The Grandmaster’s Legacy: Masters of Love and War (A Taylor Lee HOT Historical Romantic Suspense Collection) (The Grandmaster's Legacy)

by Taylor Lee

  ~~~

  After Greg left, Elena joined Bai in the dojo. Elena was fascinated with savate, the French kickboxing that Bai had woven into his practice of kung fu She begged Bai to teach her the basics. From the time they first met, kung fu was a touch point for the two of them and sparring one of their most pleasurable activities. More often than not their practice ended in lascivious holds or tortured positions no one but committed lovers would attempt. As talented a fighter as Bai was, he was generous with his teaching and spent many hours working with his men, but always had time for Elena and her young brothers. Deshi was his newest protégé and Lei and Wyatt gave their permission for Deshi to stay on at the complex to study with Bai.

  Elena lay panting and laughing after Bai threw her to the floor following a flying kick gone awry. She looked up to see Alex in the doorway, dressed in his practice gi. When he saw Bai and Elena, Alex’s handsome face hardened and his body tightened. Elena saw him turn to leave and jumped up to stop him.

  “Alex, don’t go. Come and practice with us. Come on, darling. I’ve missed sparring with you. Bai is teaching me savate. It’s French kickboxing. You will love it.”

  Alex shook his head, his eyes smoldering with unspoken emotion and turned away, ignoring Elena’s plea.

  “Alex, please come. Don’t go. Please.”

  Bai laughed, his eyes dancing.

  “What’s the matter, Alex, scared you’ll get beat by a girl?”

  “Shhh, Bai!’ Elena whispered, giving him a sharp jab with her elbow.

  “Cherie, there is nothing more sure to bring a man as proud as Alex running as calling him a coward,” Bai murmured in response.

  “Hmm. Especially if you’re the one calling him that!”

  Bai grinned and gestured to the doorway. Sure enough, Elena looked up to see Alex striding toward them.

  Bai stood up and motioned to Alex to join Elena and then stepped back to give them room. He watched Alex visibly struggle with his conflicting emotions. It was clear that he wanted to join Elena, but his dark glare at Bai confirmed his reluctance to let down his guard. Bai lit a cigarette and struck a careless pose, then spoke to Elena, knowing that the best way to reach Alex was indirectly.

  “You and Alex spar the way you usually do, then when you see an opportunity, you can try one of your savate moves.”

  Elena nodded and assumed a fighting stance across from her brother. Before he could resist her invitation, she yelled out a fierce spirit cry, signaling an attack, and drove at him with a hard kick to his ribs. Alex intuitively reacted and soon the two were sparring as they had done most of their lives. They were evenly matched. Although Alex was taller and stronger, Bai had worked with Elena to overcome her size disadvantages and her improved aerial skills had Alex whistling in appreciation.

  When Alex rolled to the ground, intending to rise with a knee slash to her hip, Bai caught her eye, signaling the opportunity for a savate move.

  To Alex’s surprise, Elena drove a smashing kick to his shoulder, stopping him in mid flight.

  “What the hell are you doing, Elena? Goddamn, that hurt!”

  “Roll to the left, Alex!” Bai shouted, but Alex ignored him and tried to stand.

  Elena came from the other side with a similar kick, keeping her body close to the ground. Again Alex shouted out his pain and disbelief at her attack.

  “I said, roll to the left, Alex.”

  Alex jumped up and faced them both, his face flushed with anger. It was clear that he would do anything to avoid listening to Bai.

  Turning to Elena, Bai shook his head in amusement and ground out his cigarette.

  “Move aside for a bit, Elena. Let me work with this stubborn colt for a minute.”

  Before Alex could respond, Bai threw himself down to the floor in much the same position Alex had been in. Pantomiming Alex’s moves, he said, “Watch what happens when I do this. See how I’m open to you when I move the way you did? Let’s try it again, but when I say roll, goddamnit, you roll! But when you roll, come up on the other side so you have a clear shot.”

  For the next while, Bai patiently demonstrated how savate fighters anticipated their opponents’ moves.

  “You rolled the way everyone does, Alex, and an accomplished savate fighter knows that and is prepared to counteract your move.”

  They worked for several moments, Bai expertly guiding his movements with a flick of his wrist or an inspired throw over his shoulder. When it seemed as though Alex was beginning to catch on, Bai motioned for Elena to come back in. He directed them move by move, the expert choreographer that he was, praising their quickness and adaptability.

  “Excellent, Alex. You are a natural. One more thing and then we can set up a practice schedule and I’ll work with you. Remember, this if you forget everything else. Unlike kung fu, there isn’t one goddamn thing honorable about savate. The savate fighter has one goal in mind and that is to kill his opponent in as dirty and painful a way as possible. Remember that and you’ll know why I occasionally call on my savate skills.”

  He added with a grin, “They’ve served me well.”

  At that moment, Nianzu called to him from the doorway and Bai stood in response. He leaned over and kissed Elena, whispering in her ear. She blushed and it wasn’t hard to imagine what he said.

  As he left the dojo, Bai called back to Elena.

  “Don’t hurt him too bad, cherie. He’s a sensitive guy.”

  Chortling with laughter, Bai and Nianzu left the dojo leaving a red-faced Alex grimacing. But even though he was angry, Alex couldn’t hide the smile that tugged at the corner of his mouth. Elena threw her arms around his neck and kissed him.

  “I’ve missed you, Alex. Please come back. I need you in my life.”

  Alex blushed, and assumed a fighting stance. He yelled a spirit cry then charged at his sister with both fists raised.

  Chapter 23

  Rory Calhoun sat in the bar of the Palace Hotel biding his time, drinking in the magnificence of the opulent landmark hotel.

  The train ride from New York had been uneventful; in fact, it had been damn near pleasant, Rory thought. Amazing that a trip that used to take nearly a week now was less than half of that and, with the private sleeping cars, a man could arrive ready for business. He and Mike were waiting in the bar for Patrick Doyle, Rory’s head man on the West Coast. Pat’s cousin, Sean Byrne, was a major player in California financial circles and a long time friend of Wyatt McManus, the former governor of Wyoming. Pat and Sean had arranged tonight’s dinner. Rory knew he had one opportunity to make an impression on the Frenchman, and he sure as hell intended to make it a good one.

