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  Published by The Hartwood Publishing Group, LLC,

  Hartwood Publishing, Phoenix, Arizona

  www.hartwoodpublishing.com

  Clinch

  Copyright © 2016 by Becca Jameson

  Digital Release: June 2016

  All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination, or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales, or organizations is entirely coincidental.

  Clinch by Becca Jameson

  Dr. Katie Schwan has no idea what she’s getting into when she rushes to the back of a speakeasy to tend to an injured underground MMA fighter. But the hot Russian guy leading her to his friend has her attention.

  Leo Gulin allows the sexy blonde to take his friend to her clinic. He hates that she inadvertently becomes a part of his deep-rooted problems with the Russian mafia. However, he can’t seem to stay away from her, even though she doesn’t need his problems on her doorstep or his dominance in her bedroom.

  Months pass before Leo has the balls to ask her out, thinking the threat from the mafia has passed. But he’s wrong. And now Katie’s trapped in his world, and he must keep her safe from the multitude of people following them.

  What does the mafia leader want? How can Leo convince Katie to accept him permanently in her bedroom and her life? He must, or risk losing her forever.

  Dedication

  To my awesome editor, Lisa Dugan, for spending a long weekend helping me hash out the particulars of this complex series! And to my husband for learning this world and making sure I don’t mess it up along the way!

  Chapter One

  Katie Schwan cringed as the final fight began. She’d never in her life been to an unsanctioned fight in the seedy section of Chicago. She’d never been to a hundred-year-old speakeasy. She’d never entered through any of the city’s small doors located under the L tracks or an overpass.

  Katie knew nothing about the underground fighting system, and she could have gone her entire life without knowing what she’d learned in the last hour.

  How had her life gotten so far off track that she found herself considering the idea of marrying Marshall Pierce?

  Marshall shrugged her arm off his for the fourth time in as many minutes and cupped his hands in front of his mouth to scream some sort of cheer for whichever contender he was rooting for.

  She cringed. She didn’t relish the idea of touching him any more than he did her, but she was somewhat concerned about the prospect of getting separated from him in the crowded room. He, obviously, was not the least bit concerned with her well-being.

  When he’d picked her up that evening, she’d envisioned dinner and a movie, not this fight scene. The entire room was filled with the scent of smoke—mostly from cigars, she surmised—sweat, and alcohol. The patrons were packed in so tightly there was no room to move.

  The speakeasy had received the bare minimum of updates in the last hundred years. The floor was nothing more than rough bricks—the same ones that made up the walls. Time had worn down the mortar between each brick, leaving deep cavities in the ground. Thank God she hadn’t worn heels. The sandals she’d chosen proved a much better selection for the uneven floor she hadn’t expected as part of their evening.

  She was dressed completely wrong for this event—a pink-and-orange-striped dress that hugged her body in all the right places and made her feel sexy. She’d intentionally worn the dress in hopes she could inspire Marshall to show more interest in her than usual and thus increase her own attraction toward him.

  As it turned out, he hadn’t said a single word about how she looked, nor had he paid much attention to her at all since the moment he’d picked her up and rushed her to the car, muttering about a fight and how much money he had at stake.

  Marshall set his hands on his head as he watched the fight unfold in the strange, incongruent, makeshift cage in the center of the room. He closed his eyes for a moment before gritting his teeth. As he ran his hands through his messy brown hair, it stuck out in several places.

  She assumed he must have placed a bet on the man currently losing the fight, although he said nothing about it to her.

  She stared at his profile, hating him. Who brought a date to an underground fight? She doubted anything about this gathering was legal. She was a doctor, for heaven’s sake. She didn’t usually go around town getting into situations that might cause her to get arrested.

  Marshall Pierce was officially an asshole. She suddenly didn’t care what her parents thought of the arrangement. They’d been harping on her about what a fantastic catch he was for months, nearly begging her to open her mind and stop whining about how she didn’t feel any magnetism toward him.

  Her mother had chuckled. “Honey, magnetism is for romance novels. You don’t live in a romance novel. You live in the real world. And Marshall Pierce is an excellent match. His family’s an outstanding addition to ours. Stop being so particular and get a ring on your finger. You aren’t getting any younger.”

  Katie had no idea why she’d ever paid a bit of attention to her mother’s choice in a spouse. The woman hadn’t chosen well herself more than thirty years ago. From what Katie could tell, her parents barely crossed paths with each other, let alone communicated. She didn’t want that sort of life. She wanted passion. Romance. Love.

  She had no intention of settling for less. And this evening solidified in her mind that Marshall was the last man on earth she intended to walk toward on her way down the aisle.

  The crowd screamed louder, and she turned her gaze to the center of the room—more out of boredom than anything else. She relaxed her shoulders with the realization she’d just made a monumental decision. This was the last time she would ever accept an invitation from Marshall.

