Win by Submission Read online

  On that assessment, she couldn’t agree more, though for probably a slew of different reasons than Cole thought. In fact, she specifically remembered swearing hell would freeze over before she ever moved back home to Somerset, or before she’d ever treat an athlete again, or before she ever allowed herself to feel those stirrings of feminine awareness the fighter had sparked to life in just the brief time she’d known him . . . Yeah, Cole was right. Hell had definitely frozen over.

  The last thing Cole expected when he rolled off that plane and into this frozen wasteland was to discover his physical therapist was smoking hot. Holy hell . . . How it was possible that craggy old geeze, Marcus, was related to this Scandinavian beauty sitting beside him, Cole would never know. Ms. Katrina Miller was easily the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. With hair the color of corn silk that looked just as soft, too, and he’d be willing to bet those shoulder-length tresses were all natural. Only one way to find out . . .

  The thought came unbidden and was most unwelcome. He was not here to fraternize with Marcus’s niece. But damn . . . she possessed a wholesome beauty Cole rarely saw in the circles he ran. Most of the women he encountered were more plastic than flesh.

  He found himself wondering what she looked like beneath that thigh-length coat and then promptly stopped that train of thought. First of all, she was his manager’s niece—so off-limits. Second of all, she was his PT, and it was a bad idea to mix business with pleasure. And third of all, Katie Miller was so out of his league, it was fucking ridiculous. Women like her wanted the American dream. Women like her got wet for white-collar men who were stable—guys who lived in a house with a white picket fence and would give them those three kids and a yellow Lab, and drove a fucking minivan. That shit just wasn’t him. It never had been and it never would be, so if he could just cool his cock right now, that’d be real great.

  The flavor of women Cole tended to attract wanted a man who could fight hard and fuck harder. They weren’t interested in the long-term bullshit and that was okay, neither was he. So yeah, Ms. Miller was definitely Do Not Touch material—on so many levels it wasn’t even funny. But most important, he wouldn’t disrespect the only man who ever gave a shit about him by messing around with his niece.

  Cole watched the young woman sitting beside him as she navigated rush hour traffic. Her white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel could mean only one of two things—either she was uncomfortable driving in the cities, or he made her nervous. And if the latter was the case, then he was glad he wasn’t the only one.

  Katie’s fine-bone features accented vibrant green eyes that he’d swear could see right into his soul. Something about the way she looked at him made him feel raw and exposed—and that vulnerability put him on edge. He wasn’t used to seeing pity in a woman’s eyes when she looked at him, and it only soured his already surly mood. He’d be damned if he’d become this woman’s charity case. Yet here he was, so wasn’t he just that?

  Not even when he’d been a homeless teen and fighting for his life in the streets of Reno had he considered himself as helpless as he felt now. His life had always been his own—shitty as it had been at times. He had depended on no one, needed no one, but for the first time in his adult life, Cole’s future was solely dependent on someone else. That knowledge seeded a bone-deep resentment rotting in the very fiber of his being.

  He didn’t realize he was staring until Katie cast him a nervous glance and tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. A twinge of guilt knifed in his chest. Fuck, what in the hell was the matter with him? Katie wasn’t the enemy here. It wasn’t this woman’s fault he was injured, and it wasn’t her fault he was attracted to her. Acting like a sulking prick sure as hell wasn’t going to get him walking any sooner. So if he had any last remnants of self-respect he’d check his asshole attitude right now.

  “Where are we going?” he asked, for lack of better conversation.

  “I was thinking I’d take you to the Mall of America. It isn’t very far from here, and they’ll have everything you’ll need to get winterized. January in Wisconsin can be pretty brutal. You’d be surprised.”

  He was surprised all right. Surprised how his blood heated when the tip of Katie’s tongue slipped out to moisten her bottom lip before she caught the corner of it between her teeth. She worried at the plump flesh as she waited for him to say something instead of staring at her like an utter dumbass.

  “Anywhere is fine, as long as they sell Under Armour or Tapout.”

