Page 8 of Rough Return

“Fuck you.” He pointed to his chin. “Hit me, baby traitor.”

“Traitor I get, but what’s the baby about? Is it because you’re old?”

The room narrowed as Screaming Demons filed in and Jim’s confidence grew to a swagger. He held his arms out to his side and spun in a slow circle. Every man needed to see his mettle.

Grier ignored the cheers and wolf whistles. He focused on the blade in Jim’s right then left then right hand. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d slept, or ate. But the sliver of light hitting that blade he’d remember for the rest of his life. And the way Jim swung it toward him—a side arc then a quick jerk. Grier saw it coming and moved. The second time, the same move. Then a third. The third lulled Grier into confidence. He could do this all night. But the fourth swing came from over the top and caught Grier’s forearm. Fire roared down to his fingertips. Fire and blood.

Son of a bitch.

He jabbed and caught Jim’s jaw on his blind side. Stunned and staggering, Jim swung wild, and Grier grabbed his wrist. Which brought Jim’s body in close enough he turned his head in a lethal weapon. The crack of his skull against Grier’s was the head butt heard around the world. Had to be. Because it rang through every joint, elbow, knee, ankle, and wrist, in Grier’s body. His eyes clouded, and birds chirped in his brain.

“Enough.”

Not that Grier couldn’t have finished it but thank God for Hamilton. The last thing he needed was to embarrass himself by passing out in front of everyone. And the danger was real. He was already bleeding, and he’d probably be cross-eyed for a month.

Jim backed off, holding his forehead with one hand and his jaw with the other. After a couple of breaths, he threw an arm around Grier. “Welcome back, baby traitor.”

“Some welcome.”

Jim chuckled. “Demon style.”

“Yeah.” Okay. He hadn’t missed everything about the place.

Fiona stared at Grier. If he’d been hot two years ago, now he was downright scorching. Even bruised by Hamilton and bloodied by One-eye, there wasn’t a Demon in the place or a man in all of New England who compared. Not that she would ever tell him that. And she’d spent years perfecting her game face. It wouldn’t betray her. Of course, he’d have to look at her to be able to prove that true. And since that kiss in the clubhouse, he spent all his time not looking at her.

Not tonight, cowboy. She walked out of the bedroom, hair curled, made-up, dressed, and high-heeled. To be honest, though, a thousand-dollar dress didn’t feel much different than one of her twenty-dollar dresses.

Grier glanced up from the book he held. “Wow.” He cleared his throat. “I mean, you look,” he blew out a breath, “wow.”

From a man who could make a pair of greasy mechanic’s coveralls look like Armani, she’d take the compliment. But she didn’t smile and barely breathed because he wasn’t wearing greasy coveralls. And he smelled like heaven - rosewood and leather. His button-down was open at the collar, and his island tan made the blond highlights in his honey-colored hair seem even brighter. The gods, Greek or otherwise, had nothing on Grier.

He stood and set the book on the table. “I didn’t realize we were getting dressed up.”

“Wedding negotiations.” She shrugged. “Power suit.” At least that was what the saleswoman had called the pencil skirt, high-low ruffled jacket combo. It looked kind of girlie to Fiona but since her fashion sense didn’t extend much past tank tops, denim, and leather, she’d handed over her plastic and walked out with the suit.

“We’re negotiating?”

“Mostly I’ll be deciding, and you’ll be nodding.” His smile faded, and good God, even his frown made her skin burn. “Don’t worry. It’s just dinner with Dad.”

“Dinner with Max.” He sighed. “You could have mentioned your dad was chaperoning our first date.”

Date? She’d wanted to date him in high school, wanted to fuck him in college. And now that she was being forced into marriage so she could take over the “family” business, she didn’t know what she wanted. A baby. Sure. A nice place. Maybe a picket fence. A dog. Yeah. But Grier? At least he was better than any of the others her dad had proposed.

And of course, choosing Grier would give her the chance for some sweet revenge.

Tonight was about laying the groundwork. She’d be charming, attentive, funny, hell, maybe she’d even throw in some submissiveness, let him be the alpha in their relationship for a few hours. And just when he fell in love, and no doubt he would, she’d kick him straight back to the curb. Literally. With her steel-toe boots.

By then, she’d develop an immunity to his smoky gazes and tingling touches. No matter how many shots of tequila it took.

She picked up her bag. “Ready?”

“Yeah.”

Ready to face a firing squad, maybe. A man who wore that deep of a grimace wasn’t looking forward to his destination.

Good.

She dangled the keys. “Do you want to drive?” Asking a man like Grier if he wanted to drive a fancy sports car, one of Dad’s, was like asking a kid if he wanted ice-cream for supper.