Burn (3 page)

“You don’t need to look into other dojos,” he said
with a long sigh and a glance at the brick of cash. “I can
accommodate you.”

“When can we start?”

“First we have to establish what type of class you’re
interested in, and then I have to check the schedule, find
out which of my guys can work you in.”

“No.”

“I’m sorry?”

“I want you.”

He’d competed in muy thai and mixed martial arts
matches against opponents who could shatter a man’s jaw
with a single punch, yet three words spoken by this
strange little woman in black nearly knocked him out of
his chair. And she hadn’t even meant them the way he’d
heard them.

“All of my teachers are highly qualified.” He cleared
his throat. “They— ”

“I’d like private lessons, at least three times a week,
preferably in the evening. I was told that you were the
best,” she insisted, “and—”

“By whom?”

“—I can pay you more if that isn’t enough. According
to your website, your personal rate for private lessons is
fifty dollars an hour plus a twenty-five dollar fee for use of the private studio. This should see us through to the end of August. Please, count it.”

Lifting an eyebrow, he tilted his head toward the cash.
“My calendar is full, Miss . . . ?”

“Please,” she said slowly.

“Miss Please?” he suggested in a weak attempt to put
her at ease.

“Please, teach me to defend myself.”

Her breathy plea whittled away his resistance. “Why
don’t I give you a free trial. Decide what you’re getting
into before you fork over your nonrefundable tuition.”

She swallowed hard. “Okay. When?”

“How ‘bout now?”

“Now?”

S
tanding, he returned her money to her. With a short
sweep of his arm, he directed her toward a door behind
and to the right of his desk. She tucked the cash into her
slouchy black purse.

“Take off your shoes,” he said, stopping her before
she entered the room. “Place them neatly by the door.”

She saw that he was already barefoot when she
stooped to place her shoes, purse, scarf, and shades by the
door.

He stepped into the room and onto the beige mat
covering most of the thirty-by-thirty-foot floor. Without
looking at her, he stopped her again before she set foot in
the studio. “Bow to the room, to show respect for the art
you’ll learn here.”

His hands at his sides, he bent at the waist in a short bow, demonstrating the proper form. He straightened to
see her copying him exactly. “Now you may enter the
dojo, and bow to me.”

She approached him, her eyes cast down. Meeting
him in the center of the mat, she executed another bow.
He wanted to explain that the second bow was both
greeting and a show of respect to the instructor, but his
tongue had been glued in place from the moment she’d
entered the private studio.

The dark paneling and carpet in his windowless office
made his workplace rather cave-like, but the private
studio with its bamboo paneled walls was airy and bright,
its only ornamentation two Japanese tiger prints and a
stone urn containing a neatly pruned bonsai tree. A domed polarized skylight provided clean illumination
a
nd gave the place a cozy openness that the main studio lacked. The private studio was so named because it also
doubled as Gian’s sanctuary. He allowed none of his staff to train or teach in it, and it had been months since he’d used the space for private lessons.

Without her disguise, the woman standing before
him was a lovely addition to the room. She wore no
makeup to mask the natural glow of her brown skin. Her
close-cropped cap of glossy black hair and her big dark eyes made her appear far younger than he first assumed
her to be. Her mouth had the compact beauty of a
rosebud, but her lips were full and so very inviting.

“I’m not dressed properly,” she said softly, still
avoiding his eyes.

“You look fine to me,” he assured her. He clapped his
hands, startling her but successfully breaking the hyp
notic hold her lips had on him. “Our first session will be
a simple fitness evaluation. Touch your toes, and try to
do it without bending your knees. If you can’t do it,
don’t—”

She turned to the side and her upper half dropped.
Her palms were flat on the mat on either side of her feet.

“You’re pretty flexible there,” Gian said. “You . . .”

Her shirt had come untucked, revealing the skin of
her lower back. Two long, fine stripes of pale scar tissue
drew Gian’s eye. “How’d you get—”

She stood upright so fast, the top of her head missed
a collision with Gian’s chin by mere inches. Tugging her
shirt down, she took a step back.

“
Hands at your sides,” Gian prompted, getting back on track. “Now, extend your left leg and raise it as high
as you can.”

She followed his direction, holding her left leg perfectly straight and hip high. Gian slowly walked around
her. He took his time, deliberately testing her. Rock
steady, the only indication of discomfort she gave was a
subtle pursing of her lips.

“You’ve studied dance,” he stated.

She nodded.

He passed in front of her, his
gi
brushing her left foot.
“Your toe point gave it away. Can you shift your leg to
the side without dropping it?”

She did so, her right foot digging into the mat to
maintain her balance.

“Now raise your arms as high as you can.”

His hands clasped behind him, he watched her
assume the position. She bobbled a little, but quickly
found her center and steadied herself.

“That’s very good,” he told her. “Relax now.”

She dropped her arms and leg and wiped a sheen of
perspiration from her upper lip.

