Chapter 6
Ethan
My private gym and spa are one floor below my penthouse apartment. I catch the elevator down at six o’clock sharp, an envelope in my hand. Jamie is already there waiting for me, having been allowed up by the security guard stationed in the lobby.
Her muscled legs look spectacular in fitted black leggings, and her tank top shows off sculpted arms. She has a bag slung over her shoulder, and her bicep flexes as she adjusts its weight.
Her long dark hair is swept back from her face in a ponytail.
I’d like to see how it would look if she wore it loose.
“Hi,” she says. “You’re on time.”
"You sound surprised.”
"After you stood me up last time? Shocker.”
Fair point. I open the door to the gym and motion her to go in before me, then switch on the lights. "I have something to show you."
“Yeah?” She stops inside as the lights flicker on, turning toward me.
It’s bright in here, and the golden light makes her skin gleam.
I’m struck once again by her. Not just how beautiful she is, but the grace of every movement she makes.
She doesn’t walk so much as prowl. Does she have any idea how sexy she is?
Tamping down a sudden surge of lust, I hold out the envelope I received this morning.
She moves closer to take it, dropping her bag on the floor. A hint of coconut drifts from her skin. Has she been using her oil again? The scent triggers an instant flashback to the slick feel of her warm, slippery skin under my hands, and I have to focus to keep my gaze trained on hers.
"This arrived in the mail,” I say.
She draws out the photo from the envelope and studies it. The picture is from a charity event I went to last week. It shows me in a tuxedo, standing near the buffet table. Victoria Reed is standing next to me, her hand tucked into the crook of my arm.
Whoever sent me the photo has drawn a red target over my face. Victoria's face has been scribbled out with red pen.
“Hmm.” Jamie cocks her head. "This is interesting.
The first threat was generic. Just ‘I want to kill you’, no reason given.
But this sends more of a specific message.
She taps the violent lines covering Victoria.
"Whoever drew on this photo seems angry.
" She glances up at me, her expression serious.
“Where was this taken, and who is this woman?”
“Last Friday. Cocktails at the museum. There was a photographer circulating, and anyone could have bought this print. The woman’s name is Victoria Reed.”
“She’s your girlfriend?”
“No. Just convenient."
She quirks an eyebrow. "Meaning?"
“We sometimes go to events together when neither of us have other dates." I don’t mention that we occasionally sleep together too, but by the knowing look Jamie’s giving me, she clearly guesses that part of our arrangement.
It’s by mutual consent, of course. Victoria isn’t interested in a relationship unless it’s with someone who can advance her career.
“If you haven’t already told Victoria about this threat, you should do that,” Jamie says. “She needs to know she could be in danger.”
I nod. “Of course. I’ll have Rachel do it.”
“Really, Demolition Man? You’ll make your assistant talk to her?”
I frown at both the annoying nickname and the disapproval in her tone. “Why wouldn’t I? That’s Rachel’s job. And my relationship with Victoria is strictly casual.”
Jamie gives me a sideways look. “Any other girlfriends I should know about?"
Despite being annoyed by the way she’s asking, I consider the question.
I don’t have girlfriends, but there are other women I sometimes spend time with who have no expectations other than enjoying an easy night of companionship.
And I’ve been on a few first dates that didn’t go anywhere, like my date with the princess on the night I met Jamie.
“Maybe,” I say. “I’ll have Rachel give you the details.”
Her nostrils flare. “Does your poor assistant manage all your relationships?”
“Rachel handles my calendar and books appointments.” My tone is curt as I move to the area I’ve designated for our training. “Now let’s get to work.”
“Music to my ears.” She strides to the center of the mat.
I had extra boxing bags hung up, a mat placed on the floor, and an assortment of gloves and other accessories laid out, converting my gym so it’s better suited to our needs. She runs her gaze over it all, then turns back to me.
"Okay, let's see what you know. Can you show me a basic stance?” She lifts her bare fists, demonstrating a pose.
