Vicki Essex - In Her Corner

Kyle’s temperature peaked. “Don’t. Touch. My car.”

She blinked, gave him an apologetic smile and lifted her bike off the door. “Sorry. Can I please get my bottle now?”

Her flippancy reminded Kyle of his sister, Jessica. He frowned deeply. He was not going to let her get to him—or have the last word. “Listen. I don’t know where you’re from, but in this city, you ride on a bike path and follow traffic laws. Otherwise, I can’t say what’ll happen. Not everyone is as nice as me.” He glared pointedly at the driver who’d gotten out of his car—the man looked like he still wanted to club her over the head. When Kyle narrowed his eyes at him, he stomped back into his vehicle.

The woman noticed the exchange. She lifted her chin a fraction, acknowledgment and challenge clear in her strong, stubborn jaw. He couldn’t see her eyes behind the mirrored lenses but felt as if he were being studied by a predator. “Of course. You’re right. I apologize.” Her full lips tilted up.

A jolt of surprise hit him. He’d expected her to put up more of a fight, maybe scream at him in a fit of bipedal road rage.

The traffic ahead was moving again, and the cars behind Kyle honked. He quickly buckled up and inched his vehicle forward, giving the woman enough space to retrieve her battered aluminum water bottle. She swung a leg over the bike and started to go with traffic, staying right next to Kyle’s side-view mirror. When he finally regained his speed, she kept up with minimal effort, legs pumping. Flashes of her well-sculpted body danced in his peripheral vision.

He braked for a stoplight. She halted at his elbow. “Do you mind?”

She flashed bright white teeth. “No.”

“You’re following way too close.”

“Don’t worry. I won’t touch your car as long as you drive predictably. Anyhow, it seems safer riding next to you than trying to get around everyone else. And you’re obviously a good enough driver that you wouldn’t hurt me.”

He stared. He didn’t know what this woman’s problem was, but he was done with her. He was going to be late for work and he had an important client coming.

“I’m taking the next right,” he said, then cursed himself for warning her.

“Me, too.” She gave him an enigmatic grin.

Kyle gripped the steering wheel, suppressing the urge to yell at her to back the hell off. His heart thudded. Sweat dripped from his brow. The sweltering New Orleans heat was only slightly moderated by the thin cloud cover. He wished now that he’d put the top up and turned on the air conditioner. At least then he wouldn’t have to deal with his cycling stalker. He’d have to shower again before his new client arrived. A Fiore was not someone whose hand you wanted to shake when you smelled like balls.

He tried to focus on driving, but the whole time he was ultra-aware of the pilot fish cyclist in her skintight cycling gear. She stayed so close that at stoplights, he could practically smell her—a strangely enticing combination of spice and something like fresh-baked bread. Like a hot-cross bun.

His eyes darted left as she slowed. Staring at her hot-cross buns nearly made him miss his turn. He yanked the wheel right. She arced away from the car, caroming into the next lane. Suddenly free of her, he floored it, speeding ahead and leaving her far behind as traffic closed around her. His tense shoulders relaxed as he pulled into the parking lot next to Payette’s, the official Unlimited Fighting Federation’s mixed martial arts gym he’d been managing for the past three years.

He grabbed his gym bag from the backseat and headed to the front door. His footsteps faltered as the cyclist coasted to a stop and alighted from the still-moving bike right beside him. She snatched it up as if it were broomstick.

Kyle stifled a groan.

“You left me behind.” She took out a sturdy U-lock from her backpack and attached the bike to a stand in front of the building.

Kyle didn’t say anything as he continued into the gym.

“Hey, wait up!” The woman’s sooty voice dogged him.

“I have somewhere to be,” he said without turning. He was used to dealing with hangers-on. Maybe she recognized him and wanted an autograph or something. If she tried to give him her number, he’d be sure to lose it as quickly as possible.

“We all have somewhere to be,” she said as he reached the entryway. “It just so happens I have to be right here.” She touched his arm. Something electric shot through him, and he whipped around. “With you.”

She was shorter than he’d first thought—five-eight at most. But she was built like a brick house with thick biceps that showed through the stretchy biking top and a trim, tapered waist. He’d been wrong to say that the biking gear hid all her feminine assets, because he could see them clearly defined now. Her grin widened as she unsnapped her helmet and shook out her hair. Long, thick, wavy black tresses slick with sweat tumbled out, barely tamed by an elastic hair tie at her nape.

He shouldn’t have been intrigued. Pushy girls weren’t his thing.

She stuck out her hand. “Kyle Peters, right? I guess you don’t recognize me.”

He panicked, searching through his internal catalog of bedroom conquests. He tried to place her face—something about her seemed familiar, but he would’ve remembered a body like that.

She lifted her sunglasses to rest on the crown of her head. When he saw the glass-green eyes her family was famous for, he knew he’d made a huge mistake.

* * *

“BELLA FIORE.” SHE extended her hand again, cooler now that she knew what Kyle Peters was really like. Any man who cared more about his car than a human life didn’t rank high on her list.

It wasn’t even a very nice car.

She watched his expression shift from embarrassment to frustration to regret and then, surprisingly, to anger. “You recognized me and didn’t introduce yourself?”

“In the middle of traffic? I didn’t think it was the safest place to do so.” She kept her smile polite, even though she wanted to laugh at him. The guy was a lot more high-strung than his reputation suggested.

He opened his mouth as if to retort, but then shook his head and pushed into the gym. Bella followed, unable to resist a peek at his shapely behind. It’d been seven years since he’d wrestled professionally, but he still had the great glutes of an Olympic medalist. Actually, all of him was admirable—thick muscles on his upper body, a narrow waist, strong thighs and not an ounce of extra meat visible on him. He was the living portrait of a Greco-Roman wrestler, complete with broken Romanesque nose and dark brown Brutus-style haircut. She wondered idly if he’d ever wrestled naked like the pugilists of those bygone days.

The scent of rubber and sweat filled her nostrils as they entered Payette’s. Some things didn’t change gym to gym. The main reception area included a few café tables and a bar where a fridge supplied clients with bottled water, energy drinks and protein supplements. In one corner, UFF merchandise and workout gear—gloves, hand wraps, apparel and so forth—were displayed for sale. A faded sign proclaiming everything at 50 percent off hung askew from the ceiling.

Kyle paused at the front desk where a young woman with dark blond hair gave him a cursory smile. “Morning, boss. You got a call from Hadrian Blackwell.” She handed him a slip. Kyle scowled at it as the receptionist—her name tag read Liz—turned a brighter smile on Bella. “Hi, how can I help you?”

“I’m early for my ten-o’clock appointment with him.” She hitched a thumb toward Kyle, who continued to stare at the phone slip, his brow bunched.

The receptionist’s face brightened. “You must be Bella Fiore. It’s so good to meet you.” She shook her hand vigorously. “We’ve been really excited about having you here. I’m a huge fan.”