Hard to Handle (17 page)

Satch eased in closer to her. “Look at it this way. Harley's not going to become a monk. We both know that. So how will it hurt? All the SBC wants is to get a few shots of him with the ladies. Nothing too intimate or anything. Totally PG-rated, I swear. Hell, most of the photos could happen at Roger's Rodeo.”

“Roger's what?”

He waved a hand. “It's a local bar near the gym. Sort of a honky-tonk, but nicer I guess. Roger sponsors a lot of the fighters and in return they frequent his place, have a lot of the parties there and stuff. Roger's wife is sister to one of the fighters.”

“All in the family, huh?”

“I suppose you could say so. Fighters hang out there just about every night and all through the weekend, which brings in fight fans and single women. It's a good deal for all involved.” Satch took her hand. “You could get Harley to see the benefit of sharing himself a little, especially if it gets him what he wants in the end.”

“The title belt.”

“Exactly.” Still holding her hand in his, Satch studied her. “You're considering it, aren't you?”

“No, not really.” She couldn't—could she?

“I think you are,” Satch said.

Freeing her hand from his with a fast smile, Stasia explained, “It's always been an automatic thing for me to analyze all the pros and cons in a job. But Satch, this job would be all cons.” Except for seeing Harley again. But since he didn't want to see her, even that wouldn't be a benefit.

“You like my nephew, don't you?”

For sure, she lusted after him. But if she had to be honest with herself…“What's not to like? He's a terrific person.”

Pleased, Satch nodded his head. “There, you see? You and I know it, and the SBC wants the rest of the world to know it, too.”

“I don't think I can help.”

“You can, because he likes you, too. More than any other girl I've seen him with since Sandy put him in pieces.”

“Sandy?” Then when the rest of what he'd said sank in, Stasia held up her hands. “Never mind. I can't envision Harley in pieces over any woman.”

“Until Sandy, I couldn't have either.” Shaking his head, Satch said low, “Harley didn't fall apart and snivel around or any of that melodramatic crap. But he withdrew in so many ways. He doesn't avoid the ladies—”

“There's an understatement.”

“But he keeps himself far too private. One-night stands, that's all he has now. And because the shit that happened with Sandy went public, he wants everything as private as it can be.”

Public humiliation would be rough on anyone. But for someone like Harley…Stasia had a hundred questions, but she refused to allow herself to pry. “Then don't you think he has a right to keep his private life separate from his sport?”

“Damn it, most of the guys would love this kind of publicity.”

“Harley isn't most guys.”

“No, he's not.” Imploring her, Satch said, “Think about it, Anastasia. You could get him to do it. All he has to do is play nice with the ladies while the cameras are around. Some dancing, a few kisses or whatever, some implied intent—”

It was the “or whatever” that made Stasia's stomach cramp. “Sounds like you want me to be Harley's pimp.”

Brows crunching down, Satch took a quick step back. “It's not like that at all! The SBC only wants to capitalize on his appeal to women.”

And he was appealing, Stasia thought. In a big way.

Did Satch have any idea of his nephew's fetishes? No. Harley was too private for that. “I'm sure if you have someone waiting around with a camera, there'll be opportunities galore.”

“I don't think so. Harley told me he was cutting out female companionship during his training.”

Her eyes almost crossed—until she thought more about it. “Isn't that typical? I mean, I've always heard that sex before competition was a no-no.”

Satch snorted.

“So it's not?”

“For most men, hell no. For Harley…” Satch scratched at his throat. “Let's just say it's downright alarming for him to want to fly solo. Especially right now. He has a lot of promo coming up—pre-fight parties and events, stuff he wouldn't attend stag, and if he did, he wouldn't be alone for long.”

Stasia imagined hordes of women vying for Harley's attention, testing his resolve.

It wasn't a pleasant picture for her.

“Gee, Satch. With Harley so irresistible, maybe you wouldn't even need me. Maybe the female populace will handle the problem for you.”

He regarded her with censure. “Now, don't get snippy.”

“Snippy?”
When Satch grinned, he looked so much like Harley that Stasia almost relented.

“Come on, Anastasia.” He held out his arms. “Take the job, and help Harley to reach his goals.”

“You just told me he'd have a conniption.”

“If he knew I'd
hired
you. But we could keep that part to ourselves. If you just show up and offer some friendly advice, how would he know?”

“No.” There were several reasons that wouldn't work, her pride being first on the list. “Harley will assume I'm chasing him, and as you've pointed out, he has enough women dogging his heels already. One more would only annoy him.”

“Usually I'd agree. This time…” Satch shrugged. “I think you're different.”

