“You can just speak to it.” He hands the futuristic gadget to me. “Tell it to search for Max Huntington.”

“I’ll do it the old-fashioned way.” Hands trembling, I type “Max Huntington” into the search engine and get dozens of hits.

My mouth drops open when I read about Max Huntington, one of America’s youngest leading venture capitalists and partner of IMM Ventures. I scroll through article after article about him in the business newspapers and financial magazines. His name also appears in society and gossip columns as one of California’s most eligible bachelors. Here he is at a charity event with a woman I recognize from the movies. And here he is looking breathtaking in a tux with a beautiful model clinging to his arm on a luxury yacht. My eyes drink in pictures of him at lavish parties, gala openings, media events, and even the Academy Awards. But none of him fighting in Ghost Town.

I exhale slowly and my heart thuds into the ground. For a moment I can only stare at him, stunned. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Torment shrugs. “You liked me as Torment. Except for Sandy, the women I’ve been with couldn’t see past the money and would have been horrified to know I was on the underground fight club circuit.”

Sirens wail in the background. Lewis sniffs.

Colton tenses. “It sounds like they’ve brought the police with them this time, sir. It would be a PR nightmare if you were caught here.”

My hands clench into fists. “You lied to me. You made me think you were a regular guy.”

A pained look crosses Torment’s face. “I never lied to you. I just didn’t tell you everything.”

“Sir. We have to go.” The urgency in Colton’s tone makes the hair on the back of my neck prickle.

“Come with me. Please, Makayla.”

My head spins. Too much. Too many things to process. Torment coming to my house. The fight. Our almost kiss. The rebirth of an unwanted memory. And this. My beast turned into a prince. Or is it the other way around?

Tears well up in my eyes. “I know Torment. I know pizza and picnics and motorcycles. I don’t know you, Max, with your fancy limo and your staff and your movie star girlfriends. I don’t know what kind of man you are. All I know is that you’re incredibly rich and I’m…well, me. I buy my shoes at Handi-Mart. I eat cereal for breakfast and, recently, for dinner too. I have had to sacrifice my principles to make money to pay my…rent. And I don’t know what will happen to me if I jump into your rabbit hole.”

His steady gaze falters, almost as if I’ve hurt him, and guilt crawls through me.

“I’m the same man,” he rasps. He pauses, and the disappointment in his voice is almost palpable. “But I understand. Colton can call for a taxi and he’ll wait with you until it arrives.”

Colton nods and speaks into a headset I didn’t even notice he was wearing. He gives me a sad, guilt-inducing smile. “Taxi will be here in two minutes.”

Torment brushes a kiss across my cheek then turns and steps into the limo, leaving me with a sense of loss deep in my stomach and a hole in my chest.

“Wait.”

He pauses, one foot in the limo and one foot on the street.

I close the distance between us and take his face between my hands. I search his eyes, looking for Max. Instead, I see Torment.

Torment in pain. Torment in need.

Blood trickles down his cheek. His eye is badly swollen. His jaw is cut and bruised. I stand on tiptoe and run my hand through his hair. He winces when I touch the lump where he hit his head on the metal post and again when my hand runs over the slight swelling where Misery hit him.

He is rich, successful, and until the fight, breathtakingly gorgeous. He has everything. Why does he need the fight club? Why does he need me?

“You’ll need a stitch here,” I whisper, brushing my thumb over his cheek. “And maybe here too.” I run my hand over his chin, rough with stubble.

His eyes darken and he takes my hand, pressing his lips to the underside of my wrist. “Maybe you could just kiss it better.” The deep rumble of his voice sets my nerve endings on fire.

I take a deep breath and step into the limo. “Maybe I could.”

Chapter 8

Where’s my muffin top?

“Good morning, Ms. Delaney.”

“Sergio, it is exactly one minute past eight o’clock on a Monday morning. Surely you have better things to do than call me at work, especially since you promised to give me an extra week.” A weekend of Internet research about student loan collection and a brief chat with Amanda have made me cocky. I lean back in my chair and wave the next patient over to Charlie’s desk.

Sergio laughs. “Calling you is my job and since you are the most pleasant of all my debtors, who better to call first on a Monday morning. I just wanted to remind you about your payment."

“And I wanted to remind you that you cannot enforce a minimum payment without first assessing my financial position. I’ve also filed an online complaint with the Education Commission. I understand collections have to be frozen until the complaint is resolved.”

Sergio’s voice turns cold. “I haven’t received any notice of your complaint, and until I do, you must make the payments as they fall due. Otherwise, sneaky debtors like yourself could claim to have filed a complaint to avoid making their payments. I know all the tricks, Ms. Delaney. All the tricks.”

My confidence wavers. “Well, you still have to do a financial analysis. I’ll send you my financial statement and you will see there is no way I can make the minimum payment.”