Chapter 9
Jamie: Will there be metal detectors at the entrance to the ball?
Ethan: Maybe. You won’t need a weapon.
Jamie: Don’t worry, I’m only taking one.
Jamie
“No comments about how I look,” I order Ethan as we climb out of his limo. “The rule still applies.”
He rakes his gaze over me. His eyes darken with appreciation, sending a tingle through my body. His expression is so plain, he doesn’t need words. But he nods. “Okay, Knockout.”
“I said, no comments.” I scrunch my nose at him. “That includes ridiculous nicknames.”
He lifts an eyebrow. “Like Demolition Man, you mean?”
I press my lips together, trying not to laugh, and he offers me his arm.
When I take it, he tucks my hand into his side. “I still haven’t seen what you look like with your hair down,” he murmurs.
I huff. “Would you stop!”
His lips quirk, but he says nothing, just leads me toward the entrance of the fancy hotel where the event is being held.
“Why risk going to a public event when someone is threatening you?” I ask as we walk through the lobby toward the ballroom.
“Because the PR company want me to be seen at places like this. There’ll be photographers here, and once we get our photo taken, we can leave.”
He waits while I show my weapon, permit, and credentials to the security at the door of the ballroom. His expression gives nothing away, and I can’t tell if he’s annoyed or amused that I came armed when he said not to.
Walking in, I’m grateful that my sandals have low heels. Not having to worry about falling over my own feet means I can focus my attention on keeping my nervousness off my face. I’ve never been to a fancy event like this before, and the enormous room is filled with people.
We pause at the entrance, and I automatically scan the room, taking in the scene.
Two exits at the back, large windows that could be escape routes in an emergency, a raised platform where musicians are playing classical music.
The ballroom is decorated with crystal vases as tall as small children, each one stuffed with flowers.
Heavy chandeliers drip with crystal teardrops.
Everything sparkles, including the huge jewels that all the women are wearing.
So this is how the other half lives. Well, the one percent. It’s a whole world away from what I’m used to.
“Your grip is too tight,” Ethan murmurs.
My hand is still tucked into the crook of his arm, and I’m squeezing him hard enough to bruise. With an effort, I relax my fingers and shoot him a sideways glance.
Ethan looks like he belongs in a place like this.
He’s so handsome in his fitted tux, he makes my head swim.
And whatever cologne he’s wearing must be made of hormones or some other magic substance that triggers women to think about sex.
Since getting my first whiff of him, my nipples have been at full alert.
And with him standing so close, and occasionally touching my lower back to guide me through doors, they’re unlikely to stand down anytime soon.
Reminding them that I can’t stand the man does nothing.
Guess I know where my good sense doesn’t reside.
“Come on.” He steers us further into the ballroom, then stops in front of a waiter who’s offering a tray of drinks. “Champagne?”
“Not while I’m working.”
“Orange juice?”
I shake my head. “I should keep my hands free.”
“At least have something to eat.” He motions to another waiter who brings over a tray of canapés. They’re tiny and delicate, and most involve caviar.
“Thanks, but I’m fine.” I give the waiter an apologetic smile and when he moves off, I scan the room again. “Is anyone from our suspect list here?”
“Probably. Let’s mingle, and I’ll introduce you to some people who might want to kill me. See if we can’t add more suspects to the list.”
His voice is light, as though the fact so many people don’t like him is either a joke or something he’s actually proud of. It’s puzzling. Why doesn’t he care about all the people he’s hurting or the enemies he’s collecting?
Ethan Kane is a puzzle. But it isn’t my job to figure him out, just to resist the temptation to kill him. Oh, and to stop anyone else from trying to do it either.
He motions to a circle of people. “In that group, I can see a broker I won’t work with, and the owner of a construction company I almost sent out of business.
Let’s jump straight into the fire.” His eyes gleam.
“We’ll sell some tickets to the boxing match.
You remember what you said about people paying to watch me get beaten? Let’s see if you were onto something.”
He’s already guiding me toward them, apparently unconcerned about approaching people who might hate him. And when we reach the group of men and women, he introduces them all, his tone easy despite their stiff postures.
I nod at each in turn. They eye me up and down, taking in my height, my muscles, and everything that screams that I don’t belong here.
Ethan has a couple inches on me, but I tower over the women and some of the other men.
