Her Prodigal Passion (36 page)

"If you don't, you get a failing business and a mediocre property that don't near add up to thirty thousand quid. Why would you be willing to take that loss?" Hunt's tawny eyes narrowed in suspicion.

"Perhaps Mr. Garrity is motivated by something other than money," Harteford said.

Something flickered in Garrity's onyx eyes. Rage.

The realization struck Paul. "This is because of Charity. Because she married me instead of you?"

"She was
mine
." Frost edged Garrity's words. "I selected her from a field of candidates. I invested time and energy into developing a relationship with Uriah Sparkler. We had a bargain, he and I—and you ruined it."

If Garrity had expressed any sorrow over losing Charity, Paul might have pitied for him. Because Paul knew what a jewel she was—and shuddered to think that he might have lost her. What he saw in the money lender was not sentiment, however, but pride.

A child enraged by the loss of a coveted toy.

"By developing a relationship, you mean snaring Sparkler in your money lending scheme," Paul shot back. "You targeted him, didn't you? Wanted him indebted so that you could strike your nefarious bargain."

Garrity's knuckles were white against the arm of his chair. "He needed funds, and I provided it. He was lucky because no other lender would have done it." Seeming to catch himself, he leaned back, his grip relaxing. "Thus, I am owed, and I will collect my due."

Anger seared Paul's chest. "Charity was never a piece of collateral to be bartered."

"Everything is collateral." Garrity's smile made his expression even more sinister. "If you realized that, instead of being a sentimental fool, you'd be a far better negotiator. And that is why you're here—to discuss terms?"

Don't rile him further. For Charity's sake, you need to save the shop.

Paul gave a terse nod.

"I don't discuss my business in public." Garrity flicked a glance at the other men.

"Fines?" Harteford quirked a brow.

"Wait for me in the carriage," Paul said. "I'll be there shortly."

The two left, and Paul and Garrity faced each other across the coffee table.

"We're alone as you wished. Now what will it take for you to reconsider the terms of repayment?" Paul said evenly.

"You are persistent. Not surprising, given what I've heard about you. Fight like that, too, don't you—fists flying, never backing down."

Paul's eyes narrowed. He didn't understand the smugness in Garrity's tone but had a certainty he soon would. "What's your point?"

"I've been following your matches."

"Meaning what? You're a fan?" Paul said sardonically.

Garrity made a sound that might have been a laugh. "I wouldn't say that. But like any gentleman, I enjoy my wagers—and, more specifically, winning. You've added to my pockets."

"Glad to be of service. Would you care to return the favor and subtract that amount from Sparkler's bill?"

"I never mix business with pleasure." The reptilian gleam in Garrity's eyes raised the hairs on Paul's nape. "Unless, of course, it's a guarantee that the former will lead to the latter."

"I'm not following."

"The Championship round takes place three days from now, doesn't it?"

The question was rhetorical. Clearly, Garrity had his sights on the match; the question was what did the money lender want?

Shoulders tensing, Paul said, "What about it?"

"I'm considering placing a wager on the outcome. Being conservative by nature, I'd like to pick a winner. One that is foolproof, so to speak."

"I'll do my damnedest to win," Paul said, his brow furrowing, "but I can't guarantee that—"

"Of course not. No one can guarantee a win." Garrity flicked a speck from his sleeve. "It is, however, possible to guarantee a loss, is it not?"

The meaning belted Paul in the stomach. "You want me to deliberately
lose
the fight?"

"It's not as simple as that. I want you not only to lose, but to do it,"—Garrity leaned forward in his chair—"in a
spectacular
fashion."

"The hell you say." Paul was on his feet before he knew it, glaring down at the snake. "What kind of a gentleman do you take me for?"

Garrity smiled thinly. "A desperate one."

"Not desperate enough to besmirch my honor, my name as a gentleman and a fighter." Paul's chest burned with outrage.

"Perhaps I misunderstood, then. I thought you wanted to save your wife's little shop." Garrity reclined in his chair. "Or perhaps your dreams are more important than hers?"

The bastard's words struck painfully close to home. Paul's anger morphed into a conflict more potent than any he'd experienced before. Was that what he was doing ... putting himself before Charity? Being selfish yet again?

