Simon Says (3 page)

No, she hadn't been. When she'd run off with her boyfriend, she'd covered her tracks. Not once had she considered that her mother might be right in her arguments. No, Dakota had fostered her hurt, telling herself that her mother's reactions were because she loved Barnaby more than she loved her own daughter.

Like a spoiled child, she'd wallowed in her sense of betrayal while doing exactly as she pleased despite her mother's wishes. Thinking to herself, “She'll be sorry,” she'd wanted her mother to regret her actions.

Oh, God. Her mother had been sorry all right. Sorry that she'd ever had a daughter.

Shoving to her feet, Dakota turned to face Barnaby. Despite the prickling of unease she got whenever in his presence, she wouldn't cower from him. But she wasn't dumb enough to let him linger at her back, either.

“So you think I owe you, and for that, you want me to find your son?”

“He'll be easy to find,” Barnaby corrected. “What I need you to do is bring him to me.”

“Why?” Suspicions began niggling around her brain. “If you want to establish some rapport with your son, why don't you just contact him yourself? Why send me?”

“I haven't seen him in a lot of years. It would be awkward.” Hands stuffed into his pockets, Barnaby began circling her.

Dakota felt certain that restlessness didn't drive him. No, he wanted to unsettle her, to rattle her. For that reason more than any other, she kept her pose lazy and relaxed. “I didn't even know you had a son.”

He shrugged at that. “No reason you should.”

“How old is he?”

“Thirty, maybe thirty-one.”

“You don't know?”

He scowled, and ignored the question. “He might not want to see me after all this time. But you…you could get in on his good side, convince him to have a meeting with me.”

Dakota watched him closely. He was up to something, but as usual with Barnaby, she didn't know what. “How am I supposed to do that?”

His dark-eyed gaze took her measure, crawling over her from head to toe in a way meant to disgust her. “You're a woman now, Dakota.”

At twenty-three, she agreed, but that wasn't his point at all. “Yeah, so?”

“All women know how to sway men. I imagine you know better than most how to—”

Cutting off that tired insult, Dakota asked, “Why do you want to see him anyway?”

“It's a personal matter, honey.”

Oh, that soft tone didn't hide a thing. It had fooled her mother, but it wouldn't fool her.

She shrugged. “Fine. Keep your secrets. It's no skin off my nose.”

“Exactly.”

“But here's a condition.”

Barnaby's eyes narrowed. “You're giving
me
conditions?”

“Yes, and it's nonnegotiable.” Dakota held his gaze. “Quit calling me ‘honey.'”

The corners of his mouth lifted in a dawning smile of satisfaction. “It bothers you? I can't imagine why.”

“You're sick.”

That made him laugh. “Such squeamishness from a girl who dances onstage?”

“I sing more than I dance.” And she was good, not that Barnaby would ever admit it.

“Rowdy songs meant to excite men. I know.” He looked at her legs. “Your mother hated that about you.”

Not again. How many times did she have to hear about her mother's disapproval and disappointment? Dakota drew a steadying breath. “Listen, Barnaby—”

“You know, she blamed herself.”

Dakota braced her heart. Once on a roll, there'd be no stopping Barnaby until he had his say.

“Joan thought it was your name that caused you to turn so brazen. She said she'd wanted you to have a bright, cheerful name, different from other girls. Of course, when she named you, she didn't know that your married name would…enhance things.”

Every muscle in Dakota's body tightened, but outwardly, she looked bored. “I've heard this tune too many times, Barnaby. Spare me, okay?”

“She said that had she known the choices you'd make, she would have named you something different. Because now your name makes you sound like a porn star.”

Dakota faked a yawn. It was her name, her mistake, damn it, and she would keep it as a reminder—her version of donning a horsehair shirt.

“Dakota Dream,” Barnaby intoned with slow and dramatic emphasis. “I think Joan was right. Definitely the name of a professional whore.”

