No Limits. Lori Foster

she’s too cautious now, too guarded. If you’ll agree, I know you can free her from the nightmares so she can be her carefree, happy self again.

      Did Tipton mean literal nightmares? Or just the nasty memories of being attacked, threatened with the worst a woman could suffer?

      No, he didn’t want to think about that now; it still enraged him, the helplessness, the fear he’d felt while being an unwilling spectator to the cruelty.

      What a grandfather considered guarded could just be maturity. Just how free did he want Yvette to be?

      The lawyer walked back in. Cannon ignored him as he finished reading.

      If it’s necessary, if your life is now too busy or if she won’t agree, go ahead and sell both places with a clear conscience. But selling will require emptying the house—and that will bring about different problems for her.

      What did that mean? What type of problems came with finalizing a sale?

      In my heart, I know she’ll be happier here in Ohio, in Warfield, than she could ever be in California.

      Whatever you decide, Cannon, please don’t tell her about this letter. Not yet. And please know, regardless, you will always have my deepest gratitude.

      Sincerely,

      Tipton Sweeny

      Familiar feelings stirred up, feelings he’d long ago tamped down and then forgotten. Or tried to forget. God knew he’d done his best to demolish them, to sweat them out in the gym, fight them out in the ring.

      Screw them away with willing women.

      But, damn it all, every sensation Yvette inspired was still there, rooted deep.

      Taut with anticipation, he asked, “Where’s Yvette now?”

      “I’m not sure,” the lawyer said. He stood behind his desk, but didn’t take his seat. “She took a set of keys, so perhaps she’s at the house.”

      Disquiet kicked Cannon in the gut, adding to the aches and pains left over from his recent fight. Would Yvette go there alone? He shrugged off the urge to race to her rescue.

      Again.

      He’d done that once—and then she’d walked away.

      Moved away.

      Across the country to California.

      He tugged at his ear, uncomfortable with the latent resentment. Yvette was not the one that got away. She wasn’t a missed opportunity. She was only a girl he’d gotten to know better under extreme, dire circumstances. A girl he’d wanted, but had been too noble to touch...much.

      But she had gotten under his skin, and even after three long years, he wanted her still.

      Fuck it. He’d walked through one fight after another to make himself a prime contender for the belt, but resisting the lure of finally having Yvette was a fight he knew he couldn’t win.

      He faced Whitaker with barely banked anticipation. “Where do I sign?”

      * * *

      YVETTE STOOD IN the doorway of her grandfather’s house. Yesterday, after the long drive back from California, she’d chosen to put aside the visit. Instead she’d gone to see the lawyer, and then checked into a hotel and tried to get some sleep. Impossible. The heaviness of what awaited her had her tossing and turning all night.

      It wasn’t just a fear of being in the house. No, it was a fear of seeing Cannon Colter again, losing herself in his appeal, relapsing back to that young, love-struck, vulnerable girl who’d let him play the hero without a single ounce of pride.

      Her grandfather wanted her to stay in Ohio. Returning for his funeral had been difficult enough. But to live here?

      She’d finally learned to conceal her cowardice and, more recently, to accept the limits of her romantic capability. Being anywhere near Cannon threatened her resolve on both counts.

      For now, for however long it took to sort out her obligations to her grandfather, she really had no choice. She would be in Warfield.

      Pushing aside the nerve-jangling fear, she stepped into the house and closed the door behind her. The click of it sounded so final that her heart missed a beat.

      Until she looked around. Then her pulse sped up.

      Sunlight spilled in through open drapes, brightening the interior, showcasing the many changes. From the carpet to the paint on the walls, even the lamps on the end tables, everything was different. Her grandfather had redecorated with used items, probably from the pawnshop, but he’d pulled it all together.

      For her.

      Through a mist of tears she took in the remodel. God, she missed him so much already.

      Forcing one foot in front of the other, ignoring the murky unease making a slow crawl up her spine, she went through the living room to the dining room and around to the kitchen. Familiar appliances filled the walls, but cheery new wallpaper and bright scatter rugs transformed even this room.

      Flipping on lights as she went, she explored the house and all the changes. Although everything seemed different, the empty house still held the scent of her grandfather’s Old Spice aftershave.

      Just as it held the memory of Cannon’s kiss.

      Even while weepy from her loss, a tidal wave of warmth invaded her limbs whenever she thought of him. She again felt his protective touch, remembered the hot taste of his kiss. She’d built some elaborate fantasies around that brief moment in time. But now she wasn’t sure if even Cannon could make a difference to her wounded psyche. Knowing that wouldn’t stop her from wanting him, and that scared her more than anything else could.

      Shame quickly followed, because she’d just lost her beloved grandpa, the one relative who hadn’t given up on her, who’d taken her in after her parents’ deaths and made her world better. She had to keep him and his wishes uppermost in her mind.

      When she saw her room, fresh tears welled up. New bedding and drapes made it look different, but all of her more personal belongings were just as she’d left them. She touched a hair ribbon on the dresser, an ancient carnival doll he’d won for her.

      Slowly, she sat on the edge of the bed.

      Cannon had missed the meeting at the lawyer’s office.

      For over three long years she’d honed her fixation on him, using it to help her get through trying times, using the example of him to hopefully become a better person. He was everything she wasn’t, everything a good person should be. Generous, protective and caring. He had an athlete’s body, a fighter’s strength and an angel’s heart—all wrapped up in gorgeous good looks. Every girl in the neighborhood had wanted him.

      After months of ignoring her childish flirting, he’d come to her rescue when she’d needed him most. And afterward, he’d felt pity for the pathetic girl she’d been.

      He’d finally seen her—but as a victim.

      Well, she was stronger now, and she’d prove it, to him and herself.

      She watched every SBC fight, soaked up every mention of him on the internet and in numerous interviews. To the general public Cannon had been dubbed “the Saint,” in part due to his philanthropic attitude and always calm demeanor. Nothing and no one ever rocked his foundation of composure.

      Insiders, however, claimed the nickname had more to do with his gentle treatment of women. He stayed too busy to engage in long-term romantic relationships. While he kept things brief, most of the ladies he knew became his friends without resentment, having nothing but good things to say about him.

      Yvette could attest to his gentle concern and careful consideration. Difficult as she knew it’d be for her, she hoped he still claimed her as a friend, too.

      It was necessary to see him, the sooner