“What in the hell is going on now?”
She turned in the direction Ronin was racing to see what’d snagged his attention. Sandan Zach and Deacon’s losing opponent were in each other’s faces. Amery scanned the crowd. No sign of Blue, Deacon, Knox, Ito, or Gil.
When Zach and the other dude came to blows, no one stepped in because hello? Martial arts guys throw elbows and kicks, and plenty of both were flying.
But that didn’t deter Ronin. After he warned them to stop, and neither did, he jumped in. He blocked a blow from Zach and twisted his body until Zach fell to his knees. Then he faced the other guy, and when he moved to strike, Ronin performed a hip throw and the dude hit the ground hard.
Ronin’s moves were so precise and well executed it seemed as if they were on the set of a martial arts movie.
“Out. Both of you.” He stood between them. “Separately.” Ronin angrily pointed to Zach as Ito and Gil raced up. Ito said something to Ronin, and then Gil handled getting Deacon’s opponent out of the room.
A shiver of want rolled through her as he strolled back to her. With his graceful don’t-fuck-with-me gait, the annoyed way he jammed his hand through his hair, and the tiny sneer on those full lips, the man epitomized sexy.
“This is why I fucking hate after-parties,” Ronin said when he reached her. “The winning fighters are pumped up and the losing fighters are pissed off. Add booze and it’s an unavoidable disaster.”
“Especially when you’re forced to deal with it alone because your minions are off doing . . . what?”
“Breaking up another fight in the hallway.”
Her eyes widened. “Seriously? Why?”
“Who the fuck knows?” Ronin reached for her hand. “Remind me of these incidents next time it’s suggested Black and Blue hosts a post-fight party.”
“But it’s been a good turnout. I saw you schmoozing with potential sponsors.”
“I hate that part.”
“But you’re so smooth with that silver tongue of yours.”
“I’d like to use my silver tongue on you,” he murmured.
“Fights make you horny.”
He smiled wolfishly. “It’s an added bonus of the extra testosterone.”
Amery set her free hand on his chest. “How long before we can leave?”
“Let’s go. Grab your stuff, and I’ll tell Blue we’re heading out.” He steered her toward the door. Halfway there he stopped. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”
“What?”
“Just stay close.”
Three guys approached them. The two men flanking the guy in the middle had to be some type of personal security, odd because the middle guy—a good-looking blond in his mid-fifties—was the biggest of the three. He wore a suit and a capelike topcoat. He didn’t smile as he approached. “I’m hurt you don’t invite Max to your party.” He tsk-tsked loudly. “Poor manners, my drugh.”
Ronin bowed slightly and offered his hand. “My apologies, Max. I wasn’t aware you were a fan of mixed martial arts.”
The man took Ronin’s hand, clasping it in his own and pulling Ronin to his chest before releasing him. “Why wouldn’t I be fan? Russians invented it. Of course, we kept it big secret from the west.”
“Of course.” Ronin placed his hand on the small of Amery’s back. “Max Stanislovsky, Amery Hardwick.”
She knew that name—another one of Ronin’s mysterious contacts—and held out her hand. “Happy to meet you, Mr. Stanislovsky.”
He took her hand and kissed her knuckles. When she met his gaze, she melted a little. His eyes were a piercing steely gray.
“The pleasure is mine. What beautiful surprise you’ve been hiding from your friend Max, eh?”
Ronin tugged her closer to his body. “Can you blame me for keeping such fire and beauty to myself?”
“Nyet.”
“Cut to the chase, Max. Did you really show up to chew my ass for forgetting your party invite?”
“I heard rumor. Came to verify.” His gaze moved to the corner, where Katie was in conversation with Blue and Sophia. “I see the truth for myself.”
“Of what?”
“The favor you’re doing for TP. I need same type of favor too.” Stanislovsky smiled at Amery. “Please excuse us.”
Ronin shook his head. “Amery is aware of the terms of the favor for TP, even more so than Katie is.”
“She is also aware of your past?” Stanislovsky addressed the question to Amery.
She inclined her head. “I know some of it, not all.”
“And it doesn’t bother you?”
“The past made him the man he is today. I can’t have him as he is now without it.”
“Beautiful, smart, and loyal. You’re lucky man, and it’s time you found worthy woman.” He clapped Ronin on the shoulder. “But I digress! I need favor. For my son.”
Ronin said, “I’m listening.”
“My son’s mother.” He sighed with gusto. “Beautiful, passionate Russian woman. So passionate we have child together.”
“Did you marry her?”
“Nyet. Discovered crazy passion often just masks crazy.”
Amery withheld a laugh.
“But good thing to come from that crazy woman is my son, Ivan. He loves to fight. He lives to fight, which makes me happy. His mama? Not so much.”
“Still waiting for the punch line, Max.”
“Ivan would like to train as MMA fighter. Your dojo is best; you have program for amateurs, and he perfect fit.”
Amery felt the tension pouring off Ronin, but nothing in his demeanor gave it away to Stanislovsky.
“You do TP favor for his daughter—poof, no more favors.”
“You’re offering me the same deal?”
“I’m telling you; I took care of your pest problem on Baldwin Street. As favor to you. This? What I ask in return.”
“Black Arts trains your son.”
Stanislovsky nodded. “Ivan is good boy. He needs guidance. Focus isn’t problem since he’s trained in sambo in Russia. He needs a challenge.”
“Why not put him to work in one of your businesses?”
“No interest at this point in the . . . what you call it? Family ball and chain? Like you and Okada, eh?”
“Not exactly,” Ronin said wryly.
“Ivan has time to learn business later. Only young and tough for so many years. Which I hear you recently learned firsthand, my drugh?”
“Yes.”
“Here’s my offer. You take my son on. He pays MMA fight club fees same as others. Pays for personal training same as others. Earns his place on team same as others. He wants to prove himself. I respect that. I believe you respect that. He respects you as much as I do.”
Wow. Serious flattery.
“How old is Ivan, and will he need an interpreter?” In an aside to Amery, Ronin said, “I don’t deal with Max’s Russian compatriots because few of them speak English. Max knows this about me.”
“Ivan is twenty-two. He’s American citizen. His mother returned to Russia when he was ten, so over the years he’s had boot on American soil half year and boot on Russian soil half year. He is fluent in English and Russian.”
Ronin let a minute-long pause linger, where neither he nor Stanislovsky broke eye contact. Talk about a mind fuck.
“All right. You have a deal. With two stipulations. You don’t interfere. Ever. This is between Black Arts and Ivan—not me and you. Also, make sure Ivan understands he won’t be training only with me in the MMA club.”
“Of course.”
“Have him call next week and set up an interview time.”
Stanislovsky grinned. “Done. You good man, Ronin Black. I look forward to watching my son’s dream come true.” They did the Russian hand clasp, chest bump thing again. Then his eyes flitted over Ronin’s shoulder and his gaze filled with lust. “Such a lovely flower gracing your party. Introduce me.” A demand, not a request.