by Arlene Kay
Table of Contents
Other Books by Arlene Kay from ImaJinn Books
Gilt Trip
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Please visit these websites for more information about Arlene Kay
About the Author
Other Books by Arlene Kay
from
ImaJinn Books
The Boston Uncommons Mystery Series
Swann Dive
Book One
Mantrap
Book Two
Gilt Trip
(Book Three: A Boston Uncommons Mystery)
by
Arlene Kay
ImaJinn Books
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons (living or dead), events or locations is entirely coincidental.
ImaJinn Books
PO BOX 300921
Memphis, TN 38130
Ebook ISBN: 978-1-61194-533-1
Print ISBN: 978-1-61194-467-9
ImaJinn Books is an Imprint of BelleBooks, Inc.
Copyright © 2014 by Arlene Kay
Printed and bound in the United States of America.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review.
ImaJinn Books was founded by Linda Kichline.
We at ImaJinn Books enjoy hearing from readers. Visit our websites
ImaJinnBooks.com
BelleBooks.com
BellBridgeBooks.com
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Cover design: Debra Dixon
Interior design: Hank Smith
Photo/Art credits:
Woman © George Mayer | Dreamstime.com
:Mtgy:01:
Dedication
For Jo Ann Ferguson, mentor, model and friend. Thank you
Chapter One
ONE CLOUDY APRIL morning, I ambled along Boston’s Newbury Street toward Boylston Station, deep in thought. Despite two months of scouring every boutique and website in the Back Bay, my quest for the perfect wedding gift had failed. That special something was as elusive as anything Cervantes ever dreamed up. Impossible! After all, my fiancé Deming Swann was heir to a vast fortune, a man who already had everything. Our impending nuptials loomed over me like an evil genie, taunting and sneering. It wasn’t a matter of money—Deming knew the sad state of my finances. I pride myself on creativity. After all, I’m a writer, expert in flights of fancy, second to none in imagination. Couldn’t I devise just one memorable gift that wouldn’t break the bank?
I stumbled on a broken bit of pavement and suddenly found inspiration. Deming Swann has several passions in life. Fortunately, I happen to be one of them, however, his zeal for physical fitness is a close second. I try my best to measure up, but although my mind is a mighty fortress, my flesh lags far behind. Starvation is my weapon of choice when the pounds creep up. To Deming, a dedicated gym rat and possessor of the body beautiful, that is sheer heresy.
“Conditioning, Eja,” he lectures. “Keep up. Writers need to sharpen their physical senses too.” Blah, blah, blah.
The solution was etched on a discreet plaque beneath the sign for Back Bay Comics. Shaolin City, Sound Mind, Toned Body.
It was perfect. The wedding gift I’d labored over. Considering Deming’s Eurasian heritage, the tie-in was even more perfect.
I visualized the whole thing. I’d surrender myself to the staff at this dojo, and a new Eja Kane would emerge. Forget the flab. I would stride down the aisle like a warrior princess ready to claim her liege lord. My backup plan also had a certain appeal. The martial arts made an inspired setting for a murder mystery—quite alluring to a published author and practitioner of the genre where every experience is fair game. It was kismet, or something very like it.
I summoned my courage, entered the dojo, and came face to face with an astoundingly handsome man. He was a tall, Asian, impossibly fit specimen dressed head to toe in black wushu garb. Excluding his air of smoldering sexuality, what struck me first was his seismic sense of calm and the bemused twinkle in his almond eyes.
“May I help you?” he asked in a velvety baritone. Men with deep voices exert a gravitational pull on most sentient females, even a betrothed woman such as myself.
I grabbed a brochure from the desktop and stammered, “I’ve never tried this before.”
He chuckled and gazed down at me. “Ah, I see. You want the introductory class. My name is Justin Ming. Perhaps I can answer some of your questions.”
“Are you a student or a teacher? A sifu?” I hate babbling, especially when I’m the babbler in question. “I’m Eja Kane, by the way.”
He waved me toward a bench. “I assist Master Moore with instruction. Tell me about your goals.”
Two disturbingly trim women bowed to Justin and marched past us. He nodded without taking his eyes off me. I had his full attention, and that ratcheted up the tension big time. I’d never master even the rudiments of martial arts in six years, let alone six months. Why kid myself?
“I’m getting married in six months, and I thought, that is I hoped, to surprise my fiancé by taking instruction.” I glanced down at somewhat wobbly thighs that would easily fail the pinch test and arms that spelled computer bound.
“That’s ambitious,” Justin Ming said. “Every student progresses at his own pace at Shaolin City. The important thing is to actualize your true potential.” He spread his hands in a graceful gesture. They were large, well-formed hands with carefully manicured nails. “The master emphasizes traditional kung fu values as well. Synergy, you know, between mind and body.”
