Taking Him Down

Look what people are saying about Meg Maguire’s latest title, Making Him Sweat!

“Maguire succeeds in socking us with a sterling combo of love, loyalty, family, sweat and tears.

4½ stars!”

—RT Book Reviews

“Making Him Sweat is the first book in a brand new series by Meg Maguire…that centres around MMA. You know what that means, right? Hot, sweaty, half naked men. I’m there. I can expect only good things from Maguire!” —Under the Covers

“If you enjoy reading about super sexy boxers who like to get down and dirty, then definitely give this book a try.”

—Blithely Bookish

“[F]ull of interesting, likable characters and sexy love scenes.”

—Fiction Vixen

“I loved this book! Jenna and Mercer share some delicious sexual tension, but thankfully

Ms Maguire does not torture her readers.

I definitely recommend this book and am looking forward to reading the sequel.”

—Badass Book Reviews

“I love fight books…especially where old school boxing meets the more modern MMA style.

This cute book had so many great characters and a good old-fashioned romance.”

—Nocturne Romance Reads

About the Author

Before becoming a writer, MEG MAGUIRE worked as a record-store snob, a lousy barista, a decent designer and an overenthusiastic penguin handler. Now she loves writing sexy, character-driven stories about strong-willed men and women who keep each other on their toes…and bring one another to their knees. Meg lives north of Boston with her husband. When she’s not trapped in her own head, she can be found in the kitchen, the coffee shop or jogging around the nearest duck-filled pond.

Taking Him Down

Meg Maguire

www.millsandboon.co.uk

For Ruthie and Serena, cherished sparring partners in all things wonked and wordy.

And thanks, as always, to my editor, Brenda.

Don’t mess with her—she’s been trained.

1

“NOT TIGHT ENOUGH. Start over.”

Though the guy suppressed his frustration well, Rich knew he was getting cussed out in the privacy of the teenager’s head.

Tough shit, kid. Get yourself a paid fight and you can be the colossal dick for a night.

The gauze was obediently unwound from Rich’s palm, the elaborate process started all over.

Mercer cut through the locker room chaos carrying a tub of Vaseline. According to the promotional materials, he was Rich’s trainer. In truth, Rich trained himself. He liked it that way, not having to answer to anybody. But after tonight he’d be committing to a manager, landing a deal with a major mixed martial arts organization. He’d get hauled out of Boston and obscurity and shipped out west to train under a team of MMA specialists. Saddled with a half dozen guys riding his back about every mile he ran, every forkful of food or drop of booze that passed his lips, every last detail that led up to him stepping into the ring.

Oh frigging well. Price of success.

“You look good,” Mercer said, crouching and unscrewing the tub’s lid.

“You look real pretty, too, Merce.”

“You look calm. If you’re faking it, keep it up.” He smeared Rich’s temples, cheeks and forehead, to reduce the friction when he took a shot to the face.

When Rich’s hands were finally wrapped and taped to his satisfaction, Mercer passed him his fingerless MMA gloves.

“Where’s your mouth guard?”

“Quit fussing, grandma—I got everything organized. Go celebrate for a few minutes.” Mercer’s actual trainee, Delante, had won his first real pro fight twenty minutes earlier, with a skull-thumper of a closing punch. “Get that kid cleaned up for the press and tell him not to mumble.”

“Fine. I’ll be back.” Mercer slapped Rich’s shoulder and took off.

Rich tugged on his gloves, gave his fists a squeeze. Nice and snug. He liked the feeling with the medical tape in place, that promise of a proper scrap, no sparring tonight.

He was a good fighter—a hell of a good fighter, if you factored in how DIY his regimen was—but he had more than that going. He was six-three and had made weight at 204. He was built and goddamn good-looking, and had what his late mentor called “the magic.” That thing you can’t build in a gym or find in a supplement bottle. That thing that made guys want to hit you and made their girlfriends want to wake up in your bed.