It was true that prizefighting had given him purpose, an identity, and a sense of his own worth. It had paved his way to redemption. All along, he'd believed that winning that final match would give him the future he wanted.

But then he flashed to Charity. His gut twisted at the thought of her losing her legacy on top of everything else. His wife had suffered too much already, and he hadn't been there to support her in her time of need.
He hadn't been there
—and he'd sworn to her, to
himself
that he would be henceforth.

He'd told her he loved her.

Mere words, if they weren't backed by actions.

All his life, he'd wanted to be a man of honor and worth: here was his chance. Because the exchange of his dream for Charity's was the one thing he could give her, true proof of the depth of his feeling for her. And compared to what she'd given him—her glowing, steadfast love, which hadn't faltered through all these years—his was a paltry gift indeed.

She, not the championship, was his true future.

His throat thickened.

"Well?" Garrity said.

"Define spectacular," Paul said flatly.

"Twenty rounds. You take five here and there, to give an appearance of a true fight. But you let Jem Barnes take the rest."

Paul's muscles bunched. "Barnes has the most powerful uppercut in the tournament. If I give him an advantage, what's to prevent him from knocking me out before the twenty rounds are up?"

The rules of prizefighting were simple: fight until you couldn't. Certain maneuvers—such as hitting below the belt—were prohibited, but everything else from eye gouging to kicking was considered fair play. The rounds that made up a match ended when a fighter was knocked or thrown off his feet. He had to rise and make it to the scratch line within half a minute in order for the next round to begin. This would go on until a fighter either couldn't get up again or his second declared him beaten.

It made for a long—and often savage—battle. Paul loved the primal rush of it. His main strategy, which had proved a winning one, involved maneuvers that exhausted his opponent. He'd wear his adversary out, then go in strong. On average, his matches had lasted less than ten rounds, and due to his defense tactics, he'd managed to escape any major injuries ... thus far.

Garrity's proposition could see him seriously harmed—or worse.

Paul's nape grew cold as he recalled seeing one of Barnes' opponents carried out of the ring, bloody and unmoving. That bout had only lasted six rounds. Surviving twenty with Barnes would take a miracle.

"You'll have to find a way to take a beating and still get up." Garrity's mouth curled. "The odds of a man lasting that long against Barnes are low—which will make my bet pay off in spades. All in all, a bargain for us both."

Easy for the bastard to say. He wouldn't be the one getting pummeled into dust.

For a minute, Paul considered turning down the offer. Instead, he could wager what money he had on
himself
to be the winner. His competitive spirit rallied at the thought.

But it would be far from a sure thing. A ruthless and savage brawler, Barnes was favored to win. Paul believed he could take the match from the other—but he didn't know it with a certainty. His hands balled in frustration.

He couldn't risk Charity's happiness for the sake of his own pride.

Losing a match meant nothing if he could erase the worry from her beautiful eyes. All he had to do was somehow survive Barnes' murderous blows ...

"I'll take your offer," he said grimly, "but it stays between us."

Knowing Charity, she would never allow him to lose for her, which meant ... she must never know.

"Done. 'Tis not a fact I'd care to share with the bookmakers." Smirking, Garrity held out a manicured hand.

Their hands met in an unshakeable grip, the devil's bargain struck.

FORTY-THREE

When he returned home, Charity was waiting for him. Bundled up in a flannel wrapper, her shiny curls framing her piquant little face, she ushered him into the parlor where a fire was merrily burning. She fussed over him in the wifely manner he adored, helping him with his jacket and boots. A cup of soothing tea and a collation of meats and cheeses had already been arranged on the nearby table.

Only when he was comfortably settled did she perch next to him on the settee and ask, "How did things go?"

He gave a rehearsed version of events to her—the same he'd given Nicholas and Hunt. While he hated lying, Paul knew that his wife and his friends would try to dissuade him from his plan, and he could not allow that to happen. One fight and they would be free of Garrity once and for all. One fight for a lifetime of happiness with Charity.

A risk he'd take a thousand times over.

"Mr. Garrity took the six thousand pounds as a down payment? He'll allow us to pay the rest off in installments?" Charity blinked at him. "Truly?"

