Two To Go: Bayou Heat (Pantera Security League Book 2) (3 page)

He looked like the stereotypical Russian mob boss.

Seriously, the entire place was just one big cliché, she silently, and irritatingly, concluded.

“That depends,” she told him.

“On what?”

“On how much money you can offer me.”

He shrugged, raising his hand to study his manicured nails. “You know how to cook stroganoff? Or are you a waitress?” he asked, pretending not to know why she was there.

Heh heh. Idiot.

“I’m asking how big your purse is,” she bluntly demanded.

There was a gurgled sound from the guard who was trying to raise his bloody head.

“Grr?” Elyon released a sharp laugh, nudging his ribs with the toe of her boot. “Is that Serbian for ‘I just got my ass kicked by a girl’?”

The man on the stairs clicked his tongue. “Clearly I need to upgrade my security.”

“You’re Victor Sokolov?”

The man glanced toward the opening that led to the restaurant. The sound of muted conversations drifted through the air. Along with a new scent that made her stomach rumble. Meat and vinegar. She’d really hate having to blow this place up before she got a plate of whatever that was.

“In my office,” he abruptly commanded.

Victor turned to climb the steps with surprising speed.

Yes, sir.
Grinning, Elyon followed behind him, taking the stairs three at a time. Once they reached the top, she had a brief glimpse around an open space that had been converted into a gym with a large boxing ring in the center of a wood-planked floor. There was the typical weightlifting equipment, an area with several punching bags, and a treadmill.

There were also three separate doors that were closed.

The man in front of her opened the closest one, and stepped inside. She paused, allowing her senses to sweep the confined space to ensure there was nothing lurking inside.

It was empty.

Still, she waited until he’d moved across the cramped space to lean against the desk littered with messy piles of papers before she stepped over the threshold.

“Look,
milaya
—” the older man started.

“Name’s Elyon,” she interrupted, her expression hard with warning.

No one was allowed to call her honey or darling or sweetie or babe. In any language.

Not unless they wanted their face rearranged.

“Fine, Elyon,” he conceded in patronizing tones. “I appreciate your…” He deliberately paused. “Balls, but I run the best club in town. Which means I don’t let every stray fighter who walks through the door in the ring. Even if they’re smoking hot. It’s invitation only.”

She reached into the pocket of her coat, removing the email she’d printed out before leaving for New York.

“Consider this my invitation,” she said, holding it out.

The man grabbed the paper and swiftly scanned the brief note. His brows climbed up his forehead. If this man considered himself the best in New York, then he had to know that Karl Richardt was the best in the world.

“You know Richardt?” he breathed.

“I’ve fought in his tournaments.”

The man tossed the paper on the desk and pulled out a phone from the inner pocket of his tailored suit. He was smart enough not to accept a possibly fake email as proof of her credentials.

Bravo.

He texted someone, hopefully Richardt, who owed her big time for that ex-lover issue she’d helped him solve, then typed her name into a search engine and pulled up the bogus information she’d uploaded.

“The Angel of Death, eh?” he read out loud.

She hid her smile at the ridiculous name she’d given herself. Cage match fighters were all about the drama. And hey, she was an angel to her PSL family. At least when she wasn’t being a hellish pain in the ass.

“When can I be added to the roster?” she asked.

His phone pinged and he glanced at it before returning it to his pocket, his expression now satisfied that she was who she was pretending to be.

“It’s not that simple,” he told her.

She rolled her eyes. “It never is.”

He shrugged. “If you aren’t a part of the local circuit then you have to fight our club champion before you can be included on the roster.”

“Fine.” She placed her hands on her hips, her foot tapping with impatience. “I’m ready. Anytime.”

The man considered her for a long minute, clearly calculating how best he could take advantage of her. His gaze skimmed up and down her tight, muscular form, lingering on her buzzed hair and the lean features that were more striking than beautiful.

He had to know that she would bring in large crowds if she could actually fight.

“Tonight,” he abruptly announced.

She gave a sharp nod.
Hot damn.
It was exactly what she’d been hoping for. “I need to see the facilities.”