Nobody respected a pretty face inside the ring, and that suited Rich fine. Whatever had people hungry to see him lose, bring it on. Whatever had opponents hating him for winning, whatever had promoters eager to give him another match. Love and hate felt the same when you were high on adrenaline, and your detractors shelled out the same money for tickets as your fans did. That hate-ability plus a solid win tonight and Rich would get signed. Give it nine months and a couple decent matches and he’d be on the magazine covers, courted by equipment and vitamin companies for the right to slap his face on their ads. Whether it’d still be so pretty by then…

Didn’t matter. Rich would win, he’d sign, his future manager would handle the offers. He’d suck it up and take whatever orders his training team barked, and he’d be successful. Of that, he had no doubt.

But he wasn’t hungry for that—fame or attention.

He was hungry for a fight, sure. That was a perk. But the thing that lit a fire in his gut, made him salivate for this moment, was the money.

Fifteen grand when he won tonight. Down the road, once he signed—twenty, thirty, fifty and up, plus the endorsement deals. And he’d lease his face to whoever offered him the fattest checks, and cash them with no qualms.

It might not be honorable, but Rich Estrada fought for money. Because fighting was the thing he was good at, the diploma he’d never earned, the only marketable talent he had.

He fought because if he didn’t, his mom would be dead inside a year.

THE ARENA WAS in turns dim and blinding, the air pungent with a hundred clashing aromas. Lindsey Tuttle was planted in the thick of it, three rows from the action and close enough to hear every kick and punch and grunt.

The cage was eight-sided, walled in by chain-link, and it held two bloodthirsty opponents—just names off a fight card, men Lindsey didn’t know beyond their records and vital stats.

She leaned in toward her boss and friend, Jenna, to shoutwhisper, “Who’s winning?”

“I dunno.” On closer inspection, she saw that Jenna’s eyes were squeezed shut. It seemed she’d reached her capacity for spectating during the previous match, watching with her hands clamped to her mouth as her boyfriend, Mercer’s young protégé, had won his first big fight. It hadn’t been too bloody—a lot of rolling around, then one wince-worthy punch that sprayed red across Delante’s opponent’s cheek. It had dropped the guy’s limbs like deadweight and had the ref announcing a knockout halfway through the third round.

Lindsey watched the two strangers grappling under the lights. There was no commentary to explain what was happening, and she wasn’t sure which of the guys tangled on the ground was pinned, and which was doing the pinning.

But damn, it was exciting.

It was the fourth fight of the night, the big-deal bouts still to come. Lindsey worked for Jenna’s matchmaking company in Chinatown, and their office was located one floor above the mixed martial arts gym Mercer managed. Aside from Delante, the only fighter Lindsey knew from the gym was slated for the third-to-last match. She glanced at his name on the fight card. Rich Estrada.

She shivered.

But only because she didn’t want her acquaintance getting his face broken. Not because Rich’s huge, alarming body gave her…feelings. Most certainly not. He was singularly the most obnoxious man she’d met in ages.

As shouts rose all around her, she realized she’d spaced out. The crowd roared, but with delight or disappointment? Men’s emotions all wound up sounding the same if you doused them with enough testosterone and alcohol.

A winner was proclaimed, his sweaty arm hoisted by the ref.

If Rich won his match, he stood a chance of “escaping the dungeon,” as Mercer had worded it—moving on to bigger and better things than toiling all day in the subterranean sweatbox also known as Wilinski’s Fight Academy. It had been a respected boxing gym in the eighties when Jenna’s dad, Monty, had opened it, but after a criminal scandal and the sport’s decline in popularity, the place had gone to seed. Now Mercer was at the helm, saddled with the unenviable task of bringing it back into legitimacy with the addition of MMA training and some overdue improvements. Delante and Rich winning their matches could do wonders, he’d said. Bragging rights were everything in this business.

“I need a drink,” Jenna said, eyes finally open. Her face was pale. This was clearly not her sport. Too bad she’d fallen in love with Mercer. His years as an amateur boxer had left him with a misshapen nose and cauliflower ears, and Jenna must have been imagining it was his face being pounded every time a strike landed.

She rose and Lindsey rooted in her wallet for a ten. “Get me a beer?”

“Sure.”

Lindsey was enjoying the exotic atmosphere. Cleaners had to disinfect the ring between matches, mopping away the blood and sweat, and the air was charged with adrenaline. She’d grown up in a family of hockey fanatics, but with hockey, the fights were a bonus—icing on a cupcake. MMA was nothing but frosting.

