by Sun Chara
Stella made a beeline for the window, turned the latch and raised it. She leaned out and gauged the distance to the ground. Too high to jump but she could climb down. Just then, Fred-the-red appeared from behind the corner of the house and gave her a brief nod. She waved a half-hearted greeting, realizing she’d have to be extra quiet and time it just right.
On her way to the bathroom, she paused to smell the rose and sucked in a breath, the force of it burning her throat. Her face was splashed on the cover of the magazine topping the stack on the dresser. Headlining the current issue of Sports Unlimited, Stella Ryan: the woman, the sensei, and the competitor at the International Karate Tournament in Tokyo. Air pressure fizzed between her teeth. She bolted into the bathroom and locked the door.
Twisting on the shower, she stepped beneath, the warm spray soothing her body, but not her mind. Two minutes tops, and she swabbed herself dry. Throwing on her clothes, she wondered what other surprises … er … shocks were in store for her.
Preferring to face-off her demons, Stella marched downstairs and halted outside the dining room. She wiped her damp palms on her thighs, took a deep breath to steady her nerves and pushed the double panels open. She paused on the threshold.
Eight chairs fringed a table in the centre of the floor, the lace table cloth and sparkling crystal were a marked contrast to the somber tones of the room. Minnie’s feminine touch, she thought, not missing that this was to be a lunch á deux…
“Come in, Ms. Ryan.”
The ogre’s gruff voice made her jump, and she hesitated for a fraction of a second. She’d always confronted that which she feared and thereby conquered it. This … this man would be no exception. She took a bold step inside and another until she stood in the middle of the room.
He stood behind the bar, choking a bottleneck between his fingers, his intense gaze shooting into her. She cringed at her choice of words and her bandaged hand flew to her throat. Chills chased up her spine. She stood her ground and glared back at him.
Silence fueled the room. Thickened. Smothered.
He feigned a cough and splashed Scotch into a glass. The sound of liquid over ice shattered the tension between them. Stella dropped her hand to her side. She was trained to protect herself, her body her weapon … yeah, but here you are anyway.
“What’s your pleasure?” He seized the tumbler and motioned to an army of liqueurs on the counter. In a lazy sweep, his eyes toured her head to toe, then his lashes flickered, concealing a glint of something indefinable in his pupils.
A blush warmed her skin.
“My pleasure is to get out of here,” she snapped on an intake of breath. Boldly, she allowed her eyes to do some appraising of their own.
Fortyish. Over six-feet. He exuded strength and power.
Raw sexuality.
Her stomach flipped. Her heart raced.
The walls seemed to close in.
She shook her head, blinked. This man could crush her. She inhaled a mouthful of oxygen. Exhaled. Okay. She twitched her lips, but didn’t smile. She knew from experience that size and strength were not the key. The right move combined with speed and accuracy could bring anyone down. Including Stan Rogers.
Tempting.
But, timing played into it and this was not quite the moment for it. Patience was not her greatest virtue.
“I figured you’d prefer clean clothes after your shower.” Stan took a swig of the amber liquid and studied her over the rim, amusement tugging the corner of his mouth.
“You figured wrong.” She ventured forward a few paces, not wanting him to think she was afraid. “I’ll wear what I please, when I please and how I please. And, I’m not in the habit of wearing borrowed threads and certainly” –she paused for effect— “I don’t dine in a Karate gui.”
“Of course.” He brushed a thumb across his fuzzy chin. “A sweaty jogging suit is so” –his gaze dropped several notches, zeroing in on the rise and fall of her breasts— “much more appealing.”
Stella was about to blast him with a string of verbal bullets, when he held up a hand, warding off her attack.
“How remiss of me not to consider your lack of attire,” he said, a tone of formality in his voice.
Stella twisted her lips. Attire? Get with the times, mister.
“I’ll speak to Minni about it.”