  Katie glanced at him in question before turning her attention back to the road. “I’m sure they do. They have everything there.”

  She seemed on edge. Not that he blamed her. He’d been throwing her a lot of attitude, and then there was that incident in the hall with her boot. He hadn’t expected her to be so jumpy. She’d swung from self-assured and sassy to anxious and fearful in the span of a second. A part of him wondered what that had been all about, but not enough to ask, or make the effort to put her at ease. His unwanted attraction to the woman only fueled his feelings of frustration, driving home the need to keep her at a distance. Not that it would be a difficult feat. He was a master at shutting people out—he’d been doing it for years.

  In Cole’s experience, people wanted him around for what they thought he could do for them. Whether he was getting them rich in the cage, or making women feel important as they hung on his arm and got into the VIP clubs. Hell, even Marcus was probably shitting himself at the thought of all that green he’d lose if Cole never fought again. He’d practically forced Cole onto this poor woman, and per her own admission, she wasn’t any happier about this arrangement than he was.

  “That’s fine,” he said when he realized he still hadn’t answered her. Exhaling a pent-up sigh, he dragged his hand through his overgrown hair. He kept it short when he was training. It was too hot otherwise, and he hated the sting of the sweat-drenched ends poking in his eyes. But since he hadn’t seen the inside of a gym in six months, he’d had no reason to visit the barber. What he wouldn’t give to feel that burn right now or the fire in his calves as he hit that ten-mile mark on the elliptical, or the thunder of his heart crashing inside his chest as he pushed his body to its limit.

  Settling into the seat, he braced his elbow against the door and turned his attention out the passenger window. He ignored the stretching silence growing between them. The day was quickly losing the battle with night, as the last vestiges of pink and purple streaked across the skyline. Cole couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen a sunset. In Vegas, there were so many towering buildings and city lights it always seemed like daytime there.

  “It’s quiet here,” he mumbled the observation, not expecting a reply, so he was surprised when he got one.

  “This is quiet to you?”

  Despite himself, he felt his top lip tugging up at the faintest hint of her accent. The way she pronounced her o’s showed her true Scandinavian roots, and was . . . well, charming and innocent sounding. It wasn’t a very strong accent, which made him wonder if she’d lived somewhere other than Wisconsin recently.

  “Where do you live?” she asked, when he said nothing more.

  “Vegas.”

  “Why Vegas?”

  He turned to look at her. “Why Somerset?”

  She bristled at the question, and he could practically see her walls slamming up. Interesting . . . It was an innocent enough question, yet not one she seemed particularly inclined to answer. Perhaps there was more to Katie Miller than what met the eye. It appeared he wasn’t the only one who didn’t like talking about himself. Curious now, and in a show of good faith, he said, “My camp is in Vegas. That’s where I primarily train. I’ve occasionally visited other camps when I need to tighten up a hole in my game, but in general, I don’t like to travel. I fight out of the MGM, so it makes sense to live there.”

  “I suppose it does. Do you like living in Vegas?”

  He shrugged. “Not particularly.”

  “What other camps have you b
een to?”

  “The last one was called the Pit—”

  “That sounds . . . charming.” She gave him the faintest hint of a teasing grin that did funny things to his insides he didn’t particularly like. He was around women all the time, and he wasn’t used to having such a strong reaction to one. “Where was this Pit?”

  Boy, she was good—and smart—guiding the conversation like a pro, careful to keep the topic off herself. He didn’t miss how she kept the subject light and neutral, pulling out just enough bits and pieces to keep it flowing in his direction without making Cole feel like he was talking about himself—something he hated to do.

  “Arroyo Grande, California.”

  “Why did you pick that camp?”

  “I was training for the light-heavyweight title fight with Crazy Dan De’Grasse. He’s primarily a striker, and I’m more of a ground-and-pound guy. My jujitsu was solid and I wanted to perfect my stand-up. This camp mainly focuses on striking. So . . .”

  “Did it help?”