She didn't dare hope that was true. It'd be all too easy to fall hard for Harley Handleman. “Doesn't matter. I can't work in an underhanded way. It goes against my philosophy of helping the client. There has to be trust and honesty.”

“Maybe I misread things,” Satch said. “I thought you'd probably want to help him.”

“I'm not convinced he needs any help.” Harley was a very capable man. Too capable. And contrary to what Satch thought, probably too controlled. “Besides, he made it clear that good-bye was good-bye, final and forever.”

“He could change his mind, with a little help.”

It was Stasia's turn to pace. She did want to help Harley, if in no other way than to assist him in getting his uncle to butt out of his personal affairs.

Not what Satch had in mind, but it would be in Harley's best interests—and Satch claimed to want that.

She turned to face him. “I refuse to force myself on him.”

Satch was blank for two seconds, then he fought a big grin.

Men! In some ways, they were all alike. “I didn't mean
that
.” Stasia could feel her face heating.

“I know.” He chewed away the signs of humor and cleared his throat. “What if Harley contacts you first?”

“Why would he?”

Shrugging, Satch said, “Any number of reasons, but most likely to make certain you've got everything settled and that you're okay after the attack.”

“It wasn't that much of an attack, and it didn't faze Harley. Besides, he doesn't have my number.”

“I could give it to him.”

She paced again—and finally came to a conclusion. “I tell you what. I'll need a little time to get my own business in order and to get my truck repaired. Let's say two weeks.”

“Two weeks for what?”

“If Harley contacts me at all in those two weeks, then I'll make a point of dropping in on him to
offer
my services as a life coach. If he sends me packing, then that's that.”

“But…”

Stasia paid no mind to his objection. “I won't be too pushy, but maybe I can convince him to let me help out.” She opened her purse, dug out a business card, and handed it to Satch. “My cell phone number is on there. That's the best I can do. Take it or leave it.”

Satch hesitated, but in the end he accepted the card. “All right, then. I'll make it easy on Harley and leave this someplace where he'll run into it.”

“I doubt it'll make a difference.”

“I think it will. But promise me that you won't tell Harley I hired you.”

That wouldn't be a problem, since she had no intention of allowing Satch to pay her a dime. “As long as I'm comfortable doing so under the circumstances, I'll keep our conversation to myself.”

Relieved, Satch suddenly pulled her in for a big bear hug. When he set her back from him, his hands on her shoulders, he looked stern. “You use caution now, you hear? If you go to your cabin, take someone with you. Don't take any chances on your safety.”

Like uncle, like nephew. “I'm smart enough to ensure my own safety, Satch, I promise.”

“I'm counting on it.” He tapped her card against his thigh. “I better get going.”

“Thank you for the ride.”

He started away. “Remember what I said. Caution.”

She stood there until he'd left the hotel. As she walked to the front desk, she wondered what she'd gotten herself into.

But then again, Harley probably wouldn't call, which would mean she hadn't gotten herself into anything.

It'd just be good-bye, as Harley had said.

H
ARLEY
gripped the phone a little tighter. “You're sure?”

Sitting at the table across from him, listening to his phone conversation without compunction, Barber lifted a brow.

“Shit.” He never should have waited so long to call. He'd fought with himself, and ended up losing anyway. “All right, Ned, where's she at now? What do you mean you don't know? She's not still at the hotel? How long ago did she leave?”

Frustrated at the lack of answers, Harley paced away from Barber. This early in the day, Roger's Rodeo was nearly empty except for a few of Barber's groupies hanging around, hoping to get his attention. “All right, fine, but if you hear anything else, let me know. Yeah, call me on this number. Thanks.”

He closed his cell and then just stood there, undecided on what to do, or if he should do anything at all.

Barber cleared his throat. “Trouble?”

“I don't know.”

“I take it the little lady's gone missing?”

Harley shook his head. “I don't know that either.” He rejoined Barber at the table, but pushed away his half-eaten breakfast. “Her brake lines were cut clean.”

“No fraying? That had to be deliberate.”

“Yeah. And since she lives up a damn hill, and the weather at the time was as bad as I've seen, it has to mean someone wanted to see her hurt. But why?”

“She has enemies?”

“Not that I know of, but then I don't know that much about her background. Ned said she also found footprints around her property.”

“I figured the snow would've buried any tracks.”

“Not on her front porch, or around back where the house blocked most of the downfall.”

“You think someone was trying to break in a window?”

Harley shook his head. “Doesn't sound like, since no one entered. But maybe they were trying to look in the windows.”

“To see if she was home alone?”