He frowned. “Why”

“I don’t come into a fight blind,” she told him, her stubborn expression telling Victor she wasn’t going to take no for an answer. “I want to walk the space and get a feel for the actual ring.”

Victor shrugged, pushing away from the desk to head out of the office.

“Follow me,” he ordered, crossing toward the center of the gym. “Max,” he called out.

Across the vast space, a door opened, revealing what looked like a locker room. A male stepped out wearing nothing more than a loose pair of basketball shorts. Even his feet were bare.

He closed the door behind himself and started forward. At them. At her. Elyon hissed out whatever was left of the air inside her lungs, feeling like she’d just taken a sucker punch.

And maybe she had.

Holy shit.

She’d never seen such a stunning example of male hotness in her life.

Her gaze moved languidly up his body. Like a tongue lapping at an ice cream cone. He was six foot six of pure muscle. His shoulders were broad, his chest thick, and his massive legs were long and perfectly formed. He had a thick black braid that swung down his back and a boldly handsome face with chiseled features. His eyes were an icy amber color rimmed with gold.

As he neared, Elyon could see dark markings across his chest. Not the usual “I’m the shit” tats that one normally saw on humans. Nope, these were dramatic angel wings that spread from his heart and over his pecs. They were exquisite, but Elyon didn’t miss the white blemishes beneath.

This man had been tortured.

This male, she corrected.

And it’d happened before he’d been given the Pantera blood that she could smell running through his veins. Otherwise, he would never have scarred.

“Meet our club champion,” Victor drawled. “Max. The Hammer.”

The Hammer, huh?
Suited him. Suited him real well.

Elyon forced an indifferent expression onto her face even as she felt the world tilt beneath her feet.

He was a hot, ripped warrior with eyes that would no doubt stay open and fierce as he fucked his female. She was all over that. But it wasn’t what was making her legs tremble, her breasts tighten, and her very soul shatter as she stared at him.

A moment ago, she was the same Elyon she’d been from her earliest memory. Strong. Wary. Class-A bitch. And now, she was completely undone and remade into a new, unfamiliar female.

Breathless.

Vulnerable.

Scared out of her freaking mind.

Ashamed.

And it was all because of this male.

Her
mate
.

The word came too quickly and easily from her insides. Impossible. Impossible. Impossible. She fought back against them. Punch, kick, stab, blow up! She was no one’s mate. Ever.

Attracted—that’s what was going on. Like, seriously wanting to jump this male’s formidable bones and maybe come up for air a week later.

Like, crazy insane lust.

Shaking her head for a second, she allowed her gaze to roam over him again. Up and down, then back up again. Every solid inch. Accepting the lust. But, that wasn’t it. Wasn’t all.

Oh, shit…
He was trouble with a capital T, bold and in italics! And she was insane, off her game, ready to be committed. Good-fucking-Goddess! How could she accept the feelings rushing through her? She wasn’t that female.

Hell. No.

But no matter what her brain conjured as far as reality, refusal and impossibility—her blood, and the cat beneath her skin begged to differ. It screamed and raged that this was it, this was the one. It clawed at her ribs, and panted from the delicious wonder of it.

It was always the way. With everything. When the female on the outside tried to ignore the facts, the cat inside just…knew.

Fuck. Me.

This guy. This male… He couldn’t be the one, if there was ever really going to be a one, which she’d formally sworn that there wasn’t. He was her asset. She was on a mission.

Her shoulders slumped. Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world…

The words from “Casablanca,” her favorite flick, whispered through the back of her mind before she was grimly shutting down the inane thoughts once again.

And again.

She was going to have to wash her mind out with acid. But later. After retrieval or possible explosions. Right now, she needed to catch her breath, kill her lust, and focus.

“And this,” Victor was speaking, waving a hand toward Elyon, “is the Angel of Death.”

“Elyon,” she firmly insisted, giving a nod of her head toward the male.