When I mirror her stance, she steps over to correct my form. Her hands are warm on my shoulders, then they go to my hips. She stands close as she adjusts me, and I take a deep breath, acutely aware of the pressure of her fingers through the fabric of my workout clothing.
“Good,” she says. "Now show me how you throw a punch.”
I punch the air in front of me. I’ve never boxed before, but how hard can it be? Concentrating on my form, I throw what must be a textbook punch, straight and strong.
She lets out a derisive snort. “Your arms are soggy noodles.”
I frown. “That was a great punch.”
“Only if you like spaghetti.” She speaks with relish, as though she’s enjoying herself. “Now do it again. This time, keep your wrist straight. And lead with your shoulder.” She takes hold of my arm, guiding it slowly through the right arc. “Like that. Twist at the waist.”
One of her hands slides down my shoulder blade. My punch may not have been good, but the pressure of her hand is fantastic.
“Again,” she says, and I’m tempted to do it badly just so she’ll run her hand down my back again.
Fortunately, my good sense kicks in before I can make a fool of myself, and when I execute another punch, she gives a reluctant grunt of approval.
“Better.” The praise sounds grudging.
“Careful,” I warn. “Don’t get so enthusiastic that you hurt yourself.”
She shoots me a stern sideways look as though she isn’t fighting amusement. “Your arms are still soft.”
“Soft like steel, you mean.”
“Try a combination jab.”
She demonstrates the move, and I do what she says, perfectly mimicking her form.
Instead of praise, she lets out another derisive snort. “Want some sauce for that pasta?”
I growl.
But she corrects my form again, physically moving my arms. And though I intensely dislike her pasta comparisons, I definitely do not dislike the way her hands caress my biceps.
Finally, she strides over to the array of brand-new boxing gear laid out in a gleaming row. She picks up some hand wraps and turns to me. “Hold out your hands,” she says, not bothering to ask if I know how to put them on.
When I put one hand out, she wraps it, explaining her process as she does it. “Thumb goes through here, then wrap around the hand, keeping it tight. Then through each of the fingers…”
As she keeps going, I try to focus on what she’s saying, not the feel of her fingers brushing over my palm.
She ties off the wrap on one hand, then wraps my other hand.
Once she’s finished, I pull a pair of boxing gloves on, and she grabs a pair of focus mitts.
Standing in front of me, she holds up both mitts.
“Throw the combination again."
We fall into a rhythm, the impacts echoing through the gym. She seems tireless, urging me on.
“Return to the stance I showed you between punches,” she says after a while. Then, “Lift your hands. Protect your face.” And eventually, “Hit me harder. Put some strength into those noodles.”
Sweat runs down my back, though Jamie still looks fresh and full of energy. Then she starts to weave from side to side, so I have to step sideways to hit the mitts.
“Stay on your toes,” she says. “Bounce, don’t step.”
Bounce? I’m fucking exhausted. But I push harder, determined to prove I'm not weak.
Droplets of sweat sting my eyes, and I blink them away, trying to keep focused. My muscles are burning, my heart pounding. I work out every damn morning and run half-marathons on the regular. Why is hitting some damn pads taking so much out of me?
“Okay, take a breath,” she finally says, stepping back and dropping her hands.
“I lower my gloves with relief, filling my lungs with deep gulps of air.
She pulls off the mitts and moves behind me.
“Let’s give it five, then run through that combination again.
But this time—" Her hands land on my hips, adjusting my stance, and my brain short-circuits.
The touch burns through my workout clothes, and suddenly all I can think about is her in that red bikini, her skin gleaming with oil...
“Are you listening to me?” Her tone is impatient. “I said, rotate your hips more."
“Like this?” I deliberately swivel the wrong way, against her hands.
She clicks her tongue, moving in closer. “That way. Center your weight.” I allow her to tug me into position, her hips grazing against mine. I probably stink of sweat, but she still smells great.