“Shit.” Harley pressed the heels of his palms against his eye sockets, but it didn't help relieve his tension. “After getting some things from her cabin, she had been keeping in touch with Ned from the hotel where Satch dropped her off.”

“At least she's staying safe.”

“I don't know.” Harley concentrated on relaxing. “She told Ned she was checking out yesterday, and he hasn't heard from her yet today.”

“A whole day, huh?” Being a wiseass, Barber whistled. “Maybe we should call in the National Guard.”

Pinning Barber in his gaze, Harley suggested, “Maybe we should go five rounds sparring.”

Laughing, Barber said, “You need to get laid, dude. You're way too high-strung.”

When Harley snarled, Barber held up both hands. “Okay, okay. You're on the no-sex rule. I get it. Just ease your finger off the trigger. That's better.” Grinning ear to ear, he said, “I didn't mean to rile you.”

“Yes, you did.”

“Well, now you're riled, so I'll stop.” Being more serious, Barber leaned forward on the table. “She's probably just off checking out a new job or something.”

“Without her truck?”

“Like I heard her tell you, Harley, she's a smart lady. Odds are she has a rental through her insurance.”

“I suppose.”

“Seriously, Harley, there's no reason to get on the worry wagon so soon.”

Harley wanted to explode. Not worry? He wished someone could tell him how. Since leaving Anastasia nearly two weeks ago, he'd done nothing but worry. And think about her. And remember…too much.

Jumping into a grueling routine hadn't helped.

Driving himself to exhaustion hadn't eased him one bit.

Hell, he should have had her when the opportunity presented itself. If he'd made the most of the situation, she'd probably be out of his system already. He wasn't a man meant for sacrifice. Not when it came to sex.

But hearing her come, feeling her tighten and squirm…Damn, it had been sweet.

Barber tossed back two aspirin with a tall glass of orange juice.

Feeling mean, Harley asked, “What's wrong with you? Hungover?”

“Lack of sleep, actually.” He rubbed his temples. “I was up late auditioning singers, then up early to have breakfast with you.”

“No luck finding a songbird, huh?”

Barber snorted. “None of them are Dakota.”

Harley shook his head in pity. “You're still hung up on her, aren't you?”

“Hell no. I value my face too much, and Simon would ruin it if he thought I had a thing for her still. But on the stage, she's a tough act to follow.”

“Maybe you're just too picky.”

“And maybe you should have told me you'd be lousy company, and I could have gone home to bed.” His gaze went to the gaggle of young, enthusiastic, and willing women eyeing him from a short distance away. “Preferably with a sweet young thing.”

“Or two?”

“Now you're talking.” Barber looked away from the women, his dismissal of them obvious. “You know, I could probably convince one of them to take pity on you, if you'd give up this idiotic idea of celibacy.”

For whatever reason, Harley couldn't work up any enthusiasm for the chase. “You have an odd obsession with my sexual prowess.”

Barber snorted—and rubbed at his temples again.

In his own negative mood, Harley enjoyed Barber's misery. “Know what I think? You're too damn old to be burning the candle at both ends the way you do.”

“I'm twenty-nine, you ass. A year younger than you!”

So sensitive about his age? Harley wondered at it—and ribbed him a little more. “Huh. Really? Must be the bags under your eyes that age you.”

Barber narrowed his bloodshot eyes. “Now seems like a good time to tell you that I gave her my phone number.”

“Who? Dakota?” He looked beyond him at the women huddled at a small table. “Or one of those moony-eyed groupies trying so hard to get your attention?”

His smile tight, Barber shook his head and enunciated clearly,
“Anastasia.”

Harley froze.

Satisfied with that telling reaction, Barber lounged back in his chair. “Yeah, so see, you can relax, bro. If something was wrong, she'd probably call me.”

At a loss, Harley just stared at him.

“Now don't go figuring ways to take me apart. She said she knew I was giving it to her in case she wanted to get in touch with you. And as we've both already noted, I'm not up for a skirmish today.”

Harley still stared.
Barber had given Anastasia his number?

“What?” Barber slumped further. “Don't lie to yourself, man. You know damn good and well you want her to call you.”

Harley didn't know any such thing. In the time away from Anastasia, he'd had a dozen different urges, all of them conflicting.

Through stiff lips, he said, “If I had wanted her to have my number, I would have given it to her myself.”

Holding up his arms, Barber said, “That's why I gave her my number instead. At first glance, she seemed likable enough, but with chicks you never can tell. They can go wacko”—he snapped his fingers—“in an instant. We've both seen it happen. If Anastasia turns into a stalker, why then, I've sacrificed myself, right?”

