I can, Cinder thought.
“I was sent home to recuperate,” Chip said. “Three surgeries and a year of physical therapy corrected the muscular, skeletal, and nerve damage in my leg. When Gian asked me to come to Webster Groves and work for him, he wouldn’t take no for an answer, even when we didn’t know if I’d ever walk again.” He slapped his upper thigh. “I’ve got enough titanium in here to build a battleship, but it works almost as good as new, thanks to Sheng Li and Sue Pan.”
“Is Sue Pan another form of martial arts?”
Chip laughed softly. “No, she’s the physical therapist who helps me out here.”
They walked in silence, passing well-lit houses where families sat for dinner, or teenagers laughed and chatted on wide, wraparound porches. Cinder offered a polite smile to an older couple walking a pug that strained against its leash.
A young woman in neon running shoes jogged toward them. She eyed Chip so closely that she nearly collided with Cinder. When the woman passed, Cinder peeped over her shoulder to see the petite brunette runner staring back at Chip, her sweating face split in a leering grin. Cinder studied Chip, forcing herself to view him anew, to see him as the overheated jogger had.
He was the very picture of summer sexiness, and Cinder realized that she should have been enjoying his company. She was. Yet in taking inventory of Chip’s good qualities and good looks, she couldn’t stop comparing him to Gian.
A few inches taller than Chip, Gian was long, lean, and elegant compared to Chip’s compact, gym-built physique. Chip was as quick to smile as Gian was to scowl; he was sunny and open to Gian’s authoritative, business-like demeanor.
She sensed a tender vulnerability within Chip’s apparent strength that left her affection for him more familial than carnal. She sensed no such vulnerability in Gian, who was as solid and stoic as a Marvel superhero. From what she’d seen so far, Gian was everything Zae had promised: patient but firm, knowledgeable, handsome.
Chip had a mouth built for kissing, but it only made Cinder want to know what it would feel like to press her lips to Gian’s head and cradle it to her bosom. Not many men could carry off a near-buzz cut. Gian’s square jaw balanced his broad forehead. His eyebrows were manly, not too heavy and not too thin—the perfect awnings for his deep-set hazel eyes. Gian’s face never showed his emotions, but his eyes betrayed him every time Cinder looked into them.
He was curious about her, but unlike most people she’d met in Webster Groves, he asked questions outright. When he accidentally bloodied her nose, his face had remained totally calm, but his eyes had telegraphed his concern for her. Gian was so different in appearance and temperament from Chip, yet every bit as beautiful inside and out.
Cinder shook her head to clear it of that last. She hadn’t enrolled at Gian’s school because of his looks or personality. She wanted only to learn what he knew— how to kill a man a hundred different ways with no weapons other than her hands and feet.
“This is you,” Chip said, stopping.
“I’m sorry?”
“This is your house, isn’t it?”
She answered with a reserved smile.
“Got some things on your mind?” Chip shoved his hands into his pockets and rocked on his heels.
“I didn’t think it showed,” she replied. “Thank you for the walk home.”
She climbed three short concrete steps leading to the long flagged path in front of the three-story Victorian. Chip vaulted the stairs to get ahead of Cinder.
“I think I already know the answer to the question I’m about to ask you, but I have to ask anyway,” he started. “Would you have lunch with me sometime? I’d really like to get to know you better.”
With the fiery pink and orange sunset and the warm breeze filtering through his goldenrod curls, Chip looked like a figure from a Renoir painting. It had been so long since she’d gotten a date invitation, and Chip was someone she might eventually like as more than a friend. The last thing she wanted to do was give him reason to expect more than she could give, so she phrased her answer very specifically.
“That would be nice,” she said. “Maybe we could invite Zae along with us. She really likes you and she rarely goes out because of her teaching schedule.”
Aiming a dejected smile at his feet, Chip sighed. “I was thinking just the two of us could go out.”
“I’m flattered, but I wouldn’t be very good company.” She took her bag from him and dug out her house keys. They climbed the three wide wooden stairs to the asymmetrical porch of the maroon and black house.
Chip followed her. “You were great company tonight.”
