Page 12 of Simon Says

“I have favorite fighters from both. But I’d say it’s more exciting now. More refined. By necessity, the fighters are well rounded in a variety of techniques.”

“They have to be.”

“Absolutely.” She tilted her head to scrutinize him. “Your strength is your natural athleticism. You pick up quickly on nuances that others miss. You’re strong and quick, but then so are a lot of the fighters.” Without looking away from him, she nodded toward Gregor. “He’s as strong as they get, but he lacks confidence. When or if he ever gets it, look out.”

Because Simon thought the same, her insight surprised him. He glanced at her hands, but she had them tucked into her coat pockets. Curiosity ate at him, so Simon turned to Dean. “I’m taking a break.”

Dean just rolled his eyes. Gregor sat on a stool getting further instructions. He looked royally pissed off.

Lifting the ropes, Simon jumped down from the ring. Now that they were on even footing, he guessed her height at only around five and a half feet. But she carried herself like someone taller.

Interesting.

The mandatory four-ounce gloves left his fingertips and palms free. Simon swiped the sweat from his face. “I’m roasting, but here you are all buttoned up in that thick coat.”

As if just realizing what she wore, she glanced down at herself. Her hands came out of her pockets and she began unbuttoning the tan corduroy coat.

No rings.

No nail polish, either. Her fingers were long, her nails short and blunt.

“It’s freezing outside, and I hate the cold.”

Simon was so involved in visually exploring her that he barely paid any attention to her husky voice. Not since he’d walked out on Bonnie months ago had he been this interested in a woman.

Or more to the point, this interested in having a woman. Under him. In bed.

Or wherever she liked it. Hell, after months of celibacy, he wasn’t picky.

As long as she wasn’t the difficult type, too clingy or a psycho groupie, or…whatever. Easy, that’s what he wanted.

Easy, ready, and willing.

“But you’re right,” she continued, unaware of his meandering and vivid sexual thoughts. “It’s toasty in here.”

Getting toastier by the second.

Simon waited as the buttons came undone and the thick material parted to reveal the shape of her body. She went one further in accommodating his imagination by shrugging out of the coat completely.

A loose, oversized V-necked gray sweater layered over a black T-shirt didn’t disguise her slim figure. The jeans were low-riders, and Simon got a glimpse of taut, pale flesh above the waistband until she tugged the sweater down.

As if she owned the place, she tossed her coat and a large, satchel-type purse toward a metal folding chair, and then stuck out her hand.

“I’m Dakota Dream.”

Simon stared; she had to be kidding.

All types of quips came to mind. Like,Weren’t you in the last porno I saw?Or,Didn’t you use to dance at a strip club?

But one look at her face and Simon knew she expected it. Sarcasm, sexual harassment, assumptions—she’d pegged him to have them all. So the name was for real, not a gimmick, and though she might not admit it, it bothered her.

Despite the gloves, he took her hand in both of his. “Hello, Dakota.”

Brief surprise flickered in her blue eyes before she smiled. “Hello.”

Damn, that smile packed a wallop. “I take it you already know me?”

Slender shoulders rose in a shrug. “Of you.” She propped her hands on equally slender hips. “Simon Alexander Evans. Sublime. You hung up your gloves a few years back after winning the championship belt in the light heavyweight class. You only had two losses in your record, and one of those was a bad judges’ decision.”

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