  The two men fighting in the ring were evenly matched. She’d heard people around her discussing this fight and knew it was the last one of the evening, and the most important.

  She’d listened with increasing incredulity to the size of bets being placed before the fight began.

  The man on the left was called Joe “Hothead” Mantoba. The man on the right was Dmitry “The Cossack” Volikov. She ignored the Hispanic man in favor of staring at the Russian—at least she thought he was Russian. Judging by the accents of the people surrounding her, several of the patrons were also Russian.

  The guy was buff and sexy. With his bald head and the ring of geometric tattoos on his arms, he could melt panties all around the room. And he wasn’t alone. There were several other men standing near the cage who appeared to be as built as him and just as sexy.

  The asshole standing next to her stressing over the possible outcome of the fight had nothing on the men she found herself ogling. Marshall was weak, tall, lanky, and nerdy. But her mother saw none of that. She only saw the size of his parents’ bank account.

  She giggled inwardly as she imagined bringing a man like the Russian fighter home to meet Mom and Dad. Her mother would faint. She pondered the idea of doing it for the shock value alone.

  “Fuck,” Marshall
muttered. He hung his head and closed his eyes.

  Katie turned her attention back to the ring. Jesus, what was his problem? He was a bigger idiot than she’d thought if he put much money on this charade.

  Suddenly, she noticed something she hadn’t paid attention to before. The Russian fighter, Dmitry, had his left hand down by his side instead of up high to protect his face. He also stood at a slight angle.

  The man was protecting his torso. While she watched, the other guy kicked him perfectly in that side, taking advantage of the obvious weakness anyone in the room—including Joe—could easily spot.

  Dmitry buckled. He dropped to one knee, his face contorted in pain.

  Kidney. She knew that look. And the kick to his side was perfectly lined up with his lower back. She also realized he hadn’t suffered a kidney injury from that single kick. The crazy man had come to the fight already injured.

  What sort of fool would fight with a recent, life-threatening kidney injury? Apparently, Dmitry “The Cossack” Volikov.

  She lifted higher on her tiptoes to pay closer attention to a fight she’d had no interest in moments ago. She still had no interest in the fight itself, but she was naturally inclined toward people with health issues. It was ingrained in her. Saving lives was her passion. Even the life of a stupid, idiotic underground fighter with a death wish.

  Seconds after going down, Volikov rebounded to his feet and jumped out of Mantoba’s reach. He bled from a cut on his forehead.

  The audience screamed when Volikov bounced back into position. He was undoubtedly the favored man. In fact, he was obviously the preferred fighter by Marshall’s standards too, judging by the squeal of elation next to her.

  She winced as Dmitry used his arm to protect his side again.

  His opponent hopped on his feet, waiting for another opportunity to take advantage of Volikov’s weakness.

  Shocking everyone, including her, Dmitry lifted his good arm at the perfect moment and landed two punches to Mantoba’s face.

  The crowd screamed louder.

  Joe staggered backward.

  Suddenly, Dmitry had the upper hand. He lifted his arm from his side into a proper defensive position—leaving his kidney in a vulnerable state—and spun around in a circle. As he returned to face Mantoba, he lifted his leg and kicked the guy in the side of the head.

  Joe fell to the ground.

  Katie cringed as she watched Joe’s head hit the floor with enough force to cause a concussion.

  Before Mantoba could gather his wits, Dmitry straddled his body and pinned him to the ground with a forearm to the neck. Joe flailed, reminding her of a scared chicken, his arms swinging around in the air, unable to make purchase with any substantial force against Dmitry’s body.

  She knew nothing about the rules observed in this unsanctioned sport, so she held her breath as Joe slowly lost consciousness. Would Dmitry actually kill the guy? God, she hoped not. Surely there were at least some rules in this disgusting basement.

  Just when she thought she was kidding herself, Mantoba tapped the ground next to Dmitry’s body with one flat palm.

  Volikov released his hold and staggered to his feet.

  The crowd roared.

  Even Marshall screamed at the top of his lungs.

  She had no idea the man next to her held this level of passion for anything, let alone mixed martial arts. And then she realized that wasn’t the case at all. The only thing Marshall had a passion for was money. And he’d just won.

  He spun around so fast, she was stunned, wondering what he was looking for. Without paying an ounce of attention to her, as if he’d forgotten she was with him, he wove through the force of people pressing in on them, heading away from the ring.

  “Marshall,” she called out too late for him to hear. In seconds he was swallowed by the crowd, and she was left standing in the center of the room, suffocating among the screaming patrons. “Fuck.”

  Her aggravation was short-lived however, as her attention returned to the man in the cage. The referee held one hand in the air. Volikov used the other to grip his side gently. His face was a mask of pain.

  The announcer opened the gate to the cage and pressed through the crowd to lead Volikov toward a door on the opposite side of the room.

