The Risk-Taker

The guy he was fighting was an idiot if he couldn’t see the way Gage sized him up. His stomach muscles bunched as he went on the attack. Shoulders and biceps strained. He maneuvered the other guy into a corner, limiting his opponent’s range of motion. His thighs and calves flexed with every step.

Hope tried not to notice, but it was hard to tear her gaze away.

Gage was vibrant. Alive. Electric. Just being close to him always left her with the same warm buzz, like a contact high. And yet, it scared the hell out of her, too. He attacked everything so hard—life, love, danger, war. That kind of intensity was intimidating and draining for anyone standing in the fallout zone.

Dammit, when would this match end?

She wasn’t here to ogle him or reminisce. She was here to interview him. He’d been avoiding her ever since he got home two days ago. Hope tried not to take it personally—he was avoiding everyone. But it still hurt.

Although, considering the things they’d both said the last time they’d spoken … she wasn’t surprised. If it wasn’t for the phone call she’d received three days ago she might have been avoiding him, as well. But she couldn’t.

Gage Harper was her ticket out of Sweetheart.

“You want a permanent position with us, Ms. Rawlings?” Mr. Rebman had asked. He was the managing editor for the Atlanta Courier, a gruff man who’d only spoken to her once before for about sixty seconds—the length of time it took him to say her experience managing the Sweetheart Sentinel for her father did not make her a journalist. He was a real winner, but the man had the power to grant her every wish.

She’d practically tripped over her own tongue answering, “Yes, sir.”

“I understand that Gage Harper is from your hometown.”

And immediately Hope’s stomach had seethed with sickness.

Somehow she’d found herself answering, “Yes.” At least she hadn’t told the man that they’d grown up together.

“He’s refusing all interview offers. If you can get me an exclusive, I’ll consider finding a place for you here.”

Hope frowned as Gage landed another punch. So here she was, in the middle of backwoods South Carolina on a Thursday night, stalking Gage.

That sick feeling was back in the pit of her stomach.

With a sigh, Hope melted into the back of the crowd. In her four-inch heels—out of place amid the roughed-up cowboy boots—she could still see the ring just fine. Enough to know Gage had stopped playing cat and mouse and was finally going in for the kill. His opponent, a guy who never stood a chance, dropped to the floor with a groan and stayed there.

Gage bounced on his heels away from the guy, staying alert for any sign of deceit. As the nice man who’d spilled beer on her jeans had explained, there weren’t any rules so dirty fighting was more than allowed. But the guy stayed down. Some in the crowd cheered and some booed.

An older guy who looked to be in charge jumped into the ring. He announced Gage as the winner, using his loud voice instead of a PA system to combat the crowd. Hope got the impression this was a traveling circus and that kind of equipment would have been a little too expensive to abandon if the cops showed up.

The guy at the door, probably a recent graduate from a halfway house, only let her in after she told him she was with one of the fighters and pointed out Gage. Even then, the way he’d eyed her with skepticism made her uncomfortable.

The crowd shifted. Someone called out demanding another fight. And with a smile and a nod of his head, the guy in charge waved the next fighter into the ring with Gage. Apparently, this wasn’t the kind of place that worked off brackets. No winner-against-winner here, Gage was going again.

Hope groaned and closed her eyes, but she couldn’t keep them that way for long. Not with the sound of flesh on flesh ringing in her ears again. Her overactive imagination was far worse than watching the beating. She cracked one eyelid.

Like before, Gage played with the guy for a few minutes, sizing him up. He took a few shots and gave a few back. It was clear, at least to her, that Gage had his opponent’s number. So it surprised her when he left himself wide open for an uppercut beneath the chin. His back hit the floor with a resounding crack.

A man close to her groaned. He passed a handful of bills across to another guy wearing a gleeful grin. Gage didn’t move. The crowd was thick enough that she couldn’t tell if he was unconscious or just stunned.

Her heart fluttered uncomfortably in her chest, an echo of the panic she’d felt when news of his capture had come into the newsroom just a couple weeks before.

Here she’d thought his rescue would cure her of the unwanted reaction. Apparently not.

