Page 29 of Mean Machine

“What’s going on?”

“I’m taking you on a holiday. You’ll be able to train with some of the best. This of course meant a rather harsh detangling of your previous associations.”

“What about Les?”

“He’d only hold you back. Flackett has never made a boxer of real importance. That was all your talent. Some people are convinced your talent as a boxer vastly exceeds his capabilities as a trainer. If you are to win against the best boxers in the world, you’ll need a far better coach, who is being provided.”

Great. It sounded like he’d just ruined the career of the only man who’d treated him decently.

Seeing Nathaniel waltz in and single-handedly dispatch Les and Curtis like it was nothing? Terrifying. Les and the gym was all he’d known for almost three years. What about Cash?

Nathaniel studied him. Did that confidence waver? He leaned back in the leather seat. “I wanted you with me.”

Why on earth? Brooklyn nodded. “You’re representing the main shareholders?”

Another smile. Nathaniel sure did that a lot, smiling as if to reassure him, to appear harmless and nonthreatening. “I have negotiated a deal with ISU. They’re supportive.”

“What are they going to say if….” He paused, half expecting a barked “shut up, convict.” But none came. Eric was imposing, but he at least let Brooklyn finish a sentence. “I mean, what’s going on? Where are we going?”

“I’ve finished a major case here. I’m leaving for the sun, and the location provides everything you need.” Nathaniel glanced out the window. “Certainly better facilities than you’re used to.”

Be careful with that man. He’s very good at getting what he wants.

And wasn’t that the truth.

THE WHITEhouse was as alien as a starship. The whole postcard-perfect island—lush tropical forest, vines laden with flowers, and the deep blue-green sea beyond—felt of a different planet. Compared to strangely weatherless London, the warm breeze from the ocean and the tropical heat were weird.

Nathaniel nodded towards the house. “Welcome home. In a manner of speaking. I have the use of this place a few months every year.”

“Holiday home?”

“Yes.” Nathaniel walked up the path. Eric trailed behind; the second man drove the car into the garage. Not having a guard watch his every step made Brooklyn feel naked. But, true enough, where could he run, as a convict, on a Caribbean island? As a foreigner who didn’t speak any of the languages? Did anybody here speak English?

Inside, the heat was less oppressive—large fans moved the air around, stone floors cooled, and shutters kept out the sun, casting everything into a genteel shade.

He couldn’t make heads or tails of this. What he should feel. Or think. No opportunity during the flight to Amsterdam or the connection to Princess Juliana Airport. He’d still been reeling. But the break in routine set his teeth on edge. He should be training, should be working, should at least know who was training him, rather than waiting for an explanation that was slow in coming. And he remembered too well the expression on Les’s face. Shock. Fear. Hurt.

He’d thought he understood Nathaniel, knew him a little. But that had been stupid. He had no clue. Barrister? Then what was his connection to ISU? Was he the one taking care of all their legal stuff? And if he worked for them, how credible was the promise to help Brooklyn get out of his contract? It didn’t fit together. And the more he turned it around in his mind, the less sense it all made.

“Yours are the guest rooms up on the first floor to the left. I’ll check in with the cook,” Nathaniel said.

Brooklyn climbed the stairs, Eric in tow. He wasn’t used to a guard carrying the luggage. Hell, he wasn’t used to any of this. The furniture was as expensive as it was minimalist, the shade pleasant on the eyes, the force of the sun broken by drapes and wooden shutters until the room seemed to glow from within.

Eric dropped his bag on the bed and remained standing there. “Need any help?”

Brooklyn rubbed his neck. “Is there a good place to go running?”

“There’s a lot of beach just behind the house.” Eric grinned at him. “There’s a gym in the garden too.”

“Yeah, I’m here to box.”

“I know.” Eric grinned wider. “I’ve seen your fights. The Mean Machine in the flesh.”

Brooklyn shrugged. “You’re into boxing?”

“You kidding? I box a little myself. Strictly amateur, though. Mostly body sparring, but it’s a great way to keep fit. I mean, you’re ripped.”

Despite himself, Brooklyn relaxed. “Yeah, I went pro rather unexpectedly. Did it at first to work off some fat I’d piled on. I never expected to make it my career.”

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