Imogen Dao is going to punch her way through this championship even if it means losing the men in her life.
Imogen’s dream is about to come true. Only a handful of fights separate her from her first triumph in a mixed martial arts tournament. Sure, she’s been sleeping with her trainer, Russ, on and off for the last couple of months, but it’s nothing serious. He doesn’t even like her. Everything is going swimmingly, until one night after a victory in the ring Imogen meets a man who offers a world of pleasure—if only she can agree to submit to him.
There’s something about Imogen—her spirit, her compact, lethal weapon of a body—that just takes Jaime’s breath away. He doesn’t seem to care that she’s rowdy and foul-mouthed, or that she will never fit into his world. He wants her.
As the scorching hot chemistry between Imogen and Jaime reaches boiling point, Russ becomes convinced that the tournament will be forfeit if his prize-fighter doesn’t get her priorities in order. With the final coming up and Imogen’s chances of victory on shaky ground, the choice between ambition and romance may not be the only one she is forced to make.
Reader Advisory: This book contains scenes of violence and elements of BDSM.
General Release Date: 17th October 2014
Imogen contemplated whipping out her phone to check the time. If anyone saw—if the bride saw—she’d never hear the end of it. The tux had already raised a few eyebrows, but most of the guests had seemed content to chalk it up to eccentricity and moved on. Only Imogen’s mother had pursed her lips tightly and said how nice, in the kind of voice that implied the reverse.
She was striding toward Imogen now, a slice of wedding cake in one hand and her indignation clasped firmly in the other. It would’ve been too much to ask that she leave it at that.
Imogen cast about for an escape—or failing that, a glass of liquid courage. Finding none, she dug her oxfords into the ground and smiled with false cheer. “Good cake?”
“The icing is runny and the sponge is too sweet,” her mother said, reverting to Vietnamese as she often did when criticism was forthcoming. She was all about saving face, if not necessarily Imogen’s. “You didn’t bring a date?”
This was well-trodden territory. Mrs Dao had begun with casual hints, veered into outright insistence and had finally reached the stage of constant harping, which explained why Imogen hadn’t seen her parents in months.
Imogen shook her head. “I didn’t want to steal Sherry-Ann’s thunder.” Not that it would’ve been possible. Her childhood friend had elected to tie the knot in nineteenth century crinoline and serve caviar at the banquet. Her band of choice involved a banjo, a qin player and two saxophonists—an experimental ensemble from VanderCook whose version of The Way You Look Tonight was surprisingly not bad. She was bound for a honeymoon in Antigua on a flight later that evening.
Imogen hated her like she hadn’t hated anyone in a long, long time.
Mrs Dao pursed her lips. “Hmm,” she said, not even a word and yet so pregnant with disapproval that Imogen felt her insides churn.
She hated this. She felt like a teenager again, seeking her parents’ endorsement on boyfriends or boxing lessons when they had already made their opinion known. Loudly.
“What about that brute of yours?” her mother prompted, just when Imogen thought she was off the hook. “Couldn’t he come?”
“His name is Russell,” Imogen sighed, in English. And he wasn’t a brute, though the thought of his thick biceps stretching a formal dinner jacket was enough to trigger an absent-minded smile. “I didn’t ask him.” The intention had been there for the space of a heartbeat, before he’d pulled out and started hunting for his clothes.
There hadn’t been a good time after that. Imogen shoved her hands deep into her pockets and cast her gaze at the couples crowding the dance floor. Anywhere was preferable than looking at her own mother, whose silent censure was enough to make Imogen squirm. She was almost relieved when the levees broke and her mother smacked her rouged lips together.
“I don’t know why you persist in keeping such company,” she sneered. “He is a no-good thug, who hits you—”
“And I hit him back,” Imogen interjected, bristling. “It’s called sparring, Ma.” The way her mother had said it made it sound like Imogen was a battered woman.
“It’s inappropriate,” her mother insisted. “You wonder why you don’t have a date? Who wants a girl who gets into fights?” She sighed pointedly, reaching up a hand to brush Imogen’s hair off her brow. “A girl with such ugly bruises? You will attract the worst sort of man. Is that what you want?”
“No…”
But one paltry victory was not enough to curb her mother’s diatribe. “And would it kill you to wear some makeup? You can see every bump and scratch… Perhaps if you just tried to behave like a lady, you could—”
“What, Ma? Find a husband to give my life meaning? How’s that worked out for you?” It hadn’t escaped Imogen that her father was imbibing by the bar again, his face flushed and his collar undone. He’d been there since they’d arrived at the restaurant. All the same, the outburst cost her.