I realized immediately that this was a mistake, another harebrained scheme from a writer’s fertile brain. Obviously, Master Moore had never heard of the digitalized, download approach to acquiring skill sets. I eyed the door, planning a quick escape.
Justin Ming must have read my mind. He flashed a puckish grin and locked eyes with me. “What is your profession, Eja Kane? Something creative, I bet.”
“I’m a writer, a mystery writer.”
His smile was infectious. “No kidding? I’m a crime buff myself. Maybe I’ve read some of your books.” He stopped midsentence and leapt to his feet as an imposing figure walked our way. Although small of stature, the hooded man projected authority and something more—serenity, a near saintly, D
alai Lama-ish quality that was in short supply these days.
“Master,” Justin Ming said, “may I assist you?”
The man shook his head and glided toward me. “I won’t disturb you, Justin. This young lady is new to our dojo. A recruit, I presume.”
I grinned foolishly, unable for once to speak for myself.
“Ms. Kane, Master Avery Moore. She is a writer, Master, seeking enlightenment.”
I dared not correct the magnificent Mr. Ming, but my quest for firm thighs and great abs seemed far afield from enlightenment. Thank heavens Deming wasn’t there to gloat.
Avery Moore’s handshake felt firm enough to shatter bone if he chose to do so. His shaved scalp blended seamlessly with an expanse of smooth café au lait skin and a full black mustache. Although the rest of his person was worth noticing, I was most captivated by his large green eyes. They radiated wisdom and something more—compassion. The multi-cultural combo of skin color and eyes was quite common in Louisiana. Wisdom and compassion less so.
“You’re uncertain, aren’t you, Ms. Kane? I hope Justin hasn’t frightened you.”
“No, no. It’s just that I’m clumsy, always have been. Everyone here looks so graceful. I’m afraid I won’t fit in.”
He squeezed my hand and shrugged. “Come to our seminar tonight. Dress comfortably and get a sense of what we are all about. A writer such as you must be very curious about the unknown.”
I nodded, afflicted by uncertainty, too cowardly to demur. “Thank you, I will.”
As Justin Ming plied me with a battery of forms, Avery Moore slipped away. A petite woman with a stylish pixie cut ambushed him before he got far. I could tell by looking that she was a gusher, one of those determined females who ooze confidence like an open hydrant. To his credit, the master sidestepped her, patted her shoulder, and continued his journey to the back of the dojo.
“All set?” Justin asked. “Class starts at 7:00 p.m. The first few sessions are simple: stretching, conditioning, and lots of theory. Think you can handle that?”
With a confidence born of desperation, I nodded, stuffed the paperwork into my backpack, and made my escape. I would never survive Shaolin City without a partner. Time to call in reinforcements.
PURVEYORS OF TIRED mother-in-law jokes have never met Anika Swann. I’d known her since my preschool days, and in all that time, the gorgeous former model and Boston socialite had shown me limitless kindness and affection. She also knew how to keep a secret.
After checking her schedule, I sped straight from Shaolin City to the Swann manse, a swanky five-story colonial nestled in the heart of Back Bay. The Swanns called it home, but to members of the proletariat like me, it was a palace.
Po, the Swann’s houseman, major domo, and fierce guardian, greeted me with a wintery smile that never reached his eyes and ushered me in. His devotion to the Swann family was legendary, and I felt certain that he would happily sacrifice his life for them. Po’s impenetrable air of reserve repelled outsiders with the ruthless efficiency of the immune system vanquishing germs. Despite being a fixture in the Swann household for almost thirty years, I still felt like an interloper whenever I stepped over the threshold, especially when I encountered Po.
Anika Swann sat in the parlor calmly sipping oolong tea and reading. The sun’s rays bathed her face in gold, creating a halo effect that rendered me speechless and envious as hell. Vermeer couldn’t have found a more exquisite model if he’d scoured the earth.
She looked up and beamed a radiant smile my way. “Eja! I’m so glad you came over.” Anika patted the cushion next to her. “Here. Sit down and have some tea.”
“Gladly, but I have a favor to ask.”
“Anything. You know that.” She poured my tea and shook her head. “Is it an adventure? We haven’t had one in a while.”
Anika and I had joined forces in a few escapades that had left Deming fuming. Naturally he blamed me for endangering his mother, even though she’d insisted otherwise.
“Say no if you don’t want to,” I said. “Just don’t tell Deming or even Mr. Swann.”
“Bolin, darling. You have to get used to calling him that. After all, in six months you’ll be part of our family. Not that you haven’t been for ages.” Her eyes misted over, and I knew that she was thinking of Cecilia, her murdered daughter and my best friend. We’d been inseparable from preschool up until her death. No one who’d known or loved CeCe would ever fully recover from losing her. Deming and his dad controlled their feelings, but I knew they felt the same way. Some wounds never fully heal.
