Bad Professor (An Alpha Male Bad Boy Romance) (102 page)

CHAPTER THREE

Kya

I
could still hear the club music. It thumped in my ears, but not as hard as the
hangover. I knew it was bright on the other side of my eyelids, but I could not
force them open. Flashes of the night before burst out of the fog, and I
cringed in my hotel bed.

Fenton had dragged
me to the dance floor, the crush of the crowd pushing me tight up against him.
It seemed like the perfect excuse to let go, just for a moment. One song turned
into a hypnotic loop and we kept going. I remembered my palms flat on the hard
rock of his chest. The surge of desire I felt helped fight off the waves of
aching hangover.

At one point, a
stunning spotlight of memory, we were back in the V.I.P. Lounge, close together
in the booth. He ordered champagne, and we toasted to our private corner in the
packed club.

 
Fenton's blue eyes intense on mine, his voice
soft as he had told me, "I don't know how, but you're different. I just
wish we hadn't met so soon."

I had giggled,
confused by the sincerity on his stubbled face. Of course now, in the painfully
bright light of morning I understood. He would not sign the endorsement deal
until after he won the title fight. That way, he would get more money.

I groaned and
pried my eyes open. I could not laze around in bed waiting to feel better. I
had to find Fenton and convince him to sign with me right away. The white
sheets tangled around me were softer than any I had ever slept on. I savored
one more stretch over their softness before my body went rigid with terror.

These were not the
same sheets on my hotel bed. I was in someone else's room.

Suite
,
I corrected myself as I glanced around in a panic. The penthouse suite was
enormous, all clean lines and jaw-dropping views. The Vegas Strip was far below
me, already baking in the sun. Hazy swirls of heat reflected off the buildings,
and I spotted my hotel, The Tropicana, across the way. The answer nagged at me,
but I wondered where I had ended up.
 

I lifted my head
off the pillow only far enough to read the stationary pad on the bedside table.
The MGM Grand. I had not gone far from the nightclub. I dropped my head back on
the soft pillow and squeezed my eyes shut. Another wave of memories burst in my
head like fireworks.

Champagne, more
dancing, and Fenton's hands on my body. The remembered heat flared over my skin
again. The sureness of his strength, the precise movement of his muscles, and
the magnetic pull between our bodies had been more intoxicating than the bubbly
wine.

And, somehow, he
had felt the same about me. Even in conversations with fans, trash talking with
rival fighters, and flirty exchanges with other women, his hands had reached
for me. His arm was around my waist, I slipped my hands around his bicep, and
we pressed closed together, whether the crowd was around us or not.

Safe in the
privacy behind my closed eyes, I admitted I was attracted to Fenton Morris more
than any other man I had ever met. His thick black hair, piercing blue eyes,
smirking lips, and even the rough rub of his stubbled chin and cheeks ignited
my body. He made me hot, buoyant, electric, and liquid all at the same time.

It was no wonder I
remembered riding the elevator up to his penthouse suite – his lips plunging
over mine, the taste of him deep in my mouth.

A cold blast of
panic shocked my eyes open again. I could just make out my crumpled dress,
dangling over the open bedroom door. Outside, in the middle of the suite's
living room, one red heel leaned against my spilled purse. Casino coins were scattered
around the carpet.

"You make me
want to believe in luck," Fenton had said.

The slot machine
had spat out coins, as I had tried unsuccessfully to catch them in the small
hem of my dress. He had knelt in front of me and scooped the coins into my purse.

"You
don't?" I had asked him.

"No. I want
to earn what I get. That way I know it’s mine," Fenton had said.

"Then, why do
I make you want to believe in it?"

"Because if I
can't say I feel lucky to have met you, then I don't know how to explain
this." Fenton had wrapped me up in a searing kiss, the coins spilling out
of my hands and open purse.

He was close
behind me in the king-sized bed. I could feel his heat. I peeled back the
covers and cringed when I realized I was wearing nothing but my black lace
underwear and bra.

Could
be worse
, I thought,
I
could be naked
.

Not wanting to
know how far I had let things go last night, I slipped out of bed and tiptoed across
the large master bedroom. I thanked hotel maintenance for a bedroom door that
did not squeak. Even though my exit was silent, I glanced back to make sure
Fenton was still asleep.

The square cut of
his jaw was relaxed in sleep and I noticed the dark crescent his eyelashes made
against his cheeks. He was stunningly handsome, even without his laser blue
eyes open. My eyes wandered over the stark muscles of his arm and my cheeks
warmed again. Fenton Morris was a dangerously attractive man – asleep or awake.

A small sigh
escaped me as I tried to remember what had happened with him in that wide bed.
My brain was still fogged over, some patches thicker than others, and I could
not remember anything past the elevator. It was a shame I was in no shape to
enjoy him properly.

What
are you saying, Kya?
I asked myself.