As the prefight prep wound down, her fascination shifted. Rich’s match followed the next one. Her energy dropped low, humming in her belly.

Just nervous for him, she told herself, nearly believing it.

Rich was a handsome, fearless showman, the center of his own universe. And he was annoying enough simply acting as though Lindsey must be in awe of him when he swung by their office to flirt. He’d surely be insufferable if he found out she had an actual crush on him, as superficial and physical as it was.

Superficial and physical and inconvenient. She was supposed to be trying to make her current relationship work.

Work being the operative word. Relationships shouldn’t be work at twenty-seven. They should be fun and natural. But things with Brett were exhausting and serious, and if she wasn’t mistaken, they were moving backward. They’d gotten engaged before relocating from Springfield to Boston. He’d moved to take his first law job and she’d followed after securing her own gig as a wedding planner. He’d broken the engagement after one month of cohabitation. Nothing like faking adoration for other women’s diamond rings right after packing your own away in the back of your sock drawer.

They’d needed to slow things down. Too many changes, too soon, he’d said. New city, new career, new home…old girlfriend, she’d inferred. A girlfriend who’d sufficed when Brett had been a broke student, but didn’t seem to be cutting it now. She knew that whatever he felt about the old apartments he’d lived in and his former identity as a kind, lovable dork…he now felt the same about her, too. They’d been friends since eighth grade, confidants through high school and finally a couple when Brett came back to Western Mass for law school. That history had been the backbone of their romance. But Lindsey had borne witness to the old Brett, and it seemed the new, polished, hotshot Brett resented her for it. It made living with him a daily struggle.

Jenna returned, handing Lindsey a plastic pint of beer and a wad of change.

“Thanks.”

Jenna sat and gulped half her red wine in one swallow.

Lindsey laughed. “You’re going to make the worst fight wife ever.”

“Don’t tell me you’re actually enjoying this?”

“Oh, God, yeah. I have no idea how to tell who’s winning, once they get rolling around on the ground, but it’s still fun. Plus…you know. Half-naked sweaty men.”

Jenna shot her a squirrelly look. During a wine-soaked working lunch the previous week, Jenna had weaseled the Brett situation out of Lindsey. She normally liked to keep her personal life personal, but that was hard when your boss—and best friend in a new city—was pathologically romantic.

Last week, Lindsey and Brett had been on-again. As of three nights ago they were off-again, to the tune of a mutually negotiated free-to-see-other-people experiment. They still cared for each other, but as friends now, more than lovers. She’d poured years of love and energy into what they had, but it had begun to feel like an obligation, not a commitment.

“Brett doesn’t care if I look at other guys,” she assured Jenna. Let her think they were still together if it made her happy. “You’re not one of those types who think checking people out is cheating, I hope?”

“I’m not that old-fashioned.”

“It’s a very pervy sport,” Lindsey said with approval. “Our payback for women’s beach volleyball uniforms.”

“You perv all you want, but I’m keeping my eyes shut. They ought to make special blurry glasses, so you can’t see the blood.”

After a noisy introduction, the next match began.

The guys seemed to be getting bigger, the crowd more excited. Lindsey felt the energy herself, an electric stirring in her middle, not quite fear, not quite arousal, but as primal as both.

No shoes, no shirts, fingerless gloves. Muscular men rolling around. She scanned the crowd, surprised by how few women were in the audience. Then the guy on the mat took an elbow to the face and the resulting blood reminded her why that was. Jenna hissed with fear, squinting through her bangs.

But Lindsey leaned forward, mesmerized.

The very concept was thrilling—two humans stripped and tossed in a ring, out to prove which one was the stronger, better competitor with a minimum of rules, etiquette and padding. Lots of blood and sweat, surely lots of bruises when dawn arrived. Lots of…skin. Lots of everything she was missing out on since Brett had ripped his new, urbane identity out of an Esquire spread.

The match ended with an anticlimax, the outcome decided by the judges. Next up, the third-to-last fight, yet as far as Lindsey was concerned, the main event.

