Two days later we’re still in the same hotel room, and I wake up with the most delicious sense of well-being when I notice that he’s watching me. He’s propped up on one arm, his muscles bulging. His sexy black hair is fully standing and he wears the lazy, sensual smile of a man who’s been satisfied to a near-coma, and he looks so sexy in bed I want to eat him with a spoon. I make a purring noise as I roll to my side to face him.
“I don’t want to leave this bed,” I whisper, sliding a fingertip along one of his Celtic tattoos.
He strokes a hand down my arm, and the feathery tenderness in the caress is almost unbearable. He kisses the hollow of my ear. “Who do you belong to?” he asks softly. Again, his eyes tell me I’m his.
“You.”
Reaching out, he squeezes me so hard against him, I gasp. “That’s right!”
An odd little laugh leaves me, and it kind of sounded like a giggle. “You will never stop asking me that, will you? Oh, I hate you! Did you hear that? You made me giggle.”
Laughing, he rolls me underneath his big body, and I hit his chest with one fist.
“You fucking made me giggle, and you didn’t even say anything funny!”
“I fucking loved it. Giggle again now.”
“Never!” I laugh, and it sounds like a goddamn giggle.
I hate giggling, but the genuine delight in his dancing blue eyes fills me with so much happiness, my chest feels like a detonated grenade as he laughs, and I continue to freaking giggle.
When he’s sober, he surveys my face, feature by feature, and as the air shifts between us, our smiles fade. His body is crushing mine. His pecs smashing my breasts. His weight trapping me. I love it so much, even when it hurts to take a full breath.
His eyes turn liquid with love as he leans over and presses his lips over mine for three delicious heartbeats. We use no tongues, only the pressure of soft, dry lips, so full of love I could almost levitate.
My hands roam up the muscular planes of his back. “When do you leave?” I breathe.
“As late as possible and still be on time for the next match.”
My hurt and disappointment seem to show on my face, for he tightens his hold on me as he eases to his side and brings me with him.
“Are you happy here? Are you treated well?” He nuzzles my temple.
“Nobody treats me or understands me like you. Except Mel.”
“And your parents?”
“They love me” is all I say. I’m about to say they may not be too thrilled about our circumstances right now, but then I look into this man’s eyes and realize he doesn’t have parents who support and care about him, and I realize how very lucky I am. “Did you feel unloved when your parents didn’t come back?” I ask him.
“Not unloved. Misunderstood.”
He speaks casually, like it’s truly nothing to him but a bland fact. A fact that breaks my heart every time I think about it.
“Oh, Remy. I’m so sorry. I hate them for doing this to you.”
He gets up and grabs his lounge pants and I know he’s going to want to go eat—of course. “Why? I didn’t hurt. Why are you sorry? I’m still going to be a good father.” He winks at me. “It’s because they were so shitty that I will be a good father.”
His eyes are brilliant, and I want to cry as we both stare down at my abdomen. We are really happy about this baby even though we didn’t plan it. Maybe we are young and stupid, young and in love, but we are just so hopeful about having a family together. About just being together.
A banging on the suite door makes me frown. He scowls too, then points a finger at me. “Stay.” He goes to open the door and I bury my face in his pillow, loathing that today he leaves me again. I talked to my doctor and she insists that I not travel until the first trimester ends, so there are at least two and a half weeks to go.
When I hear voices, I grab his robe, wrap the sash around my waist, and walk outside. Remington spots me in his boxing robe, and he reacts like he always does: I almost feel him tackling me in his head and fucking me like we haven’t been able to fuck since I got pregnant.
Pete looks like he hasn’t slept in days.
Remington is still eye-fucking me, his lips curled in the pure male satisfaction he gets when I’m wearing his things.
He crooks a finger and slowly beckons me forward. My heart melts and I come over, aware of him watching me as he extends his hand.
I stretch out mine, and he seizes my fingers and brings me to his side, where I impulsively start to rub his bare muscles while he talks to Pete.
But I’m so engrossed, pushing into the hard muscle, that it takes me a couple of seconds to notice the silence. A silence so absolute, you could hear a pin drop in the room.
“What’s going on?” I stop what I’m doing while my gaze ping-pongs between them.
Pete restlessly loosens the knot on his tie. “I’ve got some bad news.”
A kernel of fear settles deep in my gut. “What bad news?”
He looks at the floor and drags his hand through his hair, and I become aware of Remy staring at my profile, his blue eyes watching me with such intensity, the little kernel of fear in my stomach turns to a full-fledged knot.
“It’s Scorpion,” Pete says.
