Hard to Handle Read online

  PRAISE FOR THE NOVELS OF

  LORI FOSTER

  Jude’s Law

  “A delightful, lighthearted, romantic romp.”

  —The BestReviews.com

  “It’s impossible not to feel heat radiating off the pages, especially during their hard-earned love scenes…[The story has] neatly dovetailing plotlines.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “With her trademark blend of danger, humor, and passion, Foster has written another entertaining romance.”

  —Booklist (starred review)

  The Winston Brothers stories

  and Wild

  “Funny, fast, and sexy.”

  —Stella Cameron

  “Wild lives up to its title.”

  —Midwest Book Review

  “Her books [are] always sexy, with heroes to die for…Foster’s books can help you heat up during the cold, dark days of winter.”

  —BellaOnline.com

  “A talented author whose work shines, especially during erotic encounters.”

  —TheRomanceReader.com

  “A sizzling voyage of discovery…A sensual treat that combines fascinating character development with a terrific plot…A tantalizing and titillating delight.”

  —WordWeaving.com

  MORE PRAISE FOR

  LORI FOSTER

  “The pages sizzle.”

  —New York Times bestselling author Christine Feehan

  “Fun, sexy, warmhearted…just what people want in a romance.”

  —New York Times bestselling author Jayne Ann Krentz

  “Lori Foster delivers both heartwarming emotions and heart-stopping love scenes.”

  —New York Times bestselling author Jennifer Crusie

  “Foster outwrites most of her peers.”

  —Library Journal

  “Lori Foster delivers the goods.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “Known for her funny, sexy writing.”

  —Booklist

  Titles by Lori Foster

  THE WINSTON BROTHERS

  WILD

  CAUSING HAVOC

  SIMON SAYS

  HARD TO HANDLE

  Anthology

  WILDLY WINSTON

  Writing as L. L. Foster

  SERVANT: THE AWAKENING

  HARD TO HANDLE

  LORI FOSTER

  THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc. 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA

  Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.) Penguin Books Ltd., 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England Penguin Group Ireland, 25 St. Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd.) Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty. Ltd.) Penguin Books India Pvt. Ltd., 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi—110 017, India Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, North Shore 0632, New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd.) Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty.) Ltd., 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa

  Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  HARD TO HANDLE

  A Berkley Book / published by arrangement with the author

  Copyright © 2008 by Lori Foster.

  Stepback art: Nude Couple Embrace by David Perry / Photonica / Getty.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  ISBN: 978-1-1012-0689-8

  BERKLEY®

  Berkley Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  BERKLEY® is a registered trademark of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  The “B” design is a trademark belonging to Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  To Frank Trigg, www.taggradio.com

  Thanks for the phone interview, the insights into a fighter’s life, and the perspective on ultimate fighting. Your generosity is very much appreciated.

  And special thanks to Fight! magazine, www.fightmagazine.com

  I really enjoyed the fabulous prefight party, and I scored some incredible photos!

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Epilogue

  CHAPTER 1

  A light sheen of sweat clung to his body. With each heavy, broken breath, the musky, appealing scent of sex filled his nostrils. On a groan, Harley Handleman rolled away from the woman lying facedown beneath him. Eyes burning and his heartbeat still thundering, he fell onto his back.

  Lord have mercy. She had drained him, used him up; he definitely felt sated.

  But still, curiously, he remained unfulfilled.

  Several minutes passed before his pulse slowed to a normal pace and cool air dried the dampness on his chest. The woman never stirred.

  He was glad of that. Any small talk after sex bored him. Anything more than small talk annoyed him.

  He was a prick and he knew it, but he told women up-front what he wanted, and what he didn’t. Gloria—he didn’t know her last name—had crawled into bed with him with her eyes wide open, her illusions dashed…and an anticipatory smile on her face.

  Staring at the ceiling, Harley put his right arm behind his head and, by male instinct alone, reached his left hand over to palpate a lush derriere. Silky skin encouraged the light caress, but it was an uninvolved gesture.

  Already his thoughts had gone from sex to other, more pertinent things.

  Life.

  Family.

  The upcoming fight.

  His brain ticked like a bomb.

  Because of his MMA fighting success in the SBC organization, and his easy carnal triumphs with women, most men would envy him.

  But they didn’t know everything.

  They didn’t live with his constant, gnawing need to not only succeed in mixed martial arts, but win an SBC title belt.

  Thinking about it demolished his relaxed state; every muscle went taut.

