All Fixed Up (4 page)

Swift, Ciel. Real nonchalant.

A line appeared between her eyebrows. “I don't think so. Why? Are you worried Alec is stalking me all of a sudden? Trust me, the guy is not pining for me. It was only ever fun and games for him.” She glanced again at her husband, a slow and gentle smile softening her expression into a thing of ethereal beauty. “Alec never wanted the same things I want. Misha is the real thing.”

*   *   *

The next morning I was back in D.C., after a red-eye on which I'd slept like a baby, thank you very much, with no noticeable drooling. Flying was getting easier for me, especially when my client picked up the tab for a first-class ticket.

I was waiting for Laura at the gym where we always met for my ass-kicking lessons, having come straight from the airport. No point in stopping by my condo—my gym clothes were here, and it wasn't as if Billy would be waiting in my bed with open arms and a knowing smile on his annoyingly gorgeous face. I sighed. Damn. I missed him. Sure, it had only been a week since I'd seen him (naked), but it was seven days too long as far as my body was concerned.

I sighed again, unsure if having a boyfriend was even good for me. It might be like coffee—something that perks you up and makes you feel
sooo
good, but then you get addicted, and the next thing you know you're in pain when it isn't available.

Plus, it made you sigh in public, which was totally humiliating. I clamped my mouth shut and clobbered the heavy bag with a roundhouse kick. Swore when I stubbed my pinky toe.

I grabbed my injured appendage and hopped up and down on the other foot, skillfully managing to keep from falling on my ass. Barely.

“You need to master your high knee kicks before you hurl yourself into roundhouses.”

Mark?
Shit!
What was he doing here?

I whirled around, still holding my foot, looking, I imagined, as awkward as a flamingo on ice, and probably as pink. I didn't bother to adapt away my blush—he would have noticed. He noticed everything. All I could do was hope he'd think my flushed face was due to the exertion of the workout I hadn't technically started yet.

Thoughts started tumbling in my head. How long had he been watching? Damn, he looked good. Tall, blond, and chiseled. Hard, like he'd been carved out of wood that had since petrified.

Except his eyes. His gray eyes could be hard, but they were anything but petrified. They changed constantly, ranging from dove soft to gun-barrel scary, depending on his mood and the situation. Right now they were somewhere in the middle. Neutral, like he was hiding behind them. They'd been like that a lot since a stupid mix-up on my part had culminated in me giving him the world's most awkward can't-we-just-be-friends speech.

I lowered my foot, pretending it didn't hurt anymore. “Um, yeah. Laura said the same thing. So, where is my sadistic sister-in-law, anyway? She was supposed to be here to mete out more of the punishment she refers to so adorably as ‘lessons.'”

Mark raised the corners of his mouth in what, for him, was a pretty good smile. He could do better—I'd seen him grin big and wide on occasion—but it was rare.
And devastating when it happens
, I thought, remembering times my insides had melted right out of me at the sight of it, starting when Thomas had first brought him home from college (they'd been roommates at Harvard) for Thanksgiving when I was thirteen.

Good thing he wasn't bestowing one of those on me right now, because combined with the way he filled out his gym clothes, I'd be a puddle on the floor in no time. A remorseful puddle, berating myself for mental unfaithfulness to my boyfriend. Who wanted to be a remorseful puddle?

“Laura had a last-minute appointment your brother wouldn't let her cancel, so she asked me to fill in for her. Told me to keep it real, not to go easy on you because you're a girl.”

My chest clutched at the thought of getting hot and sweaty rolling around on the floor with Mark. I swallowed hard. “See, what'd I tell you? Sadistic.”

Mark laughed, a deep rumble I could practically feel vibrating through me from five feet away. “Don't worry, I won't break you. Thomas would kill me if I did.”

Thomas was the brother in question, a lawyer, married to Laura. He'd always been overprotective to the extreme, though he was somewhat better since marrying Laura. One of the many things I loved about her.

