She paused. "Yes?"

"I'll make it up to you."

FOR AS LONG as she could, Pamela stood under the overhang of the rec center waiting for the rain to let up. Over and over she debated with herself; should she go back in and try reasoning with him further? Should she perhaps try to trap his little country bumpkin girlfriend to see if that avenue would provide an in?

That Denver had rejected her yet again left a cold ache in her stomach. What did he want? For her to crawl on her hands and knees?

One stupid mistake, and he'd never let her live it down. Lyle forgave her. Was Denver so much better than his father?

Or just more stubborn?

Okay, so Lyle didn't know the whole truth. If he did, he might feel differently. But she wanted to tell him. She wanted to confess. She was a better person now, if only Denver would let her prove it-to him, to Lyle.

To herself.

But before she could indulge a cleansing of her conscience, she needed father and son to reunite. If that didn't happen first, if she had to confess her sins to Lyle while father and son remained estranged, neither would forgive her.

In fact, Lyle might end up hating her as much as Denver did, and then she'd lose it all.

It hadn't helped that Denver looked even better now. He was so incredibly gorgeous, so massively built and powerful and self-possessed. The years of maturity, with his dedication to his sport, only made him more appealing.

No one could blame a woman for looking-except for Denver.

And probably Lyle.

Oh God, what to do?

She covered her face with her hands, but she was not a whiner, not a person to wallow in indecision. She'd give him a day, two at the most, to get back to her, and if he didn't, she'd go after him again.

Opening her umbrella, she dashed for her car-and ran headlong into a body. Her hand loosened on the umbrella, and wind stole it away.

Though she normally refrained from cursing, a shocked "Damn" slipped through her lips. She stumbled back two steps and became instantly soaked.

Hands grabbed her upper arms to steady her. Through the awful downpour she saw a smiling and appreciative male face.

Lifting a jacket over her head like a canopy, he shielded her while leaving himself exposed. "Sorry, honey, are you okay?"

Staying out of the rain necessitated a very close proximity to him. "What?" He smelled of smoke, had a rugged, dangerous look about him. The same confidence that Denver carried, but with an edge. "Who are you?"

"Friend of Denver's."

"A fighter?"

He grinned. "I've been known to scrap a time or two."

What did that mean? She wasn't sure if she trusted him. She wanted to. It'd be a step forward to make nice with one of Denver's friends. But- "Saw you inside a bit ago. Couldn't believe you were leaving in this storm."

"Oh." Knowing he wasn't a total stranger helped her to relax. She peered about at the dark skies and sheets of rain. "It was time for me to go." Not that she ever should have come here in the first place. She'd hoped that introducing her association to Denver would gain her some leverage.

Instead his friends had politely cut her cold-all except this man.

As if they weren't standing out in horrendously nasty weather, he looked her over. "So you're with Denver, too, huh? Not surprised, really. The lucky SOB always did get the hottest girls. But you're a lot classier than Cherry Peyton, ya know?"

"Oh. Oh, no." She smiled, pleased by the observation and finally understanding why he remained friendly. Knowing she had to be fair, she explained, "I'm Denver's stepmother," and then she waited for his open rejection.

A low whistle and an even lower, "No fucking way," should have offended her. Instead, after Denver's awful treatment and how his friends had shunned her, the reaction sent pleasure radiating through her.

"Yes. His father and I have been married six years now."

"He must have robbed the cradle with you. And I thought Denver was lucky."

Her smile brightened another few watts. "Why, thank you." Holding out a hand, she said, "Pamela Barnett Lewis."

Taking her hand, he frowned. "Denver should have walked you out." He inched closer. "Can't believe he didn't."

"He was in the middle of things," she said as if she knew that for a fact, when in reality, she had no idea what he did in the gym.

"Well, his oversight is my fortune, right?" Still holding her hand, he smiled at her, a bold smile that frightened her just a little. "Carver Nelson, at your service."

ARMIE LOOKED AROUND the restaurant and half wished he'd worn something different. It was upscale casual, not one of the fast-food places he preferred.

Then again, screw it. He didn't want to be here anyway. Besides, Cannon also wore a T-shirt. Sure, his was a nicer SBC T-shirt. But the other two...

And that was another point of contention, damn it.

The other two.

He thought he'd be doing a quick burger with Havoc, and instead it was Havoc and Simon Evans both in a sit-down restaurant with starched tablecloths and fancy menus. That Cannon had been invited along... Yeah, he didn't yet know if that was a good or a bad thing. Cannon had a way of pushing him, seeing the imagined "best" in him and wanting others to see it, too.

At the moment they all watched him.

Sitting back in the seat and sprawling out his legs, Armie quirked a brow. "I think I've forgotten my lines in this little drama. Someone give me my cue."

Simon laughed, then shook his shaved head and half the damn women in the place looked ready to swoon. Simon Evans, better known in the fight community as Sublime, always had that effect on females. Matrimony and a few added years hadn't changed anything. "You're a funny guy, Jacobson. Do they call you Quick because of your wit?"