There was no way I
regretted not savoring every second of wild sex with Fenton Morris. He was
business, nothing else. I would have room for fun when I had reached my goals.
I grabbed my other stray red heel off the bedroom floor and straightened my
shoulders. It was time to get dressed and get back my professional dignity.

My phone had
skittered a few inches away from my purse and, before I took one step out of
the bedroom, it rang. I had turned the volume all the way up before entering
the nightclub, where it still had not been loud enough. Now, the ringer was
deafening.
 

Fenton woke up and
stretched, his long legs tugging down the sheet as he straightened them. I
could have stepped out and shut the door behind me, but I was caught staring at
the trail of dark hair that tapered from his belly button down below the thin
border of the sheet.

"Good
morning, beautiful," he said.

"You're
naked." I snatched my dress from the top of the bedroom door.

"I always
sleep naked. You should try it some time." Fenton stretched again, then
sat up, his washboard abs standing out in sharp relief. "How about now?
It’s too early to be going anywhere."

He held out one
wide hand. His thick black hair was rumpled and his smile fuzzy and sleepy. I
felt a tug low in my belly and pressed my dress against my body to ward off the
temptation.

"Don't you
have training to be doing?" I asked. "I've got to go. I've got to go
to work."

"I thought I
was your work," Fenton said.

"I'm not that
kind of girl," I told him. "Whatever happened last night, you can
rest assured our relationship will be nothing but professional from here on
out. I have a reputation for integrity, no tricks or dirty deals. I hope you,
sir, can say the same."

Fenton ran a hand
through his black hair and frowned. "I fight clean. One of the reasons I
stay away from endorsements. What I do, I do for myself and my reputation. So
tell me, Ms. Allen, what do you honestly think I tricked you into coming here?"

I clutched the
black dress to my chest and straightened my shoulders. "No."

"And, did I
force you to drink champagne into the wee hours of the morning?"

"No."

"Then, come
back to bed," Fenton said. "There's nothing wrong with admitting
we're attracted to each other."

I ducked behind
the open door and quickly yanked on my dress. "Whether or not I find you
attractive is not the point. I make it a professional point not to get involved
romantically with my clients. It sets the wrong tone for our business dealings."

Fenton chuckled
and hitched himself back on the bed to lean against the long headboard.
"Yes, please, save us from setting the wrong tone. I much prefer my
business dealings to be uptight and nervous."

I zipped up my
dress and bumped the bedroom door open again. "I am not nervous. My
behavior last night was inexcusable and I am sorry if I gave you the wrong
impression. I don't sleep with clients."

"That's too
bad. I was in the market for new vitamin supplements," Fenton said.

My cheeks burned,
but this time it was not desire. "I probably drank too much champagne so I
could put up with your rudeness."

His hearty laughed
shook the whole bed. "Oh, keep your panties on, Ms. Allen. Remember,
you're trying to set a business tone here. By the way, your little lace slip is
over there on the mirror. I like it. What's the word? Demure. Like another
layer of sexy."

I stomped over to
the mirror and brandished my one red heel at him. "I don't know what kind
of women you are used to, Mr. Morris, but where I come from, women wear more
than scraps underneath their dresses."

"You're
right. You will take a little getting used to," Fenton said. "How
about we start with breakfast? You could order room service. Business
breakfast? Has a nice tone to it."

I wriggled into
the lace slip, too angry to care that his laser blue eyes watched every inch as
I pulled it up. I tugged my black dress into place and ignored the molten
feeling his look caused. Fenton was offering me a chance to pitch him the
endorsement deal, something I was sure I had lost just minutes before. The only
problem was my body betrayed me. The hangover was gone, but the desire was not.
I wanted to kiss that smirk right off Fenton Morris' face.

"Like I said,
I have to go. How about we plan on lunch?" The dignity of my offer
disappeared as a casino coin dislodged from my bra and dropped to the floor.

His hand snaked
out and caught my wrist. As he reeled me into the wide bed, I wondered if he
could read my thoughts. The kiss was searing hot, his lips hungry. I was off
balance and had two choices – tumble into his arms or straddle his lap. I threw
a leg over, hoping to level the playing field.

Fenton rubbed his
hands around my waist and down the curve of my back, pressing me down onto him.
I gasped when the thin sheet did nothing to block his obvious arousal. I pushed
up on my knees, unlocking our lips and accidentally bringing my breasts to his
mouth. He growled, the guttural friction of the sound making my nipples tingle.

"Sorry,"
he said, releasing me. "I just wanted... Never mind, bad timing."

I sat back on his
thighs, unable to break from the magnetic pull of our bodies. "I didn't
mean to lead you on," I said. "I don't do that."

In the other room,
my phone rang again. I hesitated, not sure of the shattered look in Fenton's
blue eyes.