She dared not tell him that their walk was the first social interaction she’d had with someone other than Zae in the fifteen months since she had moved to Webster Groves. That Chip thought her great company was a much-appreciated compliment.
“C’mon, it’s just lunch,” Chip said, his voice playfully seductive. “If you hate me afterward, we can pretend it never happened.”
Her back to the door, Cinder fiddled with her keys. “I find it hard to believe that anyone could hate you.” “So is that a yes to lunch?”
“I can’t, Chip. It wouldn’t be fair to you.”
His smile never wavered. “I had a feeling, but I had to try.”
“Why were you so sure that I’d say no?”
He backed toward the stairs. “Because just about every question you asked me tonight was about Gian Piasanti.”
* * *
Gian tugged at his tie, which seemed to be slowly strangling him. He sat opposite Pritchard Hok and his partner, a long-legged brunette with grasshopper green eyes. The mellow notes of a viola accompanied the pleasant murmur of conversations about the dining room. Isis was one of Gian’s favorite restaurants because of its eclectic cuisine and décor, which was just chic enough to pass for upscale when he entertained people like Hok. But for the first time ever, he had no taste for the chef’s special menu, no ear for the live viola, and no eye for Hok’s stunning partner.
Kuriko Lavenich was the reason Gian was in talks with Pritchard Hok, founder and CEO of an eponymous health, fitness, and sports conglomerate based in Korea. One of Gian’s former students had demonstrated the Sheng Li technique at a fitness expo in Hong Kong and had impressed Kuriko, who had flown all the way to Missouri to meet “the man behind the mastery.”
A second meeting in New York City a month later had further convinced Kuriko to seek a deal between Sheng Li and Pritchard Hok Industries. Although he could never be sure if it had been his acumen in the boardroom or in the bedroom that had inspired Kuriko to sell the Sheng Li technique to Hok, Gian was glad to be given a chance to join a company that could make Sheng Li a worldwide brand. If the movement of Kuriko’s toe along his inseam was any indication, all they had left to do was put the deal to bed.
“It took a great deal of convincing to get the sponsors to agree to hold the International Martial Arts tournament in St. Louis,” Pritchard said, running his fingers through his long, silver hair. “This will be the first time we’ve ventured into foreign territory.”
His measured tone and boarding-school-bred English accent belied the gravity of his words. Gian understood corporate speak, and he translated “convincing” to mean money, “foreign territory” to mean anyplace other than New York, Boston, Miami or Los Angeles.
“With Kansas City and Chicago so close by, St. Louis is an ideal location for the tournament,” Gian said. “Students and fans of the martial arts will turn out to see fighters they’ve only seen on ESPN. I’m sure you’ve already noticed how much more economical it is to host the event here, with hotels, transportation, and tournament venues costing a fraction of what they do on either coast. You’ll more than recoup your investment, Mr. Hok.”
“The money isn’t the issue most concerning me, Mr. Piasanti.” Pritchard grinned. “This tournament will be an audition for you and your Sheng Li fighting techniques. It will be your introduction to the international fight c
ommunity. Your competitors and potential franchisees must be impressed with a dynamic presentation. If you fail . . .” He raised a speculative eyebrow and swirled the last of the red wine in his goblet.
“I won’t fail,” Gian stated, his jaw hardening. “My students won’t fail.”
Pritchard smiled. Kuriko’s toes burrowed deeper into Gian’s crotch.
“That’s the fighting spirit, Mr. Piasanti.” Pritchard raised a hand and summoned their waiter with two hooked fingers. “I shall leave you and Kuriko to enjoy dessert, and perhaps, catch up?” Their server scurried to their table and cheerfully accepted Hok’s black credit card.
“Thank you, Hok,” Kuriko said, her Russian accent turning “thank you, Hok” into “zank you, Howk.”
“Stay,” Gian said, perhaps a bit too quickly. “The green tea ice cream is pretty good here.”
Kuriko narrowed her eyes at Pritchard, and her shoulders rose with the deep breath she took through her nose. If her body language hadn’t been specific enough, Kuriko’s next words made her preferences clear. “I am sure that you have better things to do this evening than sit in on old home week between me and Gian,” she said. “I’ll see you at the airport in the morning, Hok. Goodnight.”