He returned the nod, his aquiline nose flaring. She watched him. Did he detect the musk of her cat? Was he capable? His eyes dilated before he was doing his own share of hiding his expression. Oh, yeah, he definitely felt something.

Welcome to the club, honey.

“Max,” he said, his voice a low rumble in his chest.

Victor stepped back. “Show her around.”

The male’s brows snapped together. “She’s here to fight?”

Uh oh…boyfriend doesn’t like that.

Ely rolled her eyes at her stray thought. Her dangerous, dangerous, idiotic thought.

Victor pointed a stubby finger in Max’s direction. “Just do as you’re told.”

Max clenched his hands into tight fists. “Whatever,” he muttered, watching as Victor turned and headed out of the gym and down the stairs.

Studying his air of resigned and very sexy petulance, Elyon wasn’t prepared when the massive male abruptly whirled around and grabbed her by the shoulders. The next thing she knew her back was pressed against the wall and Max was nose to nose with her, his gaze searing like fire over her face.

Her eyes widened in surprise.

God. Damn.

Gimme more, boyfriend.

She blinked, her heart pounding in her chest, her belly clenching. Why wasn’t she fighting back? And more importantly, why wasn’t her issue with personal space being triggered?

Oh, yeah.

T.R.O.U.B.L.E.

***

Max glared at the woman who’d set off all sorts of alarm bells the minute he’d set eyes on her.

Christ, she was a magnificent creature.

A tall, brutal work of art. Like a pureblood racehorse. Or a sleek, predatory cat.

Elegant lines. Supple power. A sexual challenge that made something inside him roar with hunger.

It was no wonder he was achingly hard.

But it wasn’t her stunning looks that was sending tiny jolts of fear through him. Nope. It was the unmistakable scent that teased at his nose and made the primal part of him snarl with recognition.

It was a scent that he thought he’d put behind him when he’d left the cages in New Orleans to be put in a different cage here in New York.

“Who are you?” he snarled softly at her.

She lifted her hands, placing them against his chest and giving him a shove. “Back off,” she snapped.

It took far more effort than it should have to keep himself from tumbling backward.

“Wrong answer,” he replied, spreading his legs to keep his balance. “Who. Are. You?”

She narrowed her gaze, something lurking in the back of her glowing eyes. “Victor told you.” The words slid off her lovely tongue so easily. “I’m the Angel of Death.”

The name did suit her. And if she’d been a normal competitor, then he might have anticipated watching her fight. Maybe even climbing into one of the cages with her.

He sensed, however, she was anything but normal. And that there was a specific reason she was standing in the gym, eyeing him as if he…

Well, he wasn’t sure how she’d be eyeing him, but this, what she was doing right now, felt intimate as fuck. Possessive.

Irresistible.

His dick pulsed.

“You aren’t human,” he ground out, his tone accusing.

She snapped her teeth, nearly taking off the tip of his nose. “Neither are you.”

With a scowl he glanced toward the camera set in the ceiling above them. The gym was constantly monitored, but the cameras only transmitted video. The guards wouldn’t be able to hear them speak.

Releasing his hold on her, he stepped back and motioned around the gym. “Let’s walk.”

He turned and started to stroll around the boxing ring in the center of the floor, pointing toward the heavy weightlifting equipment. She hesitantly fell into step beside him, her brow furrowed until she at last realized he was performing for the cameras.

She gave a faint nod, pausing to pretend to study the nearest treadmill.

He kept his gaze locked on the control panel, even as he stepped to the side, until his shoulder brushed hers. Electric awareness zapped through him at the light touch.

As if he’d just been seared with a cattle prod.

The hot zap was a sensation that had happened more than once in his life. Although it was never a pleasant one.

This, however… This felt fucking…

Spectacular.

“Who are you?” he demanded again, his voice low despite the fact the cameras wouldn’t pick up his words. There was always an off chance someone was lurking on the stairs, or in Victor’s office.

“I told you,” she said, her eyes pinned to his.

The deep color slayed him. A real knock-me-out blue.

“Tell me again,” he pressed, brow lifting. “Maybe this time you’ll drop the truth.”