She watched the ring prep, heart thumping harder, harder, until she swore she could hear it over the rabble. She twisted her program into a tight tube again and again.

“Rich is next,” Jenna said, the collar of her shirt fisted in both hands. “Why couldn’t Mercer be into fly-fishing? Or ultimate Frisbee?”

“Too bad you didn’t inherit your dad’s love of fighting, huh?”

Instead, Jenna had inherited the gym, along with a portion of the former factory that housed it. She’d been estranged from her dad but had moved to Boston to take advantage of her odd inheritance sight-unseen and open a new franchise of Spark, a regional matchmaking company. Lindsey was awfully happy she had. She liked her new job. In fact, she’d probably love it, once her own romantic hangover subsided. At the moment it wasn’t the easiest thing, mustering enthusiasm for other people’s relationships.

“I just don’t get it,” Jenna said, blue eyes on the activity in the ring.

Lindsey shrugged. “Mercer will never get matchmaking. It’s healthy to have some autonomy.” Did she believe that for real? Or was she just trying to make herself feel better about how much space she craved from Brett?

The announcer scattered her thoughts.

“Next up, the match to decide the New England MMA Light Heavyweight Championship!” Music started up and the gigantic arena screen displayed two open double doors.

“In the blue corner, defending his title, a mixed martial artist from Warwick, Rhode Island. Thirty-one years old, five feet eleven inches, two hundred and five pounds. Greg ‘the Trucker’ Higgins!”

Striding down the aisle toward the cage, Higgins was meaty and pink-faced, with a tacky chinstrap beard and a trucker cap that helped explain his fight name. Several men in matching hats and shirts followed.

Jenna clapped politely. Lindsey hated Higgins out of principle, and booed along with the minority as he strutted to Johnny Cash’s “I’ve Been Everywhere, Man.” He stripped to his shorts and entered the ring, warming up as his music faded.

“A-a-a-nd in the black corner, a boxer and kickboxer hailing from Lynn, Massachusetts. Twenty-eight years of age, six feet three inches, two hundred and four pounds, Rich ‘Prince Richard’ Estrada!”

Her breath hitched when Rich appeared on-screen. She twisted in her seat to watch him descend. His intro music was a remixed hybrid of hoity-toity chamber music and some infectious Latin hip-hop. He wore black warm-up pants and an open, deep purple sweatshirt lined with ermine fleece, hood cocked. Raising his arms, he welcomed the modest applause, and hisses from the Higgins fans. He dropped his hood with a grand, arrogant gesture and bared his chest, fists thrust triumphantly in the air, his entire body emanating 10,000 watts of pure, blinding smugness.

Mercer trailed him, along with a couple other guys Lindsey recognized from Wilinski’s, his corner for the fight. Unlike Higgins, Rich’s team didn’t have special gear splashed with sponsor logos, just black T-shirts with Wilinski’s Fight Academy, Boston, silk-screened on the front.

“This match will be comprised of three five-minute rounds,” the announcer confirmed for the fans.

Rich stripped and Mercer shoved a mouth guard between his lips. When one of the guys from Wilinski’s slicked his arms and chest with Vaseline, Lindsey suppressed a ridiculous stab of jealousy. He entered the ring to warm up and the lights over the audience went dark as the music faded, setting Lindsey’s skin prickling.

The men fought barefoot. Higgins wore loose-fitting kickboxing trunks covered in sponsorship logos. Rich sported far snugger, plainer shorts, ones that hugged his thighs and butt and…other places, and made Lindsey feel funny. Dangerous-funny.

The men hopped and shadowboxed, keeping their muscles primed as The rules were announced. When Rich circled she could see the large tattoo inked between his shoulder blades in black and gray. The dark wingspan of a condor above a shield, framed by draped banners—the Colombian national crest, a snoop through the MMA message boards had told her. He had a mismatched design on the swell of his right shoulder—a circular field showing a river and horizon, an ax, an anchor—the seal of his hometown. There was a third one, a line of black Thai characters that ran down his ribs. Lindsey didn’t know what they said, only that he’d trained in Thailand for a year. All indelible reminders of where he’d come from, or perhaps souvenirs of where he’d been. Apt for a man destined to go places.