Maybe I should have protested when the hair stylist gave me an up-do that makes me look even taller than normal.
I take careful note of the way they all act around Ethan. Many are frosty toward him.
The man he introduces as Noel Barker, the head of the construction company, is particularly cold. “You hardly ever come to these things,” the man says. “So why are you here?”
“I have good news,” Ethan says. “After I reported you for using sub-standard timber, you must be dying to see me get hit. So you’ll be happy to know I’ve agreed to fight in a boxing match.” His lips quirk as though this is fun for him. “How many tickets do you want, Barker? Jamie’s selling them.”
The man tugs a wallet out of his inside pocket. “I’ll take two.”
“Five hundred dollars each,” Ethan says.
Shocked, I jerk my head to him. We said two hundred. I’m about to correct him, but Barker is already pulling a huge wad of cash from his wallet, and Ethan shoots me a wink.
Barker peels ten crisp hundred-dollar bills from the bundle and holds them out. “I want front row seats.”
“Front row is more,” Ethan says before I can take the money. “Fifteen hundred for each front row ticket.”
My jaw drops. Fifteen hundred dollars?
Barker peels off more bills and hands them to me. “Worth every penny if his opponent can land some good punches.”
“Um. Thanks.” I grip the pile of notes, my heart hammering. What just happened? How am I suddenly holding three thousand dollars?
Ethan’s gaze goes to the man he said was a broker. “What about you, Simpson? You’ve ripped off enough clients to be able to afford tickets. What’s the point in being a crook if you can’t have fun spending those ill-gotten gains?”
I gape at Ethan. Did he really just say that out loud?
Simpson’s face flushes red. He snarls at Ethan. “What the hell did you say to me?”
Ethan shrugs. “You want to watch me get punched now, Simpson, don’t you? Maybe you’ll get lucky, and I’ll take a hard one to the face. I could get my nose broken.”
Incredibly, Ethan seems to be enjoying himself. Goading his enemies seems to be his idea of a good time.
Simpson tugs out his wallet. “Front row,” he growls at me.
“Four tickets. I want to see blood.” Instead of cash he offers me a black credit card, and I have no idea what to do with it.
I make a show of putting the money I’m holding into my purse to give myself time to think, being careful to tuck it into the side pocket so it won’t get in the way if I have to pull out my little revolver.
Ethan tugs his phone from his pocket and dials.
“Rachel,” he says into it. “Reserve two front row tickets for the boxing match for Noel Barker, and four for Michael Simpson. Barker’s already given Jamie the cash.
You’ll need to collect payment from Simpson.
” He sweeps a glance around. “Who else wants front row?”
“Count me in.” A man pushes through the group.
He looks to be in his mid-thirties, around the same age as Ethan.
I’ve studied his photo on our corkboard, so I know who he is.
Miles Marzoni would be hard to miss, seeing as he’s a giant.
I’m tall, and Ethan is taller, but Miles towers over both of us.
With his wide shoulders and bulging muscles, Miles would have made a good bodyguard if he hadn’t inherited Marzoni Industries and billions of dollars.
Miles is dark haired, sharp featured, and almost as handsome as Ethan.
But he radiates the same predatory energy in person as he does in his photo.
His smile is all teeth as he looks me up and down.
He reminds me of a giant alligator I once saw in a wildlife park, in the moment before it snatched the meat its keeper was dangling.
"Well, well,” he drawls. “Aren’t you majestic.” His voice is low and dangerous. It matches the way he looks in his black tux, with his hair slicked back.
To my surprise, I feel Ethan's hand on my waist. His fingers press into me, hot through the silky fabric of my jumpsuit, and he draws me closer to him.
“Miles,” Ethan says, his tone icy cold. "I didn't expect to see you here."
“And I’m sure very few people wanted to see you here.” His eyes go back to me. “I’m Miles, darlin’.” He lowers his voice as though trying to create some kind of intimacy between us. “And between you and me, you could do a whole lot better than Ethan Kane.”
He catches my hand before I can protest, then brings it his mouth to brush his lips over my knuckles. It’s a showy gesture, and I have no doubt that it’s solely for Ethan’s benefit.
As soon as I realize what he’s doing, I snatch my hand away. But by then, the damage is done. Ethan is stiff at my side, his fingers tightening on my waist, tugging me even closer. A fierce, burning tension is crackling between the two men.
