The Fighter's Secret Child (The Burton Brothers Series Book 3) (2 page)

He staggered to keep them both from toppling to the floor. Who the hell was barging into the apartment? Once he had his footing back, he glanced down. His first thought was that a gorgeous woman had just fallen into his arms. He started to smile. And then she looked up at him.

No way—no way.

The words chased through his head and he stared at her, his heart pounding and his breathing staggered, as if he’d just come out of the ring from a losing fight.

Rachel.

Her name managed to penetrate the fog wrapping around his brain.
After all this time.
Her complexion was as clear as ever. Her auburn hair was pulled up at the back of her head, leaving long tendrils loose around her face, framing her deep brown eyes, high cheekbones, and full lips. She stared up at him. He let his stare follow down over her body, over the curves hinted at under her sweater and jeans.

The anger he’d felt the last time they’d spoken came rushing back. That damn stupid argument where he’d said way more than he should have, and she’d stared at him like he’d grown horns and a tail. It was like it had happened yesterday.

He’d wanted an argument back from her—explanations at least for the gossip he’d heard. Instead, she’d stared at him, eyes wide, looking like a terrified rabbit. A lot like today, in fact.

That was until she’d straightened, told him to go to hell and take his temper with him. And then she’d walked out. Walked away and vanished. He’d gone looking for her—to apologize back then. But when he hadn’t found her, the anger had turned inward and had grown. It was still there—dark and looming and ready to explode.

He clamped down on it and pushed her onto her feet. “What in the hell are you doing here?”

Tucking his hands under his armpits he was not going to admit that his palms itched with the need to reach out and touch her again. To pull the clip out and run his hands through her luxurious hair. To wrap his body around her own and find out if the chemistry between them was still a raging inferno.

No way.
He’d been down that road once. What had she called him? A rage-a-holic? She’d acted like he was about to punch her. And she hadn’t once denied the stories he’d heard about her going out with someone else behind his back.

He glared at her now.

She was fidgeting with the key to the apartment. Pulling out a hand, he waved a hand at the key. “I don’t recall giving you an open invitation to drop in anytime.”

She stiffened and opened her mouth. Before she could say anything, a child’s cry interrupted. She turned fast and scooped a kid out of a stroller. Beck watched as she murmured something to the kid—who couldn’t be more than a year or so old.

Not even out of diapers, he’d guess, with a face and head swallowed up by a fleece hat. Much younger than any of the kids he’d spent any time with. They taught kids at the martial arts school, but not until they were around seven or eight. The kid stared at him, eyes wide and dark and lower lip trembling.

Beck’s gut tightened. He glanced at Rachel and put hardness back in his voice. “What are you doing here Rachel? And why do you have a key to the apartment?”

“I used the spare from above the door.” She didn’t look at him. She bounced the kid on her hip, muttering, “I won’t let him hurt you.”

Mouth tight, Beck folded his arms. “Well, that answers one of my questions. Care to answer the other one?”

Rachel straightened as much as she could with a year and a half old baby on her hip. Chaz was growing—not as fast as he should, but it seemed as if he put on weight every time she picked him up. She brushed a hand over his soft cheek and breathed in the scent of baby—that steadied her enough for her to face Beck.

He still looked as good as ever—all muscle and all man. Tall and hard, with those dark eyes of his. Unlike many of the other fighters in the circuit who covered their bodies with ink, Beck had never gotten a tattoo.

He had on a white wife-beater that showed off a lot of tan skin as well as his biceps, and tight jeans. He was barefoot—and he’d always had beautiful feet. He was wearing his hair cropped shorter than before, almost shaved off, but the stubble spoke of the dark locks she’d once tangled her fingers into. His face looked more angular, though. Or maybe that was just the scowl he was wearing which pulled down his wide mouth and put lines around it.

She kissed Chaz’s cheek and lifted her chin to stare back at Beck. “This is Chaz. I think he’s afraid of you.” Beck gave a snort and Rachel lifted her eyebrows. “What? You don’t think you being angry is enough to terrify anyone?”

Beck shook his head and sent her another hard stare, but his shoulders eased down and he let his hands fall to his side. Chaz tucked his face into Rachel’s shoulder, and Beck said, “I’m still waiting for an answer. Why come back now?”

Wetting her lips, Rachel realized this was going to be tougher than she’d thought. She had never planned to bring Chaz back into Beck’s life. She’d grown up with a violent man—she had no intention of every subjecting Chaz to that. But she needed Beck… Chaz needed him. And still, the words wouldn’t come.

