An Affair of Deceit (8 page)

“Change!” barked the grand master. The fourteen uniformed and helmeted adults in the small, sweaty room immediately halted their fights and stepped apart to bow respectfully to one another.

After she bowed to her tall, thin partner with the powerful shins, Abigail stared at the floor, noticing not for the first time little bits of broken toenails and who knew what else that were embedded in the carpet’s tight blue loops. The dojo’s grand master was an elderly Chinese man whom she revered for his wisdom and supernatural acrobatic ability, but for as much money as she paid him each month, she really thought he could hire a housekeeper.

She lifted up her foam helmet and removed the elastic band that was barely holding her long hair in check. She quickly wound the strands into a tight bun that sat at the nape of her neck. All around her, local practitioners of wushu, a modern interpretation of China’s traditional martial arts, jostled for new partners, but as always, Abigail stayed in place. No one ever wanted to spar with her, but inevitably, someone would find him- or herself without a partner and be forced to plod slowly in her direction.

Normally, she found her fellow martial artists undisciplined and took pleasure in battering them, but tonight she was distracted. She kept thinking about the conversation she’d overheard between her mother and Riley earlier that day, largely focusing on the fact that her father had been visiting her mother all these years. It had haunted her all day long, nagging at her. She had to get to the bottom of this mess, or else she’d never have any peace. Why had her father been communicating with her mother, but not her?

Did it mean he loved his wife but not his daughter?

If so, why did Abigail even give a damn?

Another whistle pierced her thoughts. She instinctively bowed deeply to her new partner, a short, round man with muscular legs and a thick midsection. She knew him well. He kicked like thunder, and hits to his torso were ineffective, but he was prideful. Like many such fighters, he refused to properly defend against assaults. He preferred to take punches and kicks “like a man” rather than lift his fists and deflect attacks like an intelligent fighter. So she would aim for his head, as she always did, and he would take her brutal assault with the irrational satisfaction of a man who secretly wants to be beaten.

They separated, and as soon as her partner settled into a ready stance, she launched a free-form series of kicks, jumping and spinning with a relentless speed that forced her stocky opponent to stumble back several paces. She imagined breathing through her feet, achieving a sort of weightlessness, and then
she extended her arms and flew like a hummingbird, fluttering silently through the air. She hit the man’s fleshy face from all sides as he struggled to find an opening for his favorite move, a showy, head-crushing axe kick that could only be executed under ideal conditions.

She refused to give him the space he needed for the big kick. It would be whispered later by the other students that she had showed him no mercy, but in her opinion, the masochistic idiot
wanted
her to hurt him. If he bothered to listen to his training and pay attention to the way she fought, he’d learn how to defend against a flurry attack without being pushed back, but he was too stupid, too slow, and too dependent upon choreographed forms. He expected sparring to occur in managed spurts in which each fighter took turns demonstrating their prowess, hardly hitting the other in the process.

She scorned such careful practice. This class was specifically designated for more advanced martial artists, those with at least ten years of experience. While Abigail had more years under her belt than everyone except the grand master, by this point in their careers her fellow students should be up to the task of fighting her. If she was out of line, the grand master would tell her, and she’d listen. Until then, she’d play by the rules as she understood them.

The match ended with her opponent not having thrown a single offensive move. It was a gross embarrassment for him, and he didn’t look at her when they bowed.

While the other students again played musical partners, she closed her eyes and focused on her breathing. Her heart rate was up, and her body flowed with a heady stream of adrenaline. She focused on the power electrifying her veins and imagined turning it into a bright red ball. She held the imagined ball close, inside her chest cavity, preventing it from overrunning her. Such a visualization kept her calm and dispassionate in the midst of a sparring session. She’d been using the technique for years to
manage the exhilaration of combat. Her father, of all people, had taught her to manage stressful situations so that she could feel empowered instead of overwhelmed.

She pictured him, tall and stern, with irises as ice-blue as a glacier, standing in their dusty yard with sweat staining the white T-shirt he’d always worn to workouts—
their
workouts. She’d joined him in his daily wushu practices almost as soon as she could walk. At first she’d just watched and mimicked him, but before long, he began training her. Her mother would have preferred she learn tai chi, but Abigail was never interested in that slow, internally focused method. She liked her father’s powerful style. Even better, she was good at it.

The red ball pounded in her chest as her heart surged with unexpected and unwanted yearning.

Why? Why did he leave?

It still hurt. She was trying so hard to pretend that it didn’t, but she couldn’t deny that it was killing her to know that he’d chosen her mother over her.

Her mother! Fei Li, the maddeningly peaceful woman who shunned fighting as barbaric. The woman who thought her place was ten quiet steps behind her husband. It made no sense, but no matter how much Abigail tumbled it over in her mind, she couldn’t change the fact that the woman who’d never seemed suited for or worthy of Peter Mason was the same woman he’d chosen to continue loving all these years.

He’d chosen his mute, self-sacrificing wife over the daughter he’d molded into the very image of himself.

What didn’t I do right?

The whistle tore through Abigail’s self-recrimination.

She lifted her head and was surprised not to recognize her competitor. He was a handsome African-American well over six feet tall and possessed a robust level of fitness that hinted at a career involving the constant, strenuous use of his body. Construction worker, maybe, or a personal trainer.

Or exotic dancer. He had the looks for it.

A shiver ran down her spine. She tucked that shiver away with the red ball of anger and readied to explode into action.