  ~~~

  Rory refilled Patrick’s glass and looked at his friend in appreciation. He was as Irish as Rory, but unlike Rory’s fiery good looks, Pat was what they called black Irish. Curly dark hair surrounded his handsome face and his emerald green eyes sparkled at the thought of their upcoming dinner.

  “I expect this to be an evening none of us will forget. Sean says it’s unusual at best that the Frenchman is willing to attend. I know you’re gonna be impressed. Christ, how could you not be?”

  Pat motioned to the older scruffy looking man he had brought with him.

  “I invited Finn to join us for a drink, Rory. He has some first-hand experience with the Frenchman that I thought you’d like to hear.”

  Rory nodded to the little man, encouraging him to speak.

  “Tell me anything you can about this phenomenon we’re about to meet.”

  Finn took a long draft off his whisky and held out his glass for a refill. He began his tale slowly, then picked up speed and intensity as he threw himself into the story.

  Shaking his head with a disbelieving sigh, Finn began, “I wanna tell you. I’ve seen a lot of things in me day, some I’ll take to me grave. But if I live in Purgatory for the next million years, I’ll not forget that goddamn night.”

  Rory nodded when Finn held up his glass for a refill. Nothing like a consummate
Irishman, Rory thought with an appreciative grin. It hadn’t taken Finn long to settle into the storyteller’s mode, the top spot in any Irish gathering, greasing his tale with liberal swigs of booze.

  Rory eyed the wiry little man who looked puny at best. But Rory knew better. Patrick surrounded himself with the best and Rory was confident the unprepossessing midget man was an accomplished killer, which made the awe in his voice when he spoke of the Frenchman more compelling.

  “You know when you first see ‘im, he kinda looks like a skinny little fart of a fella. Everything about him looks, well… kinda windy, foppish. Sorta… ah, bugger me, what’s the word?”

  “You mean ‘elegant?’” Patrick offered.