What must it feel like, being in the spotlight, everyone’s eyes on you? Lindsey had always been a supporting player, tagging behind her popular older sisters when she was growing up; a barnacle along for the voyage when she’d uprooted her life to follow Brett. For her past clients, the invisible woman running herself ragged so their big days would go off without a hitch, and for her future clients, the temporary go-between broker, there to facilitate their first dates.

As she watched Rich stretching his neck and shoulders, bathed in those pure white beams…she envied him. She’d never felt like someone whose entrance commanded the room’s attention, let alone an entire arena. Lindsey was always in the shadows, never the light, frequently thanked but never applauded.

A blonde ring girl in a spangly bra-top circled the cage, flashing a sign that read Round 1. There was no bell. Instead the official shouted, “Let’s go!” and the men met in the center for a second’s grudging fist tap before jumping back, circling.

Neither was shy. Both kept their guards up, feet busy. Rich baited his opponent with a couple short jabs, rewarded when Higgins took a swing. Rich dodged it and came back with a kick to Higgins’s thigh, then crowded him toward the chain-link.

They traded minor hits, then Higgins escaped and retreated a few paces. Rich stayed on him, still baiting, getting him to toss out defensive jabs, sneaking in a punch here, a kick there when his opponent’s guard was open. For a while, the action seemed to slow. Higgins certainly seemed to slow, shifting from foot to foot, red in the face.

Just when the fight was starting to get a bit boring—bam. Rich caught Higgins with a high kick to his ear. It bent the guy over, and Rich got him in the back of the knee and buckled him. Then, chaos.

Rich was on his opponent, pummeling his head and raised arms with punches and elbow strikes, hard enough that Lindsey saw sweat or spittle flying under the lights. The crowd was roaring. She realized she was screaming herself, a stream of hysteria erupting from some well of untapped ferocity.

Mercer stalked the periphery of the cage, shouting and jabbing the air. Lindsey wondered if Jenna was going to get soundly trounced tonight, and if so, she envied her. She could use a sound trouncing herself. Hell, she’d take a spirited dryhumping.

Higgins managed to get his legs around Rich’s waist and shift them to their sides, but the effort looked desperate. Rich took a sharp hook to the temple, unfazed.

An air horn blasted to end the round, and Rich was on his feet. Higgins wasn’t quite so quick to rise, and Rich wasn’t as courteous as some of the earlier fighters—he didn’t offer his opponent a hand up. Both made it back to their corners. Through the fence, Lindsey watched Mercer swab Rich’s now bleeding temple with some kind of goo, another guy forcing a water bottle to his lips.

Her heart thudded so hard she felt high. She wished she were right there, close enough to smell him and see whatever fearsome energy was shining in his dark eyes.

The ring girl did her prancy thing, then the round began. The men swapped punches and kicks. Lindsey hadn’t even taken two breaths and whack! A stunningly hard hook from Rich and Higgins went to all fours. Rich followed, ready to grapple, but an official stepped in and forced him away. There seemed to be a short window of time during which everyone waited for Higgins to make it to his feet, but it didn’t happen. He dropped his forehead to the mat between his elbows, body shifting uneasily from side to side, and suddenly—

“A stoppage has been called, due to a technical knockout.” The crowd erupted in a mix of cheers and boos. Rich was corralled to the center by the ref, and once his opponent was helped to standing—

“The winner—Rich Es-s-strada!”

His arm was raised, and Lindsey shrieked like a banshee. Jenna caught up, looking confused but thrilled, having missed the single punch that had ended the round inside fifteen seconds. The earlier shot Rich had taken must have been worse than it had looked. A thin ribbon of red trailed from his temple down to his jaw. The announcer held the mike between them and asked, “How does it feel, earning your first championship title?”

Between panting breaths, Rich answered, “Overdue.”

“Good fight?”

“If I ever get another match with Higgins, I want a scrap next time, not a slow dance.”

This was met with major heckling from the Trucker fans.

“Any other words?”

He put his hands on his hips, chest still heaving. “Thank you, Merce, all you guys. Thank you, Mamá. Thank you, Diana. And thank you, Monty, wherever you wound up.” He gave a little heavenward salute and walked away from the mike.