Close Contact
Dante
I’d been teaching men to kill since I was twenty-two years old.
Privates fresh out of basic. Iraqi police recruits who’d never thrown a punch in their lives. A Bolivian squad that didn’t speak a word of English and learned the curriculum from my hands and a battered training dummy in a hangar outside Santa Cruz.
Killing wasn’t hard, once you knew what you were doing. I didn’t enjoy it, but I’d come to realize it was a necessary part of warfare. Kill or be killed, that’s what my commanding officer had often said, and in the heat of battle, he was right.
Hand-to-hand combat was slightly different, but the mechanics were simple.
Look for the vulnerable points is what I told the men I’d trained.
The eyes, the throat, the soft pocket at the base of the skull, the small bones in the foot that snapped when you stepped on them at the right angle. Find your advantage.
The clearing in front of the cabin was roughly twelve feet by fifteen, big enough to work out in. The cold dirt surface was covered in pine needles that would soften her landing. It was a cool fall morning, but that didn’t bother me. This was balmy compared to an Afghan winter.
Evelyn came out in black leggings and another figure-hugging sweater, this one in olive green, that exposed at least half an inch of smooth, bare stomach. She’d tied her hair into a messy bun at the nape of her neck. On her feet were the running shoes she’d pulled on when I’d abducted her.
“Fuck me,” I muttered, gesturing to the center of the clearing. She looked both adorable and sexy as hell.
“Are you sure this is necessary?” She placed her hands on her hips.
I tried not to notice the enticing curve of her waist, or how the sweater hugged her breasts. Why the hell couldn’t she have worn a shapeless, oversized shirt and saved me the mental gymnastics? It was like the woman was put on earth to taunt me.
“Yes, it’s necessary,” I barked, willing my body not to react. “Hands up.”
She huffed into the middle of the space and lifted her hands, fingers spread like she was warding off a stray dog.
“Not like that,” I said, sounding more pissed off than I felt. “Make a fist.”
She balled her hands into fists. “Oh. Well, why didn’t you just say that?”
I rolled my eyes as I closed the space between us. She still wasn’t doing it right.
“Keep your fists loose, not white-knuckled.” I bent her thumb to where it needed to be then closed my hand over hers and pressed her fingers closed again. “On the outside, never tucked underneath your other fingers.”
Christ, she had small hands, so soft and warm under my big, hard ones. I had a vision of those same hands locked around my neck last night, clinging to me as she came apart. Like she’d needed something solid to hold onto. Needed me.
And damn if I didn’t like it. More than I should have.
“Like this?” She was gazing up at me. So close, I could smell the scent of her shampoo.
With a curt nod, I took a step back.
“We need to get one thing straight,” I said as she held her position. “I am not teaching you how to defend yourself. That’s what they teach you in classes at the gym.”
“But I thought—”
“The men who are after you won’t give you that choice,” I cut in. She stopped talking. “I’m going to teach you how to maim. And if we have time, I’m going to teach you how to kill.”
Those lovely eyes widened. “There’s a big difference,” she whispered.
“Exactly.”
She hesitated, then gave a tight nod. “Okay.”
I nodded. “Good.”
Rolling my shoulders, I worked out the stiffness. I wasn’t built the way I used to be. Fast movements had consequences now.
“Hurting someone buys you time,” I told her as I warmed up. “Killing them makes sure they never get back up again.”
She gnawed on her lower lip, then nodded again.
“First thing you learn is the soft targets.” I stepped closer, pointing to each place as I spoke. “Eyes. Throat. Groin. Knee. Instep. In that order. Say it.”
Those green eyes fixed on me as she repeated the words.
“Good girl. Remember, you don’t hesitate, you don’t apologize, and you don’t stop until he’s on the ground. You got that?”
Another nod.
“You go for the weak spots. We call them the seams.”
“The seams?”
“The eyes first,” I said, motioning to hers. “The most reliable target on the body. Doesn’t matter how big he is, if you drive your thumb into the socket hard enough, his hands come off you fast. Not because he chooses to, but because his nervous system shuts down.”
“I understand,” she said, even though she looked faintly nauseated by what I was saying.
“Good. Now, show me.”
Her brows pulled together. “Show you how to gouge your eyes out?”
I stepped closer. “Put your fingers on my temple. Then trace my socket with your thumb. Feel where it gives. I need to know you can put your hand on a man’s face and find his eyes in the dark. That’s the drill.”