“Don’t bother.” She narrowed her eyes, sizing him up like an opponent in a ring. “I intend to leave here within the hour, and if you try to stop me, I’ll have you charged with kidnapping.”
“You’re not a prisoner here, Ms. Ryan,” he said, tone cool. “You’re an invited guest with whom I wish to discuss business.”
“Why didn’t you call or e-mail or drop by my studio to discuss your … er … business?”
“In a sense, I did.”
“Stop talking in riddles.”
He shrugged.
And that had her hackles rising.
“This charade is utter nonsense.” She moved another few steps closer, the table a barrier between them. “I don’t like being manhandled.”
The deep sound of his laughter ricocheted off the walls. “Heard it was the other way around.” He saluted her with his drink.
Stella shook her head, pointing her finger at him. “Look here, I have a business to run. Right now, my students are at the dojo waiting for me.”
Stan set the empty glass on the gleaming countertop and rubbed his palms together. “Took care of it.”
“I demand to be relea—” She gaped at him. “What does that mean?” she demanded. “You know you could be arrested.”
“My men—”
“Thugs.”
“—left a memo at your studio explaining your absence.”
“Disappearance.”
He shuttered his eyes to blue slits, considering her veiled warning. “Ms. Ryan, I’m offering you my hospitality as my guest.”
“I’m not your guest.” She tossed her head. “And don’t need or want anything from you.”
He hiked a brow, and she swallowed a lump in her throat. Of course, he had control of her core asset and—
“You’re on a publicity tour … Tokyo, Toronto … family demands,” he explained, his words saturated with meaning. “You’d be returning soon.”
“You dared to—” A tremor vibrated from her head to her toes, shivers prancing on her spine.
He shrugged. “A risk worth taking.”
Stella paled, their one and only meeting zooming to the forefront of her mind.
“Something wrong, Ms. Ryan?” Casually, he slid his hands in his pockets, confident he’d cornered her.
Stella groped for the back of a chair, the wood smooth and hard beneath her fingertips.
Like the man—unbreakable.
“Do you often take such risks?” she tested, her voice brittle.
“Occasion—”
“Why?”
“High stakes.”
“How lofty are they this time?” She tightened her grip on the chair, her heart pounding a warning.
“Riskiest bet of my life,” he admitted.
She wouldn’t be bridled. “Must be, to ditch your life of the rich and famous for that of a recluse.”
He laughed, a dark, ominous sound. “It is.” A shadow swept across his eyes, and a nerve pinched his jaw. He shrugged and didn’t elaborate.
Tenderness pierced through her frustration. She must be mistaken, or nuts. Nuts to feel anything but contempt for the ogre. She shoved the pinch of feeling away. She didn’t care, couldn’t care, refused to care.
“I don’t play cat and mouse games, Mr. R.”
“You do remember.”
The gray at his temples and his beard had thrown her at first. His electrifying blue eyes and commanding tone, capped off with his baiting remarks, cued her a second time in as many hours, how well he knew the game of finance and how well he wielded the rules for his benefit. Yes, she remembered him. He was not a man she could easily forget, nor could she forget
how ruthless he could be.
“How do I fit into your scheme of things this time?” Stella asked, her voice crackling with ice.
“Predominantly.”
Chapter 2
Stella’s gaze clashed with his, taut emotion vibrating between them.
Seconds ticked by, seeming endless.
Minni walked in with their lunch and the tension in the air snapped.
“Come, you’ll feel better after you’ve eaten.” Stan stepped to the table and pulled out a chair for her.
Stella didn’t move.
“Hope you’re hungry, dear,” Minni said, her mouth tilting at the corners. “I’ve cooked my favorite Italian recipe with a Scottish zing.” She giggled and her hand fluttered to her mouth.
“It smells delicious.” Stella eyed the hot rolls, the salad, the sticky chocolate cake that was for dessert.
Stan draped an arm around his housekeeper’s shoulders and winked. “Minni is the best cook in town and I’ve got her.”
