Growing up in New York, Micah had always been told that he had an aptitude for punching. In high school, he hadn’t limited his talent to endorsed events, as he had issues with confining his fighting at all. He tended to get into scuffles, so learned to defend himself. He’d learned how to bob and weave at a young age.
Before graduation, Micah was a participant in a local fight club, a fact that he didn’t share with his parents, since it was technically illegal. That didn’t bother him. The fights were held in an empty parking lot with makeshift barricades as the boundary of the ring. Often the boxers ended up tumbling into the crowd.
The club reorganized, and began discreetly holding tournaments in an unoccupied gym with an actual boxing ring. Fighting in the matches left him less time to get into the other sorts of trouble that he had a knack for attracting.
Micah had three brothers, but he was the only one inclined to fight in the ring. But they weren’t opposed to tussling with their youngest brother, especially since he tended to use anyone who was handy as a punching bag. His younger sister Daniela steered clear of her brothers’ wrestling matches, but was Micah’s cheerleader at any school-sponsored fights.
His father bought a punching bag and mitts so Micah could practice his jabs and hooks. On the sly, he continued to participate in the fight club, drawn in by the rawness of the battles. A small fee was charged to watch the fights, the crowd attracted by the gritty glamour. The size of the audience grew, making it increasing difficult to keep the underground activity out of the community’s eye.
Since the fights were informal, there were no printed programs, making it difficult to tell who was in the ring. But that didn’t seem to matter too much to the onlookers, who showed up routinely to witness more mayhem. For championship status in the underground ring, a boxer had to defeat six opponents, which Micah achieved.
He’d learned quickly what to watch for. One opponent was labeled a headhunter, because he was a fighter who attacked with a flurry of head shots. Another was inclined toward body blows, so Micah watched his shoulders in order to anticipate the motion. Gradually, he’d improved his skill, and when he graduated from school, he kept fighting.
Micah retained his proclivity for underground fighting, even after he had fought in amateur boxing matches. It had an aura of unruliness, of fighting without excessive restriction that he was naturally in sync with. A taste of the dim corridors of the underground scene unleashed the fighter in Micah, and he didn’t look back.
There was something to be said for sanctioned matches that required organizers to follow strict liability and medical standards. That type of operation provided insurance for all the boxers fighting at the event, and held the promoter responsible for having ringside doctors, medical equipment, and ambulances available.
But Micah hadn’t limited his fighting to the amateur circuit. Whether he was fighting in a nightclub due to a disagreement, in a boxing ring, or in an empty warehouse, it was the same to him. It was all about the fight.
While continuing to fight in underground matches when he could, Micah had also been fighting in the amateur circuit. But the photographers, reporters, and out-of-control fans had started to wear him down. He just wanted to fight, not be a movie star. He’d been in Hollywood for a couple of months, but when he heard about underground boxing in Las Vegas, he headed that way.
It wasn’t the first time Micah had been to Vegas. He had a thirst for gambling, especially poker, and had been known to indulge. It had been a while since he’d hit the casinos, and he was looking forward to it. He could get lost in the glitzy, glittery Strip, which suited him just fine. If no one recognized him, and that was likely, he could fight and gamble to his heart’s content without hindrance.
Micah’s life wasn’t all about the glory of fight night. He’d hired Harlan Draper to coach him, and the man was relentless. He’d known he would be, which was one reason he’d chosen him. Harlan started his career in the ring, so he knew what was required to be a champion.
The coach had short, dark hair and a rough-looking beard. He was built of solid muscle, sported several menacing tattoos, and wore a St. Christopher’s medal around his neck. He was tough as nails, and the type of guy Micah was glad to have in his corner. Harlan worked him hard, accepting no excuses, since there were none in the ring.
The thunder punch that Micah had perfected was as powerful as that of a professional boxer. Some fighters could just pop on a glove and hammer a punching bag. If Micah did that, he’d probably break bones in his hands. So the coach spent forty-five minutes strapping his hands before letting him hit anything, and was strict about taping Micah’s hands, no matter how long it took.
Harlan stressed that running was the core fitness from which everything else was built. Micah prepared as if he was a semiprofessional runner, and worked on his speed. He fought in the middleweight class, coming in at one sixty at fighting weight, but was extremely fast on his feet. The grueling workouts paid off in the ring.
Micah was a natural fighter, and he had a jaw of granite. His coach would say, “It doesn’t matter how skilled you are, or how hard you train—if you aren’t tough enough, you won’t win.” Fortunately, Micah could take a powerful punch, remain immovable, and didn’t go down easily.
As soon as they got to Vegas and checked into the hotel, Harlan found a boxing gym and they got to it. Micah had to stay in shape if he expected to come out on top in the underground matches. Plus he had a vested interest, as his partner Luke bet heavily on him winning, and they split the take. It was a lucrative career.