It’s annoying. I’m not some chew-toy for two dogs to fight over.
“I’ll take front row seats to your fight, darlin’,” Miles says to me.
“Front row is sold out,” Ethan snaps. “Ask nicely, and I’ll see if I can find one of the cheap seats at the back for you.”
Miles clenches his fists. His body tenses, and he could be contemplating violence, so I pull away from Ethan’s hand and make sure I’m light on my toes.
Drawing my weapon would be dangerous in a crowded ballroom, and it’s very much a last resort.
But a swift, unexpected knee between the legs will stop Miles if this blows up.
Miles is huge, but I doubt he’ll see it coming, and a well-aimed blow will drop even the biggest giant.
After a moment, Miles chuckles, the tension easing out of him. “How’s the new project going, Ethan?” His tone turns mocking. “Hear you’ve been having some trouble with the planning office. Such a shame. Be terrible if that kept happening.”
Ethan shakes his head. “You know what, Miles? There aren’t even cheap seats left for you.”
Miles’s smug smile drops away. He flares his nostrils, his white teeth clamped together, and leans forward, sneering into Ethan’s face. “You’re lucky I’m not the one getting in the ring with you, tough guy. You wouldn’t make it past the first round.”
“Big talk, Miles.” Ethan’s expression changes, his eyes suddenly gleaming. “But I accept your challenge.” He glances at me. “You hear that, Jamie? Miles just volunteered to be my opponent.”
I look dubiously between them. Miles is enormous, and his reach is much longer than Ethan’s.
My doubt gets stronger when an expression that looks like eager excitement crosses Miles’s face. I open my mouth, about to argue that a match like that wouldn’t be fair.
Before I can, Miles steps closer, looming over him. “If it means I get to smash you into a million pieces, sign me up.” His teeth flash. He seems genuinely delighted at the prospect.
Too delighted.
I grab Ethan’s arm. “Are you sure about this?” I hiss.
He barely spares me a glance, his glare fixed on Miles. “One hundred percent,” he growls.
“Then it’s settled.” Miles’s grin grows.
“Can’t wait,” Ethan retorts.
I could keep protesting, but I doubt I’ll change Ethan’s mind.
Besides, Miles Marzoni is a big name. Everyone’s heard of Marzoni Industries, and if he agrees to fight Ethan, that’ll be a huge drawcard.
Not to mention the obvious appeal of Ethan’s unpopularity versus Miles’s huge size.
Everyone who’s lining up to watch Ethan get his ass handed to him will be crowing with delight at the obvious mismatch. We’ll sell all the tickets for sure.
“You’ll do six rounds in the ring,” I tell Miles. “All the profits will go to the gym where the match is being held, so nobody gets paid. But the winner gets bragging rights.”
“I’m going to enjoy those rights.” Miles pulls a business card from his pocket and hands it to me.
“Have your people call my assistant with the details.” Then he smirks at Ethan.
“Something you might not know about me,” he drawls with obvious relish.
“I’ve been boxing since I was a kid. Few years ago, I won a regional Golden Gloves fight.
” He clenches both fists, bringing them up in a boxer’s pose.
“See you in the ring, pretty boy. Hope you’re not too attached to your face.
Won’t be so pretty by the time I’m done with you. ”
Oh. Shit.
As Miles strides away, his big arms pushed out from his sides by the sheer size of his muscles, I can’t help but groan. This won’t be a fair fight. It’ll be a death match.
A woman who’s been standing close, watching the interaction with her mouth slack, snaps open her jewel-studded purse. “I’ll take eight tickets. Front row, or best available.” She thrusts her business card at me. “My PA will make the payment.”
“Count me in,” A man rushes at me, brandishing hundred-dollar bills.
“Me too.”
More people flood forward, and suddenly my hands are full of cash and business cards. My head spins from trying to calculate how much money the gym just made.
It’s a lot, I know that much.
At this rate, we won’t just get a new roof, but fresh paint. Maybe new lockers in the change rooms as well. Uncle Vito will stop talking about moving the gym.
My home is saved.
But when Ethan shoots me a satisfied look, a sharp jolt of guilt courses through me.
He’s a beginner going up against a seasoned boxer, and he seems to have no idea what he’s in for. This isn’t a movie. The underdog doesn’t always win.
Never mind the death threats he’s been getting, Marzoni could actually kill him.