Razor's Edge: Men in Blue, Book 2 (4 page)

She’d seen that potent concoction of anger and bitterness on another masculine face, not long ago. And she never wanted to witness it up close and personal again.

Focus.

Now was not the time to permit her doubts to bubble to the surface. Especially not because of a random stranger. She swore she’d make the most of this opportunity, prove to the world—or at least herself—she could survive on her own. She didn’t need the riches of others to thrive. Not when she had the spirit of a fighter and a stubborn streak a mile wide. And especially not when the life of luxury she’d known came with such a high price tag.

Dear God, she had to do something. Had to find some way to stop them…

Her frantic thoughts made it impossible to think clearly.

Take it one step at a time. Do well today and think of the rest later.

To calm herself, she selected a mellow piece of music then began to stretch, warming up. Her partner should arrive within the hour. She reviewed the beginner choreography she’d assembled over the weekend so they could sprint right out of the gate. It’d been a long time since she anticipated something as much as she did this morning.

The barre on the mirrored wall seemed high to her, but she could reach it while balancing on the tiptoes of her uninjured foot. She’d taken so many things for granted. Outside of the custom-made studio her father had ordered for her in one of the outbuildings on their estate, everything seemed a little odd. She adjusted as best she could. The stretches were more difficult in this position. It would tone her core strength faster.

Isabella bent at the waist, reaching for the ankle on the barre as the light strumming of harps helped her get her zen on. With her eyes closed, she didn’t see the man approach, but she heard his careful footfalls come to an abrupt stop when he turned the corner.

Two and two collided.

She jerked upright so fast she lost her balance, crashing to the floor flat on the ass he’d had a perfect opportunity to ogle.

A gentleman would have offered his hand, drawn her to her feet and made sure she hadn’t hurt herself. This man did none of those things. Instead, he scrutinized her with such contempt, she felt like a bug about to be squashed.

Didn’t it figure? The motorcycle man. Her partner. One and the same.

Had the studio intentionally given her the competitor least likely to be trained? Did she make a better story as a failure?

Refusing to believe something so despicable to be true, Isabella hauled herself from the dusty hardwood before brushing off her black leggings. She stepped forward, extending her hand. If nothing else, she knew a hell of a lot about manners. When he refused to shake in introduction, she let her wrist fall to her side with a shrug.

“I’m Isabella Buchanan.” She had decided to drop the Carrington. Nothing about the name inspired her to claim it any longer. Though he continued to stare at her with bitter loathing tainting his milk-chocolate eyes, she refused to be cowed. “And you are…”

“Razor.”

Terrific. A monosyllabic, motorcycle-riding, dance-hating Neanderthal named after a cutting implement. Piece of cake.

“Nice to meet you, Razor. The producers left instructions for us, but I thought I’d wait for you to arrive so we could go over them together. I admit, I’ve never actually seen
Dance With Me
before. I’m curious to discover what we’ve gotten ourselves into.” She chided herself for the nervous titter that escaped before she could subdue it. “Are you ready to begin?”

“Why not?”

“Great.” She ignored his sarcasm and his stinking attitude. “Please change into your rehearsal clothes so we can make the most of our time. We have the space for five hours today before the next couple arrives. Since you’re early, we can fit in almost six if we settle in quickly.”

He looked at her as though she had nine heads. “Unless you want me naked, this is all I’ve got.”

Isabella decided not to acknowledge his crude remark when he looked chagrined enough for them both. She scanned her partner from head to toe. Every part of him—from his stiff leather jacket to his snug jeans to his motorcycle boots—more inappropriate than the next for their purpose. But damn if the bad boy ensemble didn’t outline one of the finest bodies she’d ever spied. He was so different than any other man she’d met in her prior life; she found herself oddly and immediately intrigued.

Just what she needed.

“You’ll have to do this in your socks for today. Tomorrow, we’ll find you proper shoes.” She tried not to think about how many groceries she could have bought with that money. Her contract stipulated she’d only be paid for the number of episodes they appeared in. As the worst couple was eliminated each week, she needed them to stay in the running as long as possible if they couldn’t win outright. A little investment up front would pay off in the end. She had to believe that.