  So many times he’d come close to proving himself a champion, working his way through the ranks, annihilating every fighter in his path. Three times he’d been scheduled for the title fight.

  He hadn’t made it to a single one.

  Fate played some dirty tricks, constantly tossing obstacles into his path to be
champion. How many more opportunities would the SBC give him?

  The disquiet he suffered had haunted him for too long. Some things were out of his control; other things were not. It was past time to make some changes.

  Where to start?

  An icy wind threw sleet against the windows. The light of a full moon and streetlamps added illumination to the darkened bedroom, sending shadows to dance over the ceiling. Second by second, Harley grew edgier until he could no longer stay still.

  He sat up in the bed and swung his legs over the side.

  Time to go. Past time to go.

  Over his shoulder, he glanced at the woman still stretched out on the mattress, her breathing soft and even in heavy sleep.

  He never slept with women.

  He couldn’t.

  His gaze tracked her soft body—from the soles of her arched feet, over that tantalizing rump, up the length of her delicate spine, all the way to her manicured fingertips.

  He felt nothing.

  He definitely didn’t feel the need to snuggle down and sleep.

  Anxious to go, he reached for the silk scarf binding her slender wrists to the slatted headboard. Thanks to her enthusiasm, the knot had tightened, making it difficult to undo. As Harley worked it free, she remained utterly limp in the way of sound slumber.

  He envied her that.

  Brushing long, tangled blond hair away from the side of her face, he studied her serene expression, her parted lips. A few strands of long hair tangled with her thick lashes.

  Wanting something, some small response, Harley trailed a fingertip down her nape, her back, all the way to her tailbone.

  She squirmed a little, sighed, and smiled.

  His eyes narrowed; the smile was enough.

  He couldn’t control much in his life right now, but he had controlled her. He’d controlled the pace, her pleasure, and his own. On impulse, and because he was a bona fide ass man through and through, Harley bent and pressed a soft kiss to one cheek.

  The woman snuggled deeper into the covers and let out another sigh.

  Being a gentleman, Harley made sure to bring the thick coverlet up and over her before he left. Even indoors, the bitter weather left a bone-trembling chill in the air.

  After carrying his clothes and shoes into the living room, he dressed. Then, holding his keys in a closed fist so they wouldn’t make a sound, he put on his coat and exited her house for the frigid outdoors. The woman would want him to call again, and maybe he would.

  But probably not.

  Leaving the warm bed only made the night wind that much worse. The moon played peekaboo with heavy clouds, leaving Harley’s path alternately well lit, then dark as sin.

  But the weather didn’t matter. To keep his options open, Harley never stayed over at a woman’s place, just as he never brought a woman home to his place—wherever home might be at the time.

  Right now, home was three hours south of Harmony, Kentucky, in a small cabin in the hills near Echo Lake. After fucking up his elbow and losing out on another title bout, he’d needed the seclusion, the time to reflect.

  The time to do as he damned well pleased without everyone scrutinizing his every move, worrying about him, making assumptions on his state of mind.

  The Jeep hummed to life, kicking hot air over Harley’s jean-covered legs. Hands cupped together, shoulders hunched against the cold, he looked out the windshield at the rapidly sinking moon. The long, winding road to his rented cabin would take him into daybreak.

  But so what?

  He didn’t punch a time clock—never had. Here in the hills where he routinely came to prep for a fight, he could use any schedule he wanted. His time was his own, and he bent it any way he liked.

  The isolation worked to his advantage.

  While rehabbing his elbow, he’d spent weeks jogging alone, pushing himself when he wanted, relaxing when he felt like it, all in higher altitude. Without the lure of fast-food restaurants, he’d eaten only specially prepared meals that had him especially lean and muscular. Getting up at dawn—or sometimes, as now, being still up at dawn—made it convenient to work on cardio and stamina.

  He was in the best physical condition of his life, and soon he could rejoin Dean’s gym to start boning up on technique. Sublime had already defended his title belt once.

  Next, if things worked out as they should, he’d have to defend it against Harley.

  But even if the SBC set up the fight, who knew if he’d actually make it into the competition? Every damn time things seemed to be going his way, something bizarre happened to fuck up his plans.

  He hated it.

  He was fed up. He…

  Ah hell.

  Putting the Jeep in gear, Harley backed out of the driveway, past the tall pine trees until his tires hit the snow-covered gravel road. He would not sit around stewing on the unfairness of life.

  Instead, he put his mind to thinking about all he planned to do that day.

