by Mary Buckham
Watch his eyes. Not his body. Watch them telegraph his next move. Wasn’t that what he’d been drilling into them for weeks?
Except he forgot to tell them robo-instructors didn’t telegraph anything.
His next move came hard and fast, his shoulder to hers as his foot swept hers out from under her. She was on her back and beneath him between the space of one heartbeat and another. Her breath siphoned from her lungs, freezing her for a pulse beat too long.
He leaned over her, elbow to collarbone, knee pinning her pelvis.
“Ready to quit, deb?”
Dream on, big guy. Not in this lifetime.
She dropped her gaze, glancing to the right. The pressure along her throat lessened.
His first mistake. She swallowed her grin before it reached her lips.
Her curled fists shot out, slamming into his muscled sides, catching his kidneys.
She didn’t wait but rolled to the left. Twice. Her feet were still tangled with his legs, but she could breathe again.
He lunged after her.
One knee up deflected him.
Get off the floor. Don’t let him use his weight and strength against you.
One steel hand grabbed her calf, tugging her toward him. She countered with her heel, catching him center stomach.
She used his body as a fulcrum, pushing back as he doubled forward. Seconds only, but it allowed her to break free.
She clambered to her feet, never turning her back on him. He came to his knees, his gaze razor sharp.
Her breath chugged in and out while he looked as if he hadn’t broken a sweat. The bastard. How could she beat the unbeatable? Maybe she couldn’t, but that didn’t mean she wouldn’t try. As long as there was breath left in her body, she’d give it her best shot. She hadn’t come here to fail, and not at the hands of Mighty Tough Stone.
She anchored her feet on the mat. A voice let out a hurrah in the circle tightening around them both.
She ignored it.
He stood. Slowly. Calmly. Deliberately.
They mirrored each other’s moves. Two pendulums swaying opposite one another, both wary, both looking for the slightest of opportunities.
He wouldn’t make the same mistake again. Ball in her court. Time for her to play the game using her own rules.
She moved fast, using speed against his size. Her head slammed into his gut, a solid thud against a rock wall.
It mimicked the story of her life. Always running head-on into someone’s opposition—her father’s, her mother’s, her position in society. All telling her loud and clear to give up, stop fighting the inevitable, go with the flow. Telling her they knew what was best for her. Telling her, as Stone had told her since the first day of training, to walk away. Be less than she could be. Be what they defined her as, not how she defined herself. She was not a society interloper, a debutante whose only purpose was decorative, and useless. She was Vaughn, and Stone was about to find out what that meant.
His hands clamped around her arms, pinning them at the waist, lifting in the same move.
She let him pull forward, leveraging her feet with a push off from the floor, sinking her head. A backward pivot she learned from a French gymnast.
Her feet sprang up, locking around his neck. She’d be lucky if she didn’t break her own.
A hard tuck and he was off balance, falling forward. He twisted, letting go of her to save them both.
She’d counted on it. Spiraling as she hit the floor, almost beneath him, but not quite, just enough to execute a quick squirm, backflip, palms to floor, and she was on her feet.
A round of applause erupted.
“You go, girl!” Alex shouted.
“They’re going to kill each other.”
“My money’s on Stone.” Jayleen’s tone sounded final, and very cocky.
Vaughn blocked out the voices, her attention focused on the man rising to his knees. He was her nemesis. He wanted her cowed and whipped and beaten, and she wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction.
“Nice move, Monroe. Didn’t learn that here.”
“Gymnastics class. Eight years.”
He actually grinned. It caught her off guard, stalled her response by seconds. Big mistake around him.
He was up and attacking before she could move more than a step back. But it was all she needed. A fast hop, right leg up, double pirouette, and her ankle caught him in the throat.
Another would have crashed. He gasped. The hit had to hurt like Hades. She still remembered the time she had used it against Juillet Fouquet in seventh grade. Payback for a school year of bullying an underclassman.
He pulled back.
“And that?” he asked, his voice slightly huskier than before. Point to her—she’d made him sweat, which outlined the flatness of his abs. Point to him that she’d noticed.
“Ballet.”
“I’ll remember that.”
Then he moved, faster than she could inhale.
A blur rushed at her. A wave of muscle crashed against her.
She went down. Hard. All breath soundlessly leeched from her body, lights tap-dancing across her vision.
“And this, princess, is called street fighting.”
Another embroidered pillow, she thought, even as her vision grayed.
“Give up?” The sound of his dark-chocolate voice washed against her, then receded. A caress with a slice.
Hands bit into her arms. “Don’t you dare—”
Dare what?
Pressure eased. Black shifted to gray, then lightened as air slowly seeped back into her lungs. She might live after all; she wasn’t sure if that was good news or bad.
“Lesson over, class.” Bare feet swished against mats, shuffling away, murmured voices receding.
He was standing now. When had he moved?
She rolled, every muscle screaming in agony, buying a few seconds to keep from puking on the dojo floor.
“Get up, Monroe.”
Why? So he could kill her face-to-face? Or expel her?
The last thought gave her motion. No way would she let him kick her out of the program while she lolled on the floor like a loser.