  “I won, didn’t I?” Now she was moving onto a touchy subject. His tone warned her to tread lightly.

  “Yes, you did.”

  If he didn’t know better, he’d have sworn he heard the distinct inflection of emotion lilting in her voice, but he didn’t know her well enough to name it. His jaw tightened in response, molars grinding. “Did you see the fight?” Why did the idea of this woman witnessing the collapse of his career piss him off so much?

  Her gaze flicked to him hesitantly, as if she were debating answering the question, or at least honestly. She’d better not lie to him. He’d already seen the truth in her eyes, and if she hoped to have any sort of trust between them, now was the time she’d either make it or break it. His gut tightened. Every time he thought of that night, his stomach threatened to puke.

  “I saw it . . .” she confessed softly.

  Fuck. That was pity he saw in her peripherals. Rage tore through him like a hot lance. His hands clenched involuntarily, and it took every last bit of self-control not to slam his fist into her dash. He turned his head and faced the window, unwilling to let her see the battle waging inside him—the pain, the anger . . .

  “—after Uncle Marcus called and asked me to be your PT . . . I watched the fight. I watched them all. I’d never seen MMA before and I wanted to know what I was up against—what kind of condition my uncle expects me to get you back to. You’re an amazing fighter, Cole.”

  She placed her hand on his forearm. He tensed at the current of awareness that shot up his arm and flinched at the unexpected contact. He didn’t want to be touched, to be placated like some child whose favorite toy had been broken. “Was a great fighter,” he corrected with a frustrated growl. “Now, let it go.”

  As quickly as it came, her hand left his arm, but the break in contact bothered him more than her touch had. The wary look in her verdant eyes and nearly inaudible catch in her breath suggested he’d offended or perhaps scared her. Why was this woman so touchy? Except for this subtle chink in her armor, Katie Miller appeared to be a very self-confident, well-put-together woman. The way she dressed, the way she carried herself . . . classy and smart.

  Her beauty would easily intimidate a lesser man. But something told him Marcus’s niece wasn’t exactly what she appeared to be, and that sparked Cole’s curiosity, if not his interest. Perhaps they should pick her scabs a while and see how much she liked it. He’d be damned if he was going to be the only one bleeding by the time they got out of this car.

  Cole made no attempt to hide his stare, his expression completely locked down and unreadable. Sitting across the table from the famous MMA fighter as they ate supper at the Hard Rock Cafe, Katie could easily see how he’d earned the nickname “the Beast of the East.” Cole was a formidable man, exuding a certain dominance that put her on edge. After meeting him in person, she quickly realized there was a tumultuous undercurrent of energy radiating from him that the camera just did not capture. She’d done a lot of research beforehand, watching Cole’s interviews, his weigh-ins, trying to get a feel for the man behind the fighter. And this was not him.

  The public Cole Easton was phlegmatic. His fans went wild for him. He didn’t stoop to trash-talking his opponents, which had earned him her grudging respect, and he’d always had a smile for the camera. Oh, and the women loved him. This woman?—not so much.

  Perhaps his on-camera persona had been just that, a fictional character putting on an act to draw fans, because this Cole Easton she’d had the distinct displeasure of meeting was a decidedly reclusive and bitter man. It seemed that the camera had lied on all accounts, because he was more gorgeous in person, which only heightened her distrust of him. In Katie’s admittedly limited experience, men who looked like Cole were complete and utter douchebags. They went through life with an attitude of entitlement; the world owed them because they were beautiful. They sucked at relationships because they never had to work at one. Women just fell at their feet, and were possessions to be used, abused, and discarded at their whim.

  Katie returned Cole’s stare, taking his measure just as blatantly as he did hers. The music was playing loud enough to drown out any conversation they might have had, which was fine with her, because at this point she didn’t know what to say. The more time she spent with him, the more glaringly obvious it became that he was just as broken on the inside as he was on the outside. She got the feeling his legs were going to be the easier of the two to fix.