  This was his third year staying in the same cabin. Like the lovely lady he’d just left, tourists were the norm right now. They came and went, a new crowd each year, and that suited Harley fine. So far, the only familiar female face in town was that of Anastasia Bradley, the woman who rented him the cabin.

  Anastasia knew to hold the place for him during certain months. They had an unspoken but solid agreement that worked for them both.

  She had guaranteed rental on her cabin.

  He had a reliable place that suited him.

  With his thoughts bounding this way and that, Harley drove through the dark night. Sure enough, gray dawn cut through the never-ending sleet by the time he started past Anastasia’s cabin, which sat half a mile down the hill from the one he rented.

  To his surprise, she was out front already, bundled up head to toe and chopping—or attempting to chop—wood.

  What the hell?

  It was all of about twenty-five degrees and blustery to boot. Even the roosters weren’t awake yet. The ax she swung probably weighed more than she did.

  Frowning, Harley pulled into her drive. She had an ancient CD player blaring hard rock music and didn’t hear his approach.

  Dangerous.

  They were far from the minuscule town, hidden in heavy woods, with no neighbors to speak of.

  The ebb and flow of female tourists meant Harley didn’t have to worry about any one woman becoming too clingy. But there were just as many men traveling through the area, strangers who could be nice—or not.

  Living in seclusion was unsafe for any woman, but especially a woman who didn’t take necessary precautions.

  After turning off his Jeep and getting out, Harley watched Anastasia. On many levels, she fascinated him.

  She never came on to him, didn’t try to impress him, and spoke as up front as any man, but with less colorful language.

  He appreciated those qualities every time he did business with her.

  As a man, he wondered at her apparent indifference to him. Not that he was conceited. But…yeah, he’d come to expect it from women.

  Right now, Anastasia wore a navy stocking cap pulled down low over her shoulder-length dark hair, a hooded sweatshirt over that, and a lumberjack-type coat over that. Quilted knee boots protected her feet.

  She swung the ax with verve, and inaccuracy. If he didn’t intercede, she’d maim herself.

  Out of self-preservation, Harley kept his distance. “Anastasia!”

  The wind sucked away his words, making them indecipherable from the music. Damn it.

  Looking around, Harley spotted a long stick and a rock. He chose the rock.

  Tossing it just beyond her, so that it landed in the meager pile of splintered wood, he waited.

  Anastasia paused, stared toward the rock, and without haste or worry, looked over her shoulder. Above her red nose, her dark brown eyes warmed. “Harley.”

  She set aside the ax and strode toward the porch to turn down the music. Mitten-covered hands coming up so she could blow warm breath on
them, she approached. “What are you doing up so early?”

  It was more a matter of being up late, but Harley kept his business to himself. He nodded toward the woodpile. “Planning a fire?”

  “Hopefully not, but with this weather, electricity is never guaranteed. There’s plenty up at your cabin, don’t worry. I made sure of that over the summer. But my supply was low.”

  Had she personally chopped the wood on his front porch? He had serious doubts.

  Though he’d just wrapped up an all-night sexual marathon, no man with a conscience could walk away from her predicament. “Go on inside.” He headed for the ax. “I’ll finish up.”

  “No way!” At five-five, Anastasia was damn near a foot shorter than him. That didn’t stop her from making a stand, though. She rushed around in front of him and planted her boot-covered feet. “You are a guest renter, Harley Handleman, not a hired hand. There’s absolutely no way that I can allow you to—”

  Small talk was not his forte. Harley walked around her, away from her objections. After situating a log on the chopping stump and hefting the ax, he spared one glance for Anastasia. “Stay back so you don’t get hurt.”

  Her brows pinched down. “I mean it, Harley. Don’t you dare—”

  He split the log with one blow.

  Nonplussed, Anastasia loosened her rigid posture. “Oh. Well.” She let out a breath. “You made that look easy.”

  Harley shrugged.

  She started to pick up the split pieces, but he had it done before she could. She crossed her arms. “You’re good at this. Much better than me.”

  No kidding. Because he’d only seen Anastasia in the colder months, he hadn’t had much opportunity to examine her physique without thick sweaters, sweatshirts, and bulky layers. But no amount of clothing could disguise her small bone structure and slight weight. He saw it in the delicate lines of her throat, her slender wrists and tapered fingers.

  “I’m a man,” he said, and figured that was explanation enough.

  “A male chauvinist,” Anastasia clarified with amusement, “but granted, a fit one. I suppose it wouldn’t hurt if you only did a few pieces…” She trailed off, undecided and arguing more with herself than him, since Harley paid her no mind and just kept working.