She shifted from side to knees, then stood. The quake of her muscles made it doubtful that she could hold the position for long. By propping her hands against her knees, though, she could do it. The only thing keeping her upright was the sound of Stone’s deeper breathing. He’d won, but she’d made him work at it.
She expected him to crow, but leave it to the man to simply stand there until she raised her gaze to his, catching a question in his eyes before they shifted.
“Ling Mai wants to see you.”
“Ling Mai?” It came on a pant of breath.
“Her office. Main building.”
This was it, then. Expulsion. The bastard had gotten his way.
“Not yet, princess,” he said, as if reading her thoughts. “Soon, but not yet.”
He strolled away.
It was a ploy her parents had used. Slash and cut from their moral high ground, then walk away. There could be no fight if there was no opponent.
She pulled herself upright, caught Alex’s and Kelly’s concerned glances from across the room and gave them a shaky nod. No one would know the price of the last few moments. But they were worth it. Maybe M.T. meant Mighty Tempting to knock that superiority off his face.
She actually found herself grinning, along with a few winces as she wobbled toward the showers. There was another battle to face. Another chance to cut and run, as Stone wanted, or hold her ground, shaky though it might be. A call to the director’s office was not to be ignored.
Vaughn glanced around the elegantly appointed room, not surprised to see the juxtaposition of Eastern and Western tastes. The Sung dynasty blue-and-white pottery gracing the top of a Louis XIV gilt-edged table, a Thai silk weaving thrown casually across a leather chair.
She had sat in many such rooms over the years while her father took up his various government
posts and her mother followed, two daughters in tow. One resenting each move, fighting the upheaval and change, burying the inevitable behind a facade of anger, morphing into bad-girl action. In Paris, Vienna, D.C. and Kuala Lumpur.
“I hope I have not kept you waiting.” Ling Mai glided into the room with her graceful walk. They’d known each other at least ten years, though their family ties went back further. But Ling Mai was not a woman who let others into her private thoughts, not even old family friends.
Vaughn stood, wincing slightly at the ache of muscles and fresh bruises. “Not at all, it’s been nice to have a break.” Then she cursed her slip of the tongue, not wanting the other woman to think she was complaining or telling tales out of turn.
“Please sit. You look tired.”
Since Ling Mai was quite aware of the training happening in other areas of the large Maryland estate, there was no need for polite prevarication.
“I am tired. Though it feels good in its own warped way.” She allowed a smile to lighten her words, priding herself on her ability to see the irony in life. “A little hard work never hurt anyone.”
“Would you like tea?” Ling Mai made it more statement than question. “I believe Earl Grey is your preference.”
Vaughn swallowed her surprise. There was little unknown to Ling Mai. The ageless woman no doubt knew every detail of her recruits’ past lives and current preferences. That made for a formidable hostess, and agent, a role Ling Mai played with the best.
“That sounds heavenly.”
The other woman smiled and punched an intercom on her otherwise clear desk. “Dewhurst. Hot tea, please. Earl Grey and Lapsang souchong.”
A pleasant silence hung between the two, backed by the sound of water sliding gently down a stone fountain in a corner of the room. Meant to soothe and refresh. Again, typical of countless drawing rooms and casual social functions Vaughn had attended.
There’d be pleasantries exchanged, small talk made until refreshments were served, nothing of note undertaken until polite rituals were observed. How comfortable and reassuring it all was, especially after the last weeks where it seemed Vaughn could do no right. Two women, sitting quietly in a well-appointed room.
“Your parents are well?” Ling Mai sat back in her brocaded chair, her fingers steepled together beneath her chin.
“As far as I know.”
“They are unaware you are here?”
“I felt it best.” Vaughn wondered at the tap dance. The ramifications if her parents, especially her father, became aware of this undertaking, were far-reaching. Not that he’d stay in the dark for long. The man’s career required intimate and immediate knowledge of such situations. “No fallout for the Agency, I can assure you. As for explaining what I am doing here—” she ignored the tenseness in her shoulders “—there will be time to talk to them. Later.”
If she passed. If she didn’t, it was a moot point; they would never need to know. A dream dying silently, one that never would meet with their approval anyway. An image of Stone rose before her.
“Yes. It is wise.” Ling Mai’s voice sounded as lyrical and soothing as if they were discussing the change of seasons. “And your sister? Chrissie?”
Sore point, best to quickly gloss over. “The children and her husband keep her busy.”
“I have always been surprised you did not follow in her footsteps. Very advantageous marriage with impeccable connections. Two children, boy and girl, so nicely spaced.”
Then you do not know me as well as you think. Two weeks of Chrissie’s locked-box world and I would be a screaming lunatic. Smile here. Do this there. Be a good girl. Ugh!
Vaughn grimaced automatically. “Chrissie and I rarely followed in each other’s footsteps.”
Major understatement.
“And yet there was opportunity, no doubt.”
A discreet knock on the mahogany door and the entrance of Dewhurst forestalled Vaughn’s response. As if she had one. Was this a test? Or an interrogation? There were currents beneath the comments, but she couldn’t put her finger on them. Getting the stuffing knocked out of her made clear thinking more difficult. Another pillow to embroider. At this rate, she’d have an apartment full of pithy sayings to remind her what happened to fools who wanted to break out of their gilded cages.