Hope fought against the mass of people, trying to get closer to the side of the ring. The breath she hadn’t realized she was holding leaked slowly from her parted lips when he finally started to stir. His hands spread wide on the floor and he pushed upward. His head hung between those straining shoulders, as if it were too heavy for him to hold up.

Her gaze searched him for signs of serious injury. She jostled the handful of men standing between her and the ring. She yelled, demanding they let her through, and slapped at the ones who didn’t listen.

Gage finally picked up his head. His gaze connected with hers through the flimsy barrier of ropes. The same punch she always felt hit her, as if she’d been the one taking shots to the solar plexus. But just like always, she ignored it.

Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth. His right eye was already swelling and bruising. Hope’s hands curled around the edge of the ring floor. The sharp pain of a splinter pierced her left palm.

His golden-brown eyes flared with recognition and something warmer before narrowing down to indecipherable slits. He frowned and asked gruffly, “What are you doing here?”

“Looking for you.”

In one lithe movement that belied the fact that he’d just been knocked silly, Gage bounded up from the floor and over the ropes. His feet slapped the dirty cement beside her. Several men around them smacked his back and shoulders, offering encouragement he obviously didn’t need.

The man deserved an Academy Award to go with his other decorations. “You threw the match,” Hope breathed out, the realization hitting at about the same time the shocked words fell from her lips. Why the heck would he do that?

His frown deepened. A few people around them stared and grumbled ominously. Gage grasped her arm and pushed her ahead of him through the crowd.

People parted to let them pass. She glanced back to look at Gage because they sure weren’t moving out of her way. They hadn’t done it any other time she’d slipped through the rowdy crowd. After seeing his expression she had to admit she didn’t blame them. If he’d raked her with that hard, cutting expression she’d have gotten the hell out of the way, too.

And if he hadn’t had a death grip on her upper arm she might have done it now.

Her heel caught on a crack in the floor. Before she could stumble Gage was there, keeping her from twisting an ankle by pulling her back against the wall of his chest.

His hard, sweaty chest. A shiver rocked through Hope. She just hoped he was too preoccupied to notice.

Dumping her out into the chilly February night, he finally let her go. This time she did stumble, letting the building catch her. The metal siding rattled. In the distance a peal of female laughter was cut short.

Gage stood in front of her, his legs planted wide, arms crossed over his chest. Unruly dark brown hair, longer than she’d expected, fluttered in a gust of wind. Hope shivered again, but this time it was because seeing him standing out in nothing but a pair of shorts made her cold. Spring was definitely on the way, but it was still close to forty this late at night. It didn’t seem to bother him. Which bothered her.

He pinned her in place with the glittering intensity of his stare. That was new. And she wasn’t sure she liked it. Where was the laughing, mischievous boy she remembered? The one whose favorite pastime was talking her into things that inevitably got them both in trouble?

Hope gathered herself, crossed her own arms to fight the sudden feeling of being exposed and stared right back.

Gage Harper might be able to intimidate a lot of people, but not her. She knew his darkest secrets—at least the ones from his childhood. She’d seen him cry when his dog was hit by a car. And she knew exactly how to get under his skin.

She didn’t think he’d changed that much in twelve years. So she waited, knowing that saying nothing would eventually drive him crazy. If there was one thing Gage hated, it was silence. He needed action, movement, motion.

It only took a couple minutes for him to ask, “Why?”

“Hello to you, too, Gage. It’s nice to see you home. Yeah, my daddy’s doing fine, thanks for askin’. The cancer scare was difficult, but he’s in remission now,” she answered in the sweetest, kill-you-with-kindness voice she could manage.

He ignored her point and breezed right over the niceties. “Why were you looking for me? And for God’s sake, why here? Do you know how dangerous this place is? Half the guys here are ex-cons and the other half just haven’t gotten caught yet.”

He was exaggerating. So none of the men inside would be up for Teddy Bear of the Year, but some of them had looked decent enough. She might have felt out of place, but not in danger.

“Please. I’m a journalist. I can handle myself.”

Gage laughed. The sound wasn’t what she remembered—his laugh had been loud and deep—but was brittle, with a sharp edge that could have sliced straight through skin. “You are not a journalist.”