perverted of him, once he thought about it.
But he shouldn’t be thinking at all. At this point, no more than twenty-five percent of his concentration was focused on the form. The other seventy-five was hyperconscious of Margot Vetter watching him as he practiced in the twilit, silent dojo, making him as self-conscious as a teenage boy. He’d taken off the cotton jacket of his gi, and his bare torso dripped with sweat. If he could smell her from this distance, she could smell him, too, and after teaching two karate classes back to back, it wasn’t pretty. A nose full of ripe, sweaty male animal.
Stop it, forget it, cancel it out. He sank down into the opening pose once again, grimly determined to get through it. Crane flies into the sky… leap, land lightfooted in left cat stance, right hand scooped under left into crane cools his wings… and it was fucking useless, with those tiny bells ringing, shooting his concentration to hell.
He finished the form, just because his own nature would not permit him to leave a thing unfinished once he had begun it, and sank down into crane guards its nest.
Wasted effort.
Nothing should knock him off balance when he was in that meditative zone. Nothing ever had until Margot Vetter had shown up at Women’s Wellness next door to teach the aerobics classes. He was thirty-eight years old, and he had a stupid-ass crush on the woman.
Which is all it could ever be. He’d known it since the evening that Tilda, his tenant who ran the Women’s Wellness Center, had introduced them. A night spent tossing in bed until all the sheets were ripped off the mattress and wrapped around his sweating body. Imagining Margot twined around him, on top of him, bent over in front of him. He’d given up on sleep halfway through the night and gone to the computer to do what any man with a functioning brain should do when contemplating getting involved with a woman. A comprehensive background check.
The results of that check had put him in a foul mood for weeks.
He took a deep breath, and let it out very slowly before he turned.
“No shoes on the tatami,” he said.
“I’m already barefoot,” she said. “I left my flip-flops at the door.”
Her husky alto voice brushed over the nerves on the surface of his skin. His hairs prickled, and his groin was heavy, and he was angry at himself for being angry, embarrassed for being embarrassed. His gaze traveled rapidly over the length of her body: slim bare feet, graceful ankles, turquoise leggings clinging to long, muscular legs, the hot pink spandex leotard hugging every lush curve. She was tall, broad-shouldered, wide-hipped. Not too skinny, with that round ass that stuck out a little in back, and the soft, lush swell of her belly. Head high, back straight. An uppity, hip-swaying walk that could hypnotize a man into driving up onto the sidewalk and into a parking meter.
Which he had nearly done the first day he’d caught sight of her.
The sports bra top that went with the thong contained big, soft-looking tits. One of these days he would have to stroll through the gym next door under the guise of a neighborly visit and look in on one of her aerobics classes, just to monitor that bra’s performance. But he would have to see those breasts bare and unbound to truly believe them. Until then, he would remain skeptical about God’s existence.
Wrong. No. Wouldn’t be going there, wouldn’t be doing that. He’d slammed the door on that possibility weeks ago, but still the images spun through his mind, and now the heaviness in his crotch was solidifying into an official hard-on. The thin cotton trousers that he wore to practice kung fu would be no help in preserving his male dignity. He was so screwed.
Her eyes were a ragbag of bright colors; irises rimmed with indigo that faded to bluish green and then to gold around the pupil. They met his so directly, he had to fight the impulse to drop his gaze and stare at his own feet. Jesus. Next he was going to start to stammer and blush.
The charged silence was driving him nuts.
“What are you doing here?” he demanded. Embarrassment made his voice harsher than he’d intended.
She sucked her full, rosy bottom lip between her teeth and chewed on it. “I’m…I’m, uh, sorry to have interrupted you.”
He shrugged. Waited.
“Your kata looks great,” she offered. “You’ve got amazing technique. I’m no expert, but…well, wow. It’s just beautiful.”
Courtesy demanded some polite acknowledgment of this remark, but all he could manage was a grunt and a nod. She waited in vain for him to pick up his cue. He clenched his teeth and concentrated on clamping down on his body’s physiological response. The biofeedback equivalent of trying not to think about a pink elephant.
Her cheeks flushed pinker. “I, ah…I had a couple questions for you, actually. I heard you’re a private investigator, and—”
“Who’d you hear it from?”
She looked taken aback at his curt tone. “That blond guy who teaches the kickboxing classes here. He told me that you—”
“Sean,” he said. “My brother. Never could keep his mouth shut.”
A perplexed crease appeared between her straight dark brows. Probably wondering how he could possibly be related to Sean, the quintessential calendar pinup male with the flirtatious charm to match. There wasn’t much resemblance between the two of them, other than the dirt-blond shade of their hair and their bizarre background.
“Oh.” Her voice was cautious. “Is it some big secret, then?”
The thought of Sean chatting Margot up made his jaw clench. The fact that his reaction was stupid and irrational made him even angrier, like an endless feedback loop. “I’m phasing that business out. I’m still licensed, but I’m not taking on any new clients. As Sean knows damn good and well.”
“Oh.” Her voice was subdued. “Why are you phasing it out?”
He crossed his arms over his bare chest and longed for his jacket, which was draped over the weight rack all the way across the room.
“Boredom. Burn-out.” He made his voice curt and dismissive. “I’m moving on to other things.”
Her eyes dropped. She took a step back, chilled.
It was working. He’d put her off. She wouldn’t be back. Exactly what he’d intended. All according to plan.
So why did he feel like such an asshole?
“I see. Sorry I bothered you, then,” she mumbled as she turned away. “I won’t take up any more of your time—”
“Wait,” he heard himself say.
She turned back slowly. Her face looked pale in the fading twilight. Her hair was cinched into a clip, a wild explosion of spiky wisps up top. Those hollows beneath her high cheekbones were new. She’d lost weight in the last few days, and her pallor confirmed what he’d suspected the minute he saw her. That dull, dark brown hair color was false, like her name, her driver’s license, everything about her.
She looked different tonight. Fragile. An image of Kevin flashed through his mind, triggering a dull ache of pain. His younger brother, killed years ago when he ran
