tags she didn’t want to remember. But did. Even his feet were naked.
Without warning John spun like a coiled snake striking out for the attack. Instinctively she stepped back, but stilled when she realized that while she saw him, John did not see her. The bandanna. It was tied around his head, over his eyes. Blindfolded like that, oblivious to her presence, the man who she’d desperately wanted to be a stranger continued to execute some sort of martial arts routine. His sleek body moved with exacting precision, arms streaking out in deadly punches, legs raised in high, breathtaking kicks. All the while he balanced on the width of those two old boards. One misstep and he would have no chance to recover.
The quickening started low and spread fast, swirling out to touch every part of her. To make her heart slam and her throat go tight. She told herself she should look away, but couldn’t. Told herself she should announce herself, but didn’t want to. He might stop then—and she very much did not want him to stop.
She’d heard the term masculine grace, but she’d always thought it an oxymoron. The men in her family were many things, but graceful was not one of them. Now she watched the fluid movement of Detective John D’Ambrosia and realized she’d been wrong. Like poetry in motion, but with none of the frills. Only strength. And restraint. And precision. A mass of energy concealed by the thinnest of veneers.
She didn’t have to wonder what else his strength and stamina extended to. She already knew.
The cool breeze swirled around her, but heat seared deep. Too easily she could see him as he’d been that first night. Feel him as he’d reached for her and urged her against him. His strength should have frightened. It hadn’t. It had…seduced.
Leave, she told herself, before he realized her mistake. She never should have come here. But a different need held her in place. He executed a series of high kicks and blocks, then a fluid spin. His arms struck out in lightning-quick moves capable of inflicting great bodily damage, had anyone been on the receiving end. Each seemingly effortless movement bled into the next, as well choreographed as ballet—but with the pulsing force of rock and roll.
The way he kicked out his leg drew her attention to his thighs and calves, the dusting of dark hair there. She didn’t want to remember the coarse feel of his legs sliding against hers—but did.
Her breath caught, even though D’Ambrosia, the one exerting himself, showed not one sign of labored breathing. Only the kind of intense concentration that stemmed from patience and discipline.
A hard sound broke from his throat as he executed one last high kick, then spun in a full circle. He then stood unnaturally still, feet shoulder-width apart, and bowed at an imaginary opponent.
“Are you just going to stand there and stare?” came his low, knowing voice. “Or did you have something on your mind?”
Chapter 8
J ohn wadded the bandanna into a tight ball. This was when she went away. When she always, always went away. When he pulled the blindfold from his face or opened his eyes, when he slapped on the light and crushed the darkness. When he pushed aside illusion, and focused on reality.
His heart pounded hard—from exertion, he told himself—but he kept his breathing level. That was part of the challenge. See how far he could push, how deeply he could control. Make his muscles burn, but don’t let them shake. Make his blood pump, but never let it spill.
Bring his senses to life, but never let them take over.
She stood along the edge of the old, rotting pier, the one he’d fished from as a young boy, the one his daddy had helped his granddaddy build. Her hair was pulled back from her face, in a long braid he would guess, leaving only a few strands feathering against her jawbone. Her cheeks had color. Her eyes were as dark as the brackish water of the dying lake behind her.
And her jacket, sweet Christ, it was
Without warning John spun like a coiled snake striking out for the attack. Instinctively she stepped back, but stilled when she realized that while she saw him, John did not see her. The bandanna. It was tied around his head, over his eyes. Blindfolded like that, oblivious to her presence, the man who she’d desperately wanted to be a stranger continued to execute some sort of martial arts routine. His sleek body moved with exacting precision, arms streaking out in deadly punches, legs raised in high, breathtaking kicks. All the while he balanced on the width of those two old boards. One misstep and he would have no chance to recover.
The quickening started low and spread fast, swirling out to touch every part of her. To make her heart slam and her throat go tight. She told herself she should look away, but couldn’t. Told herself she should announce herself, but didn’t want to. He might stop then—and she very much did not want him to stop.
She’d heard the term masculine grace, but she’d always thought it an oxymoron. The men in her family were many things, but graceful was not one of them. Now she watched the fluid movement of Detective John D’Ambrosia and realized she’d been wrong. Like poetry in motion, but with none of the frills. Only strength. And restraint. And precision. A mass of energy concealed by the thinnest of veneers.
She didn’t have to wonder what else his strength and stamina extended to. She already knew.
The cool breeze swirled around her, but heat seared deep. Too easily she could see him as he’d been that first night. Feel him as he’d reached for her and urged her against him. His strength should have frightened. It hadn’t. It had…seduced.
Leave, she told herself, before he realized her mistake. She never should have come here. But a different need held her in place. He executed a series of high kicks and blocks, then a fluid spin. His arms struck out in lightning-quick moves capable of inflicting great bodily damage, had anyone been on the receiving end. Each seemingly effortless movement bled into the next, as well choreographed as ballet—but with the pulsing force of rock and roll.
The way he kicked out his leg drew her attention to his thighs and calves, the dusting of dark hair there. She didn’t want to remember the coarse feel of his legs sliding against hers—but did.
Her breath caught, even though D’Ambrosia, the one exerting himself, showed not one sign of labored breathing. Only the kind of intense concentration that stemmed from patience and discipline.
A hard sound broke from his throat as he executed one last high kick, then spun in a full circle. He then stood unnaturally still, feet shoulder-width apart, and bowed at an imaginary opponent.
“Are you just going to stand there and stare?” came his low, knowing voice. “Or did you have something on your mind?”
Chapter 8
J ohn wadded the bandanna into a tight ball. This was when she went away. When she always, always went away. When he pulled the blindfold from his face or opened his eyes, when he slapped on the light and crushed the darkness. When he pushed aside illusion, and focused on reality.
His heart pounded hard—from exertion, he told himself—but he kept his breathing level. That was part of the challenge. See how far he could push, how deeply he could control. Make his muscles burn, but don’t let them shake. Make his blood pump, but never let it spill.
Bring his senses to life, but never let them take over.
She stood along the edge of the old, rotting pier, the one he’d fished from as a young boy, the one his daddy had helped his granddaddy build. Her hair was pulled back from her face, in a long braid he would guess, leaving only a few strands feathering against her jawbone. Her cheeks had color. Her eyes were as dark as the brackish water of the dying lake behind her.
And her jacket, sweet Christ, it was
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