She assessed him as they bowed and saw no obvious physical flaws she could exploit. From his smoothly shaved head to his bare, well-manicured toes, he was a dark-chocolate-skinned Adonis. Then their eyes met and she saw his smiling arrogance.

Hubris would be this beautiful prince’s downfall. She smiled gracefully, a rare gesture that would have frightened anyone who knew her well enough to know that what pleased her in this situation would not be to their benefit.

She crouched back in a defensive stance, content to let him expose his style. He opened with a quick punch combination that she pushed away without aggression. He came at her with progressively heavier punches that she ducked and weaved to avoid, but he wouldn’t kick. He fought like a boxer who thought it’d be fun to learn a little wushu on the side.

This hunk was sticking to what he knew best, but Abigail would make him fight
her
fight. She would wait for him to take a foot off the ground so she could sweep him onto his well-muscled butt. She danced in a circle well out of his long arm reach, tempting him to kick her.

He cocked his head, grinning. “I can do this all night, little girl.”

Little girl?

It was a taunt. The nerve!

She knew she shouldn’t let him goad her into action, but she was clean out of patience and itching for a fight. From the smile on his face, she guessed that he was eager to give her one.

She shot into him like a tornado, whirling madly and jabbing with elbows, knees, fingers, and feet with primal ferocity. In a corner of her mind she recognized that she shouldn’t let her emotions dictate her technique, but she was too angry to care. The memory of her father’s disapproving glare when she’d falter
in practice only pushed her on. She heard herself shouting with each attack and recognized that she’d finally found the motivation to verbally emphasize her moves as the grand master desired. Yelling “Hiya!” had never felt so right as it did when the top of her foot connected with the giant’s head.

The tall stranger didn’t stumble back like her previous opponent had. He stood his ground and deftly defended against her assault, letting only her most vicious and clever hits find their targets, and he even managed to strike a few blows of his own.

One of his boxer-style punches struck her mouth. Blood coated her tongue with rusty warmth.

Blood. Hers. Drawn in a fight.

It’d been a hell of a long time since anyone had made her work for it. This arrogant ass was the first person to fight her,
really
fight her, in a long time. Since the last time she’d worked out with her father, actually. Yes, it hurt to be hit so hard, but it felt good, too, like it meant she was an equal in this man’s eyes. He wasn’t worried about damaging her. He knew she could handle it. He took her seriously enough to hit her just as hard as she hit him.

And now she wasn’t concerned about hurting him, either. She broke one of the unspoken rules of the gym and flicked her foot toward his crotch.

Just as quickly, his hand swept down to push her kick harmlessly aside. “We just met and already you’re going for my balls?”

“Just a little gender verification,” she retorted.

“Hey, I’ll let you see them,” he said, ducking back to avoid a spinning outer crescent kick she had hoped would connect with his jaw, “but I’m a gentleman. At least let me buy you dinner first.”

“Let me empty your stomach first,” she muttered, and rammed her knee into his gut.

He hadn’t expected that, but he recovered quickly and grabbed her firmly by the waist before she could skirt away. He pulled her left arm back hard and she went limp.

He released his hold on her, probably thinking he’d gone too far.

Sucker.

Abigail screamed “Yah!” as she spun in his arms and threw the back of her clenched wrist into his cheek. He grunted. Eager to finish the job, she jumped into the air and whipped her left leg out in a devastating back kick that landed in the center of the big man’s chest.

It knocked him backward. He stumbled once, twice, and then fell to the ground with a dull thud.

She landed and stepped back, wondering what to do next. Should she humiliate him further by delivering the previous fighter’s beloved axe kick, which would actually be the perfect move in this situation? Or should she extend her hand and help him stand?

Honor got the better of her personal vindictiveness. She reached out her hand, and he grasped it with a smile.

“Good fight,” he said, and he sounded sincere.

The grand master’s whistle blew, and Abigail realized that everyone else in the room had long since stopped fighting. The whole studio had watched the end of her fight, and now the room was silent.

She quickly bowed to her sparring partner and walked briskly toward the locker room, suddenly and uncomfortably aware of the slick sweat pooling above the waistband of her cotton workout pants. She avoided the stares of her classmates, but she couldn’t resist looking back at the grand master.

He was standing near the visitor’s gallery at the front of the gym, talking to the man she’d just sparred with and a third man she recognized with hot irritation.

It was James Riley, PhD, and he stood next to her most recent sparring partner as though they knew each other.

No. They stood together as a
team
.

Riley bowed deeply to the grand master, and the old man walked away with a spring in his step that hinted at his legendary athletic ability.

Ethan Greene bowed, too, but his eyes stayed on Abigail’s backside as she stormed into the locker room.

“That is a woman!” Greene exclaimed softly with a companionable slap on Riley’s back. “A little skinny, though. I like my ladies with a little more cushion. It’s for the pushin’, you know.”

“Don’t be an ass. She’s pissed off enough as it is. What in the hell are you doing here, anyway? I’m trying to work a case for you,” he spat through clenched teeth.

“This dojo is iconic. Been meaning to check it out.” Greene’s bright smile was a blinding contrast against his clear brown skin.

“And you just happened to pick a night when Abigail likes to train.”

“No, that wasn’t a coincidence—I planned it.” Greene laughed. “Why? You trying to keep her to yourself?”

“I’m trying to manage a series of interrogations. Delicately. Hard to do when my team leader shows up and tries to throw her to the mat.”

“I needed to see her. She doesn’t need to know who I am.”

“She’s not stupid.” How many times would he tell people that? “She saw us talking together. If she was willing to work with me before, she sure as hell isn’t going to now.”