Vicki Essex - Her Son's Hero

Serious baggage, she thought. “And Sean is my number one priority, and always will be. It would never work out between us.”

He stared hard at Fiona. “Are you saying you don’t think I’d be a good role model?”

“No.” Yes…maybe. The question wasn’t whether he’d be good for Sean, but how Dom’s presence would affect her relationship with her son. Sean needed to know his mother was as strong and tough as any man, and that she’d never let their lives be dictated by another walking ego with muscles. She’d never let herself be intimidated by a man again. She amended quietly, “It’s complicated.”

“Maybe.” His blue eyes connected with hers again and she saw something new in them. His face relaxed into a smile—sure, confident. “Maybe not.”

Dear Reader,

I’m so proud to join the Harlequin Superromance family with my first book, Her Son’s Hero.

This book was born out of my great respect for mixed martial artists and the controversial sport that has exploded in popularity over the past few years. As I read about the lives, dedication, sacrifices and victories of these talented athletes, it became clear they were real romance-worthy heroes. Some of them are a little rough around the edges, but most are good men with a great passion for what they do…plus they have fantastic bodies. It’s kind of hard not to fall in love!

Fiona MacAvery would agree. When pro MMA fighter Dominic Payette comes to town, she thinks he’s just a meatheaded testosterone-fueled brawler. But as he teaches her young son karate-do and shows them both how to face their fears, he’ll prove to them exactly what kind of man he is.

I’d love to hear your thoughts about this book, MMA or anything else that’s on your mind. Email me at vicki@vickiessex.com.

Happy reading,

Vicki Essex

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Vicki Essex lives on a space colony with her husband, space cat, robot dog butler and a fleet of red spaceships…in her imagination. In reality, she lives in Toronto—New York City’s comely Canadian cousin. As much as she likes to punch things, she doesn’t like being punched back, so will likely never face an opponent in an MMA cage. She loves to hear from readers. Visit her website at www.vickiessex.com, email her at vicki@vickiessex.com and find her on Twitter @VickiEssex.

This book wouldn’t have existed without

Denise Ing, Fiona Kwong and

Georges “Rush” St-Pierre.

I would never have started writing without

the ATLA fans at fanfiction.net.

Mike and Bryan, thanks for letting me cut

my teeth in your world.

Thanks to Mom and Dad,

who let me stay up past midnight when I

was a teen so I could keep writing.

Thanks to Victoria Curran,

my editor and writing oracle.

Thank you to everyone at

the Toronto Romance Writers, the best RWA

chapter ever!

Thanks to everyone at Harlequin Enterprises,

especially the guys and gals

in proofreading and production.

And for my husband, who indulged me,

consoled me, brainstormed and problem-solved

with me, and cooked and cleaned for me—

there aren’t enough words in the universe, not

even made-up ones. Luboo!

For John, with all my heart, always.

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

“SEAN, SEAN, spawn of the con!”

Dominic Payette turned and watched from the porch as five jeering boys pounded down the sidewalk in front of his house, chasing a scrawny, sandy-haired boy. With his bulging backpack weighing him down, the kid didn’t stand a chance. The pack leader, a big guy with ruddy cheeks and shocking red hair, grabbed the bag and yanked the kid to a stop.

Dom set down the box he was carrying.

“You ignoring me, con?” The big guy shoved the whelp hard. The other boys circled, penning the kid in. “Think you’re better than us, little rich boy?”

“Leave me alone.”

“Or what? You gonna tell your mommy?” Another shove. “Gimme your money, rich boy.”

“I don’t have any. You took it all at lunch!”

Dom gripped the banister hard. He had to give the kid a chance to defend himself. He knew from all those years of being picked on that bruises healed quickly, but pride took much longer. Maybe it was tough love, but those were his rules.

He could see the tense line of the boy’s bony shoulders, the wildness in his eyes. The kid mumbled something, head bowed in resignation.

His tormentor’s lip lifted in a snarl. “Take his bag.”

The gang seized the boy by his sticklike arms while the redhead punched him in the gut. The kid doubled over, and his backpack was yanked off him.

But the bully didn’t stop there. He kicked him in the chest. Hard.

Dom leaped over the railing off his porch, outraged by the redhead’s viciousness and complete lack of honor. He had the kid outmatched and outnumbered—it was hardly a fair fight.

In a few long strides, Dom was on top of the pack, wading into them like a lion into a pile of field mice. The boys froze and stared up at him wide-eyed.

Dom knew he could be scary looking when he wanted to be. Five feet ten inches of solid muscle honed from years of mixed martial arts training, a shorn scalp and the fading bruises along the underside of his jaw would intimidate anyone. He glowered down at the boys. “You guys got a problem?”

The bully whirled around to face him. He went so pale even his freckles disappeared. “Let’s go! C’mon!”

The kids scattered, huge eyes still fixed on Dom. They dropped the backpack as they raced away.

“Are you okay?” Dom asked.

The boy slowly got to his feet, cradling his midsection, panting. His face was tomato-red, as if he was holding his breath.

“Hey, if it hurts, I find it’s better to shout it out.” Dom didn’t need to bruise the boy’s ego any more by telling him it was okay to cry like a girl. Boys at this age were trying to be men. Dom got that the kid needed a different outlet. “Just yell. I swear, most of the pain, it’s in your mouth. Like this…” Dom’s booming bark startled the kid.

But he didn’t say anything. He’d swallowed his pain, forced it deep inside. Defeat dulled his soft gray eyes. He picked up his pack and brushed himself off.

Dom grimaced. “Do you live around here?” he asked.

“I’m not supposed to talk to strangers,” the boy said warily.

“I guess that makes you smarter than me.” He smiled. “My name’s Dominic. I just moved here for the summer—in that house right there.” He gestured to the two-story Victorian behind him. Showing the boy he lived on his route home from school might make him feel safer.

The kid glanced from the house to the U-Haul truck at the curb. His eyes widened when he spotted the equipment inside.

He inched closer, his caution melting away like snow in the sun. “Are you, like, some kind of boxer?”

An easy misconception, since the most visible piece of gym equipment in the truck was a punching bag. “I do some boxing,” Dom said, “but I’m actually a mixed martial artist. My specialty is karate, but I also have training in wrestling, boxing, judo, Muay Thai and Brazilian jujitsu.”