After a day of hard workouts, Micah was ready for a stress reliever. He craved the rush he got at the gambling tables, so showered and dressed for the challenging night ahead. This night would be better than most, as Luke had finagled a way into a high-stakes game. Micah had been winning often enough in the underground fights over the past few years, that they’d amassed a sum of money.
Money talked, and Micah had plenty of it…at the moment. To look the part, he wore an Armani French-cuff dress shirt with diamond cufflinks under a herringbone linen blazer. The shirt had been tailored to fit his muscled physique. Paired with the blazer and designer slacks, he looked like a million bucks. He had silver studs in his earlobes, and the final touch was his white gold Cartier watch.
Image played into the psychology of the game. If he looked the part, the players would consider him a winner. It certainly didn’t hurt. Skill was what mattered most, but too often that little edge made the difference.
The game was at an exclusive club in a private complex. Just to get in the game cost a good chunk of change. Micah had authorized the buy-in, and Luke had paid. His partner wouldn’t be at the game, since only players were allowed, but that was all right. The arrangement to split the winnings worked for Luke. He was satisfied to be in the support role, and let Micah play cards.
A hired limo delivered Micah to the complex just off the Strip. He took a minute to size up the place, although Luke had already verified the validity of the operation. Whether it was strictly legal or not was another matter, but Micah wasn’t concerned about that. As long as he could walk away with his winnings, he’d be satisfied.
Micah gazed up at the multi-towered complex, openly admiring the wealth it flaunted. When he entered the lobby, a guard checked him in and went up in the elevator with him, where another guard took over. Security was tight, as it should be.
He was escorted down a marble hallway, then into a large gaming room. Crystal chandeliers and ornate wall sconces lit the room. In the middle was an oblong table covered with green felt and padded around the rim. Several well-dressed gentlemen were already seated, exhibiting no sign of impatience. Each appeared calm and confident, but then, the game hadn’t started yet.
Micah was introduced, and he took a seat. Before long, the last two players arrived, making a total of six in the game. They all looked like high rollers, probably a nucleus of regulars filled in with out-of-towners. The dealer was all business, dressed to the hilt, complete with a satin vest. A couple of guards stood near the door, and Micah had no doubt more were stationed in the hall.
While drinks were refreshed, Micah sized up the competition. Next to him, on one side, was a silver-haired business type, and on the other was a younger Asian player. Across from him was a slender thirty-something guy, and a stocky man wearing a polo shirt, looking a bit awkward and out of place.
Directly across from Micah was a guy in his late twenties, who seemed very comfortable in the setting. It clearly wasn’t his first time in the game. The man had a rugged jaw and piercing green eyes. His dark hair was gelled back in a don’t-mess-with-me style. Micah pegged him as Russian, which was confirmed as soon as he spoke. The accent was heavy and unmistakable. He greeted the other players, stating his name simply as Danilov, preferring to be addressed by his last name.
He was running things, which Micah found interesting. But he must have something going for him. Maybe he even owned the place. With the hundred grand buy-in and the promise of a few no-limit games, the session might see swings of as much as a million dollars. It was no wonder the establishment was well-guarded. Some players didn’t take well to losing.
The players anted up, and when the first hand was dealt, everyone began to get warmed up. For a while, each player kept their cool, but as the wins and losses became more dramatic, tempers flared. Once, the guard had to come over to caution the stocky guy, letting him know that he’d be removed from play if another incident occurred.
Micah had already taken his blazer off, stuffed the cufflinks in his pockets, then rolled up his sleeves. He’d won a few hands and lost a few, but was really enjoying the game. His confidence was high, and he figured a couple of the players would leave. Then he could go after a big pot.
After a period of intense play, the Asian guy begged off, opting to pay his losses and get out. Just as it was getting interesting, Micah’s concentration completely went to hell. A woman in a bright red crochet dress entered the room from the back.
She glided over the carpet in her black high heels, the layers of fringe on the dress flowing with the sway of her hips. Long red earrings dangled from her ears, and her legs looked a mile long underneath the tight dress that ended mid-thigh.
Micah had perfected his poker face years ago, and he exhibited no outward reaction to her appearance. But Gisele’s arrival sent hot blood shooting through his veins. When she looked across the table, there was a flicker of recognition in her caramel eyes. To her credit, she quickly subdued her reaction.
In a high-stakes game, the players don’t get chatty, so Micah wasn’t about to say hello to her. The Russian turned and looked up. “Gisele,” he said, and she nodded to him. The big question was: what was she doing here? And even bigger: was she with the Russian?
Gisele didn’t have to try in order to distract the players. She was beautiful, and each player glanced at her, keeping their eyes on her a little too long for Micah’s taste. Her perfume pervaded the stale air, causing him to lose focus.
