He spent the next ten minutes working on the skill, perfecting it before indulging in a wrestling contest in which he was outnumbered four to one. “She’s not the only one who can train. We got that one down, didn’t we? We—Well, shit.”
He shoved to his feet as it hit him. He was playing with dogs, working with dogs. He carried dog cookies in his pocket as habitually as loose change and his Leatherman. He was thinking about what color to paint his exterior trim and porches.
He’d made organizers for his kitchen drawers.
“This,” he said with feeling, “is nuts.”
He strode to the house. Boundaries? She didn’t know where his boundaries were? Well, she was about to find out.
He wasn’t going to be maneuvered and manipulated, and trained to be something he wasn’t.
There, he thought, was the black and the white.
He could hear her, breathing hard, as he stomped up the steps. Good, he thought, maybe the workout had worn her out and she wouldn’t have enough breath to argue her way out of it.
Then he stepped into the doorway, and just stood.
He didn’t notice the clean floor or windows, or that the sweaty shirt he’d peeled off when he’d done some lifting the day before wasn’t on the floor where he’d tossed it.
How could he? All he could see was her.
She executed some sort of martial arts routine and looked as if she could kick some serious ass. Lust added the final grip to interest and admiration to choke out temper.
Sweat dampened her face and the skinny tank she’d changed into. Those long legs, highlighted in a pair of snug black shorts, kicked, set, spun while the wiry muscles in her arms rippled.
He’d be drooling in a minute, he thought, as she balanced on one leg, kicked, then landed on the other in a graceful blur.
He must’ve made some sound because she pivoted, set into a fighting stance—eyes cold and fierce. Just as quickly, she relaxed and laughed.
“Didn’t see you there.” She sucked in air. “Scared me.”
She hadn’t looked scared, he thought. “What was that? Tae kwon do?”
She shook her head, gulped from the bottle of water she’d set on the weight bench. “Tai chi—mostly.”
“I’ve seen people doing tai chi. It’s like sissy New Age in slow motion.”
“First, it’s really old age, and the slow moves are about control, practice and form.” She crooked a finger. “It’s organic,” she said, “and about centering your power.”
“I’m still hearing sissy New Age, and that’s not what I was looking at a minute ago.”
“There’s a reason many of the moves have pretty names that come from nature. Like Push the Wave.”
She demonstrated, slowly, again gracefully pushing her hands out, palms toward him, then drawing them back, palms up. “But if I intensify that same move for defense, it’s—”
She shoved him back, knocking him off balance, then pulled him in and past her. “See?”
“I wasn’t ready.”
Grinning, she spread her legs, bent her knees and gave him a come-ahead gesture.
“Okay, you’ve seen The Matrix,” he said, and made her laugh.
“You’re stronger than I am, bigger, taller, longer reach. You may be faster, but we haven’t tested that yet. If I have to defend myself, I need to be able to center my power and use yours. I used to practice every day, in my obsessive way. Tai chi, power yoga, boxing—”
Interest piqued. “Boxing?”
“Yeah.” She put up her dukes. “Want to go a couple rounds?”
“Maybe later.”
“I did kickboxing, resistance training, hours of Pilates and whatever else you can think of every week. It made me feel capable and secure. Pro-active, I guess. Then I eased off, and I got rusty. I stopped pushing myself until... well, until.”
“You didn’t look rusty.”
“Muscle memory. It comes back. And the ever-popular motivation.”
“Show me. No, wait. This isn’t why I came in here. You did it again.”
“I did?”
“Distracted me. Sweaty, sexy body. You don’t need tai chi to throw a man off balance.”
“Wow.” She gave a little shoulder wiggle. “Now I do feel powerful.”
“It’s that.” He pointed.
“It’s... the window?”
“It’s the window. Why did you wash the window?”
“Because I like clean windows. I like to look outside, and it’s more pleasant to do that when I’m not looking through a film of dust.”
“That’s only part of it.”
“What’s the other part?”
“The other part is getting me to notice the ones you haven’t gotten around to washing yet so I feel guilty. And so I see that the trim needs painting.”
She picked up her water bottle, uncapped it. “That’s a lot of motivation behind some Windex and a rag.”
“And there’s this.” He dug in his pocket, pulled out a handful of dog treats.
“Oh, thanks, but I’m trying to cut down.”
“Funny. I put these damn things in my pocket every day. I don’t even think about it, I just do it. I just spent a good half hour, maybe more, out there working with the dogs.”
All patient attention, she sipped her water. “Because I washed the window?”
“No, but it’s the same thing. It’s the same thing as the house smelling like a lemon drop or me thinking I should probably pick you up some flowers the next time I’m in the village.”
“Oh, Simon.”
“Shut up. And it doesn’t matter a damn that we’ve got bigger things to worry about because basic is basic. So...”
He strode to the window, slapped the palm of his hand against the sparkling glass. “Leave it,” he ordered, pointing at the smudged print he left behind.
“Okay. Why?”
“I don’t know why. I don’t have to know why, but if I want it gone, I’ll wash it off. You leave it alone.”
There, he thought. Now they’d get down to it.
She started to laugh, a full-out, up-from-the-gut roll that left her breathless again. She had to bend over, brace her hands on her thighs.
“Listen, it may sound stupid, but—”
Still bent over, she waved him off. “Not entirely, but enough. God, God! I’ve been up here working my ass off to make myself feel strong, capable of dealing with whatever comes at me so I’m not hiding under the bed trembling, and you accomplish the same thing in under five minutes.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“You make me feel strong, capable, even ingenious because you just see me that way. I haven’t got you wrapped around my finger, Simon—far from it. And the fact is, I wouldn’t want you there. But because there’s this little part of you that worries I do, or I could, I feel I can take on anything that comes. Anything at all. I feel strong and sexy and capable and ingenious.” She flexed her left biceps. “It’s heady. I’m drunk on it.”
“Well, that’s just great.”
“And you know what else? That you would do that—that silly thing to make a point.” She gestured toward the window. “That you could do that without feeling foolish, but feel just a little foolish because you’ve spent time out there playing with the dogs? Simon, it just disarms me.”
“For God’s sake.”
“It disarms me and delights me. So I’m disarmed, delighted, strong and sexy and capable all at the same time. And no one has ever made me feel the way you do. No one. That.” She pointed to the window again, and let out a laugh that sounded as baffled as he felt. “That right there is why, as ridiculous, as incomprehensible as it is, it’s why I’m in love with you.
“Simon.” She walked to him, linked her arms around his neck. “Isn’t that a kick in the ass?” She pressed her lips to his in a hard, noisy kiss. “So, handprint stays. In fact, I think I’ll draw a heart around it first chance. Meanwhile, I can show you some basic moves before I dive into the shower and a glass of wine. Unless you want to yell at me for a while.”