Her façade cracked. “Go screw yourself.” Jaw tight and throat burning, Dakota pushed past him.

“Do this one thing,” he reminded her, “and we're even.”

Bastard! She paused near the door. It took two deep breaths before she could make herself turn and face him. “Give me his name and last known residence.”

Victory did ugly things to Barnaby's disposition; it exposed his malicious nature.

Smug smile in place, he withdrew one hand from his pocket and held out a slip of paper. “This is all I have. He travels a lot, so you might have to use a few of your sneakier skills to locate him.”

Careful not to touch Barnaby, Dakota closed her hand around the paper. She didn't look at it. Her sneaky skills included working part-time, mostly on a volunteer basis, to help locate missing people. Reuniting loved ones served as her lame way of making amends to a past she couldn't change.

At every opportunity, Barnaby threw it in her face.

“You'll have to cover my expenses.”

“Of course.” His lips stretched into a smile. “Keep a detailed tally and give me the total after you bring him to me.”

She shook her head. “I see the lie in your eyes, Barnaby. We both know you won't give me a dime once you have what you want.”

The smile pinched into a sneer, and even his perfect teeth couldn't make him appealing. “Before the accident stole Joan's ability to speak, she begged me not to contact you.”

Dakota's heart thumped hard. “So you've said, many times.” She knew it was true. If Barnaby hadn't found a soft spot in his cold heart, he wouldn't have gone against her mother's wishes and let Dakota move back in. She would have been hurt and homeless, and all alone.

Worse, her mother would have died before she could touch her one more time, before she could hold her hand and beg forgiveness. Her mother never regained consciousness, but at least Barnaby had given her a chance.

And for that, she did owe him.

“Joan told me that you'd disappointed her and shamed her so much that she could never forgive you—”

“Yeah, I know.” Already leaving the room, anxious to be away before Barnaby saw how he'd hurt her, Dakota said, “This is the last time, Barnaby. I'll drag your damned son to you if I have to, and then we're even.”

“Of course.” Voice moderate again, he added, “Don't slam the door, Dakota. You know how your mother despised your temper tantrums.”

Breathing harder than she should have been, Dakota paused outside the house with her fist on the doorknob. It took an effort, but she loosened her muscles, relaxed them, and eased the door shut with a quick, quiet click.

The yard she'd played in as a child now looked like a showplace. There were no dandelions on the lawn, no bare patches from repeated games of tag.

While her mother lived, Barnaby hadn't spent a dime except on his own pleasures. But her mother hadn't been dead a week before he'd started throwing money around.

New shrubbery, enhanced with outdoor lights and framed with colorful fall flowers, circled the house. A large decorative fountain had replaced the cheap birdbath she'd given her mother on Mother's Day. Rather than repair the old broken sidewalk, Barnaby had paid to have it torn out so a new cobblestone walkway led to the front door.

New siding, windows, and doors. New carpet and furniture. New cabinets. The house was better. Improved. And it was no longer her childhood home. Maybe, Dakota thought, she should count her blessings.

“This is it,” she said to herself. “The last time I'll ever come here. The last time Barnaby will ever hold me with guilt.” She looked up into the sunny sky and breathed the brisk fall air. “The very last time.”

Once in her car, to distract herself and gain some control so she wouldn't present a danger on the roadway, Dakota looked at the slip of paper.

Simon Evans.

Her eyes widened. Sickness gave way to fascination. Surely not
the
Simon Evans, renowned trainer of SBC fighters, once an amazing, unstoppable champion himself? Sublime, they called him, because of his incredible good looks, his way with the ladies, and his charming manner.

Her heart beat a little faster as she pictured him in her mind. Six-two. Ripped. Dark. He shaved his head, which only made the astounding intensity of his brown eyes that much more compelling.

What a hoot.

Barnaby was sending her to one of her favorite sporting events to fetch a superior icon in the industry. Hell, had she known, she'd have volunteered for the job.