Her mother pressed her lips into a tight, red line, her gaze shuttering.
It was impossible to go through one of these events without someone commenting on how similar Imogen was to her mother. If only she didn’t crop her hair short, if only she wore a dab of lipstick and a proper ao dai, they could be sisters. The compliment always fell short of the mark. Imogen knew she had inherited her mother’s austere features, but her prominent mouth and nose belonged to her father’s side of the family. The proportions of her face had always seemed a little off to her, even as a little girl. Getting her nose broken twice hadn’t helped any. These days she wore her welts with pride and no foundation, but that was a personal choice.
“Ma,” Imogen started, casting about for something to say that would take the sting out of her retort. It was too late for that.
Her mother drew herself up a little taller and said, “Perhaps if you tried to behave like a lady, you would be happier.” A slap across the face would’ve hurt less than watching her spin on her heel and depart into the joyous swarm.
Imogen ran a hand through her hair, wishing she had something to kick without causing a stir. “Shit,” she mumbled to no one in particular.
As if in answer, her iPhone shrilled to life in the pocket of her dinner jacket. Imogen rushed to answer without checking the caller ID. “Is it time?” Anticipation mixed with relief in her voice, blending into a murky cocktail.
“You said you wanted me to call to—” Russell sounded wary, but by now he should have been used to Imogen interrupting him. They had known each other a year, been working together for six months. They were practically married.
“I’m leaving right now,” Imogen promised. “Be there in thirty minutes.”
“Don’t run anyone—”
But Imogen had already hung up. She glanced around for a sign of Sherry-Ann or the groom, but couldn’t see them.
Her mother had immersed herself in conversation with the ladies from her bridge club. That only left her father, whom Imogen dreaded approaching because he had a habit of roping his audience into lengthy and not always truthful sagas about childhood years spent running between rice paddies. Imogen knew for a fact that he had been born and raised in Hanoi, and the only rice paddies he’d seen had been in propaganda films, but she no more wanted to dispel his cloudy fantasies about youthful misadventures than she wanted to pluck holes in her mother’s delusions about marriage.
She inched her way to the restaurant doors without telling anyone. No one paid her any mind, though three of the waiters smoking outside did go remarkably still when she passed by. It was a very deer in the headlights sort of response, but Imogen didn’t stop to revel in the brief and slightly perverse power trip.
She had borrowed Russell’s battered Buick to attend the wedding and though it smelled slightly of potato chips and minty air-freshener, hearing the engine purr to life was music to her ears. With a belch of exhaust eddying up in her wake, she was off. There would be other weddings for her mother to twist the knife at her leisure and, after that, wedding showers, baptisms, funerals. The list went on.
Imogen pulled the bowtie loose from around her neck and popped the top buttons on her starched shirt. Finding formal wear that fit her body type was hard enough. The sheer thought of having to shop for a cocktail dress had nearly broken her out in hives. The suit had been a practical alternative. She could rejoice in the good deal. The event itself was always going to be a bust.
Thirty minutes later, she pulled into the parking lot outside the aptly named Espina Fitness and Gym with a screech of tires. The Buick lurched to a stop and Imogen slid back her seat, prying her shirt undone with deft fingers. She’d sooner die than walk into the gym done up like a goddamn clown. There were standards everywhere. Russell would never let her live it down.
“Must’ve been some wedding if that’s how you went,” he said when Imogen stomped into the office with car keys in hand.
Imogen cocked her hip, tilting her head with a smirk. “Are you eyeballing me, Mister? Now what would the rulebook have to say about that, I wonder…”
He didn’t stand up to greet her, but even seated Russell Espina was all tight-laced strength and had a scowl to put her mother’s to shame. He had been a fighter in his day and the physique remained even if he’d cut down on the hours he spent lifting. “Did they have a big, fat spread, at least?”
“Everything from chocolate eggs to spanakopita. Oh, and caviar. And the cake—”
“What about the cake?” Russell asked, pressing his full, red lips into a tight line.
Imogen knew what was coming. She’d heard the lecture before and she’d tried to fight it with reasoned arguments about how her body was her own to do with as she pleased. Experience had taught her that it wouldn’t fly. “I don’t know,” she shot back, beaming. “I didn’t have any. And no champagne, either.” She had toasted the happy couple with water, like a teenager.
Russ received the news with a tip of the head. “You’re still banged up,” he drawled, neither praise nor reprimand, just a fact of life.
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