Burn (8 page)

With the fiery pink and orange sunset and the warm
breeze filtering through his goldenrod curls, Chip looked like a figure from a Renoir painting. It had been so long
since she’d gotten a date invitation, and Chip was
someone she might eventually like as more than a friend. The last thing she wanted to do was give him reason to
expect more than she could give, so she phrased her
answer very specifically.

“That would be nice,” she said. “Maybe we could
invite Zae along with us. She really likes you and she
rarely goes out because of her teaching schedule.”

Aiming a dejected smile at his feet, Chip sighed. “I
was thinking just the two of us could go out.”

“I’m flattered, but I wouldn’t be very good company.”
She took her bag from him and dug out her house keys.
They climbed the three wide wooden stairs to the asym
metrical porch of the maroon and black house.

Chip followed her. “You were great company tonight.”

She dared not tell him that their walk was the first
social interaction she’d had with someone other than Zae in the fifteen months since she had moved to Webster
Groves. That Chip thought her great company was a much-appreciated compliment.

“C’mon, it’s just lunch,” Chip said, his voice playfully
seductive. “If you hate me afterward, we can pretend it never happened.”

Her back to the door, Cinder fiddled with her keys.
“I find it hard to believe that anyone could hate you.” “So is that a yes to lunch?”

“I can’t, Chip. It wouldn’t be fair to you.”

His smile never wavered. “I had a feeling, but I had to try.”

“Why were you so sure that I’d say no?”

He backed toward the stairs. “Because just about
every question you asked me tonight was about Gian Piasanti.”

* * *

Gian tugged at his tie, which seemed to be slowly
strangling him. He sat opposite Pritchard Hok and his
partner, a long-legged brunette with grasshopper green
eyes. The mellow notes of a viola accompanied the pleasant murmur of conversations about the dining
room. Isis was one of Gian’s favorite restaurants because
of its eclectic cuisine and décor, which was just chic
enough to pass for upscale when he entertained people like Hok. But for the first time ever, he had no taste for
t
he chef’s special menu, no ear for the live viola, and no
eye for Hok’s stunning partner.

Kuriko Lavenich was the reason Gian was in talks
with Pritchard Hok, founder and CEO of an eponymous
health, fitness, and sports conglomerate based in Korea.
One of Gian’s former students had demonstrated the
Sheng Li technique at a fitness expo in Hong Kong and
had impressed Kuriko, who had flown all the way to
Missouri to meet “the man behind the mastery.”

A second meeting in New York City a month later had further convinced Kuriko to seek a deal between
Sheng Li and Pritchard Hok Industries. Although he could never be sure if it had been his acumen in the
boardroom or in the bedroom that had inspired Kuriko to sell the Sheng Li technique to Hok, Gian was glad to
be given a chance to join a company that could make
Sheng Li a worldwide brand. If the movement of
Kuriko’s toe along his inseam was any indication, all they
had left to do was put the deal to bed.

“It took a great deal of convincing to get the sponsors
to agree to hold the International Martial Arts tourna
ment in St. Louis,” Pritchard said, running his fingers
through his long, silver hair. “This will be the first time we’ve ventured into foreign territory.”

His measured tone and boarding-school-bred English
accent belied the gravity of his words. Gian understood
corporate speak, and he translated “convincing” to mean
money, “foreign territory” to mean anyplace other than New York, Boston, Miami or Los Angeles.

“
With Kansas City and Chicago so close by, St. Louis
is an ideal location for the tournament,” Gian said.
“Students and fans of the martial arts will turn out to see
fighters they’ve only seen on ESPN. I’m sure you’ve
already noticed how much more economical it is to host the event here, with hotels, transportation, and tourna
ment venues costing a fraction of what they do on either
coast. You’ll more than recoup your investment, Mr. Hok.”

“The money isn’t the issue most concerning me, Mr.
Piasanti.” Pritchard grinned. “This tournament will be an audition for you and your Sheng Li fighting tech
niques. It will be your introduction to the international
fight community. Your competitors and potential fran
chisees must be impressed with a dynamic presentation.
If you fail . . .” He raised a speculative eyebrow and
swirled the last of the red wine in his goblet.

“I won’t fail,” Gian stated, his jaw hardening. “My students won’t fail.”

Pritchard smiled. Kuriko’s toes burrowed deeper into
Gian’s crotch.

“That’s the fighting spirit, Mr. Piasanti.” Pritchard
raised a hand and summoned their waiter with two
hooked fingers. “I shall leave you and Kuriko to enjoy dessert, and perhaps, catch up?” Their server scurried to
their table and cheerfully accepted Hok’s black credit card.

“Thank you, Hok,” Kuriko said, her Russian accent
turning “thank you, Hok” into “zank you, Howk.”

“Stay,” Gian said, perhaps a bit too quickly. “The
green tea ice cream is pretty good here.”

K
uriko narrowed her eyes at Pritchard, and her shoul
ders rose with the deep breath she took through her nose.
If her body language hadn’t been specific enough, Kuriko’s next words made her preferences clear. “I am sure that you
have better things to do this evening than sit in on old
home week between me and Gian,” she said. “I’ll see you
at the airport in the morning, Hok. Goodnight.”