Dakota recognized the address on the slip of paper as his hometown, confirming he was the fighter. But Simon wouldn't be there now. A few months ago, he'd announced his intent to compete again, and that meant he was at a camp somewhere, getting in shape. Or, she should say, getting in better shape. The man always looked delicious, no matter what position he chose in the SBC—trainer, fighter, or sex symbol.

She'd find him. She'd visit him.

And one way or another, she'd bring him to Barnaby.

If along the way she got to indulge her fandom, no one would hold that against her.

Her day was looking better. All she needed now was some coffee.

S
WEAT
poured over his shoulders and trickled down his spine to soak the waistband of his shorts. Training other athletes and training himself were two very different things. He'd never pushed anyone as hard as he pushed now. The passion was both exhilarating and exhausting.

Padded in protective gear, Gregor squared off with him again. Simon prepared himself—and a flash of blond hair distracted him just long enough for Gregor to knock him on his ass. His head rang, darkness crowded in, and then he had no more time to mollycoddle himself because Gregor attacked.

Six and a half feet of muscled fighter landed on him.

Shaking off the cobwebs, Simon went on automatic pilot, defending himself by rote, countering all of Gregor's attempts at submission holds and blocking most of his punches. With a few well-timed moves, Simon managed to reverse their positions and in seconds, he had Gregor in a rear-naked choke.

“Ho, hold up, Simon. He's tapping.”

Dean's voice cut through the fog, and Simon immediately loosened his hold. Gregor rolled over to his knees, cursing himself.

Exhaustion pulled Simon flat to the mat. Eyes closed, he sucked air into his straining lungs while Dean took the time to tell Gregor what he'd done wrong, and what he'd done right.

Then he started on Simon.

“What the hell were you thinking? You dropped your hands and you looked away from him. That's your number one rule—to always keep your eyes on your opponent.”

Simon didn't open his eyes yet. Gregor's slug had nearly knocked him out. Little stars danced behind his closed eyelids. “I know.”

“Couldn't prove it by me,” Dean said. “If you'd been looking at Gregor, you'd have seen a wild haymaker like that coming a mile away.”

Damn harpie. “I know.”

“Maybe Gregor is too damn big for you—”

“No.”

“Then you're not putting enough into it. You know if you can't handle him here, you sure as hell won't be able to handle someone in a competition.”

“Stop bitching.” Simon opened his eyes to see the bright lights on the ceiling of Dean's gym. What had distracted him?

Oh, yeah.

He sat up and twisted around in one motion to see a Barbie clone standing inside the gym doorway.

Yep. She was the distraction all right.

Dean followed Simon's line of vision and grunted. “You've got to be kidding me.”

With a shoulder propped on the wall, her arms crossed, Blondie stared at Simon.

Dean asked, “Who is that?”

“Hell if I know.” Without looking away from her, Simon pushed to his feet. “But spread the word before any of these bozos get lewd ideas—I've got dibs.”

Because Dean had been after him to start dating again—without success—that statement earned him a double take.
“Now?”

Simon shrugged.

“You're training for a fight, or have you forgotten?”

“Bad timing.” Simon studied her negligent pose. “What can I say?”

“You can say that you're joking.”

Simon flashed Dean a quick glance. “I'm not.” Then he shook his head. “But don't worry. I'll take my time, and I won't let her interfere.”

“You don't even know if she's free.”

That made Simon frown. For a woman to show up in Dean's gym, she'd probably come to meet someone. Was she involved with one of the other fighters? Married to one of them?

Dean made a sound of impatience. “Before you burn holes through her with that dark scowl, want me to find out what she wants?”

Just as Dean spoke, Blondie pushed away from the wall and sauntered toward them.

Simon shook his head. “Don't bother. I think we're about to find out.”