Stella’s pulse faltered. He wanted, he got. Well, he hadn’t gotten her.
She should feel more joy … maybe it was because she was hungry.
Minni blushed. “Oh, get on with you.” She smoothed an imaginary crease on her apron and pushed the trolley from the room.
Another uncomfortable silence ensued … delectable aroma of lasagna, crowned with bubbly cheese wafted to her and her stomach growled. Stella plunked down on the chair across from the enemy, hoping he hadn’t heard.
He took his own seat and began serving.
“You should try some,” he said between mouthfuls. “It’s good.”
She hesitated, her mouth mutinous, her taste buds watering. Finally … “I’ll have a little.”
A smart man, he said nothing, simply grunted his approval.
Not that she needed his approval about anything, but she was ravenous … no use letting good food go to waste.
At last, she placed the remaining piece of cake in her mouth and stole a glance at him from beneath her eyelashes. Why was he grinning? She licked her lips. His grin disappeared, his gaze darkening. Thinking, chocolate smudged her chin, she swiped at it with her finger and licked the tip. A sound from deep in his throat … a low growl?
“Someting amusing?” she snapped, a flush warming her cheeks.
“You look like a sixteen-year old stuffing that cake in your mouth.” His lips twitched in wry amusement.
“Good thing I’m not, or you’d be compounding the charge of kidnapping with that of a minor.”
He squashed the grin between his lips, his cheekbones prominent, a storm brewing in his eyes. “I won’t dignify that with a response.”
Her emotions were bopping, and she wanted to let fly at him, but thought better of it. Control. She could match him in that couldn’t she?
“More coffee?” He picked up the coffee pot and waited.
At her nod, his mouth cracked a fraction, and he filled her cup to the brim. Rich flavor steamed the air. She cradled the cup between her palms and watched him pour another cup for himself.
His lips curved over straight white teeth, and his lower lip a bit fuller gave his mouth an added sensuality. She could just imagine him nibbling… She lowered her eyes to his hands. The man seized whatever he wanted. A shiver shot through her … whomever he desired. Yet, she couldn’t turn away. His sleeves were pushed up almost to his elbows, golden hair feathered his forearms, his muscles defined even by the simple task of pouring coffee.
Slamming the brakes on her thoughts, she tipped the cup to her lips.
“Easy, it’s hot,” Stan warned.
Too late, Stella felt the unwelcome singe on her tongue. “I know now, it’s hot,” she sputtered, dropping the cup back, liquid splashing into the saucer. Grabbing the glass of water beside her plate, she gulped a mouthful and soothed her stinging tongue.
“Good thing that.” A hint of a smile lingered on his lips, and his gaze strayed to the curve of her breast, barely visible by the tear in her sweatshirt.
His eyes darkened, shuttered, his smile vanished.
Her eyes grew wide, lashes fluttering, shielding.
Signals … danger … combustion.
Stella took another gulp of water. “I-it’s not funny.”
“Never said it was.”
“The burn stung.”
“I know.”
Heat infused her body. Was there a double-entendre in that? She set the glass on the table with more force than necessary; the liquid swirled against the clear walls, but didn’t spill. Too bad. She felt like doing injury to something or, she glanced at the man beside her, someone. He certainly didn’t think she could be contained against her will without retaliating?
Tossing a crumpled napkin on the table, he pushed his chair back and motioned her to the sofa by the window. For a second, she debated whether to sit or stand, but not wanting him to think she was on the defensive, plopped on the settee. He lounged on the armchair across from her, trapping her in the lens of his vision like a high-powered combatant’s target.
Breath pocketed in her chest, and she pushed up her sleeves, on guard.
“Stella, I, or rather we” –he crossed one leg over his knee— “have followed your career as a martial artist for some time. Rare to see a woman master the art of self-defense to the professionalism you’ve achieved.”
“Thank you,” she said, wondering where this was leading. If he thought he could lull her into a false security with compliments to get what he wanted from her, he was wrong.