Ling Mai waited until Dewhurst left and Vaughn raised the fine Sevres cup to sip before she spoke again. “How are you finding your stay with the Agency thus far?”
Ling Mai’s question shifted Vaughn back to one boarding school after another. And how do you find your stay at Pemberton? At Childings School for Fine Young Girls? At the Academy?
There really was only one answer. She’d learned that lesson years ago. Now, as then, Vaughn smiled and nodded. “All is well.”
“Is it?”
Now what did that mean? Had someone squealed about the exchanges between her and tarot bitch? Or was it Stone? But it didn’t seem to be his style to attack using another as a weapon.
“Is there something specific you want to know, Ling Mai?” Vaughn cut to the chase quicker than a proper lady would.
If her bluntness surprised the other woman, nothing showed.
“I simply want to make sure you are adjusting well.” Ling Mai offered an enigmatic smile. “I know the training has been intense.”
Training and trainer. Vaughn nodded. “I didn’t expect it to be a piece of cake, but I’m here for the duration. I didn’t come here to fail.”
“Have there been any problems?”
Other than Mega Terminator Stone? And the bruises, lack of sleep, being pushed to exhaustion and beyond?
“Nothing worth mentioning.” Vaughn took a slow sip of tea, savoring it across her tongue. It beat the tea bags they used in the commissary.
“And if there were, would you speak to me about them?”
Them or him?
“Of course,” Vaughn lied without hesitation. One was not raised as an ambassador’s daughter without learning a few of the unspoken rules.
“I see.” Ling Mai nodded and Vaughn thought they understood each other perfectly.
“When do I find out the real reason behind your asking me here?” Vaughn was too tired to worry about proper etiquette. Maybe she was learning something from Stone, after all.
“You are more your father’s daughter than you realize.”
It wasn’t the response Vaughn had expected, or wanted, not with the accompanying squeeze to the heart.
“You will not tell me, then? Is this meeting about my father? Or are you concerned about my ability to see the training through?”
“You yourself said it’s been challenging.”
“I won’t fail, Ling Mai.”
“I have always known that.”
“Then what do you want? Are you going to tell me the real reason you suggested I become a recruit?”
“Not yet, my dear. It is not time. You must have patience.”
“And then?”
“Then you’ll be told what you need to know.”
“Not until I finish training?”
There was the most imperceptible of pauses. Vaughn set down her tea as the other woman spoke.
“You are no longer a child, Vaughn. Patience is a virtue that is more hard-won for some than others.”
“As is honesty.”
“Ah, but I have not been dishonest with you.”
Vaughn held her tongue for a change, then stood, realizing there was little being accomplished here except shadowboxing, and she wasn’t even sure about that. Another side effect of the brutal training, no doubt.
“It has been pleasant, Ling Mai.” Baffling as all get out, but a nice break. “But I am required at the firing range.”
“So eager to return to your lessons?”
Another tricky question, and one with no clear answer.
“I don’t have the background of many of the recruits, as you well know, so I need all the training I can get.”
“Though I hear that yo
ur ballet classes have held you in good stead. Your mother would be proud.” Ling Mai gave another of her private smiles.
So word had already reached the director. Interesting. Probably not from Stone. Or maybe it was? She’d give a year’s allowance to know the spin the instructor put on that little show. On the other hand, Ling Mai could have simply been monitoring one of the surveillance cameras tucked around the compound.
“Yes.” Vaughn took a step toward the door. “Mother would be glad to know all the time and expense is finally paying off. Not quite how she hoped, I’m sure, but then I never have never done things quite as Mother had hoped.”
Another major understatement.
“Take care, my dear.” Ling Mai rose behind her desk. “The next weeks will be even harder than the last.”
Out of the frying pan and into the fire. Good thing she liked a challenge.
“Thanks. I’ll keep that in mind.”
“And if you need to talk—about anything—I am here for you.”
At what cost? Was it wise to show one’s weaknesses, one’s fears, to the person who held the power over Vaughn’s dream? Not likely.
“Thank you. I’ll keep that in mind, too.”
Vaughn left, nearly crashing into Stone in the hallway as she closed the door behind her.
“Interesting talk?” the instructor asked. He was standing too close, but then again, his standing anywhere in the same building was too close. From here, she could smell the scent of his skin, shower-fresh and warm. A tempting scent. Not that she planned to go there.
“Very illuminating.”
“You discuss how rough you’re finding it here?”
“Nah.” Vaughn gave him a hundred-watt smile. “Designer clothes. Best restaurants in Paris. Whether the Bergdorf-blonde look would last long.” She gave one shoulder a careless toss that hurt like hell. “You know, the usual.”
He stilled and she realized she’d touched a nerve. Interesting. Slam the man on the dojo floor and it didn’t faze him; sling a few catty phrases his way and he reacted. Why?
“You’re late for the range.”
Leave it to him to level the playing field immediately.
“Funny, that’s exactly what I told Ling Mai.”
“Everyone else calls her the director.”