Dressed in tattered jeans, black lace-up work boots, and a thick coat, Simon couldn't really see her body other than to note her height. But she had a loose-limbed gait, long legs, longer blond hair, and an eagerness in her eyes that consumed him.

Hell, yeah.

When the time was right, he'd have her. And then some.

Simon walked over to the ropes and propped his arms on them. Keeping his gaze glued to hers, he waited.

She stopped at the bottom of the ring and looked up. “That was sloppy.”

Inside, Simon grinned. Outwardly, he just looked at her.

“If you're going to compete in the next event, you need to do better than that.”

Up close, Simon saw that the cold had turned her nose red. Not a dainty little nose, but not an unappealing nose, either. In fact, nothing about her features was dainty. She had a full mouth, thick lashes, strong cheekbones, and a stubborn chin.

Deliberately provoking, Simon studied her body from head to toes and back again. The heavy black work boots amused him. When his gaze returned to hers, he asked, “You're an expert?”

“More like a fan.”

“Of the sport?”
Or of me?

She nodded. “I've been watching it since the early days, back when it was no-holds-barred, no weight classes, and a lot more brutal.”

Odd, to be having this conversation with her when he didn't even know her name. Yet. “So which do you prefer? The current rules or the older unrestricted freestyle?”

“I have favorite fighters from both. But I'd say it's more exciting now. More refined. By necessity, the fighters are well rounded in a variety of techniques.”

“They have to be.”

“Absolutely.” She tilted her head to scrutinize him. “Your strength is your natural athleticism. You pick up quickly on nuances that others miss. You're strong and quick, but then so are a lot of the fighters.” Without looking away from him, she nodded toward Gregor. “He's as strong as they get, but he lacks confidence. When or if he ever gets it, look out.”

Because Simon thought the same, her insight surprised him. He glanced at her hands, but she had them tucked into her coat pockets. Curiosity ate at him, so Simon turned to Dean. “I'm taking a break.”

Dean just rolled his eyes. Gregor sat on a stool getting further instructions. He looked royally pissed off.

Lifting the ropes, Simon jumped down from the ring. Now that they were on even footing, he guessed her height at only around five and a half feet. But she carried herself like someone taller.

Interesting.

The mandatory four-ounce gloves left his fingertips and palms free. Simon swiped the sweat from his face. “I'm roasting, but here you are all buttoned up in that thick coat.”

As if just realizing what she wore, she glanced down at herself. Her hands came out of her pockets and she began unbuttoning the tan corduroy coat.

No rings.

No nail polish, either. Her fingers were long, her nails short and blunt.

“It's freezing outside, and I hate the cold.”

Simon was so involved in visually exploring her that he barely paid any attention to her husky voice. Not since he'd walked out on Bonnie months ago had he been this interested in a woman.

Or more to the point, this interested in having a woman. Under him. In bed.

Or wherever she liked it. Hell, after months of celibacy, he wasn't picky.

As long as she wasn't the difficult type, too clingy or a psycho groupie, or…whatever. Easy, that's what he wanted.

Easy, ready, and willing.

“But you're right,” she continued, unaware of his meandering and vivid sexual thoughts. “It's toasty in here.”

Getting toastier by the second.

Simon waited as the buttons came undone and the thick material parted to reveal the shape of her body. She went one further in accommodating his imagination by shrugging out of the coat completely.

A loose, oversized V-necked gray sweater layered over a black T-shirt didn't disguise her slim figure. The jeans were low-riders, and Simon got a glimpse of taut, pale flesh above the waistband until she tugged the sweater down.

As if she owned the place, she tossed her coat and a large, satchel-type purse toward a metal folding chair, and then stuck out her hand.

“I'm Dakota Dream.”

Simon stared; she had to be kidding.

All types of quips came to mind. Like,
Weren't you in the last porno I saw?
Or,
Didn't you use to dance at a strip club?