“You’re very strong and you’ve got excellent balance,” he said. “Some of my best students studied dance before
they came to me. Where were you taught?”

“Flexibility, strength, and balance,” she said point
edly, her dark eyes finally meeting his. “What’s next?”

“Reflexes and agility. I’m going to throw a series of light punches at you and I want you to dodge them.”

She inhaled deeply, steeling herself, while Gian took
a fight position. A hesitant nod signified her readiness to
begin, and Gian threw out his right fist. She shifted left,
neatly avoiding it. After a few slow punches, Gian
speeded them up, and he was impressed with her reac
tion. “Very nice,” he said. “You’re a natural. You’re
watching my eyes but following my shoulders. You’re
anticipating the direction of the punch. Have you had
fight training before?”

“In a way,” she said, slipping under another punch.
Gian said, “I’m going to throw them in combination
now. Let’s see what you got.”

She kept up with him. High, low, jab, cross—she
dodged each of them. He moved her all over the mat,
chasing her with punches she skillfully avoided until . . .

“Gian, you still here?”

The loud male voice broke her concentration, and she walked into Gian’s right fist. She staggered back
before tripping over her feet, and she landed hard on her
backside. The familiarity of the brilliant, wet pain in the
center of her face confused her for a moment, taking her to a place she had hoped never to see again.

“Grab an ice pack and a towel!” Gian shouted to the
man who had appeared in the doorway. Kneeling over his
victim, he reached for her. “Are you okay?”

She scrambled out of his reach, stopping only when she
butted against the wall behind her. Blood seeped between
the fingers she pressed to her nose. “I’m fine. It’s nothing.”

Squatting, Gian ran his hands over his closely
cropped head of dark hair. “Damn it, I’m sorry. I should
h
ave been paying better attention.” He took her elbow to
help her up. She stiffened, tightly closing her eyes as she
found her feet.

“I think we’ll call it done for today,” Gian said. He
escorted her into the office and sat her in the chair facing his desk. Gently, he guided her head back. “Don’t move,” he told her. He grabbed antibacterial wipes from his desk
and quickly plucked three of them from the canister.
Standing behind her, he peeled her hands from her face
and replaced them with the wipes and the ice pack that
had been left on his desk, applying gentle but firm pres
sure to the bridge of her nose. “I should have pulled that
last one,” he said. “You were doing so well, I guess I got
a little carried away.”

She moved his hands a bit higher, more effectively
staunching the flow of blood. “It was my fault,” she said
woodenly.

He remembered the scars on her back and wondered
how many times she had told herself that. “It’s never your
fault,” he assured her. His voice sounded strange to his
own ears. He cleared his throat and forced himself to
sound normal. “What I mean is I’m the trained profes
sional. I should have been more careful.”

“I know what you mean,” she said. “This time, it was
my fault. I let myself get distracted and I moved right
into the punch. It won’t happen again.”

Gian smiled. “You’re a real tough lady, aren’t you?”

She raised her head and sat on the edge of her chair.
One last swipe of the wadded wipes, and her nose was
clear. “What’s next?”

“How ‘bout you coming back when you’re up to it?
In the meantime, I’ve got some paperwork you’ll need to
fill out. I need an emergency contact—”

“911.”

“—a waiver—”

“I take full responsibility for any injuries I might
incur.”

“That’s what you say now,” he responded.

“You have my word,” she stated firmly. “I won’t sue
you if I get hurt.” She returned the ice pack to him but crumpled the wipes in her hand. “Is this time tomorrow good for you?”

Her wide eyes were unreadable. The longer she stared at him, the more Gian wanted to study her eyes, to learn
their secrets. “Uh,” he said, tearing his gaze from hers.
“Let me check.”

He sat in his chair and spun to look at the calendar
posted on the wall. “I have a full day of classes scheduled. It’s a busy season with the kiddies out of school. I don’t
finish up until five-thirty.”

“Will you be too tired to teach me?”

“I’ll switch some things around. It’s not a problem. You’ll get my best. So I’ll put you down for five-thirty?”

She nodded, her fingers fiddling with the hem of her
shirt.

He used one of his promotional pens to write P
RIVATE
L
ESSON
on the 5
P
.
M
. line of his calendar. “There are a
few rules you’ll have to adhere to.”

Her eyes widened in a flash of fear, then narrowed as
a spark of anger reshaped her mouth.

“
They’re all a matter of respect,” he explained.
“Respect is a very important part of the disciplines I’ll be
teaching you.”

Her face relaxed and she nodded.

“You can wear shorts, sweats, T-shirts—whatever
exercise clothes you prefer until you purchase a
gi
.” He tossed her a catalog and a business card. “You can order
one from this place, or you can go to the shop on the
card. It’s in Maplewood. I require all of my students to
wear white. No pinks or tie-dyed
gis
in my dojo.”