But the ass-kicking wasn't the kind of sadistic I'd meant. Laura was aware of my conflicted feelings about Mark. She also knew how he felt about me. Talk about star-crossed. Or maybe timing screwed. If Mark had told me his feelings for me had moved beyond a tolerant affection for his best friend's kid sister
before
Billy had entered the picture romantically, things might have been different now.

Yeah, right
, I told myself.
Then you'd be with Mark and conflicted about Billy.
Same boat, different oars. Frankly, it made my head hurt to think about it. I loved Billy, he loved me, we were good together. The simplest solution for all involved was for me to get past my lingering infatuation with Mark.

What if it's more than infatuation?
my inner buttinski said.

Shut up!
I screamed at her. Inwardly, so Mark wouldn't call the men in white coats.
Even if it's more, it's not like I don't still have to choose one. Which I've already done. End of story.

Yeah?
the buttinski said.
Ever hear of sequels?

God, she was such an unhelpful bitch sometimes.

I shook out my arms and legs, holding myself loose and ready, the way Laura had taught me. “Don't hold back on my brother's account. I won't tell on you.”

The thing was, Laura wasn't as sure as I was (and I
was
) that I'd chosen the right guy. She adored Billy—nobody could help adoring Billy; he sucked in adoration like a vacuum cleaner—but Mark was her friend and partner, as well as her husband's best friend. She had a vested interest in seeing him happy. She also had the devious mind of a spook. It wouldn't be beyond her to devise ways of throwing me together with Mark, figuring the cards would play out the way they were meant to.

Mark's eyes flicked over me, taking in my stance, sizing me up in an instant. Calculating, no doubt, how to take me down without inflicting too much damage on me, and maybe teach me a few things at the same time.

Use the tools you have
, Laura had told me a hundred times during our lessons.
If you're not stronger than your opponent—and women rarely are, when their opponent is a man—you have to outsmart him. Leverage is your best option.

I darted a glance to Mark's right leg, telegraphing my intent to strike there first. I let my eyes linger a fraction of a second too long, knowing he'd catch it and be ready for me.

Then I skirted around his left side. Kicked the back of his knee, buckling it. Jumped back a few steps. One advantage of being small: I was fast.

But not quite fast enough. He righted himself before he hit the floor, reaching for me as he twisted, and dove in my direction. Quick as I was, he had me by my ankles before I could dance away from him.

If I'd been intent on hurting him, I would have grabbed him by both ears and bashed his head into the floor, using his own momentum against him. We'd moved off the mat, so I could inflict some damage if I chose. Of course, if
he'd
been intent on winning at any cost, he could have already pulled my legs out from under me and broken my neck before I had a chance to do any head bashing.

I looked down and saw the heart-melting smile. “Nice try, Howdy”—his nickname for me, short for Howdy Doody, which my grandfather dubbed me as a child, for freck-tacular reasons—“but you should've kept running.
Always
run if you can.”

I squared my shoulders, trying to ignore the heat of the big hands still gripping me. “Running wasn't an option. Your legs are longer than mine. You would have caught me.”

“Not if you'd kicked the side of my knee instead of the back, and used more force. You had the opportunity—nice feint, by the way—and it would have incapacitated me long enough for you to get away.”

“Jesus, Mark, are you crazy? I wasn't about to really hurt you!” I said.

He yanked my legs out from under me, and caught me before my head hit the floor, lowering me gently. Amusement crinkled his eyes as he kneeled to one side of me, his hands on my biceps. “You're definitely getting better, but I don't think you're quite at the point where you have to worry about that yet. I won't let you hurt me. So stop holding back.” The last part was accompanied by a squeeze. Not painful, but letting me know his strength.

“Fine,” I said, and lifted my head, fast, with as much force as I could. I was aiming for his nose, but he drew back at the last second, so I only grazed his chin with my forehead. His grip loosened for a fraction of a second. I pulled my knees up to my chest. Rolled toward him, connected my feet to his midsection, and gave a mighty push.

I got my legs under me while he sucked in a breath. Sprinted across the gym, not stopping until I'd put a big weight machine between us. He wasn't far behind, but couldn't reach me as long as I kept to the other side of the equipment.