So far, this training session has been a mix of pleasure and pain. But every time she gets close to me, the pleasure part of it increases. She steps away all too soon, lifting her mitts back up. “Ready to go again?”
We work for a while longer, and eventually, my muscles are trembling. But by the time I’m finally pulling my gloves off, I’ve managed to master the basic combinations, and even Jamie seems satisfied.
“You were getting a little better toward the end,” she says, putting the focus mitts back. “Less completely terrible, at least.”
“Stop flirting with me,” I say dryly.
She tosses a towel at my face. "We have a lot of work to do before you're ready to fight in public.” She cocks her head. “Though if we include all the suspects who might have sent you the death threat, we could fill the entire gym with people who’d pay to watch you get beaten. Maybe I don’t need to train you at all. ”
I wipe the sweat from my forehead. “Not that I care what anyone thinks of me, but it might shock you to know that some people appreciate my company.”
“Is that right?” She couldn’t sound any more skeptical if I’d told her I’d started a cult, and my followers had sworn eternal fealty.
“I’ll have Rachel send you an invitation to the Ethan Kane Fan Club,” I joke dryly.
She cocks an eyebrow. “If I joined, would I be your first member?”
“Not quite. I made my poker buddies sign up. Cost me a fortune.”
She grins.
Fuck me, she’s even more beautiful when she smiles.
Her eyes crease and sparkle, and her cheeks bunch in the most adorable way.
Her skin has a light sheen of perspiration, and her face is rosy from the exertion.
I desperately want to reach out and tug out the elastic holding her ponytail in place to let her hair tumble onto her shoulders.
She bends to her bag again, and when she straightens, she’s holding two chocolate bars. “Want one?”
I shake my head. “I have breakfast waiting for me.”
“Good. More for me.” She stuffs one back in her bag, rips the other one open, and takes a bite.
“Our next training session isn’t until Sunday,” I say, thinking about how soon I’ll get to see her again. “But on Friday we’re going to a charity ball.”
Jamie swallows down chocolate. “Yeah, about that." She shifts her weight, and for the first time since I've met her, she looks uncertain. “Rachel’s sending me to a dress fitting, but I’m not a fancy gown kind of person. How strict is the dress code, exactly?”
“You’ll wear a bikini, but not a dress?” I ask, surprised.
She lifts her chin. “It’s easy to fight in a bikini, and it gets me more views, which means more money.
” Her tone is defensive. “But dresses...” Her lip curls.
“They get in the way of everything, especially long ones. I can’t move with that much fabric tangling around my legs.
And what if whoever’s threatening you turns up and tries to kill you? I wouldn’t be able to do my job.”
I drape the towel around the back of my neck. “I don’t care what you wear. Get whatever makes you comfortable.”
She stares questioningly at me, her lips tugged to one side, as though she’d expected me to be more demanding.
But honestly, I can’t imagine how Jamie could look anything but stunning, no matter how she’s dressed.
If she turned up in yoga pants—or her red bikini—she’d look so beautiful, she’d probably start a new trend.
The next event, every woman would be wearing the same thing.
The thought of all the socialites turning up in bikinis to the next ball has me fighting an unexpected smile.
Jamie notices, and her eyes narrow. “What’s funny?”
“Nothing.”
Her eyes narrow even more. “Are you letting me think I don’t need to wear a gown, knowing that wearing something else will make me feel out of place at your fancy party?”
My amusement sours. Does she really think that little of me? I may be blunt, but I’m not a psychopath. I don’t torture people for fun.
“Why would I do that?” I ask, my voice hard.
“Maybe to pay me back for how hard I pushed you today.”
“You didn’t push me,” I growl. “I’m not tired.” I use both hands to tug the ends of the towel that’s around my neck, so she won’t see how they’re shaking with fatigue, then start for the door.
“Good to know.” She picks up her bag and walks faster, striding ahead of me. “Then the next time we train,” she says over her shoulder, “I won’t go so easy on you.”