No Limits. Lori Foster

      He didn’t want to be gone when she returned, and he hadn’t yet installed a heavy bag, so the shower won out.

      Besides, it wouldn’t hurt to be clean, shaved and dressed before she returned. Driven by thoughts of what he’d do and say to her, Cannon left the hall bathroom door open and kept his ears cocked as he let the warm water relieve some of his residual aches and pains from the last fight.

      He’d just stepped out when the landline rang. Hastily wrapping a towel around his hips, he followed the sound and located the old-fashioned, curly corded phone on the wall in the kitchen. Huh. Skeptical that it’d really work, he picked it up on the fourth ring. “Hello?”

      “Cannon? Oh, good. I was afraid you wouldn’t answer.”

      The female voice sounded familiar, but he wasn’t sure—

      “It’s Mindi, from Frank’s office.”

      “Frank?”

      “Mr. Whitaker.”

      Biting back the groan, Cannon dropped against the wall and forced some pleasantness into his greeting. “Morning, Mindi. How are you?”

      “Working, so don’t get all worried that I’m calling in my rain check.”

      Appreciating her humor, he smiled with her. “Sorry. I’m just slammed, that’s all.”

      “You poor thing, having so much dumped on you. How is Tipton’s granddaughter?”

      Cannon frowned. “We’re fine.”

      “Working through everything?”

      He pushed away from the wall. “Did Whitaker ask you to call?”

      Her laugh was meant to be teasing, but instead it annoyed him. “No, but I’m hoping I can be helpful. I’ve found someone who wants to buy the pawnshop.”

      A disturbing mix of regret and resolution glued Cannon to the spot. Through the restriction in his chest, he said, “Come again?”

      Still sounding chipper and unfazed by his lack of enthusiastic reply, Mindi explained. “A buyer. For the pawnshop.”

      Carefully, giving himself time to think, he said, “I didn’t know you were helping with that.” He got his feet moving but couldn’t pace far, not with the phone attached to the wall.

      “Officially, we’re not. But you know that Frank and Tipton were friends, so I’ve let others know that it’s up for sale. I figured it was the least I could do.”

      So she called the lawyer by his first name. Interesting. Then again, it could mean nothing. Whitaker ran a small office and probably didn’t go on formality. “I see.”

      “Is there a good time I can bring him by to check it out?”

      Just then, Cannon heard a slight noise at the front door. Anticipation surged through him, obliterating everything else. “I’ll talk to Yvette and get back to you.”

      Mindi was still thanking him when he hung up.

CHAPTER FIVE

      AFTER SEEING HIS car still in the driveway, Yvette had to fight the urge to take off again. If her legs didn’t feel like noodles and if sweat didn’t soak her clothes, she might be tempted. But after the extended jog, she’d walked in the park, bought a coffee and donut, lingered, procrastinated and all in all been a complete coward.

      Admitting it to herself didn’t improve the fault.

      With all her avoidance, she’d only managed to make things more difficult, because now she looked outright awful.

      Trying not to make a sound, hoping she’d be able to sneak to her bedroom for a quick shower and change before seeing Cannon, she turned the doorknob, poked her head inside—and found him standing there.

      Arms crossed over his bare chest. Legs naked. Hips and other...vital parts...barely concealed by a small white towel.

      Good Lord. Her jaw loosened.

      Her heart punched into her throat, and then dropped hard into her belly.

      She stared without blinking.

      Mouth quirking, Cannon said, “You may as well come on in. I’m not budging.”

      She did, quickly stepping in and closing the door behind her, then dropping back against it. “You’re—” naked “—not dressed.”

      “Just got out of the shower.”

      It took a very deep breath before she could squeak out, “Oh.” That breath had filled her head with the scent of masculine soap and warm male.

      Her hungry gaze tracked down his body, taking it all in. Those sleek, hard shoulders. His wide chest half-hidden by muscular arms arrogantly folded. Down his solid rib cage and...mmm.

      Those abs.

      The bruises, a few of them really harsh, didn’t detract from the perfection. A silky trail of dark hair bisected his body, teased around his navel and disappeared into the loosely wrapped towel.

      There wasn’t enough oxygen in the air to keep her properly ventilated.

      “Yvette.”

      His voice had dropped an octave, drawing her gaze up to his. “Hmm?”

      “They’re just bruises.”

      He thought that was why she stared? Well, yeah, the bruises were ghastly. But she’d seen enough postfight photos to know it wasn’t uncommon for a fighter to sport evidence of the battle.

      The largest bruise was also the darkest, almost black in the middle, then fading into purple and lilac as it spread out over his ribs. Because it was a better excuse than the truth, she said, “You look like you should be—” In bed. Steering clear of that verbal trap, she amended, “Resting.”

      As if he knew her every thought, he smiled. “I can almost feel that stare, and I don’t mind telling you, it’s having an effect.”

      That made her look harder, and sure enough, the tightly wrapped towel now showed things she’d be better off not seeing.

      “Yvette,” he said again, this time with gravelly insistence.

      Realization of her rudeness hit and she pivoted fast to face the door. But...then what? She faced a closed door. Dumb, dumb, dumb.

      “The back view is nice, too.”

      No way could she ignore that tempting admission. But when she looked over her shoulder at him, he still faced her. “I can’t see the back.”

      “No.” On a low laugh, he nodded at her rear end. “I meant yours.”

      Slapping her hands over her butt, she turned away again. If nothing else, it hid her burning face and kept her from visually molesting him.

      And, darn it, now she became the recipient of a hot stare. “This isn’t at all proper.”

      “I remember a time,” he said, closer to her, “when you weren’t all that worried about being proper.”

      She’d been young and foolish. “I shouldn’t have stared and I’m sorry.”

      “Don’t be. I’m not.”

      Knowing she had to get hold of herself and the situation, she staged a friendly expression and cautiously turned back to him. Utilizing Herculean effort, she kept her attention above his sternum. “It’s hardly my fault with you standing there, flaunting yourself like that.”

      “I don’t flaunt.” He made a rude sound of denial. “I’m just standing here.”

      Looking as he did, that was enough. “You aren’t decently dressed.”

      “I’d