But one look at her face and Simon knew she expected it. Sarcasm, sexual harassment, assumptions—she'd pegged him to have them all. So the name was for real, not a gimmick, and though she might not admit it, it bothered her.

Despite the gloves, he took her hand in both of his. “Hello, Dakota.”

Brief surprise flickered in her blue eyes before she smiled. “Hello.”

Damn, that smile packed a wallop. “I take it you already know me?”

Slender shoulders rose in a shrug. “Of you.” She propped her hands on equally slender hips. “Simon Alexander Evans. Sublime. You hung up your gloves a few years back after winning the championship belt in the light heavyweight class. You only had two losses in your record, and one of those was a bad judges' decision.”

Either she'd done her homework or she followed the sport as she'd said. “I agree. I got screwed on that decision.”

“Everyone with any sense thinks so.” She flashed him a cheeky grin. “Most of your wins were notable knockouts with a few incredible submissions thrown in. Since retiring your gloves, you've gotten the reputation for being the best trainer around. Anyplace you organize a camp, fighters show up in droves.”

To test her, Simon asked, “You have a theory on why that is?”

“Sure. Too many guys train with repetitive conditioning, eight hours a day, seven days a week.” She shook her head sadly. “It's a waste of time and energy. Your motto is that they need to train for intense five-minute bouts, because that's what they'll be doing.”

“Right.”

Mimicking him, she said, “‘Who cares if he can ride a damn bike uphill for hours on end? When I hit him in the jaw, his bike-riding skills won't help him at all.'”

Simon laughed. “Yeah, I remember saying something like that.” Bonnie had soured him on involvement, but that didn't mean he wanted to be a notch on some loony broad's bedpost. If she was a regular groupie…well, he wasn't quite sure how he'd handle that. “Did you drop in for an autograph?”

Her smile slipped. “Actually…”

Simon watched as her chest expanded on a nervous breath.

“I came for you.”

Such a sweetheart. Forcing his attention from her breasts back up to her face, Simon held her gaze and said softly, “Not yet, Dakota.”

Confusion darkened the blue of her eyes. She tipped her head. “What?”

“You haven't come for me…yet.” He still had a lot of work to do, so he headed back to the mat. Over his shoulder, he said, “But stick around, and I can guarantee you will.”

W
OW.
Dakota watched as Simon ducked under the ropes and reentered the ring. He wore only black nylon kickboxing trunks and four-ounce gloves designed to protect his hands. He didn't shave his body, thank God, but he did shave his head. It proved one hell of a contrast to his dark chest hair and sexy eyebrows.

Without a doubt, Simon was the most devastating man she'd ever seen.

And that sexual vibe…Dakota made a sound of regret. She wouldn't mind seeing if he had reason for such bragging, but she didn't dare get that involved with him. She had to remember that he was Barnaby's son. Once she delivered him to his father, she didn't plan to get within ten miles of Barnaby ever again.

Not even for a superhunk like Simon Evans.

After his outrageous prediction, he'd strolled off without giving her the chance to proposition him, so he still didn't know that his father wanted to reunite with him.

Not a problem, far as Dakota was concerned. Waiting around afforded her the opportunity to watch him work. She'd have paid good money for this, so to get to do it for free was a treat.

Fetching the chair that held her coat and satchel, Dakota seated herself ringside. All three fighters glanced her way, as if awaiting an explanation for her bold intrusion.

Dakota sat back, crossed her legs, and got comfortable. “Go on,” she encouraged. “You won't even know I'm here.”

The retired champion-turned-trainer, Dean “Havoc” Conor, looked to Simon for instruction. Instead of verbalizing his preferences one way or the other, Simon turned to Gregor Marsh, better known as “the Maniac,” and said, “Let's go.”

Gregor shrugged his enormous tattooed shoulders and grinned. “Sure thing, Sublime.”

For the next five minutes, they sparred as if they were in a real competition. Dakota scrutinized every move, every countermove, and when they stopped for a break, she again approached the ropes.