  “Yeah! That’s what I mean. Like he should be wearin’ a top hat and them tails or somethin’. So these two who were ‘bout to fight meet out in the alley behind the Rusty Nail. Some of his men were standin’ back; I guess makin’ sure nobody else got in. The Frenchie stood there, them yellow eyes of his gleamin’ like jewels, sizin’ up that Dago, who was struttin’ around like a barnyard rooster eyin’ a flock of hens. Frenchie just looked at ‘im with a little smile, then he took off his boots and put them off to the side, neat as you please. Then he took off his shirt and all of a sudden that skinny body din’t look so skimpy no more. Hell, there wasn’t a piece of ‘im that weren’t made of muscle. It was like he rippled or somethin’. I ain’t never seen nuthin’ like it. That Wop, big moose that he was, din’t look so big no more. And he sure as hell din’t look so goddamn cocky neither.

  “Then Frenchie kinda grinned at ‘im and said somethin’ like ‘Time to call on your saints, asshole.’ And before the Dago could say a word, Frenchie let out a yell that woulda scared the shite outa the hounds of hell. Sure as fuck scared me.”

  Finn shook his head, then took another slug of whisky, as though he needed the liquid courage to face what he had seen.

  “He was like a flyin’ man. You ain’t seen nuthin’ like it, Rory. It was like watchin’ a dancer or somthin’ leapin’, jumpin’ up in the air, no way the Wop could lay a fist on ‘im. But every time Frenchie came down, he put his heel in that poor bastard’s face or his bollocks or somewhere on his body. Hell, I woudna be surprised if he chopped off that Dago’s dick with a couple of them kicks. Then it was like a beast had entered the Frenchie. He was flyin’ through the air like a lion or a tiger or a panther or somethin’. You know how them animals leap? That’s what he looked like.

  “He got that Wop bastard down on the ground. You could see a man your size, Rory, beatin’ a body to death. But, hell, Frenchie’s as tall as you, but you got at least forty-fifty pounds on ‘im. And that Dago weren’t no pussy. Nah, he was like a boxer, mean and strong, twice as big and muscley as those damn Wops ever get. But then the Frenchie started kickin’ ‘im. I never knew you could break a body’s neck by drivin’ your heel under his chin but I’ll be damned if that ain’t exactly what Frenchie done.”

  Finn breathed a heartfelt sigh and shook his head as if in wonder and took another large swallow of whiskey.