Dead silence surrounded the rasp of her unwilling partner untying the laces of his boots with yanks hard enough she swore the little plastic caps on the end popped off. He kicked the heavy footwear into the corner, rattling the mirror on the wall.

Oooo-kay.

“Can we cut the petulant-child crap here, Razor? You’re pissed. I understand I’m probably not the person you were hoping to see today. If you want to call the station, it’s not too late to have them hook you up with someone less…controversial.”

Though she’d started her rant with a decent amount of steam, it had bled off by the end of her magnanimous offer. If he took her up on it, she’d be right back in the pile of shit she’d started out in days ago. Plus, she really hadn’t had time to worry about public opinion until the disgust in his almond eyes telegraphed exactly what he thought of rich daddy’s girls who’d fallen from grace. He wouldn’t be the only man who held her in such low regard.

She’d been lucky to find this job, never mind another. But she couldn’t waste time. Not when innocents counted on her success.

She turned, prepared to gather her belongings. He reached for her. His broad hand had nearly grazed her arm when he stopped short. He retracted his shaking fingers.

“Damn it, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to come off all caveman.”

Isabella almost crashed to the floor again when his impish smile brightened his whole face and turned her knees to jelly. The light expression took years off his militant face. She realized he couldn’t be much older than she was.

“Talk about a bad first impression. Can we start over?”

Afraid to speak, she nodded instead.

“Here’s the thing. I’m doing this on orders.” He ruffled the dark brown spikes of helmet hair persisting at the base of his skull. “I…uh… Well, shit. I’m not unfamiliar with drama, and I hate being shoved into the limelight when people were beginning to forget about my fu…um, screw-up.”

She studied the strong lock of his jaw and his classic Roman nose as something tickled her memory. The way his palm massaged his chest, in an awkward gesture she’d swear he didn’t realize he indulged, tipped her off.

“You’re the police officer…”

“Ding ding ding. We have a winner.” The loathing flowing from him resonated with her. She took a step in his direction, but he retreated at an equal pace. “I’m the dumbass the smoking hot psycho-killer duped. You know, the bitch who shot me with my own gun when my pants were around my ankles then attempted to murder two of my squadmates and the love of their lives. They won’t let me resume active duty until I take one for the force, make amends by leaving a good impression on the public through this joke of a show.”

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. She shivered as she remembered the macabre interest Malcolm had taken in the story. The garish pictures on the news had sickened her. Blood spattered in every direction. This man’s blood. No one could understand better how the betrayal of someone you thought you cared for blistered your heart. The way it slashed your soul. But her pity didn’t interest him, and he didn’t offer her any in return. Not that she would have appreciated it if he had.

Isabella gave him a minute to pull his act together. She glided to the corner of the room, sitting cross-legged near the stack made by her bag, the CD with the music selection they’d been assigned to use and a packet of instructions. After several long, tense moments, he followed, dropping to his haunches beside her spot on the floor—careful to keep their knees from touching.

Maybe her bullshit meter had been permanently fried, but he seemed genuine when he met her questioning gaze and murmured, “Thanks.”

She smiled, deflecting the intensity he leveled at her with a joke. Though, she wasn’t entirely kidding. “You might want to hold off with your gratitude. I have every intention of winning this title, and I’ll do whatever it takes to whip you into shape.”

“Why is some cheesy competition so important to you?”

She nearly forgot to answer him as she inhaled the succulent combination of leather and soap wafting from his skin. How could it be possible to be this attracted to a man after knowing him less than five minutes, of which he’d spent a solid fifty percent pissing her off?

“I guess I want to prove I’m more than a beautiful but useless trophy.” She certainly wasn’t about to cry to him over her money issues or clue him in to her worst nightmare—that her father would allow Malcolm to reclaim her before she could rescue those poor women.

This time he’d make her pay. Double for the humiliation she’d showered on him by going public. If he found out she’d discovered his sordid business, or how much it upset her, he’d start making others suffer for her transgressions too.

“Is that why you left your husband?”