Pritchard muttered his farewells and left, Kuriko’s eyes tracking him until his driver was closing him in his Town Car. When Kuriko returned her gaze to Gian, he nearly shrank from the heat blazing from her eyes. The last time he had seen that fire, he had ended up dehydrated and exhausted after two days and two nights in Kuriko’s suite at the Mandarin Oriental Hotel. With Manhattan’s skyline sprawling in the background, he and the limber marketing executive émigré had wiped the walls with each other.
Gian had looked forward to her return for this meeting, and not just because of the business opportunity it heralded. Kuriko’s intelligence matched her unusual beauty, the result of her Japanese and Ethiopian-Russian ancestry. Gian watched her comb her fingers through her straight black hair, and he had a vague memory of that hair tickling over his torso. As she spoke, he watched her ruby lips form her words. When she asked their waiter for sugar cane juice to sweeten her coffee, her lips wrapped around the word “juice” and reminded Gian of her lips wrapped around the heaviness between his legs, which now rested snugly beneath Kuriko’s bare toes.
“Pritchard is obviously quite serious about partnering with you and making Sheng Li an international brand, but he’ll proceed no further until he sees the reception you get at the International Martial Arts Championships.” Kuriko leaned over the table, her long hair nearly sweeping into her coffee. “He’ll be watching your exhibition matches most closely.”
Gian sat back in his chair, shifting to clear his crotch of Kuriko’s foot. “Why’s that?”
“There are rules to the championship matches. The combatants are highly trained athletes skilled at competition fighting. The audience is familiar with them, for the most part, and knows what to expect, a winner and a loser. There are no rules for the exhibitions and the fighters are either unknown or old ponies trotted out for a last kick. The first round match-ups are random, so you never know who will be matched with whom. That’s what makes them far more exciting to the audience. Exhibitions win far more new students than championship matches, and we want the viewing public to hunger for you and Sheng Li after the tournament.” Her long, slim fingers went to her neckline, lightly playing with it so that Gian was forced to notice the deep plunge of her cleavage. “You make it very easy to hunger for you, Gian.”
The left side of his mouth hooked into a subtle grin when Kuriko’s toes grasped at the place his crotch had been. He gave them a light squeeze before moving her foot, guiding it back to the floor.
Kuriko pushed her coffee aside and rested her arms on the table. She sat up straight, instantly changing her posture from bedroom to boardroom. “You don’t seem yourself, Gian,” she said briskly. “If you don’t think you’ll be prepared for the tournament, it would be best if you told Hok now. Better to delay the launch of Sheng Li than force it before you’re completely ready.”
“I’m on track with my preparations for the tournament. Don’t you worry. This thing will happen.”
“Then why won’t you come back to my hotel with me?”
At the nearest table, an older lady with a glossy blue rinse hid an amused smirk behind a fork wrapped in glassy rice noodles. Her dining companion’s eyebrows rose; his wide eyes darted between Gian and Kuriko. Shaking his head, he chuckled, and Gian knew exactly what he was thinking: You’re crazy for not going to the ends of the Earth with this woman.
“I didn’t know that I’d been invited.” Gian sighed. “You have a standing invitation.”
Or appointment, Gian thought. He ran his hand over his head. Kuriko had made it very clear that she desired nothing more than “a bit of fun” from him or any other man. Pritchard Hok Industries took her all over the world, and Gian had no delusions that he was her only fun.
But even as he recalled the many varieties of fun they had enjoyed in New York City, he had no desire to revisit them. Funnily enough, he had no desire for her at all. She had touched him intimately in a semi-public place, yet his flesh hadn’t stirred. He hadn’t been with a woman in months, not since his last visit to Manhattan for his ini tial meeting with Pritchard Hok. He had looked forward to this meeting all day for its own sake—not because he had a sure thing in Kuriko.
Kuriko had sat before him all through dinner, teasing him with her eyes as much as her toes, yet her obvious interest had failed to dislodge the reason for his inability to devote his full interest to her. He couldn’t stop thinking of Cinder and what her toes might be doing to Chip.