"Go ahead and
talk to your boss. And, by the way, Ms. Allen, I do not take advantage of drunk
women."

"You mean, we
didn't sleep together last night?" I asked, halfway across the room.

"We slept,
but that was it. For now," Fenton said.

CHAPTER FOUR

Fenton

I
imagined the punching bag was Mario Peretti. He was razor thin and fast. I
would clip him and then come back around to finish him off. He would never see
the combination coming. I concentrated on the new moves, but kept missing the
hard hits. Even a quarter of an inch off was too much for me. I ground my teeth
and tried again.

It was her taste
on my lips that threw off the punches. I had only meant to tease her, shut up
her nervous chatter. Instead, when I grabbed Kya and kissed her, it hit me
harder than a TKO. I had expected shocked and pliable, but she was stronger
than she looked. Kya kissed back.

The punching bag
bumped me, and I thumped my fists together. I needed to shake her off. Mario
Peretti was a whirlwind fighter. I needed a clear head. He jumped fast between
strategies, and I had to keep moving, watching what was coming. I never saw Kya
Allen coming. I had pursued her at the nightclub, thinking I had the upper
hand. Now, she deflected every attempt I made to focus. As I circled the black
punching bag, all I saw was her little black dress.

She had still
struck me as prim and proper when I saw her walk past the bouncer and into the
nightclub. Gone was the crisp work shirt and pencil skirt. It must have been in
her walk, the way she held her head so high. The Country Club Princess slumming
it amongst athletes most people still confused with cage fighters.

I was going to
look my fill and be done with her. Kya was slender, but curvy, with a sway to
her hips when she walked that I'm sure she never noticed. Many men did. There
were taller women, flashier dresses, longer legs, and more skin on display, but
when Kya Allen walked by, heads turned. I liked that. She had an unidentifiable
quality that made men take a second look.

Some people call
it class. Kev called it a challenge. Kya was the kind of woman that had enough
confidence she could make anyone work for her attention. She had mine and I
enjoyed every minute of it. Then, I saw that clean-cut, khaki-wearing guy buy
her a drink.

I had gone up to
the bar before I knew what to say. So, I let my reputation talk for me with
some terrible line about wanting her on my arm. I had been shocked when it
worked, when her arm slid through mine. That was it – only shock. Maybe
attraction. Maybe a bit of heartburn from too much steak at dinner. She did not
notice and I swept her through the nightclub, still seeing heads turn.

I could have been
done with her then. She admitted she wanted me to sign an endorsement deal. I
should have dropped her, like all the other money-grubbers that sniffed around
my hard work. Instead, she made me laugh and I asked her to dance. It was more
of a challenge and her green eyes lit up. Kya did not turn away from a
challenge.

I gave up on the
punching bag. Kya dancing, her copper curls thrown back, was all I could see.
She had moved everything– her fingertips dancing up to the lights, down the
swaying hypnotic plunge of her hips, to her small feet in red snakeskin heels.
And, the feeling of her tight waist in my hands. I flexed my fingers inside my
gloves.

How
did I let her get to me?

"You gotta
shake her off, whoever she is." My coach, Aldous Antoine, crossed his arms
over his barrel chest. "There's only one way to get a woman out of your
workout."

"I already
ran this morning," I said.

"I'm talking
circuits. Sit-ups, lunges, push-ups, high kicks. Thirty each. Then, run in
place for two minutes. Go," Aldous said.

I swore at him,
but dropped to the floor and counted the sit-ups out loud. Aldous watched his
watch, and I knew if my pace slackened, he would increase my running time. It
was a nasty workout, more punishment than training. Though, if anyone knew how
to get a fighter in the right mindset, it was Aldous.

The first circuit
finished, and I ran in place.

"Get your
knees higher. Don't make me add burpees," Aldous said.

I would have
talked back, but the circuits started to work. The heart-pumping, full body
movements made it hard to think about anything else. No snappy comebacks, no
pretty women in tight black dresses. I groaned out loud.

Aldous lifted one
eyebrow. "She in there good, huh? Well, then what you need is a sparring
partner."

My coach flagged
down one of his friends at the far end of the gym. The silver-haired man nodded
and brought over a young fighter.

"You part of
the touring school?" I asked.

"Yeah. I can
fight," the kid said.

"You can
fight or you hand out fliers at the fights?" I asked.

The young man
scowled and his ears burned red. By the time we got in the ring, he was ready
to give me all he had. He bounced around more than moved his feet. I rolled my
eyes at Aldous.

"This
sparring or a middle school dance, sweetheart?" I asked.

The kid lunged
forward with an off-balance right hook. I tapped him on the back with a
sidekick as he went by, and he stumbled hard.

"I'm not the
one who was sucking face at the nightclub last night," the kid said.
"Though, I guess I can't blame you, that girl looked tasty."