Isabella refused to confide in her partner, no matter how gently he asked. No matter how she wished she could trust someone—anyone—because when it came down to it, he was still a cop. And, holy God, what if her father or husband had sent him? What if they’d been biding their time to put her off guard? What if it had nearly worked?

Razor’s abrupt change of heart had her instincts prickling. Well, two could play at this game. She would spoon-feed him what she wanted him to see, to know. Nothing more and nothing less.

“We should get to work. The camera crew is coming around the hand-off time to film snippets of us practicing and record a couple candid quotes to use in commercials for the new season. I want to run through our entire routine today. We have until Wednesday to prepare. That’s not a lot of time.” She tore open the envelope then tipped it upside-down. A note card fluttered to the ground where it landed face up.

Isabella Buchanan and James Reoser: The Waltz.

“Well
James
, it looks like we’ll have to pretend to be dignified. What do you know about the waltz?”

“First, only my mom calls me that. Second, are you serious? The waltz? About as much as I know about designer purses,
Izzy
.”

She couldn’t help but grin. Her lack of interest in fashion had been one of the many disappointments she’d delivered to her father and husband. “Well, I’d have a hard time telling a Louis Vuitton from a Coach handbag if they didn’t stamp those handy letters on them. But, lucky for you, I do know how to dance the shit out of a waltz.”

A heartfelt laugh escaped Razor’s trim yet solidly-put-together chest. “I love it when a good girl talks nasty.”

“I wasn’t allowed to curse at home.”

“Most kids aren’t.”

Isabella zipped her not-so-angelic lips before she revealed too much. God, he made it easy to run her mouth. At least he hadn’t caught that she meant either her father’s or her husband’s household. Thank God. She’d have to watch herself around Razor. He put her at ease too quickly—too completely—for her own good.

“I want to see you move.”

“What?” James cocked his head, trying to keep up with her change of topics.

“So, you don’t know the waltz. I can teach you steps no problem. I have to see you dance. To anything. Show me what you’ve got.”

“Oh, hell no. I don’t think so.”

“If you can’t shake it for me, how will you perform in front of a studio audience and all the live viewers at home on Wednesday night?”

“Son of a bitch.” His face drained of color as though he seriously hadn’t considered that aspect of their task.

She reached out to take his hand, but he snatched it away so fast she thought he might punch himself in the face with his fist.

“Hey, never mind for now. I didn’t mean to freak you out. I just need an idea of how much work we have to do and where we should start.” Isabella flipped on the radio next to her. La Roux’s “Bulletproof” poured out of the crappy speakers. “Do you ever dance at parties? Or maybe hit the clubs?”

The idea of a carefree night on the town seemed unbelievably alluring to her. If she’d had the opportunity she would have gone out every weekend. How could she be twenty-two and already have so damn many regrets?

“Uh, yeah. That’s hardly the same thing. I mean, there’s a lot of alcohol involved before I venture on the floor and…” He glanced toward his toes as he left the thought hanging.

“You’re usually chasing a woman so you have added incentive, right?”

Could her hardass partner actually be blushing? She couldn’t resist teasing him.

“If it helps, I could wear a really short skirt and wiggle around in front of you.”

“No! Shit, don’t do that.” If she hadn’t spotted the bulge in his pants—for which he made no apologies—his insistent denial might have ground her ego into dust. All her life she’d been complimented on her beauty. Sometimes it had intimidated men or women who couldn’t see past her genetic good fortune. Never before had it seemed to anger someone outright.

Razor shot to his feet, turning his back to her. She smiled as it reminded her of her audition for the show. Whether he acknowledged it or not, she had an awful lot in common with this damaged man.

“This is stupid.” He bitched as he peeled off his armored motorcycle jacket with deliberate efficiency, but he didn’t stop. Isabella thanked her lucky stars he couldn’t see her eyes bug out when she caught sight of his faded T-shirt clinging to the defined muscles of his shoulders and trim waist. A gasp nearly choked her when her stare traced the contours of his biceps to his hands, which tugged the cotton into place over the exposed swatch of his bronzed lower back. “Don’t suppose you ever saw
Napoleon Dynamite
, huh?”