Dead wrong.
“This woman was worth the risk, after all.” She couldn’t help the jab.
“Financially, yes,” he hit back, his tone all business. “You’ve proved a worthwhile asset.”
A silent growl built in Stella’s throat. How dared he talk like she was some inanimate object. Asset, indeed. “So, why bring me here?”
“I wanted the very best for Troy. No one else would do,” he murmured more to himself than to her.
“You wanted the very best of what?” she asked, her curiosity pushing anger aside. “Who’s Troy? And what does he have to do with me?”
A silent moment passed, and he leaned forward, his midnight blue eyes boring into her. “I want to hire you as my son’s martial arts coach.”
“Troy.”
“That’s right.”
“This is ludicrous. Absolutely wild.” She nearly burst out laughing but some innate sense checked it in her throat. “There are plenty of martial arts schools you could enroll him in. There was no need for you and your … er … friends to go through this farce to bring me here. Even if you wanted me as his Sensei—”
“Instructor.”
She nodded. “I’d have been happy to coach him at my studio.”
“I didn’t want Troy in a public class, stared at, ridiculed by other children.” He brushed a hand across his chin. “My son needs a private coach.” His voice deepened, hinting at a deeper, conflicting emotion. “You, Ms. Ryan, will teach him until he feels confident … strong again.”
Children could be cruel, but for him to take these extreme measures to get her here was beyond her comprehension. “I don’t understand.”
He paused for a moment, the silence deafening. “He must become healthy again. Feel like a valued human being.”
Was he playing on her emotions? Could he have an ulterior motive?
“I’m sorry, Mr. Rogers,” she said, recalling how callous he could be. “I have a full schedule.” Ignoring her erratic pulse, she cleared her throat and scooted forward. “I’ve spent years building my business and Karate is my life.” She’d practically starved to do it, but he didn’t have to know that. “I can’t abandon it for the whim of a father and his son.” Her words sounded abrasive even to her own ears, but she had to be tough.
Tough with him.
And tougher with herself, because the man was dangerous to her heart, her emotions, her mind … to her whole self.
In one fluid motion,
Stan hauled himself from the armchair, eyes blazing and nostrils flaring. Startled, Stella squared her shoulders and shuttered her gaze, ready to dodge if necessary.
“What do you know of pain? Of a child tossed about like chattel who’s—” He shoved a hand through his hair and paced the room, his outburst surprising him more than it did her. “I apologize. You’re not to blame.” His jaw clenched. “Trauma, especially recurring, can scar for life.”
Stella uttered not a word.
Dangerous didn’t describe him. Lethal was more accurate.
The man was lethal.
“When a child is involved, one can become ballistic.”
“And are you?”
“What?” He glanced at her, a blank look across his features.
“Ballistic?”
An unwilling smile flittered across his mouth but he neither confirmed nor denied.
Her pulse leaped. His demeanor oozed sexual energy. Moisture glazed her upper lid. She swabbed it with her thumb, and his eyes zoomed in on her mouth.
A silent moment, a tense moment, a telling moment.
She didn’t want to know … acknowledge the shift in the atmosphere between them. She had to be smart, strong, deliver her blow and get out of there. Fast.
So, she said the only thing that came to her mind, “What’s the matter with him? Your son?”
“That’s not your concern.” His words were like ice chaffing her skin.
“All right,” she said. “Why don’t you teach him how to fight.” She scrutinized the length and breadth of his body to the detriment of another leaping heartbeat. “You … uh … look capable.”
“I could teach him to use his fists, but street fighting isn’t the best for him.” He caught and held her in his sights, a wry twist on his mouth.
Stella struggled, yet didn’t move an inch. But her vitals were going haywire. She had to get out of here, get out … get some air.
“Martial arts, the ancient art of self-defense, exercising the spirit, mind and body would suit him better,” he insisted.
A time bomb was ticking.
“Take the job.”
“No!” She leaped to her feet.
“No?”