"Not exactly," Cannon chimed in with a big grin. "But that's a long story."

No, actually it was a short story-one Armie had no intention of sharing.

Havoc said, "Let's order before we talk."

Simon gave a signal and a waitress rushed up to them. Less than half a minute later they all had drinks.Armie was the only one to order a beer, and worse, he'd ordered a loaded burger while the others had lean chicken and fish.

Havoc and Simon scrutinized him. He didn't know if it was over the food, which he wouldn't explain because, seriously, his record spoke for him. When he needed to be on weight, he was.

When he could cut loose and indulge, he did that, too.

"So," Simon said. "Explain Quick."

"Quick knockouts, quick submissions. Fast wins," Armie said before Cannon could tell the real story. "That's the basis of my fight name."

"Somehow," Simon mused, "I think there's more to it than that." Stalling Armie's protest, he continued. "But that's not why we're here."

Havoc sat back, his expression far too serious. "Tell me, Armie, what makes you tick?"

Ah, hell no. He didn't want to get into any psycho-babble. "No idea what you mean."

"You just said it-quick, maybe even expedient wins."

"Low-level competition?"

"No," Simon said. "Many of the men you've handily beaten have gone on to join us."

"Every fight," Havoc added, "you go out dominant, you stay dominant, every move slick, ingrained."

While Cannon beamed like a freaking proud father, Simon chimed in again. "Never a glitch, you never falter."

What the fuck? He faltered. He just didn't let it show. Not in a fight.

Havoc drummed his fingers on the tabletop. "Something drives you and I want to know what it is."

Jesus, between Cannon soaking it all in, Havoc dissecting him and Simon remaining amused, he almost squirmed. Being in the hot seat sucked. Giving himself time to think, Armie took a long drink of his beer before asking, "Why the inquisition?"

"Because I want you in the SBC."

"We want you in the SBC," Simon corrected.

"And to do that we need to better understand you. I know guys who get off on the audience-they feed from it. I know guys with something to prove, either to themselves or someone else. I know guys who consider winning a badge of honor."

Cannon laughed.

Mouth quirked, Armie said, "Yeah, that's not me."

"Which part?" Simon asked.

"All of it." Didn't matter to him if the audience was friendly or hostile. He didn't have a damn thing to prove to anyone. As for honor... Yeah, as important as it was to him, it had zip to do with winning. For him, honor was more about how he fought than whether he won or lost.

Havoc pressed. "So what is it?"

An easy enough answer. "I like fighting, and I like winning."

"You could win bigger with the SBC."

Yeah, and that was the crux of his reservations. Bigger fights, bigger audience. Armie drew a breath to again, as politely as possible, refuse.

"Before you say no again-and you can quit shaking your head-I have an offer to make."

"I don't want to hear it."

"Tough. Sign on with the SBC, and we'll invest heavily in the rec center."

Oh, hell no! Alarm jolted him out of his slouched position-until Cannon leaned forward. "Not taking over, Armie. Never that. We'll always run it, you and me."

He relaxed...a little.

"But they want to take part."

Eyeing Cannon, he asked, "How?"

"Just...enhancing some things."

"We're talking scholarships for some of the at-risk kids. Transportation to and from the rec center, like maybe a small bus. Scheduled visits from some of the SBC stars that you can promote-"

"That's blackmail!" And really awesome shit. Damn.

"We don't mind a little blackmail every now and then."

Armie scowled. "We?"

"Simon and me for now, although Jude Jamison wants in on it, as well."

"Fuck me sideways," Armie whispered, his spine again hitting the back of the chair as he slumped. It was enough that he had both Simon and Havoc singling him out, but Jude Jamison, too?

Jude had started as an SBC champion, doing a lot to take the sport mainstream, then went on to become a world-famous movie star, only to return to his roots by buying out part of the SBC. If Simon and Havoc were big-time, Jude was...well, superstar status.

Armie knew Simon was smiling again, sensed Cannon watching him with satisfaction, and felt the pressure from Havoc's unwavering stare. Dammit.

"It's time," Cannon said softly.

Getting air into his lungs proved impossible. Pushing back his chair, Armie walked out.

Behind him, he heard Cannon say, "He'll be back. Just give him a minute."

That was Cannon for you, always assuming the best of him. As he stalked toward the exit he ignored the cute waitress trying to flirt, just as he ignored the sense of being hunted.

Going to the SBC would mean giving up the comfort of his anonymity. It would mean dredging up the past.

Eventually he'd have to fight the old accusations all over again.

And seriously, once had been enough.

Breathing deep, Armie pushed open the doors and stepped out into the early evening air. The rain had stopped, leaving the air fresh, but heavy and thick. The tires of passing cars hissed on the wet roadway. Overhead, gutters dripped. Birds, their feathers wet, sat all along the telephone lines, singing happily.

Armie walked to a bus bench glistening with little puddles. He braced his hands on the backrest, dropping his head forward in thought as he struggled against what he wanted and what he...feared.