humble beginnings, Kate. Never got around to much higher education, and a lot of the time, the only thing I heard spoken was Russian.”
He stirred the eggs in the pan with a wooden spoon, his left hand adjusting the gas flame to his liking, all of his movements in the kitchen as clean and spare as they had been out on the patio.
What would he be like as a lover?
Oh, Lord. She gulped some coffee as he turned to look at her again. “We’re not supposed to do this, you know,” he said.
Think about each other as lovers? Yes, I know.
“But…” She held his gaze as long as she could, but it was intense and did stupid things to her pulse, so she looked down. “Since we’re alone in this villa, I think we can be totally honest with each other and swear on whatever it is you swear on that we will keep each other’s secrets.”
He’d returned to the eggs, dead silent and still except for the hand working the pan.
“You can tell me who you are, what you do, and why you’re here,” she continued.
“I can’t.”
She slapped the counter lightly as frustration rocked through her. “Why not?”
He removed the eggs from the heat, as calm as she was worked up. “Because having that information puts you in a dangerous situation, Kate. It’s better if you don’t know it.”
“Puh-lease,” she scoffed. “You don’t really think someone is going to try to torture the truth out of me.”
Every ounce of humor evaporated from his expression as his features turned hard, cold, and mean. “That is exactly what I think.”
Her gaze dropped to his hand again, the one holding the pan, the one marked with a Russian word. What kind of people would torture her to get to him? What kind of—
“Holy shit.” She put her hand up to her mouth, but that didn’t hold back the terrifying truth. “The Russian mob.”
His whole body, every amazing muscle in it, froze. Without so much as a breath of response, he finished the scrambled eggs and put them on two plates, placing one in front of her with a fork and napkin from a drawer. Each move was spare, silent, and stiff with anger.
“Thanks.” She spread the napkin on her lap while he got his own fork, waiting for him to sit next to her. But he made no move to come around the counter and join her. “Am I right?” she asked, pushing him like a reluctant witness in court, certain she was so, so right.
His jaw locked as he gave her a death stare. “Don’t do this, Kate. Just…don’t.”
She lifted up her fork and imagined exactly what she’d do in court. Walk back to her notes. Take a minute to let the obvious answer, however unspoken, burn into the jury’s collective conscience.
And try another line of questioning.
After she scooped some eggs, she angled her head and asked, “How long have you been teaching jiu-jitsu?”
He leaned against the counter, holding the plate in one hand, the fork in the other. As she hoped, he visibly relaxed when she changed the subject.
“I’m an MMA trainer, not a jiu-jitsu instructor,” he said. “Though that’s my strongest discipline. I know enough of all the martial arts to use techniques in training MMA fighters.”
“MMA.” She sipped her coffee, thinking about what she knew about martial arts. “That’s more or less like a wrestling match, right? Only…more violent?”
A hint of a smile pulled. “Much more. And mixed martial arts is more than wrestling, although wrestling is a big part of it.”
Over the rim of her cup, she stole another long look at him, imagining him in some brief, tight, body-hugging shorts going after an opponent in a ring. She hated that kind of stuff, really had no stomach for it at all, but imagining him… Well, she didn’t hate that at all.
“And they do this for fun?”
“Guys generally fight for money or titles or placement, if they’re pros. MMA is a sport,” he said, a thin note of defensiveness in his voice. “It’s a legit athletic event with a commission and rules and
He stirred the eggs in the pan with a wooden spoon, his left hand adjusting the gas flame to his liking, all of his movements in the kitchen as clean and spare as they had been out on the patio.
What would he be like as a lover?
Oh, Lord. She gulped some coffee as he turned to look at her again. “We’re not supposed to do this, you know,” he said.
Think about each other as lovers? Yes, I know.
“But…” She held his gaze as long as she could, but it was intense and did stupid things to her pulse, so she looked down. “Since we’re alone in this villa, I think we can be totally honest with each other and swear on whatever it is you swear on that we will keep each other’s secrets.”
He’d returned to the eggs, dead silent and still except for the hand working the pan.
“You can tell me who you are, what you do, and why you’re here,” she continued.
“I can’t.”
She slapped the counter lightly as frustration rocked through her. “Why not?”
He removed the eggs from the heat, as calm as she was worked up. “Because having that information puts you in a dangerous situation, Kate. It’s better if you don’t know it.”
“Puh-lease,” she scoffed. “You don’t really think someone is going to try to torture the truth out of me.”
Every ounce of humor evaporated from his expression as his features turned hard, cold, and mean. “That is exactly what I think.”
Her gaze dropped to his hand again, the one holding the pan, the one marked with a Russian word. What kind of people would torture her to get to him? What kind of—
“Holy shit.” She put her hand up to her mouth, but that didn’t hold back the terrifying truth. “The Russian mob.”
His whole body, every amazing muscle in it, froze. Without so much as a breath of response, he finished the scrambled eggs and put them on two plates, placing one in front of her with a fork and napkin from a drawer. Each move was spare, silent, and stiff with anger.
“Thanks.” She spread the napkin on her lap while he got his own fork, waiting for him to sit next to her. But he made no move to come around the counter and join her. “Am I right?” she asked, pushing him like a reluctant witness in court, certain she was so, so right.
His jaw locked as he gave her a death stare. “Don’t do this, Kate. Just…don’t.”
She lifted up her fork and imagined exactly what she’d do in court. Walk back to her notes. Take a minute to let the obvious answer, however unspoken, burn into the jury’s collective conscience.
And try another line of questioning.
After she scooped some eggs, she angled her head and asked, “How long have you been teaching jiu-jitsu?”
He leaned against the counter, holding the plate in one hand, the fork in the other. As she hoped, he visibly relaxed when she changed the subject.
“I’m an MMA trainer, not a jiu-jitsu instructor,” he said. “Though that’s my strongest discipline. I know enough of all the martial arts to use techniques in training MMA fighters.”
“MMA.” She sipped her coffee, thinking about what she knew about martial arts. “That’s more or less like a wrestling match, right? Only…more violent?”
A hint of a smile pulled. “Much more. And mixed martial arts is more than wrestling, although wrestling is a big part of it.”
Over the rim of her cup, she stole another long look at him, imagining him in some brief, tight, body-hugging shorts going after an opponent in a ring. She hated that kind of stuff, really had no stomach for it at all, but imagining him… Well, she didn’t hate that at all.
“And they do this for fun?”
“Guys generally fight for money or titles or placement, if they’re pros. MMA is a sport,” he said, a thin note of defensiveness in his voice. “It’s a legit athletic event with a commission and rules and
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