“Well, I’m going to call you K.” His head whips up in surprise and for a moment, I get a peek at that vulnerability again. I smile, but because of his tense stance, this time my smile is tense, strained. “You’re too sweet for a name like Killer.”
K’s face goes on complete lockdown, from raw and exposed to hardened lethality in the blink of an eye. Chills break out across my skin at the transformation. Now I detect what I missed the first time around. The man is danger, pure and simple. His muscles are tight, bunched up, ready to attack. His body language would scream at anyone passing by to turn and run in the other direction. His mere presence should be enough to frighten even the bravest of souls, yet here I am, breathing in his scent, leaning slightly forward, wanting to reach out and climb in his arms. Be held by him. Touch him.
“No. Make no mistake. I’m not sweet. I am a killer.” He spins on his heel and with that, I’m left alone in my tiny office. The only reminder K was ever here is the slight scent of his soap and the fact my heart is still hammering against my ribs.
I’m afraid, but not of K. The fact that I’m not afraid of him is what I’m worried about. Instead of heeding every warning my brain is putting out, I need to find a way to get closer to the man instead of further away.
* * *
Gabriel pulls up the correct file and hits play on his computer. The massive television set in his office lights up. The clip displayed was shot in a practice ring at a gym I’m not familiar with.
The door to an empty cage opens and two men enter. My mouth falls open in shock. The men are both fighters, both clearly in peak physical condition with cut, sinewy muscles and a lightness to their step that takes years of training to perfect.
Hundreds of fighters have passed through these doors over the last two years, so that’s not why I’m gaping. It’s the raw sexual appeal of the man wearing snug-fitting black Lycra shorts with red lettering, lithely bouncing on his toes, that draws me in. His entire torso is covered with ancient-looking tattoos—arms, chest, back, heck, there’s even one on his neck, stretching up one side. I’ve never seen anything so menacing, yet so erotic.
My eyes flick up to the fighter’s face. Killer.
“Holy crap,” I murmur. He looks like a lethal jungle cat, sharp gaze fixed on his opponent. He is the very definition of sex; every movement, every sinewy ripple, every fluid step, sends a rush of blood to long-dormant places in my body.
Gabriel laughs. “I know. Wait till you see him in action, minha filha.”
I smile at Gabriel’s endearment. He calls everyone dear to him “my daughter” or “my son.” I don’t speak Portuguese. I only know what it means because I asked once.
“This is only sparring with no grappling. The trainer told them to stay upright so his striking could be assessed,” Gabriel adds, but my eyes are glued to the screen. I don’t want to miss a single second of Killer in action.
The sound is off, but the bell must ring because the men start moving. Watching K fight is hauntingly beautiful. Like a predator stalking a kill. Every action he takes is effortless, deliberate. He moves so fast there is little time for his opponent to react. K hits and kicks the other man over and over, each strike lashing out and retreating like the flick of a whip. I’m mesmerized by his body.
A few minutes later, the two men tap gloves and the film ends.
“I need to watch it again.”
Gabriel hits play and the clip starts over. It takes four more times through for me to study K’s positioning, two just to stop staring at his beautiful face.
I move behind the keyboard and tap until the screen is frozen on K standing on one leg.
“See, right there.” I point to the screen. “His left knee slightly hyperextends when he delivers a kick with his right leg. Eventually, if he’s not careful, he can tear his posterior cruciate ligament.”
Gabriel squints. “I don’t see that. He seems fine to me, minha filha.”
Grinning, I pat the older man on the back. “I know, but trust me. Other than that, he’s perfect.”
Gabriel turns to me, and this time it’s his turn to smirk. “Perfect, eh?”
My cheeks heat up, fire racing all the way to the tips of my ears. “I-I don’t mean…”
“Relax, Britt. Eu falo pelos cotovelos.”
I tilt my head, confused.
Gabriel gives me a small smile. “It means I’m only joking with you.”
“Right.” I shift uncomfortably in my seat. If Gabriel knew what I was thinking when I watched K fight, I’d die of embarrassment.
“Okay, Britt. You can go. We can study his ground game tomorrow. Jiu-jitsu, meu favorite.” Gabriel grins and claps his hands, rubbing them together in anticipation. “Killer, he trained with Rafael.”
I nearly choke in surprise. “With Rafael? Rafael Lima?” K mentioned training in Brazil, but failed to mention Rafael Lima. Rafael is the most famous jiu-jitsu expert in the world, second only to the Gracie family.