She hesitated like she didn’t want to touch me. I could tell by the blush that tainted her cheeks she was still embarrassed by what had happened last night.
Good. That had been my intention.
Last night had been a reminder, a way to show her that she shouldn’t take me for a fool. That she couldn’t play me.
But we weren’t playing now. This was survival.
“Ophelia,” I said, more softly.
Something in my voice made her move and she lifted her hand to my face. Her fingertips brushed my temple. Her touch was soft, almost tender.
“Now close your eyes.”
Her lids fluttered shut as her thumb traced the ridge beneath my brow, following the curve of bone. She went slowly, hesitantly, as if afraid of what she might find.
The proximity gave me a chance to study her up close.
She had a pert little turned-up nose with the faintest smattering of freckles that I hadn’t noticed before.
Her forehead was lined with concentration, like she was trying to memorize me instead of locating weak spots.
I didn’t hate it, and I had to resist the urge to lean into her touch.
“Okay, enough,” I said, realizing I’d been holding my breath.
She dropped her hand, like she’d been caught touching something she shouldn’t.
I stepped back on the pretext of squaring my own stance. Really, I just needed a moment to catch my breath.
I’d taken every kind of hit a man could survive. Broken ribs. Split teeth. Knife wounds. But one soft touch from this copper-haired vixen and suddenly I couldn’t remember how to breathe.
When I faced her again, my voice came out rougher than before. “Throat next.”
Her gaze dropped to my mouth, then lower, to my Adam’s apple.
“You use what is called a knife hand strike,” I said. “Not a fist.” I lifted my hand between us, fingers straight and tight together. “Lock these. Keep the thumb tucked or you’ll break it on impact.”
She mirrored me carefully.
I stepped behind her before I thought too hard about it and caught her wrist, turning her hand over. “Straighter.”
I ran a finger along the edge of her palm. “This is the weapon. Not there—” I tapped the center lightly— “here.”
She nodded and adjusted her stance, her butt nudging my groin. It felt so damn good I wanted to grab her hips and pull her closer.
“You strike with the bone along the outside edge,” I explained, guiding her hand through the air in a cutting motion. “Horizontal. Fast. And aim through the target.”
She frowned. “Through?”
“Yeah. You’re not trying to hit him. You’re trying to slice through him like a knife through butter.”
She turned her head to glance over her shoulder at me and my jaw brushed her cheek. Damn, she felt good. So fucking soft.
“Done right,” I continued, my mouth close to her ear, “the trachea collapses. He stops thinking about hurting you and starts thinking about breathing.”
She didn’t move. I had to fight not to release all that strawberry-blonde hair and bury my face in it, while I kissed that delectable neck.
I released her and stepped around so I was facing her again.
Space.
Space was good.
So was pain. My pain.
I held a hand up. “Strike.”
She hesitated only a second before snapping her hand forward.
Crack.
“Harder.”
“I’m hitting you as hard as I can,” she complained.
I tilted my head. “Then you’re going to die.”
Gritting her teeth, she tried again. This time she committed to the strike and it was harder. The edge of her palm smacked against mine hard enough to sting.
“Good. Again. Picture going through your assailant.”
I made her do the move over and over again, correcting her stance, adjusting her elbow, and showing her how to keep her wrist locked.
The slap of her hand against mine cracked off the surrounding trees. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Kyle watching, an amused expression on his face. He must be wondering what the fuck I was doing training her, the woman I’d paid to have guarded.
By the sixth strike, Evelyn wasn’t holding back anymore.
On the seventh, I caught her wrist mid-strike, used her own momentum to pull her in, and spun her so she was facing away from me. My forearm was against her collarbone, her back flush against me from shoulder to thigh. That sexy ass was nestled so tight against my crotch it made me instantly hard.
“This is what’s going to happen in real life,” I growled into her ear. “He won’t stand still and let you hit him.”
She wriggled, making me even harder, but I had a strong grip on her and she wasn’t going anywhere. I was, however, grateful for the tough denim.
“He’ll grab you and kill you. You have about four seconds to react.”
She stopped moving.
I let a long beat pass, then said, “Bend your knees and drop your weight.”
She dropped. The drag pulled at my arm.
“Now stomp down, heel first. Use your full body weight. The instep has a dozen small bones in it and they will shatter on contact. You don’t need to be strong, you just need to hit it right.”
She drove her heel down. I shifted half an inch and let her connect with the dirt.
“Faster. Do it again.”
Frustration flashed across her face. Good. I wanted to make her mad.