Pritchard muttered his farewells and left, Kuriko’s
eyes tracking him until his driver was closing him in his Town Car. When Kuriko returned her gaze to Gian, he
nearly shrank from the heat blazing from her eyes. The
last time he had seen that fire, he had ended up dehy
drated and exhausted after two days and two nights in
Kuriko’s suite at the Mandarin Oriental Hotel. With
Manhattan’s skyline sprawling in the background, he and
the limber marketing executive émigré had wiped the walls with each other.

Gian had looked forward to her return for this
meeting, and not just because of the business opportu
nity it heralded. Kuriko’s intelligence matched her
unusual beauty, the result of her Japanese and Ethiopian-
Russian ancestry. Gian watched her comb her fingers
through her straight black hair, and he had a vague
memory of that hair tickling over his torso. As she spoke,
he watched her ruby lips form her words. When she
asked their waiter for sugar cane juice to sweeten her
coffee, her lips wrapped around the word “juice” and
reminded Gian of her lips wrapped around the heaviness
between his legs, which now rested snugly beneath
Kuriko’s bare toes.

“
Pritchard is obviously quite serious about partnering
with you and making Sheng Li an international brand,
but he’ll proceed no further until he sees the reception
you get at the International Martial Arts Champion
ships.” Kuriko leaned over the table, her long hair nearly
sweeping into her coffee. “He’ll be watching your exhibi
tion matches most closely.”

Gian sat back in his chair, shifting to clear his crotch
of Kuriko’s foot. “Why’s that?”

“There are rules to the championship matches. The
combatants are highly trained athletes skilled at competition fighting. The audience is familiar with them, for the
most part, and knows what to expect, a winner and a
loser. There are no rules for the exhibitions and the fighters
are either unknown or old ponies trotted out for a last
kick. The first round match-ups are random, so you never
know who will be matched with whom. That’s what makes
them far more exciting to the audience. Exhibitions win far more new students than championship matches, and we want the viewing public to hunger for you and Sheng Li after the tournament.” Her long, slim fingers went to
her neckline, lightly playing with it so that Gian was forced
to notice the deep plunge of her cleavage. “You make it
very easy to hunger for you, Gian.”

The left side of his mouth hooked into a subtle grin
when Kuriko’s toes grasped at the place his crotch had
been. He gave them a light squeeze before moving her foot, guiding it back to the floor.

Kuriko pushed her coffee aside and rested her arms
on the table. She sat up straight, instantly changing her p
osture from bedroom to boardroom. “You don’t seem
yourself, Gian,” she said briskly. “If you don’t think you’ll
be prepared for the tournament, it would be best if you
told Hok now. Better to delay the launch of Sheng Li
than force it before you’re completely ready.”

“I’m on track with my preparations for the tourna
ment. Don’t you worry. This thing will happen.”

“Then why won’t you come back to my hotel with
me?”

At the nearest table, an older lady with a glossy blue
rinse hid an amused smirk behind a fork wrapped in
glassy rice noodles. Her dining companion’s eyebrows rose; his wide eyes darted between Gian and Kuriko. Shaking his head, he chuckled, and Gian knew exactly
what he was thinking: You’re crazy for not going to the
ends of the Earth with this woman.

“I didn’t know that I’d been invited.” Gian sighed.
“You have a standing invitation.”

Or appointment,
Gian thought. He ran his hand over
his head. Kuriko had made it very clear that she desired
nothing more than “a bit of fun” from him or any other
man. Pritchard Hok Industries took her all over the
world, and Gian had no delusions that he was her only
fun.

But even as he recalled the many varieties of fun they
had enjoyed in New York City, he had no desire to revisit
them. Funnily enough, he had no desire for her at all. She
had touched him intimately in a semi-public place, yet
his flesh hadn’t stirred. He hadn’t been with a woman in
months, not since his last visit to Manhattan for his ini
t
ial meeting with Pritchard Hok. He had looked forward
to this meeting all day for its own sake—not because he
had a sure thing in Kuriko.

Kuriko had sat before him all through dinner, teasing
him with her eyes as much as her toes, yet her obvious
interest had failed to dislodge the reason for his inability
to devote his full interest to her. He couldn’t stop
thinking of Cinder and what her toes might be doing to
Chip.

* * *

The day after his meeting with Pritchard Hok, Gian
stood in his kitchen waiting for his teaching staff to fill
their plates and seat themselves in his media room. Karl jumped ahead of Sionne to pick over the spread Gian had
laid out, heaping his plate with chicken wings, baked ziti,
pasta salad, and spare ribs.

“Need any help with that?” Gian watched Karl top
his mountainous plate of food with three steaming garlic
knots.

“I’m good.” Karl plopped a dollop of bleu cheese
dressing onto his buffalo wings, slopping a glop onto the
floor. Tucking two bottles of Schlafly ale under his arm,
he carefully stepped over the mess and left the kitchen. “I
got dibs on the La-Z-Boy!”

Gian took a napkin from the package on the counter
and stooped to wipe up the dressing. The bamboo
flooring was durable, but the last thing he needed was one of his instructors slipping and breaking an ankle in t
he midst of training for the most important tournament
in Sheng Li’s short history.