“Can we sit down?” she asked. She glanced around the apartment. Someone had redecorated. Loose Navajo rugs lay on the hardwood floor and the walls had been repainted a soft tan. The furniture looked the same, though—leather couch, worn, overstuffed chairs, hardwood chairs around a kitchen table. The only new addition seemed to be a flat screen TV on one wall.

Beck stepped back and swept a gesture. Rachel eased past him. He glanced out the door, swore and stepped outside. He came back in with her luggage, the stroller, and the car seat. He left them by the door.

Watching him, Rachel thought he looked a little older. That was fair. She felt like she’d aged a decade over the past month. Ever since Chaz had been diagnosed. Seating Chaz next to her, she pulled one of his favorite toys—an MMA action figure—from her purse. Chaz started fighting a pillow with it. Rachel turned to Beck.

This time a knock interrupted. Muttering a curse, Beck opened the door. Rachel leaned forward to see who it was. She glimpsed heels, very long legs, and a very short skirt. Beck held up a hand. “Now’s not a good time.” He glanced at Rachel and then stepped outside.

Craning for a view out the front windows, Rachel glimpsed a mane of blonde hair. Her own temper spiked. Beck hadn’t changed at all—he was still a player, it seemed. She saw Beck peel off some money and push it at the girl. When he came back in, she sat with her hands folded in her lap. “You must be slipping. You didn’t used to have to pay for sex.”

The pulse jumped in his throat and Rachel’s mouth dried. Shaking his head, he sat down in a chair as far from her as he could. “That was money for a cab. I’ll be more than happy to give you the same.”

“I’m not here for your money, Beck.”

He rubbed his thumb over the stubble on his cheek. “Oh?” Leaning forward he braced his elbows on his thighs. “You show up with a kid. The way I figure, next thing is a story about how he’s mine, and you’ll be asking about child support next. Amazing what happens when you win a championship.”

Rachel blew out a breath. “I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t have another choice. As for your championship—I don’t follow the sport any more, but congratulations. Except it’s not money I want.”

“Really? Then what is it?”

She rubbed at the ache that had started between her eyebrows. “I knew this was a mistake.” Chaz started to slip off the couch, and she reached for him to pull him back, careful not to apply too much pressure to his tiny body. He bruised so easily, and the sight of black and blue marks on his little body always brought tears to her eyes. The bleeds were such a danger.
Soon, baby! Soon I won’t have to worry about that anymore.

Turning, she stared at Beck. She wished he wasn’t so damn sexy still, and that she didn’t feel that pull toward him that had always tugged at her. It had been this way from the first second she’d put eyes on him. She hadn’t been able to see anyone else, think of anyone else. Dipping her head to hide any facial expressions, she pushed out the words. “Chaz is your son. But I suppose you’re going to want DNA testing. Proof, right?”

Beck didn’t answer, so she looked up at him. He was staring at her, his eyes narrowed. She braced herself for his explosive anger. Instead, he answered in a low, tight voice. “I don’t need proof. He’s got the same cowlick I had when I was a kid—and he looks like a Burton.”

Rachel ran her hand over Chaz’s dark hair—he did have his dad’s hair and eyes. She looked up at Beck. “Are you going to yell now?”

“Thought I’d save that for later. Want to tell me why you didn’t tell me I’d knocked you up? Want to tell me why you wait this long to spring this on me? And you’re going to have to work damn hard to convince me that it’s not about the money—because, honey, that’s what I’ve got now.”

Tears sprang to her eyes. She blinked hard. “I’m here because I need your help. Chaz needs you. But I’m going to warn you, if you try to take him from me, I’ll—”

“Relax, Rachel. Raising a kid wasn’t on my schedule—and it still isn’t.”

“Relax? I can’t relax!” She tried to keep the whine out of her voice, but she was sure she hadn’t succeeded. The last few weeks had been nothing less than a waking nightmare of doctors, tests, fear…and just when she thought she saw a light at the end of the tunnel, she was suddenly realizing the tunnel was more than likely collapsing on top of her!

She chewed on her lower lip. Was Beck being honest with her? It was strange to see him again. They’d known each other for such a short time, but back then she’d felt as if she’d never had a life before him—as if they’d always been together. She’d been wrong.

She looked at the man who had once held the key to making all of her dreams come true. But she’d woken up from those dreams. And it was just too bad that coming back here had opened up the gaping hole in her heart where she’d once kept her love for Beck. She’d never gotten over him, not even a little bit.

Sniffling, she sat straighter.
I’ll figure out how to make this work!
Instead the pounding in her head increased. She tried to catch her breath, but suddenly it was as if an elephant was sitting on her chest.