  “Goddamn, if he din’t fuckin’ kick ‘im to death. Then, like one of them ‘cup de gratcies,’ as the French peoples say, he pulls outa knife and slits the Dago’s throat, kinda for good measure, I’m guessin’. He wipes the knife on his pants and puts it back God knows where. He puts on his shirt, pulls on his boots, and lights a cigarette. Then he turns and walks away without so much as a how de doo. He looked like he wasn’t even breathin’ hard. Damndest thing I’ve ever seen in my life.”

  ~~~

  Rory decided he needed a weapon, after all. He told Mike and Patrick to go ahead to the dining room Sean Byrne had reserved. He would join them after he retrieved one of his trusty blades from his hotel room. Hell, even if this was supposed to be a civilized evening, Finn’s tale reminded him he had stayed alive all these years by being prepared, never letting his guard down.

  He was hunting for the dining room when he stopped, pulled up short, knowing that he was looking at the most beautiful women he’d ever seen. Shock and hard cold lust sucked the breath out of his chest. Gasping for air, he leaned against the wall to regain his balance.

  She was slender, taller than average, but the most remarkable thing about her body were the lush curves that filled her fashionably risky dress. Christ almighty, how could a slender woman have breasts like that, straining to get free from the indigo silk that barely contained them? Sweet Jesus, they were full enough, firm enough to fill even his large hands. If that wasn’t enough, her curvy hips and the sweetest tightest little ass he had seen in a long time had his dick beating against his trouser flap like the devil’s drum stick. But it wasn’t her incredible body that stopped him cold, fluttering like a trembling bird instead of a six foot two statue of a man. It wasn’t even those sparkling sapphire eyes that danced like the waves on Galway Bay on a bright sunny morn. No, it was her fucking hair. A cloud of the most glorious fiery red curls he’d ever seen surrounded her beautiful pale face.

  She hadn’t seen him coming and looked startled when he stepped in front of her, both by him and, he was sure, by the hunger on his face. If he looked anywhere near as ravenous as he felt, no wonder he’d scared her. He overcame his momentary loss of speech and a rumbling laugh bubbled up in his chest as he confronted the vision in front of him. Years of captivating women and his carefully honed blarney stood him in good stead. He pasted his biggest Irish grin on his mug and put up his hands to show good faith.

  “Glory be, lass! When they ask me at the pearly gates if I’ve been good, I’ll say, I must have been a saint, Mary’s chosen lad, because I saw heaven itself before they sent me off on my way to hell!”

  Rory’s Irish brogue and banter brought a smile to the woman’s full red lips and she laughed—a soft, delicious sound.

  “I don’t want to frighten you, lass, but, Mother of God, when I’ve come face to face with a lass as haunting as the Irish Sea, you’ll have to forgive me for being so forward.”

  Elena smiled at the big man in front of her. He was tall and his hair was as red as hers and his eyes almost as blue. He towered over her, all male, big and strong, the kind of man who knew how to sweet talk a woman.

  Rory moved closer to her and looked deep in her eyes, as if he was searching for the answer to her beauty.

  “Tell me, lass, which part of God’s country produced a beauty like you? Killarney? County Cork? Dublin?

  “I’m sorry to disappoint you, sir, but I was born and raised in Wyoming.”

  “Ah, that explains it. You must be related to that Gov. McManus I’ve heard about. Now, lass, with the fire raging in your hair and the blue of the Shannon River in your eyes, you can’t deny it. That’s an Irish name if I ever heard one.”

  “You’re right about my father, but again, sir, I’m sorry to torpedo your theories. The McManus name was the last one on the register at the flop house where some man dumped the squaw who gave birth to my father. The only heritage I’m aware of on my father’s side is Apache.”

  She tossed her head, freeing more of the unruly curls from the jeweled pins restraining them, and turned to walk away.

  “Ah, lass, no, no, no. Don’t leave. Tell me what room you’re in. After I finish my dinner obligations I will come to you. I canna let heaven on earth walk away now that I’ve found you. The angels protecting their Irish lads would never forgive me.”

  Rory reached out to touch her, knowing if he did nothing else, he had to run his fingers through those riotous curls. His hand was a scant two inches above her head when he heard a “shtick” and a knife flew from nowhere and pinned his sleeve to the wall. He looked up, startled to see a young Chinese man standing twenty feet away, his hard gaze locked on Rory’s face.

  As stunning as the woman was who stood next to him, Rory knew he had never seen a more striking man. He was tall, slender and, yes, elegant. His expensive casual clothing was made for his lean muscled body. His dark hair hung carelessly close to his collar and his mi
xed Chinese European features were as arresting as they were stunning. But it was his eyes, hard, fierce, and gleaming yellow that snatched Rory’s breath.

  Within seconds, the twenty feet that separated them evaporated as the young man moved next to him a graceful, dangerous predator ready to take down his prey.

  Taking a deep breath, Rory said in as calm a voice as he could muster, “May I presume you are the Frenchman?”

  “You may.”

  “And may I also presume this lovely lass is your woman?”

  “Oui. Elena is my woman… and my wife.”

  Seeing the deadly possessiveness in the other man’s eyes, Rory’s stomach lurched as the ground fell out from under him. Calling on the saints, or more likely the devils that had protected him all his life, he forced himself to breathe deep.

  “May I make one more assumption?”

  The Frenchman nodded.

  “For some reason, you have chosen not to kill me?”

  Bai’s eyes twinkled and a sly smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

  “Not at this time.”

  Rory straightened and turned back to Elena. He reached for the nine inch blade impaling his sleeve to the wall, but as he went to remove it, Elena grabbed it. She twisted the blade hard against Rory’s wrist and pulled it out, leaving a bloody gash on the inside of his wrist. Without taking her eyes off his startled face, she handed the blood spattered knife to the Frenchman, who wiped it off on a fine linen handkerchief and returned the knife to a hidden place in his boot.

  Accepting the bloodied cloth the Frenchman handed him, Rory wrapped it around his bleeding wrist and hoped his expression was as impassive as both of theirs. He said as gracefully as he could, “I am pleased to see this beautiful lass has found someone worthy of her.”