No Limits

By: Lori Foster


COILED TIGHT WITH TENSION, Cannon sat in the leather chair and faced the lawyer’s desk with loaded impatience. From head to toe, his battered body ached, but at present his mind focused on less-physical issues. After finally landing back in the States, he’d planned to spend the day in the hot tub, and the night in bed—with enough female company to help him forget how close he’d come to losing his last fight.

Three days ago he’d taken on the biggest challenge of his career, his most publicized bout on the main card for the Supreme Battle Championship—in Japan with a packed house and a lot of expectation from the organization.

Though he’d taken plenty of hits himself, he’d been beating his opponent on points...and then he’d fucked up.

After catching a kick to the liver, he’d lost his air, bent double in excruciating pain, and was going down. Only pure instinct had helped him throw one last punch when his opponent had charged in for the kill.

That punch had landed dead center on the Pit Bull’s glass jaw. Lights out.

He’d struggled to stand upright while the other man came back around, and the fight had ended with him as the winner. But damn, it had been close, and being the winner didn’t negate the hits and kicks he’d absorbed. He needed some R & R.

However, all his plans for taking it easy had gone awry when he’d gotten summoned back to Warfield, Ohio. It was a three-hour drive, and usually when he made the trip, he visited friends first thing.

This time, though, he waited around as a stuffy lawyer flipped through paperwork and a female assistant gave him the eye.

“Ah, here we are,” the lawyer said, rattling his damn papers and looking at Cannon over the top of his reading glasses. “I’m sorry for the delay. Since I had expected you yesterday, you’ve taken me off guard.”

The rebuke was wasted on Cannon. “Like I said, I was out of the country.” Shifting, he tried not to flinch from his many aches.

“Japan, yes?”

Unwilling to encourage more chitchat, he gave a single nod.

Again sorting papers, the lawyer said, “You’re a fighter? Isn’t that right?”


“The SBC?”

“Yeah.” Hell, he had the fight club logo on his T-shirt. He sat forward, his forearms on his thighs. He had no idea what this was about, but he wanted to get to it. “Look, how much longer is this going to take?”

Frank Whitaker divided papers into three stacks. “I only need a moment to get organized.”

Organized with what? Cannon knew this had something to do with Tipton Sweeny, a local pawnshop owner who’d recently passed away. “If I hadn’t been out of the country, I would have attended the funeral.” And maybe seen Yvette, Tipton’s granddaughter.

Just thinking about her stoked up his tension.

Without looking away from his papers, the fifty-something, overweight lawyer said, “I’m sure everyone understands.”

Cannon had only known Tipton as a local business owner, a staple in the community he loved. His granddaughter, Yvette, attended school with Cannon’s sister. That was where any real relationship ended.

Except that Yvette had always flirted with him, he’d always avoided her...right up until the day he’d kissed her, the day he’d wanted to go on kissing her and more—after helping to rescue her from perverted thugs.

Shit, shit, shit.

He didn’t want to think about that, about her. So much time had passed, and still she had the ability to blow his composure.

How was she? Still in California apparently, or she’d be the one here dealing with...whatever had to be dealt with. “Didn’t Tipton have other relatives?”

“Yes, I’m sure he did.”

So how the hell was Cannon involved?

Cannon watched the assistant glide in, leading with her big breasts. A wave of perfume drifted with her. She handed more documents to the disorganized suit and then, smiling at Cannon, moved close enough to brush her thigh against his. Smiling down at him, she touched his knee. “Would you like a cola? Coffee?”

Trying not to be too obvious, he moved out of her reach. With women, he always stayed cool.

Except for that time with Yvette.

“Water would be nice. Thanks.”

“Of course.” She shifted her hand to his shoulder, stroked, felt his muscle beneath the soft cotton of his faded T-shirt and then trailed off. “I’ll get it right now.”

Being a guy, and therefore not immune to a come-on, Cannon looked her over more closely as she left. She had one of those supercurvy figures that got enhanced with a cinched suit, skirt and soft blouse. High-heeled pumps showed off her sexy calves. Big breasts, full hips, twisted-up pale blond hair. She wore her sexuality out there, almost bludgeoning him with her interest, her sly looks and the occasional lick of her shiny red lips.

Women hit on him, no big deal. But never in a lawyer’s office under these circumstances.

Was she doing the lawyer? Were her blatant come-ons to make Whitaker jealous? Cannon eyed the older man, wondering if he’d even noticed the dozen different ways his assistant had already made her interest known.