* * *
The day after his meeting with Pritchard Hok, Gian stood in his kitchen waiting for his teaching staff to fill their plates and seat themselves in his media room. Karl jumped ahead of Sionne to pick over the spread Gian had laid out, heaping his plate with chicken wings, baked ziti, pasta salad, and spare ribs.
“Need any help with that?” Gian watched Karl top his mountainous plate of food with three steaming garlic knots.
“I’m good.” Karl plopped a dollop of bleu cheese dressing onto his buffalo wings, slopping a glop onto the floor. Tucking two bottles of Schlafly ale under his arm, he carefully stepped over the mess and left the kitchen. “I got dibs on the La-Z-Boy!”
Gian took a napkin from the package on the counter and stooped to wipe up the dressing. The bamboo flooring was durable, but the last thing he needed was one of his instructors slipping and breaking an ankle in the midst of training for the most important tournament in Sheng Li’s short history.
“This is some spread, chief,” Sionne said, passing Gian a second napkin. “You cook, you clean. You’re gonna make a great little wife someday.”
“Up yours, junior,” Gian grumbled.
At almost three hundred pounds and six and a half feet tall, Sionne Falaniko was Gian’s biggest fighter. His background in mixed martial arts made the Samoan a fierce competitor, but Sheng Li had refined his skills and shaped his talent, helping him to six national fighting titles.
His native tattoos and size gave him an imposing appearance, but a minute in Sionne’s company was all it took to realize that inside the well-muscled fighting machine raged the heart of a kitten. One of Gian’s best instructors, Sionne’s specialty was teaching the basics of martial arts to children aged five to eight.
“Are you gonna need your La-Z-Boy, chief?” Sionne asked. He clutched two plates in his hand, each resembling a model of Mt. Everest sculpted from pasta and red sauce. “If you want Karl moved, I can move him.”
“No, Karl can keep it. Are you gonna need an ambulance after you eat all that?”
“This?” Sionne raised the plates. “This is just the first course.”
Thankful that Sionne had taken up martial arts and not competitive eating, Gian followed him into the media room, carrying bottled water for each of them.
Chip entered behi
nd Gian, taking a seat on one of the two oversized sofas on opposite sides of the yellow pine cocktail table Karl was using as a footrest. Gian walked between the La-Z-Boy and the table, knocking Karl’s feet onto the floor. Half of Karl’s food jostled onto his lap.
“What the hell, man,” Karl cried, half-chewed chicken spraying from his mouth.
“You’re in a recliner,” Gian responded coolly. “You want to put your feet up, use the footrest built into the chair.”
“Damn it, Gian,” Karl swore. “I just bought these jeans.”
“It shouldn’t be too hard to find another pair,” offered Cory Blair, a weekend instructor who attended Washington University. “There’s a Tuffskins outlet in St. Charles.”
“That’s real funny, Urkel,” Karl sneered over the laughter of his co-workers. “Shut up before I kick your ass back to school.”
“That’s enough, guys,” Gian announced, quieting them. “Let’s get this meeting underway.”
He opened the armoire occupying the wall adjacent to the two sofas, revealing a forty-seven-inch flat screen television. At Gian’s bidding, Chip and Cory lowered the room-darkening shades covering the windows behind the sofa they shared.
“If I’d known there was going to be a movie, I’d have brought the cupcake I took to the Tropicana last night,” Karl said. “Gian, this is the best makeout pad I’ve ever seen! Dude, I bet they drop their panties the instant they see this place. Hell, if I’d have known you were living this large, I’d have invited myself over a long time ago. No wonder you pay us pennies. All Sheng Li’s dough goes into your mortgage.”
“All Sheng Li’s dough goes back into Sheng Li,” Gian said stiffly. “This was one of my brother’s model homes. I got it for next to nothing.”
“Eat that up,” Cory muttered.
“This is one of Pio’s green homes?” Chip asked.
“Yes. But I didn’t invite you bums here to talk about my house,” Gian said. “I want to discuss the International Martial Arts tourney with you.”
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