Trust Me (Paris Nights #3)(4)
She pivoted in a kick up high near his head and landed in a fighting position. “You sure you want to mess with me?”
“Yeah,” he said with perfect honesty. “I do want to mess with you.”
A lot.
Like, cuddle up in sheets and get messy as hell.
“It’s amazing how many men do,” she said and jabbed the air, right and left. “And they’re always sorry,” she warned him.
Oh, she was still using him as a punching bag. Proving to herself she could handle whatever any man threw at her.
Okay.
“Well, it’s my first time,” he said, wrapping his hands. “So be gentle with me.”
“First time in a mixed-martial arts ring?” Lina said, surprised.
First time in a ring with a woman. Ever. He had never in his entire life even pretended to fight against a woman. “First time messing with you.”
She relaxed into a kind of fierce, defiant arrogance. Spirit. That was the word. Fierce spirit. “Yeah, that is always a tough first lesson for a man.”
Damn, he liked her. He pulled on his gloves and prepared to have one hell of a good time.
God, he had fun, sparring with her. She threw herself into it, and he couldn’t, not the way he was used to—his particular challenge here was making sure he didn’t hurt her while still giving her a decent opponent. More dodging and blocking on his side and punching to a point a couple inches shy of her, rather than through her, and making extra sure he didn’t time it wrong so that she ran into one of those punches.
He had expected that he would find this sparring arousing as hell, but he’d still underestimated how much so. Grappling with and responding to every move her smaller body made, like an aggressive, passionate dance. Not that he knew how to couples dance, hell. He knew how to instruct newbies in combat training, though, and he used that—drawing her out, responding to the flicker of her eyes, opening himself up, closing a trap, feinting, engaging, taking all she could give him.
Yeah. Give it to me, honey.
He loved the way the curls clung black to her forehead as she sweated, and the way that sweetheart face could keep making him underestimate her determination, over and over, a lesson she kept teaching him every time she connected.
By the time they were done, she was actually grinning, as if for a moment she had cleared all memory of the attacks out of her soul.
“Thanks for the sparring,” he said, on the walk back to her apartment, after they’d both showered at the gym. Her police guards accompanied them. All the Au-dessus kitchen staff had been assigned guards for six months, to protect them from any possible vengeance attacks or other kinds of crazies. “Happy to hit a boxing gym with you any time. If you need an outlet.”
The glance she sent up at him flashed with so much—relief? Gratitude? His fingers curled into his palm so he wouldn’t just take her hand and squeeze. “Thanks,” she said. “I—thanks.”
Yeah, he wasn’t a firm believer in trying to articulate all his emotions either. Sometimes there just weren’t the right words. “I’ll see you up to your door.”
A flicker in her eyes, the smile fading. “I’ve got the guards.” She threw a thank-you-guys smile over her shoulder at them.
“I know. But I’m a control freak.”
“Like to make sure everything’s done right?” Lina said, unexpectedly rueful.
Exactly. He nodded.
She smiled. “Me, too.”
That was funny. So if he could be patient while she was traumatized, and wait, and build this attraction into something stable, damn it, would that mean they would fight not over whether the toothpaste cap was on or not—it would always be on—but what side the toothpaste was on the sink and whether it should be in a vase or flat on the counter, or—
What the f*ck is wrong with you? Quit imagining long term. Why do you do this to yourself?
He spent half his life deployed and another fourth training all over the world. Long term didn’t exist for him.
A pile of flowers and stuffed animals and letters had collected by the door to her apartment building, all addressed to her. Jake glanced at the police guards who nodded to confirm to him that they were safe. Not only had the police provided bodyguards to Lina and the rest of the staff, but they also were maintaining security over the Au-dessus restaurant and the apartment buildings where people lived, and in the cases of those who had drawn the most dramatic international attention—Lina and Vi—of family members, too. So the gifts to her were verified before anyone was allowed to deposit them, and the letters—lots of adoring children’s drawings—had to be open rather than sealed in an envelope.
They were an effective counterbalance to the ugly craziness that came at the two women—but particularly Lina—online, which they let their publicist handle and tried to pretend didn’t exist. Even though they couldn’t help knowing it did.
Lina picked up the top drawing. A child’s hand. I love you. And a carefully drawn black-haired circle that might have been Lina’s face, except the child had drawn an arrow to it that said, ME. Lina’s face crumpled a little, a sheen of emotion in her eyes.
Journalists kept at a distance by the police snapped pictures of the moment. Damn it. But there was nothing to do but ignore them and try to function normally. Jake scooped up the stuffed animals and flowers and handed Lina a particularly nice floppy dog, angling his body to shield her face from cameras.