  Cole had just finished his beer, and Katie was about to suggest they head out when two women stepped, or rather stumbled, into her peripherals. They were whispering to each other and pointing at Cole. If he saw them, he paid the very busty Barbie-doll beauties no mind. Then again, this sort of thing probably happened to him all the time. One would think she would have grown used to this after dating Carter Owens for nearly two years, but she never had. The quarterback for the Packers couldn’t get enough of the T & A women constantly threw at him. It was just one of the many reasons she didn’t get involved with athletes anymore.

  Katie’s hope that the women would just stumble on by was dashed when she heard one of them announce, “Who cares if he’s with someone? I’m going to go talk to him.”

  Great . . . It was always so humiliating and awkward, sitting there like the Plain Jane wallflower, while these gorgeous women with their fake hair extensions batted their fake eyelashes and flaunted their fake boobs in these guys’ faces. And they always ate it up. Men were so predictable, it was disgusting.

  “Don’t look now, but I think you’ve got some fans.” Settling back in her chair to “enjoy” the show, Katie picked up her mint mojito and slipped the straw between her lips. As she sucked her drink down with more vigor than necessary, something darkened in Cole’s azure stare as his eyes locked on her mouth. She bared her teeth in a snarky grin as she bit down on the bendy plastic.

  At first, she wasn’t sure if he’d heard her past the thrumming music. But at the last possible second, Cole turned to look at the woman wobbling toward him in her red fuck-me pumps and skintight skinny jeans. Katie wondered if the woman realized her maroon lace top was actually an undershirt—and her black bra was showing through.

  Please don’t tell me he actually believes those tits are real. Seriously . . . no one can defy gravity like that.

  “Cole Easton?” the woman asked, bending down to speak over the music and flashing him a nipple-bearing shot of cleavage. Before he could confirm or deny, the woman glanced over her shoulder to her friend who was still standing a couple feet back, and yelled, “Oh, my God, Rachel, you’re right! It is him! I can’t believe it!” She waved her friend over and then turned back to Cole.

  When he gave her one of those camera-glam grins, Katie nearly kicked him in the shin under the table. Are you kidding me? she thought. He hadn’t so much as flashed a glimpse of those pearly whites at her, and here he was, smiling at these two trollers like the damn Cheshire cat. Unbelievable!

  “Oh, Cole, it’s su
ch an honor to meet you!” the woman gushed.

  Oh barf . . .

  Katie took another sucking chug of her mojito, not even attempting to hide her puleeze eye roll. It wasn’t like he was going to notice her over here anyw—

  Aaaand Cole noticed. That vibrant blue gaze locked on Katie with an intensity that made her acutely aware that the warmth flooding through her veins might not be the alcohol. Well . . . shit. Now she just looked like a petty, jealous chit. And the flirtatious grin he gave her for it . . . Oh, Lord, it sent a dart of heat firing right into her core. It wasn’t one of those practiced, smile-for-the-camera glam shots that no doubt had women all over the country Facebooking, screenshotting, and Pinteresting. It was a genuine smile, meant only for her. In that moment, Katie became acutely aware of two very important things. One: Cole Easton was far more handsome than she’d originally given him credit for. And two: that made him a very dangerous man.

  Cole suffered through the women’s attention, but what made it slightly more bearable was watching Katie’s response to it all. She looked about as prickly as a porcupine, sitting over there, sucking down her mojito with a vigor that had him wishing he were a straw. He wasn’t even sure the women noticed her. More than likely not, as sauced as these two were. But this was par for the course of a typical night out for Cole, and he’d learned a long time ago to roll with it. They were fans, they meant no harm, and he certainly didn’t want to give them the impression he was an asshole. Those kinds of rumors could kill a guy’s career, cost him sponsors, and he already had a hard enough time combating the media’s lies. He didn’t need to add any more fuel to their fire.

  As soon as he and Katie had gotten to their table, he’d ditched his wheels for an actual chair. It was sitting in the corner behind her, buried under bags of “winter essentials.” Man, that girl could shop.