The Fighter’s Secret Child: The Burton Brothers Series, #3

By Leslie North

A few years ago, Rachel strutted around the ring wearing next to nothing. Now she's back with Beck's baby… and he's not letting her go.

 

Ex-ring girl Rachel St. Martin used to love the thrill of MMA, but there was only one fighter she ever fell for. With his deep blue eyes and rippling muscles, Beck Burton stole her heart. But when she got pregnant, one taste of his explosive temper was enough to know she couldn't have him around her child. She already lived through that with her own father. She swore she'd never go back, but with baby Chaz in need of a bone marrow transplant, Beck may be her son's only chance.

 

Beck has had more than his share of ring bunnies, but gorgeous, red-haired Rachel is the only woman he's never been able to forget. When they fought two years ago, he had no idea she'd walk out on him for good. He may have lost his cool then, but she should have known he only uses his fists inside the ring. Now she wants nothing more from him than a transfusion, but if Beck can get his anger issues under control, he may get a chance to win back her and his son. It's a challenge he'd hate to lose.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Relay Publishing
• Release date: May 2, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393388906

Book preview

Prologue

D ammit, Beck, you’re meant to be the champ, not some wuss off the street. Start acting like it!

Beck glanced over at his brother. Mason was still getting over his motorcycle accident—he insisted he was fine, but Beck and Bryant were both keeping a close eye on the guy. The docs had sent Mason home with a warning to watch for headaches, dizziness, or anything unusual.

Watching Mason meant Beck wasn’t watching Bryant—his sparring partner today. Beck turned just as Bryant threw a straight jab that caught Beck square on the jaw. He staggered back and Bryant swept Beck’s feet out from under him.

From outside the sparing ring, Mason groaned. What the hell are you thinking about, Beck? It sure isn’t your game. A kid could have ducked that punch! You just defended your title for the second time! You won in the first round by a knock-out. And now…I swear your head is in party land.

Slowly climbing to his feet, his face hot, Beck held up his hands. He spit out his mouth guard and threw Mason a hard stare. Oh, stuff it. I’m just—

Hung-over? Mason asked.

Bryant spit out his mouth guard, too, and offered up a grin. Brother, you’ve got to lay off the girls.

Beck gave Bryant the same stink eye he’d offered Mason. Just because you two opted for chaining your asses down with rings on your fingers that doesn’t mean I have to act like a married man. I learned my lesson—boy did I ever. Girls are meant for one good night, and that’s it. Beck wiped sweat from his forehead. Besides, I was in bed last night by eleven.

Yeah, the question is who was with you? Bryant asked.

Temper heating up, Beck swung at him, narrowly missing. Mason clapped his hands. Enough chatter. Let’s try that again. And this time, Beck, get your mind on what’s happening in front of your face. Put some of that heat I can see in your face to good use!

Beck put in his mouth guard and settled back into a fighting stance. Half an hour later, he’d given Bryant back as good as he’d gotten—they were both sweating and breathing hard. The sparing had worked out most of the anger that had been simmering in Beck.

Ringing a bell, Mason announced, Okay, guys. Enough for the day. Beck, you didn’t get your workout with weights in—so let’s do a few sets before you hit the showers.

Unwrapping his hands, and pulling out his mouth guard, Beck rolled his shoulders. Mason, who died and made you God?

Mason grinned. Uh, that would be you when you signed up with me as your trainer.

Bryant leaned in closer. You must have been crazy. Terry Anders would have taken you on.

Beck gave a snort. Anders has enough on his plate with you marrying his daughter, and a grandkid on the way now. Hey, how’s Alice doing? She over her morning sickness yet?

I wish. She and Avery went out shopping for baby stuff. Do you have any idea how many things a baby needs?

With a laugh, Beck shook his head. Don’t know. Don’t want to know. I’m going to be the bachelor uncle that spoils your kids.

You’re going to be on your ass, if you don’t get out here and hit the weights, Mason called out.

Okay, okay, Beck said. Climbing out of the ring, he headed to the weights. The dojo smelled of sweat and cool air from the vents. This early he had the place to himself, and he liked the quiet. Most of the fighters training here came in the afternoon and evening, since most of them also held a day job.

With their folks officially retired now, Mason and Bryant were running the school. Bryant had taken up the mixed-martial arts classes, and Mason was now heading into training. He was also still supposed to be taking it easy, so when he held out the weights, Beck took them from him with a narrowed-eyed stare. What part of resting don’t you get?

Mason offered up a crooked smile. Pretty much all of it. Honestly, I feel fine—most of the time. And it’s not my head that hurts—it’s the broken arm that should have healed. I swear I’m better than a barometer at telling the weather now.

Beck nodded. Just be glad your head is harder than the ground.

Arms folded, Mason watched Beck work the weights. When he’d finished a set and paused, Mason asked, What’s eating at you?

Beck picked up a hand weight and started curls. Damn if he was going to tell Mason that it was about this time two years ago that Rachel—

He cut off the thought. He wasn’t going to think about her, or about Fiji, or about how he’d failed to track down a girl who should have been easy to find. Not thinking—not remembering.

But all too often, he’d catch a glimpse of a girl just outside the ring and he’d do a double-take, his heart rate going up and his chest hurting hard as if someone had punched him. It never was her. How did anyone disappear as thoroughly as she had?

Beck forced a laugh. He put down the weight. Only thing eating at me is that it’s too long until my next fight. He stood and faced Mason. You know I don’t do well if it’s too long.

Yeah, yeah, you’re already looking for trouble. Mason slapped a hand on Beck’s shoulder. Or more like if trouble comes around, you’ll hit first and talk later. Don’t worry. Terry Anders may not be training much, but he’s keeping an eye on other fighters. We’ll get you something lined up soon.

Becks nodded. Grabbing a towel he headed for the showers. He glanced over to the faded poster tacked up on the wall near the coffee. Faded and peeling, it still showed a girl that would turn anyone’s head.

Beck’s anger kindled—a bright, hot flare. He wouldn’t let Mason or Bryant take the poster down—it motivated his will to fight. Just looking at it right now he wanted to walk over to the bag and start punching. And keep punching until he dropped. That, and a girl hanging on his arm, was about the only thing that kept his mind off Rachel, wherever the hell she was.

1

Rachel St. Martin stepped out of the taxi and looked up at the business sign, proclaiming it the home of the Burton Brothers Martial Arts School. It had been two and a half years since she’d last seen that sign and her stomach jumped at the thought of what kind of welcome might face her now.

Reaching back inside the taxi, she unbuckled the seatbelt stretched across the car seat. Her little man’s head was slumped against his shoulder, after their flight he’d fallen asleep on the ride from the airport. He was the spitting image of his father, a fact she hoped would work in her favor in just a few minutes.

The taxi driver helped her with her luggage, leaving it on the sidewalk. It wasn’t much. A backpack and a wheeled suitcase. She gave him the generous tip she’d promised. He’d not only loaded her luggage, he’d made a special trip back inside the airport to retrieve the car seat she’d brought along as part of her checked baggage.

Thank you, she said. She ignored the wink he gave her.

Rachel was used to that—and to the looks men threw her way. She’d spent five years as a ring girl for the local MMA commission, strutting around between rounds in a barely-there bikini top, and boy shorts that hugged her ass like a second skin.

Her job had been to look beautiful, announce which round was next, and in general make sure she left every hot-blooded male salivating for their next glimpse of her perfect body. The pay had been great. And she’d banked every