One word and my heart is a jackhammer.
“What about Scorpion?” The creepy crawly sensation on my skin surfaces with a vengeance. I hate thinking about him. Talking about him. I hate his name.
But Remington is here. Safe. He’s safe. Isn’t he? His eyes are boring into me. They look . . . worried.
Shit.
I’m cold. Paralyzed. Frozen.
“Nora spent the night with him,” Pete adds, his voice surreally cold, almost like a robot’s.
His words bother me in such a deep, frightening way, it’s a miracle that I seem to still have enough brain cells to register what he’s telling me.
My sister.
“They spent all this time at a nearby hotel. She came out with him, another woman, and his three goons. On their way to the airport; apparently there’s a ticket in her name.”
“She’s leaving with him?” I stumble backward, that’s how hard the blow is. “She can’t leave with him, that . . . that . . . that ungrateful little shit!”
“Firecracker . . .” Remington says, but I’m too wired up to listen.
“Ohmigod. She’s a pea-headed, unthinking, inconsiderate little fool ! I can’t believe . . .”
I’m freaking out, while Remington is calm and thoughtful. Arms crossed until those tattoos on his arms seem stretched by his muscles to the limit, feet braced apart in battle-stance, eyes glimmering in concentration. How can he, the fighter, be thinking, when I want to hit something? He did everything for Nora, on behalf of me. Everything.
And Pete! Pete is in love with her.
My eyes burn with hot tears of frustration and my mind spins around, replaying every moment of these past weeks in my head, replaying my conversation when she opened up about Scorpion and I was too concerned about Remington and my baby to pay attention. I’ve been so wrapped up in my head. I missed the signs. But what signs? This can’t be real!
I go grab my cell phone and power it on, searching all my applications for a message. I have only messages from Mel, Kyle, and Pandora, but none from Nora. I dial her cell phone while Pete paces around, and Remington quietly watches me, his arms crossed, his eyebrows pulled low over his eyes as though he’s trying to figure it all out.
“I don’t like this, Rem,” Pete says as he restlessly circles around, shaking his head. He looks as disheveled as if he’d just had a tussle with a crocodile. “If Nora tells him anything about Brooke being pregnant, and here, on bed rest, she’ll be as vulnerable here as she will be on tour—except you won’t be here to protect her. He could hurt you man.”
“I go to voice mail,” I interrupt, almost to myself. Then I hang up, and dial again.
Nothing.
God, what is wrong with her? He’s the sort of man who sent me a box full of scorpions! He has no scruples; wants nothing but to fuck Remington again. And he’s going to use my sister again—does she not even realize this?
When I shove my phone into the pocket of my robe, I find Remy watching me with a fierce frown. I know he likes this even less than I do, and I know he’s figuring the connection too.
Nora returning to Scorpion at this opportune moment can be no coincidence. Scorpion lured her somehow. He wants to use her again. And I’m not letting my guy get hurt for anything in the world. Anything.
“I want to go on tour with you,” I blurt out. Suddenly I don’t feel so safe. I’m pregnant, we’re apart . . . Remington has that fierce protective gleam in his eyes. I don’t know what he’ll do, but my protective instincts for both him, our baby, and myself, rage full force in me. “I want to go on tour with you,” I repeat.
“Come here,” he says softly, stretching out his hand.
In three steps, I’m in his embrace. Not even bears hug this way. I feel enveloped by everything that he is as he whispers, “When can you come with me?” His hands are warm and steady as he tips my face back to his. “Brooke, when?” he softly insists.
“Eighteen days.” An eon. A lifetime.
His eyes flash possessively and he nods deliberately. “I’m here. At ten a.m. on that eighteenth day. Okay?”
What can I even reply? He’s leaving today, and everything is a fucking mess. My eyes sting a little, and I drop my face so he won’t notice.
An angry growl tears out of him as he steps away from me. “FUUUUCK ME WITH THIS!” He grabs fistfuls of his hair and whirls around to Pete. “We back off the season. He’ll let her go once he knows I’m not fighting anymore. And I’m sticking where I’m needed. Call it off until my daughter is born.”
When I realize what he’s doing, I grab him by the thick arms until he looks down at me.
“Remington Tate!” His jaw is set at a determined angle, and I’m overwhelmed with panic. “I promise you by all that I am and all that I feel for you, I won’t let anything, anything, happen to me or this baby. Anything.” I cup his face and run my thumb over the dark stubble of his jaw. “We’re not going to hold you back. I couldn’t live with myself. You. Go out there. And fight. And win. Trust me. I choose you. I love my sister, but I love you more. We will help her when we can, but not at your expense! Not anymore. I’m not going to choose her this time. I choose you.”