"He also agreed to a more reasonable percentage," Paul said, "so we will be done with the loan soon. Not bad for a night's work, eh?"

Her brow puckered as he'd known it would. "But
why
would Garrity do that? He's never been reasonable before."

"He knows he won't get his thirty thousand," Paul said smoothly, "and, in the end, he realized something was better than nothing. With our current agreement, he will get his capital back—and a healthy amount of interest besides."

His breath held as she searched his face.

Then she threw her arms around his neck. "I don't know what to say ..."

He inhaled the clean fragrance of her hair, his arms closing around her slim back.

"You don't have to say anything," he said huskily.

"But I do." Her head tipped back, and her radiant gaze stole his breath. Until this moment, he hadn't realized how much he'd yearned to have her look at him this way again: as if he were offering her the moon and stars—which he would, if she asked.

Because there was
nothing
he wouldn't do for her.

He told himself he'd survive the match with Jem Barnes. Even as coldness seeped into him as he thought of the other's lethal style of brawling, he told himself he'd find a way. Somehow he'd make it through so that he could hold Charity this way forever.

Her palm curved around his jaw. "You came back for me. You saved my father's legacy, even though he gave you little reason to do so. You, Apollo Fines, are my hero."

The brightness of her love fought back the shadows. What would come would come. In this moment, he wanted to savor being with his wife.

"I like the sound of that," he murmured.

"I have something else you'll like." Rising, she stood in front of him and tugged on the belt of her robe. The thick flannel fell away, leaving nothing but ... Charity. His nubile nymph, her delicate skin spangled with blushes and her gaze shining with passion.

He sucked in a breath. Darted a look at the closed door, which the maid or housekeeper could open at any moment. "Sweetheart, let's go upstairs—"

"I love you," she said. "With all my heart and soul."

Servants be damned.

Desire crashed over him, a burning need to affirm life in the face of looming danger. He took her up in his arms. He sensed her surprise when he carried her past the settee to the adjacent scrolled bench. The backless frame had front and back posts that curled inward on both ends, and the cushion was just sufficient to fit Charity's petite length. He spread her there like a feast, lowering to his knees beside her.

He loved how sensitive she was, responding to his mere look as if it were a touch: beneath his possessive gaze, her pink nipples hardened, jutting toward him. The soft dip of her belly quivered. And farther down ... his nostrils flared at the decadent sight of her dewy thatch.

Some of her boldness slipped, her arms crossing over her chest.

He halted that movement—circling her wrists and bringing them above her head. Gently, he folded her hands around the posts of the bench.

"Keep them there," he ordered huskily. "You're exquisite, love. Let me look my fill."

Her bosom rose and fell in a sharp wave. But she didn't move. Love and trust lit her face like a beacon and nearly undid him.

He flattened his palm against her throat, ran it in a straight path down between her small, heaving breasts, her delicate rib cage, her silken navel. He cupped her sex—just held her there, relishing her lushness, the way she arched to his touch.

"Mine," he said. "All of this. All of you."

"Yes," she whispered.

He slid a finger inside her, his pulse erratic as slick muscles clamped around him, pulling him deeper. He obliged, frigging her steadily.

"You're drenched," he breathed, "So sweet and tight. Do you want more?"

Her hips pleaded as much as her words. "Yes. Oh, please,
yes
."

He drove in with two fingers, slapping his palm against the peak of her pleasure. With each thrust, she grew wetter, hotter, her cream dripping over his palm. She writhed against the cushion, her knuckles white against the mahogany, and he bent to take her nipple into his mouth, sucking hard as he gave her clit another sharp smack. Her hips jerked, her pussy squeezing him with ecstatic force. Her grip on the bench loosened as her cry of release soared with the joy of a Bach hymn, striking fervor in his heart, in his turgid, throbbing cock.

In the next heartbeat, he flipped her over, bending her over the width of the bench. Too far gone to deal with his boots and trousers, he ripped down his fall and fisted his cock, groaning as he rubbed it along her dripping slit. Then he gripped her hips and slammed into her from behind. His back bowed as her tight cunny embraced him, milking him and taking him to the balls.