Micah wanted to grab her and sweep her away like he had before, dying to ask her to explain. He hadn’t realized she lived in Vegas, but then, he hadn’t asked. That night so many months before, he’d been so certain that she’d stick around that he hadn’t bothered.
Now he could kick himself for that. He should have asked more questions, found out more about her. Here he was with a lot of money on the line, and she could blow it for him. Micah had to get his attention off her, but that wasn’t going to be easy.
After a few minutes, the players didn’t seem to notice Gisele, and refocused on their cards. Another hand was dealt and she stayed in the background, only stepping forward to refill drinks. She hovered around Danilov, and even put her hands on his shoulders. The Russian knew her well; there was no question of that. Micah just couldn’t figure out her role.
Only players were allowed in the game room, no wives, girlfriends, or other distractions. Yet Gisele was welcomed. That could only mean that she belonged here. And if Danilov was running the show, and owned the complex where these private games were held, that meant that maybe Gisele lived here too.
It irked Micah that she was hooked up with the Russian. The fondness between them couldn’t be ignored. She didn’t smile, which would have been unseemly in the high-pressure situation, but her eyes gleamed when she looked at Danilov.
He seemed to look to her for support, as if she brought him luck. The entire thing was unnerving. When Gisele touched Danilov’s arm or looked over his shoulder, Micah tensed. The fight instinct rose within him, and he wanted to beat the crap out of the Russian and steal his woman.
But no act that barbaric was going to win the prize. Micah had to be cleverer than that. He could bide his time, as the game had picked up momentum and he didn’t expect it to come to an end soon. After a while, he was able to pay attention to his hand and begin winning again. He grew used to having Gisele in the room, some of the surprise having worn off.
Micah managed to play some good hands, while keeping Gisele in his peripheral vision. He took every opportunity to gaze at her silky skin and admire her cleavage, barely showing at the top of the dress. Her legs were a show-stopper, and he couldn’t help imagining Gisele in the throes of ecstasy with those gorgeous legs wrapped around his waist.
The dealer looked at Micah to see if he wanted any cards. “Hit me,” he said, and the dealer slid a card across the felt. Since Micah’s luck was holding, he stayed in and threw in some chips. “I’ll see you,” he said.
The game continued, cards sliding across the table, chips clinking as they were tossed into the center, and a suppressed smile on the face of the winner who scooped a pile of them in his arms. But everyone wasn’t a winner. At some point, the stocky guy and the businessman made their exit, leaving Micah and the slender guy.
The tension mounted and the betting increased. Adrenaline made Micah’s mind sharp, and he was in a groove. The substantial betting was risky, so much so that it was addictive. There was no way Micah would stop then, even if he lost it all. Yet he didn’t lose.
Micah began to win bigger, and the other guy finally called it a night. That left Micah and Danilov. Right behind the Russian, Gisele stood quietly. The only motion was her chest moving gently as she breathed. Her hair flowed over her shoulders, and her skin looked flawless. Micah’s greatest desire at that moment was to touch her, to feel her softness, and breathe in her perfume.
The dealer spoke. “Gentlemen?”
Micah looked across the table, glancing up. For a fleeting second his eyes locked with Gisele’s, but she quickly averted her gaze. He waited for Danilov to say something. The man narrowed his green eyes and gave him a tight smile.
“Are you done for the evening? Or shall we continue to play?” The Russian’s smugness irked Micah, fueled by the knowledge that the man had the advantage with Gisele. The questions were a challenge, one that Micah had no intention of turning down.
“I’ll play another round.”
Danilov nodded to the dealer.
Micah breathed shallowly, calming his body. Then he said, “But the stakes aren’t high enough to suit me.”
Danilov raised his brows, and Micah noticed Gisele’s eyes widen. “What do you propose, my friend?”
Without flinching, Micah named his game. “I want Gisele,” he said. “If you lose, you’ll give her up for the rest of the night. I’d like to share her company.”
Gisele stiffened, and Micah saw fire in her eyes, but she didn’t speak.
“And if I win?” Danilov said.
“If you win, I’ll turn over all my winnings for the evening.” Micah looked directly at the Russian.
Danilov thought about it for a moment, then his lips stretched into a thin smile. “I like that…winner take all. Okay, my friend, you’re on.”
No drug could have produced a greater high. Micah was about to risk all he had to get the one thing he wanted most. The thrill of the game coursed through his veins as the cards were dealt. Micah allowed one glance at Gisele, noting the flush of her cheeks, and fighting the urge to deepen that flush.
Then he focused on the game, his concentration unbreakable. This was it: winner take all. And there was no way that he’d let Danilov leave that room with Gisele. He took his cards and turned them back to see what he’d been dealt, showing no reaction, making sure the Russian couldn’t read anything in his eyes or his body language. Micah had the confidence of a winner, and that was exactly what he intended to be.