He fists his hand in my loose hair and looks directly at me. “I’m not going to make you choose.”
My eyes burn again.
He crushes my mouth in a hard kiss, then stares determinedly into my eyes with a look that blazes through me. “I’ll save her as many times as she needs saving. For you.”
The steely glint in his gaze swamps me with unease. “No,” I moan. “No, we don’t even know what’s happening anymore.”
He clutches me tight. “I’m going to need your mettle out, little firecracker. I need to know you’re safe every second of the day. You don’t go anywhere alone. Don’t answer calls from any numbers but ours and Melanie’s. Don’t receive any packages. Don’t believe anything you read or hear about me. No contact with your sister without my knowledge.”
His eyes flicker over my face, as though he’s making sure I’m all right and unhurt. He then stalks into our bedroom and I follow him as he grabs some clothes and tosses me one of his T-shirts. “I want to talk to them.”
“What? Who?”
“Your parents.” He comes and tips my head back, his jaw set at a determined angle. “I brought you here to be safe, guarded, taken care of. I want to talk to your parents. I want them to look me in the eye and give me their word they’re taking care of you. I’m posting a guard at your door, one at the building elevators, and one inside your place—don’t argue with me,” he stops me before I can start.
I cover my face with an angry sound of frustration. “Why are we talking about me? I’m worried about you!” I cry, dropping my hands. “He wants to fuck you, Remington. I swear if anyone hurts you I’m going to hurt them back tenfold!”
He pats my rump. “I’m a big boy. Now let’s go meet your parents.”
“I couldn’t survive what you did last time! It’s her decision now.”
“This won’t be like last time.”
♥ ♥ ♥
WE WAIT FOR my parents in my living room.
I’ve gone through everything in my head, wanting to protect them, wanting to protect Nora, but in the end, I just don’t feel like lying for anyone or to anyone anymore. My parents deserve the truth, even if it hurts. I won’t sit by and watch them judge and withhold any affection from Remington because they believe he will hurt me, when I, I was the one who hurt him with my false sense of heroism wanting to save my sister.
God, but what if she’s unsavable?
What if she’s so far in that she will never come out, and if she does, what if, like a true junkie, she falls back in, over and over again?
When my parents arrive, they hardly look at me—their eyes fly straight behind me and up to Remington’s face.
My father bristles. “You’re her boyfriend? You’re the one who knocked her up, then dumped her on our doorstep?”
Remington walks around me, a tower looking down at my dad. “Yes, that’s me.” He puts his hand on my stomach, adding, “It better be me.”
I expel a breath. “It’s you. Now, let’s all relax a bit.”
“I’m not relaxed,” Remy counters in that low voice of his as he eyes my father, then my mother. “She’s been alone. If I’d wanted her to be alone, I wouldn’t have brought her home.”
“I am fine, Remington. Dad, ease back and sit down.” I grab Remy’s wrist and he lets me pull him back and draw him to the sitting area, my parents following. He sits down next to me and splays a hand on my stomach, quiet.
I drag in a breath and look at my parents.
“Mom and Dad, Nora fooled you. She wasn’t traveling the world last season. She was going out with a man they call the Scorpion. She was not in Hawaii or Timbuktu; she was traveling with him, at the same time I was traveling with Remington. Scorpion is a fighter too.”
My mother’s hand flies to her mouth but doesn’t quite manage to smother her distressed little gasp.
“The Scorpion fed Nora drugs and kept her enthralled with him. In order for her to be released, Remy gave away the championship. And I think she might need our help again this year.”
My mother’s eyes dart to my right and up, and my father doesn’t bat an eyelash, for he’s been staring at nothing but Remy the whole time. By the tension of all those muscles next to me, I know Remington is keeping his eyes on him too.
“Oh, Nora,” my mother sighs drearily as she clutches her head.
“You took a dive for little Nora?” my dad suddenly asks him. My father is a coach—and he respects athletes. “Threw the match for her?”
Remy laughs softly and leans forward, propping his elbows on his knees. “No. I threw it for Brooke.”
My dad immediately stands, and in that same instant Remy slowly, in that lionlike way of his, comes to his feet.
“Remington, I think you and I got off on the wrong foot.” My father comes around the coffee table and extends his hand. His entire hostility has vanished. He looks a thousand pounds lighter now and even wears a little grin. “I’m Lucas Dumas.”
Remy doesn’t even look at the hand—he immediately takes it and shakes it, hard and firm like he is, his voice gruff with emotion. “I’m Remington.”