  Someone bumped into Katie’s side, and she turned to find a man barreling past, making his way forcibly through the mass of people toward Dmitry. The guy physically could have been Volikov’s twin in the workout room. He clearly knew Dmitry well. His brow was furrowed as he shoved through the throng of patrons, heading in the direction Dmitry was moving.

  Katie’s instinct for saving lives kicked in. Leaving her sanity at the door, she worked her way between two men to follow in the stranger’s wake. If she stayed at his back, he would lead her toward the injured fighter.

  It was an easier task than she expected. The man in front of her was a beast of a man. His back had more ripples and muscles than anyone she’d ever seen. If his chest was half as buff, he would be a god without his shirt on. Unfortunately, he did wear a shirt, although it was stretched tight enough across his body to leave little to the imagination.

  His hair… His arms…

  Images of trailing her hands down this man’s back and across his tight ass made her lick her lips. He was the sexiest creature she’d ever laid eyes on.

  Never in her life had she entertained the thought of having sex with an athlete in his prime. The men she’d dated had all been Harvard types—educated, boring, stuffy upper crust.

  Her mouth watered as she inched closer, telling herself her reasoning was to get to the injured fighter, who was clearly in dire straits with a possibly fatal kidney injury.

  Keep telling yourself that, Katie…

  She hardly noticed the speed of their advance, and was shocked when the man in front of her pushed through a door on the far wall. She stayed on his heels, brought up suddenly by a hand as it reached out to stop her, blocking her across the chest. “Who are you?”

  She took her gaze from the sexy ass in front of her to glance at the bouncer-type guy with the scowl. “I’m a doctor. That man who won needs medical attention.”

  The guy she’d followed spun around. “You’re a doctor?”

  “Yes.” She stood taller, as far as her five-foot-four frame would reach.

  The man reached out and grabbed her by the wrist, tugging her past the guard. “Come with me.”

  Hell, yes. She’d be willing to go almost anywhere with him.

  Name the place.

  »»•««

  “Boss?”

  Anton leaned back in his chair and stared at the ceiling. It was the middle of the night. He’d been waiting hours for this call. And he didn’t like the tone in Boris’s voice. “Tell me something I want to hear.”

  “Wish I could. Sorry, Boss. There was no way Erik and I could get our hands on Dmitry or Mikhail. Dmitry was injured in the fight, and some crazy woman from the crowd, claiming to be a doctor, swooped in. We never had a chance.”

  “Fuck.”

  Boris breathed annoyingly in Anton’s ear. “Leo was there.”

  “Not surprising. Did you get a chance to speak to him at least?”

  “No.” Boris sighed. “He took off with the others after the fight. There was never a chance to corner anyone alone. Leo came out of nowhere after Dmitry got injured. Abram was with them too. He drove the men and the doctor to some sort of clinic. We followed but didn’t approach.”

  Jesus. After six months in the slammer, Anton hated returning to find this level of chaos. His own damn father, Grigory Yenin, couldn’t be bothered to keep his six fighters close and working out in Anton’s absence. The man had a one-track mind—the drug lab. Anton knew more than anyone how important the lab was, but what he couldn’t convince his father was how necessary his fighters were to the project.

  If Boris and Erik didn’t pull their shit together and do something right, he was going to have to take his father’s advice and get rid o
f them. They were becoming a liability. “Where are you now?”

  “Outside the clinic. Across the street. No one has left yet.”

  “Do you think you two could possibly keep an eye on them? Figure out where they go next. Who they see. Where they live. Split up. I want those three back in Vegas. They’re my men. Abram can go fuck himself if he thinks I’m going to let him steal my fighters and take over their management. I need my men out of Chicago and back in Vegas. Yesterday.”

  When Anton ended the call, he closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. He had another option—one he’d been considering for a while. It might be time to shift his main operation out of Vegas. After all, he had facilities all over the western half of the country where he could manage his project. And the lab on the outskirts of Chicago was certainly large enough to accommodate his side project.

  He knew the cops were keeping a close eye on him in Vegas since his release, and they wouldn’t let up anytime soon. Too many people were snooping in his business lately. No doubt the FBI was watching him. Vegas was getting a bit hot for his tastes.

  Besides, if half his fighters had decided to head to the Windy City to fight under that asshole, Abram Gromov, the other three guys were likely to follow their friends. It was only a matter of time.

  Perhaps now was as good a time as any to move some of his project from Vegas to Chicago. It would be easier to keep tabs on his fighters and tidier if he needed to bring them back into the fold—with or without their consent.

  Chapter Two

  Leo Gulin slouched on the comfortable, worn, black leather love seat with his head tipped to the cracked ceiling and his eyes closed. After one of the longest nights of his life, he needed a nap, and there was no way he was going to get one anytime soon. In fact, after watching the energetic doctor work on his friend all night, he hadn’t earned the right to feel as exhausted as he did.

  Dr. Katie Schwan.