Beck stood up with a sudden move. Rachel grabbed for Chaz to shield him. With a curse, Beck stepped back, his hands held up, palms out. “Dammit, Rach. I don’t hit kids. And I don’t hit women. Ever!”

The kid let out a whimper. His lower lip started to tremble and a tear slid down his pudgy cheek. Rachel tightened her hold on her son. “See what you’ve done! He’s not used to anyone shouting—no one’s ever been angry at him!”

Letting out a breath, Beck thought of a dozen things he’d like to say. Hell, no—things he’d like to shout. He opened his mouth—and then took another look at the kid. The boy turned and hid his face in his mother’s arms. Beck had taken punches to the gut that had hurt less.

He snapped his mouth shut and bit off the words. And he tried something he’d never done—he started counting to ten. Really slow.

Chin lifting high, Rachel stared at him, her eyes narrowed. “If you start punching walls—”

“Not happening,” Beck said, pushing the words out with a low, harsh tone. The kid burrowed deeper. Beck pulled in a breath and let it out. “Really, it’s not. It’s okay.” That at least got him a teary-eyed glance from the kid.

Rachel wasn’t so easy. “Last time we talked you punched a hole in a wall, so excuse me if I’m a little nervous. I’m also tired, starved, and Chaz really needs some food in him. So will you stop being a hostile jerk for about twenty minutes and offer us some hospitality? Or is that asking too much?”

Beck finally found a smile. He glanced from Rachel to the kid—and he still wasn’t really ready to take in the fact that he had a kid. “I’m not hostile.”

“Just a jerk then?”

“You’re a lot harder than I remember.”

“It’s called growing up. You should try it sometime.”

He huffed out a laugh and headed to the kitchen. “Sandwiches okay? I’ve got some milk here. What does the kid eat?”

“The kid’s name is Chaz,” Rachel said.

Beck glanced over his shoulder to see her carrying her son to the kitchen table. She sat him down on a chair. The kid needed a booster seat or a high chair. Beck didn’t have either of those things. “Is that short for something? Where’d you find that name anyway?”

“My mom’s name was Charlene.”

He glanced over at Rachel again. She was looking pale—way more so than he remembered from before. But, then, what he remembered was more about the two weeks they’d spent in Fiji. Bathing suits had been optional on their private beach—and her skin had turned golden back then. She’d been a sea goddess, back then, rising out of the surf. He tried to push the thoughts away, and focus on the sandwiches.

“Tuna or turkey, take your pick.”

“We’ll both have turkey.”

He made the sandwiches, extra mayo for the kid. That’s the way he’d like his sandwiches as a kid. He poured two glasses of milk—Rachel wouldn’t touch the stuff. Setting the plates in front of her, he eyed the kid. The kid eyed him back.

Something wasn’t right with this kid. He knew it in his guts. Weren’t kids supposed to be balls of energy, not pale, thin ghostly figures? The kid looked like someone had been hitting him around with shadows under his eyes. Digging out some silverware, Beck left them on the table and retreated back to the counter and his glass of milk. He’d add some protein powder to it before he drank it.

Rachel cut the crusts off the sandwiches and then cut them diagonally. A flash came back to Beck of her doing just the same thing in Fiji, puttering around the kitchen in what was a luxury condo with a grass roof.

He’d come up behind her, had caught her around the waist and had carried her off to the bedroom. It had been peanut butter sandwiches and he’d licked the peanut butter off her fingers—and then off every part of her body where he could smear it. He shifted. Dammit, he was getting off track here.

Beck moved and Rachel straightened and just about jumped. He frowned at her and shook his head.

Part of him wanted to watch her crumble for what she’d done to him—she’d left him aching and hollow. He’d spent months looking for her. Hell, he’d even hired a private eye to try and locate her. He’d found nothing.

And now he’d found out she’d hidden a son from him. That stung—the same as it stung every time he made a fast move and she jumped. But another side of him wanted to wrap her up and keep her safe. Her and that boy.

And what are you going to do with a family?

That voice in his head mocked him. Yeah, he was family material all right. The guy who lived to fight and had a different girl every night. He shook his head. He was fine with Rachel keeping her kid. But if she didn’t want his money, why was she here? Why did she look like she was carrying a heavy load on her shoulders?

Before he could ask again, the front door pushed open. Bryant walked in with his wife, Alice, and her brother, Dustin, one step behind. The kitchen was open to the living room. The three in the living room stopped, mouths falling open. And yeah, Beck thought he could see how this domestic scene would shock them—a lot more than if they’d caught him rolling around on the floor with some blonde bimbo.

And then Bryant straightened and asked, “What in the hell is going on in here, bro?”