I sent one kick to
his sternum and when he stepped back, I kicked his other knee. He bent forward
and a quick chop broke his nose. "That's no way to talk about a lady. Next
time, watch your mouth or more than blood is gonna end up in it."

I grabbed a towel,
mopped my face, and the back of my neck. Aldous jumped in with the kid's coach.
They helped the kid up so they could assess the damage. I knew from experience
that Aldous would set the broken nose himself. I stepped out of the ring.

A nondescript man
nodded at me from the far corner of the gym. Medium height, medium brown hair,
brown eyes, but there was something direct in his stare, something
disconcerting. I stalked over and he flicked a business card into my hand.

"Matt Smith.
We've met before," he said.

"Sure. What
are you selling, Matt Smith? You some kind of reporter?" I asked.

"No, not a
reporter." Matt Smith's expression never changed. He seemed used to not
being recognized and just waited.

"Some agent
wanting me to sign off on, let me guess, granola bars? Vanilla yogurt?" I
asked.

"No, Mr.
Morris," he said.

"Look, Mr.
Smith, I don't remember meeting you." I flung the towel over my shoulders
and hung on to the ends with both hands.

"Mr. Morris,
I'm a private investigator," he said. "You hired me to find your
sister."

I wiped the sweat
out of my eyes with a clean corner of the towel. "Oh, right. I didn't
recognize you. Thought you wore glasses." I looked at the business card he
had handed me and recognized the name of his company. "You gotta admit
that 'Matt Smith' sounds like a fake name. Though, I suppose fake names are
helpful in a business like yours."

"Yes, fake
names can be helpful," the private investigator said.

"You really
spent ten years working missing persons in Arizona?" I looked the average
man up and down. "You don't look more than, what, thirty?"

"I'm older
than I look. After Arizona, I retired. Worked as a bail bondsman. Finding
people is a special knack I have. Now, I work on referral only. Kevin Casey
gave you my number and here we are," Matt Smith said.

"Do I even
want to know what my slime ball manager needed a private investigator
for?" I asked.

"Like I said,
I specialize in finding people." He shrugged and said no more.

"Yeah, well,
whatever you did, you impressed him. And, I'm assuming I can expect the same
level of nondisclosure?" I asked.

"As I told
Mr. Casey outside, I have no reason to discuss my work with people who are not
involved."

I hopped from one
foot to the other. My legs were cramping, and instead of talking, I should have
been stretching. I considered asking the private investigator to wait while I
cooled down. He probably would have shrugged his shoulders and waited with the
same unreadable calm expression on his face.

"I understand
if you've changed your mind," he said. "As long as my retainer is
paid, there is no reason you need to know information you no longer find
valuable."

"I've got
your valuable information right here," my young sparring partner yelled.
"You broke my nose and that is a fact. A fact I'm sure the police are
going to want to know."

"The police
will be interested in knowing a MMA fighter broke your nose while you willingly
sparred with him?" Matt Smith asked.

The young kid
scowled behind his wads of gauze. "Yeah, it's funny, but just wait until
you say something he doesn't want to hear."

Matt Smith stepped
back as the kid reenacted the entire fight. When it came to the kick to the
sternum, the kid got too into his acting and the wads of gauze blew out of his
nose on to the ground. I laughed as the kid swiped them up before stalking
away.

"Sorry about
that," I said. "What were you saying about my sister?"

"Look, if
you're not ready to hear it, then just say so. You can always reach me at that
number," the private investigator said and turned to go.

"No, don't
listen to him. What, are you afraid I'm going to punch you?" I asked.
"I keep my fighting in the ring."

"Except for
that police officer," Matt Smith said.

"Of course,
you would know about that."

"Good
business practice to run background checks on my clients," he said.
"Never know what trouble a client can be after the contract is signed.
Best to know ahead of time."

"Speaking of
knowing," I said. "You were going to tell me about my sister."

"Ah, yes, Ms.
Dana Maria Morris. She is currently working in Las Vegas, though she does not
have a permanent address." Matt pulled out a small black notebook.

"Then, how do
you know she's here in Vegas?" I asked.

"I've, ah,
been to her place of work."

"But she's
gotta be sleeping somewhere. She got a man?" I asked.

"No, I'm
sorry to say, from what I've seen, she has been living out of her car,"
Matt said.

My fists crushed
the white towel. "And, what kind of work is she doing these days?"

"Dana Maria
is also known as Pixie Dust. She is an exotic dancer in the back of O’Malley's
Casino," he said. His eyes widened, as if expecting a blow from me at any
moment.

He was right. I
did want to punch him in the mouth, but I knew he was telling the truth about
my older sister.

“So, my sister is
here in Vegas," I said.

"Yes."
Matt handed me a slip of paper. "Here's the name of the place she works.
First shift is tonight sometime after eleven."

I turned in a full
circle. On the second pass, I saw that Kya was standing nearby.