Harley pushed back his chair and started to say something, but nothing came to mind.

Barber grinned at him. “I think my head is starting to feel better.”

“If you'd get a damn haircut, your head wouldn't hurt so often.” Barber's hair now hung long enough that he had to tie it back most days. When he performed onstage, he left it loose and looked like a cross between a hippie and a trained assassin.

“Dude, you know the ladies dig my ponytail. Turns 'em on. And it goes with the earring.” He took in Harley's rigid stance and for once, he wore an honest smile. “Come on, Harley. Why don't you stop torturing yourself and admit the inevitable?”

Leave it to Barber to go straight to the crux of things. “Go fuck yourself.” And with that, Harley walked off.

“Don't worry, bro,” Barber called after him, “I can see you're stressed. I'll pick up the tab on this one, but you'll owe me a meal.”

Without looking back, Harley gave him a one-finger salute. He wasn't
stressed
, for God's sake, and he hadn't eaten the damn breakfast, so why should he pay for it?

Harley fumed all the way to the house his uncle had chosen for him to buy. He fumed on his way in the double front doors, as he kicked off his boots in the foyer and shed his thick coat in the formal living room.

He fumed as he walked through the kitchen, past his uncle who looked at him over the top of his newspaper. He went to the granite counter and rummaged through the stacks of bills, sponsor proposals, and advertisements spread out there.

“Looking for something in particular?” Uncle Satch asked.

Harley turned on him. Satch wore rumpled boxers and nothing else. His hair stood on end and reading glasses rested at the end of his nose. At fifty-seven, he was still fit, still toned, but he looked tired.

He also looked a little wary as he took in Harley's mood.

Damn it. Satch was the closest relative Harley had left. Subduing his temper with an effort, Harley asked, “Where's her number?”

“Her who?”

It wasn't easy for him to hide the signs of resurging annoyance. “Anastasia Bradley. You left her card here where I'd see it. And I did. Now what'd you do with it?”

Satch snapped his paper and went back to reading. Or back to pretending to read. “It should be there somewhere.” Feigning disinterest, he asked, “Why do you need it?”

“I'm calling her. Why else?”

The paper came back down. “For what?”

“To see if she's okay.”

Satch nodded. “Good idea. I've thought about her several times, worried about her a little. Look on the fridge. I might've put the card there.”

Harley looked and sure enough, the card was smack-dab in the middle of the refrigerator door, held in place by a magnet advertising Roger's Rodeo, the bar where he'd just left Barber, and where local SBC fighter events happened on a weekly basis.

Snatching off the card, Harley headed for the den. He didn't want his uncle listening in and making more of the call than existed. He didn't know what he'd say to Anastasia, and in case he sounded like an idiot, he wanted privacy.

Dropping into a comfortably padded desk chair, Harley propped his feet on the desk and picked up the cordless phone.

Not only had his uncle chosen the house, which wasn't far from Dean's gym where Harley routinely worked out and sparred, but he'd also had it furnished.

He'd done a good job, never mind that Harley hadn't wanted the responsibility and commitment of a house, much less one with four bedrooms and three bathrooms, a game room, and an indoor pool.

But Satch had worked too hard on it all for Harley to complain to him.

After his father's death from a stroke, Uncle Satch, his mother's brother, had stepped in to help in a million different ways. Harley remembered him filling in as a father figure, there whenever his mother needed him, kind and generous—all in all, being a damn good big brother to his mother, and a considerate uncle to him.

When his mother died a few years ago from cancer, Satch became Harley's only family—and his manager. Sometimes he was a real pain in the ass, but he always meant well, and Harley wasn't cold-hearted enough to ever say or do anything to hurt him.

Deep down, he knew he owed Satch, probably more than he could ever repay him. And if he had to be honest, the pool was a kick.

Harley dialed the phone and waited.

Breathless, Anastasia answered on the fourth ring. “Hello?”

Just hearing her voice had a calming effect on Harley. Not that he sounded all that calm when he growled, “It's Harley.”

Silence stretched out, then: “Harley! It's nice to hear from you.” Honest pleasure sounded in her tone. “How've you been? Is everything okay?”

He felt like an ass.

He'd made such a big production in limiting their time together, driving it into the ground that once they parted ways he didn't expect to hear from her again.

And he hadn't.

Moderating his tone, Harley asked, “You're okay? You sound winded.”

“I'm great. Just got in the door from shopping, in fact. You?”

Of course she was fine. Hadn't he told Satch how resourceful, gutsy, and smart she was? “Ned told me you were right about the brake lines. They were cut.”