few other labels on Rich. Rebound material? In your dreams, Tuttle.
Still, as the crowd thinned and her view of him cleared, she felt her pulse race, hormones elbowing her better judgment aside.
Six feet, three inches of good-sense-wrecking kryptonite.
And if Lindsey were her own client, she wouldn’t be letting herself anywhere near Rich Estrada.
2
BUT INADVISABLE NEARNESS was exactly what Lindsey got only a moment later.
Rich