“Okay, here it is. I finally found the perfect wedding present for Deming, but I need your help. Your support, actually.” It sounded absurd saying it that way. After all, I’m a grown woman, a bit long in the tooth for a sidekick.
Anika’s hazel eyes glowed. “Come on. Stop teasing. Don’t keep me in suspense.”
I explained my kung fu scheme and the misgivings that accompanied it. “I’m so clumsy. I’ll probably make a fool of myself.”
“Oh, I get it. The buddy system. We’ll both enroll in the class.” She clasped her hands together. “Sounds like fun. I know a little wushu—just a few moves—but a refresher would be good for me.”
“What about Mr. Swann . . . Bolin? What will you tell him?”
Her laughter spoke of confidence and years of managing her smoking hot hubby. “The truth, of course. That you and I are going to exercise classes.”
“Better add a girls’ night out to the mix,” I said. “Deming is the suspicious type. He knows I’m allergic to sweat.”
Anika nodded and tapped her iPhone. Soon she was speaking to the man himself, Bolin Swann, billionaire industrialist, loving family man, and supreme hottie. Their relationship was both tender and passionate, a rare, almost non-existent combination in a mature marriage. If Deming and I followed suit, I would be one happy woman.
“Go home and change, Eja, and I’ll buzz by your place around five thirty. Po will drop you off.” Anika chanced a mini-frown. “Better let Dem know our plans, otherwise that boy will erupt. You know how he worries.”
She was right, of course. Deming had a tedious habit of monitoring everyone’s life and activities, especially mine. Naturally I ignored half of his blathering and did whatever I pleased. Still, better to avoid conflict where I could.
On the short trip to my condo, I leaned back in the Bentley cocooned in sleep-inducing, womb-like leather. Hard to believe that people actually rode around in a six-figure auto and considered it normal. As usual, Po maintained his stony silence, ignoring my attempts at conversation and humorous asides. For years I’d thought he was mute, until one evening when I’d witnessed a frenzied exchange in Mandarin between him and Bolin. CeCe called Po a sneak who spied on her and reported everything directly to her father. No doubt she was correct.
My gracious home in the Tudor, a bequest from my late friend, still feels somewhat alien to me. It is prime real estate, a historic part of Boston’s Back Bay located right where Commonwealth Avenue kisses the nape of the Public Garden. In short, my condo encompasses 4,000 square feet of sheer luxury, complete with priceless antiques, paintings, and accessories. Chalk it up to CeCe’s exquisite taste and limitless checkbook. I had nothing to do with it.
There’s also the matter of Cato, a less desirable inheritance. He’s an irascible spaniel, a rescue with sharp teeth and a fierce snarl for almost everyone. Cecilia Swann doted upon him, and Cato in turn adored my friend. With me, he maintains a spirit of détente, eyeing my ankles whenever I offend and confronting Deming with fangs bared.
I wrestled with the Medeco lock and stepped inside to the insistent shrilling of the phone. After fending off Cato with a treat, I lost myself in the mellow voice of my fiancé.
“Been busy today,” he observed. “Dad said you and Mom are planning something.”
So much for stealth. I opted for door number three—truth, or a reasonable facsimile of the same. “We’re planning an excursion,” I said. “Want to join us?”
“Wish I could, but I’m swamped with work. A very demanding client wants my personal attention.” Deming’s law practice was booming, a consequence of Boston’s thriving business sector and his brilliance, not necessarily in that order.
“Hmm. Is this client male or female?” I was only half joking. Deming had been quite the Lothario before we got together. Even now, needy women constantly swarmed him. His manner hardly encouraged intimacy, but his film star looks, an exotic Asian/Swedish combo, prompted normally reserved females to forsake dignity and decades of breeding in the name of passion.
Chill, Eja. Your insecurity is showing.
Deming answered my question without pause. “Horton Exley. Horty. You’ve met him. Hasn’t changed a bit since his days at Yale.”
I racked my brain for memory crumbs. “I don’t recall any Horton Exley. The one I knew was Ames. Younger brother or cousin probably. Smart, downtrodden, moderately good looking.”
“Watch your step, Ms. Kane. You’re spoken for.”
“Don’t I know it.” A warm sensation surged through embargoed parts of my person as I envisioned his arms around me. My voice grew husky at the promise of things to come.
“Drop on over when you finish work.”
Deming chuckled. “I might be late. Very late.”
“No problem. I’ll leave the light on. Use your key.”
“Will you make it worth my while?”
I took a breath and whispered words of sweet surrender. “Count on it, big boy.”
Chapter Two
I SEARCHED IN vain for a loose-fitting garment with some hint of style. My closet was awash with sweat pants and jogging outfits too unsightly to even consider. Since I loathed the mere concept of exercise, the pickings were slim. Unfortunately, I was not.