Sarah Mayberry - Below the Belt

SARAH MAYBERRYlives in Melbourne, Australia, with her partner, Chris, who is also a writer. When she’s not writing a book, Sarah works as a scriptwriter for TV. She tried kickboxing once, but soon realized she was a writer not a fighter. When she’s not avoiding exercise, Sarah loves reading, shopping, writing and going to the movies.

www.millsandboon.co.uk

This one is for Chris.

Thank you for all the laughter and love, and for teaching me so much about writing over the years.

The only reason I am here is that you are beside me.

I love you.

As always, big thanks to Wanda also, because she is, simply, the best.

Cover

About the Author SARAH MAYBERRY lives in Melbourne, Australia, with her partner, Chris, who is also a writer. When she’s not writing a book, Sarah works as a scriptwriter for TV. She tried kickboxing once, but soon realized she was a writer not a fighter. When she’s not avoiding exercise, Sarah loves reading, shopping, writing and going to the movies.

Title Page Below the Belt Sarah Mayberry www.millsandboon.co.uk

Dedication This one is for Chris. Thank you for all the laughter and love, and for teaching me so much about writing over the years. The only reason I am here is that you are beside me. I love you. As always, big thanks to Wanda also, because she is, simply, the best.

Prologue Prologue HE WAS A BIG MAN. Six foot three inches tall, broad shoulders, powerful arms and thighs—he dominated the boxing ring just by standing in it. Despite his size, he could move. Like Muhammad Ali, he danced around his opponents, fast and balanced, a joy to watch. Jamie Sawyer studied his every move on her television screen, her thighs and shoulders and belly tensing, her right hand curling into a fist as he hit his opponent with a jab, then followed up with a cross to the body. The power of the man. The elegance. The sheer beauty of watching him fight. “He’s the one,” she said, sitting back in her chair. “Cooper Fitzgerald. He’s the one I want.” On the screen, Cooper hit his opponent with a whistling uppercut that came out of nowhere. The other fighter’s head rocked back, his eyes closed. He staggered backward. Then he hit the canvas like a two-hundred-pound slab of meat. Reaching for the remote control, Jamie froze the image as the camera pulled in close on Cooper Fitzgerald’s face. A nose with a charming bump in it from many breaks, strong cheekbones, a square jaw, deep set navy-blue eyes, dark hair. He was a good-looking man. But she wasn’t interested in his looks. She was interested in the fierce, triumphant snarl on his face and the light of victory in his eyes. He was a winner, a champion. For four years, the best heavyweight boxer in the world. And now he was retired and starting his own fighters’ gym and taking on fighters to train. She planned to be one of them. She was going to be one of them. She needed him if she was going to keep her promise. “I still like Godfrey,” her grandfather said from behind her on the couch, his voice thin and reedy. Every now and then it struck her how much he’d changed since his heart attack six months ago. The loss of his robust, deep voice was just one of many profound shifts. “Godfrey’s experienced, he’s connected. He’s my choice,” he said. “No, Cooper Fitzgerald is the one,” Jamie said again. “He’s the one who’s going to put me where I need to be, Grandpa.” He knew better than to argue with her when she dug her heels in. “Have to get him to take you on first,” he said. Jamie stood. Her legs ached from yesterday’s roadwork, but she still planned on getting another ten miles under her belt today. “He’ll take me on,” she said. She just had to find the right way to ask…

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Copyright

HE WAS A BIG MAN. Six foot three inches tall, broad shoulders, powerful arms and thighs—he dominated the boxing ring just by standing in it. Despite his size, he could move. Like Muhammad Ali, he danced around his opponents, fast and balanced, a joy to watch.

Jamie Sawyer studied his every move on her television screen, her thighs and shoulders and belly tensing, her right hand curling into a fist as he hit his opponent with a jab, then followed up with a cross to the body.

The power of the man. The elegance. The sheer beauty of watching him fight.

“He’s the one,” she said, sitting back in her chair. “Cooper Fitzgerald. He’s the one I want.”

On the screen, Cooper hit his opponent with a whistling uppercut that came out of nowhere. The other fighter’s head rocked back, his eyes closed. He staggered backward. Then he hit the canvas like a two-hundred-pound slab of meat.

Reaching for the remote control, Jamie froze the image as the camera pulled in close on Cooper Fitzgerald’s face.

A nose with a charming bump in it from many breaks, strong cheekbones, a square jaw, deep set navy-blue eyes, dark hair. He was a good-looking man. But she wasn’t interested in his looks. She was interested in the fierce, triumphant snarl on his face and the light of victory in his eyes. He was a winner, a champion. For four years, the best heavyweight boxer in the world.

And now he was retired and starting his own fighters’ gym and taking on fighters to train.

She planned to be one of them. She was going to be one of them. She needed him if she was going to keep her promise.

“I still like Godfrey,” her grandfather said from behind her on the couch, his voice thin and reedy.

Every now and then it struck her how much he’d changed since his heart attack six months ago. The loss of his robust, deep voice was just one of many profound shifts.

“Godfrey’s experienced, he’s connected. He’s my choice,” he said.

“No, Cooper Fitzgerald is the one,” Jamie said again. “He’s the one who’s going to put me where I need to be, Grandpa.”

He knew better than to argue with her when she dug her heels in.

“Have to get him to take you on first,” he said.

Jamie stood. Her legs ached from yesterday’s roadwork, but she still planned on getting another ten miles under her belt today.

“He’ll take me on,” she said.

She just had to find the right way to ask…

COOPER “THE FIST” Fitzgerald adjusted the collar on his silk shirt and tweaked the cuffs on his jacket. Despite how well-made and well-cut the suit was, it felt wrong. He’d spent half his life in workout clothes, covered in sweat—he wasn’t a suit kind of guy and probably never would be. But he’d come courting, and he was smart enough to know that he needed to look the part if he was going to convince Ray Marshall to leave his current trainer and join Fitzgerald Fighters’ Gym.

Before hitting the doorbell and announcing his arrival, Cooper squinted at the sleek, modern house Ray had just bought. Situated on the beachfront of the increasingly exclusive Sydney suburb of Bronte, he figured the place was worth well over 1.5 million. But he already knew that Ray wasn’t hard up for cash. If Cooper was going to woo him to his stable, it was going to be about more than money. It was going to be about offering him the one thing that all fighters wanted: immortality. Just like every fighter who’d ever donned leather and sweated his rounds in the ring, Ray wanted to be remembered. Ali, Sugar Ray, Tyson—no one would ever forget their names, even if Tyson was as infamous these days as he was famous. And Cooper knew he could make Ray unforgettable. He had all the raw ingredients to become a legend of the sport rather than some guy who’d gotten lucky with a few heavy purses. Together, they could fly high.