I grinned at him, skipping from side to side as he tried to figure out a way around the machine to get me. “I can do this all day, spook.”

He finally stopped, smiled the heart-and-panty melter, and said, “Good job, Howdy. Now let's get back to the mats so I can show you some moves to use when you don't have anything to hide behind.”

I steeled myself to withstand whatever effects further physical contact with him might have on my hormones. Crap. Why did he have to look so good? And when the hell would Billy be back from his stupid job?

*   *   *

An hour and a half later we sat at a festively bedecked coffee bar around the corner from the gym, sipping pumpkin spice lattes and watching Christmas shoppers hurtle past as we dissected my performance. Well, Mark dissected. I tried to absorb and assimilate. But between sore muscles and prolonged exposure to his pheromones, I'd about reached my saturation point.

We'd showered at the gym—separately, of course—so we weren't offending anyone within sniffing distance. Took some doing to wash the sweat off after a rigorous workout, especially when the shower was of necessity a cold one.

I had no idea if Mark had the same problem. When he set his mind to instructing, he
instructed
. Pure focus. No provocative looks, no sneaky caresses, no innuendo. Just the cold, hard, how-to-hurt-the-other-person facts, ma'am. He was way better at compartmentalizing life than I was.

A harried woman with six bags from three different stores came in and approached the counter, struggling to hold on to her toddler's hand.
Thank God for Internet shopping
, I thought as Mark alternately complimented my performance and ripped apart my form. Yeah, I should have been listening closely to his valuable pointers—after all, they might one day save my life—but I was trying to get my focus off his biceps. Forcing myself to think about shopping should do the trick. Hitting the shops and malls is painful for me any time of year, but in the run-up to the holidays it's excruciating. Apparently I lack whatever basic hunter-gatherer gene makes shopping fun for some people.

Better to think about how much I hate shopping than those big, manly hands circled so gently around the coffee mug. They'd be warmer than usual now, maybe even hot … Ack! Think of something else, you idiot!

Two preteen girls walked by, giggling as they compared their recent purchases. Which reminded me, I had a promise to keep. Molly, Billy's adorable recently turned eleven-year-old sister, had requested some special girl time.
Yeah, good. Think about that.

“Got something more important on your mind, Howdy?” Mark said, a hefty dollop of pay-attention-to-the-teacher edging his voice. He'd been all business at the gym, making me work defensive and offensive moves over and over again until my form and reflexes satisfied him.

“Hu—what? Um, no. I remembered something I have to do with Molly. Sorry. What were you saying again? Something about using more thumb pressure in my eye-gouging?” I sipped my coffee extra genteelly, pinky extended, making sure I left a giant whipped-cream mustache on my upper lip. Then, in case he wasn't sure I was doing it on purpose, I crossed my eyes at him.

His eyes softened at once, and he may have even chuckled. “All right, Howdy. Enough violence for today. I'll tell Laura what we covered so she can continue from where we left off.”

Damn. Might have been a bad move to break his teacherly concentration. The soft eyes and the almost-laugh were de-solidifying my insides at an alarming pace. And here I'd been about to congratulate myself on not making an embarrassing fool of myself during the rest of our workout. Granted, it's tough to feel warm, lustful fuzzies toward someone barking at you like a drill sergeant, so the credit should probably go to him. Still, I was going to count it. Only now, when I could really use the restraint, I felt myself about to tip over the edge again.

I grabbed a napkin, wiping my mouth as I stood, almost knocking my chair over in my hurry. “I better get going. Thanks for the coffee and for, um”—
rolling around on the floor with me?
—“the lesson. I'll keep practicing.”

Mark stood, his expression telling me all I needed to know about whether he understood my dilemma. He took my hand (his
was
hot), leaned down, and kissed the top of my head. “Anytime, Ciel. I'm still here.”

Heart pounding with a combination of lust and guilt, I got the hell out of there.

 

Chapter 4

My phone vibrated in my pocket right after I boarded the Metro train. Normally I would have walked home—the gym was only a mile from my condo—but frankly, I was pooped. Plus, there was my carry-on to deal with. The wheels didn't need the wear and tear.