Biting Oz: Biting Love, Book 5 (9 page)

“Face your partner. Mirrors, everyone.” Dumas zoomed in and twisted me in Glynn’s arms, making escape impossible. Damn him. I wasn’t sure if I meant Dumas or Glynn.

The director flitted from pair to pair, a shrimp-pink butterfly with lime peel wings. “One person moves. The other matches it. Try to anticipate your partner. Come on, people, I want to see some synergy here.”

I put space between me and Glynn, trying to lower my blood pressure, but my eyes landed automatically on his fly and I coughed, waved a hand at his portable power tool. “I don’t think I can mirror that.”

He blew air. “Just do the exercise. Let’s not make this difficult. I’ll follow you.”

His eyes didn’t follow me. His gaze was over my head, on Mishela.

That cooled me off like nothing else could have. I was trying not to be interested, but I was a moderately good-looking female. Couldn’t he at least give me a courtesy ogle?

“I don’t need to look at you.” He growled it, a man-growl this time.

“What?”

“You pouted because I’m looking at Mishela instead of you, but that’s my job. Besides, I don’t need to look at you to want you. You’re burned into my memory.”

“I never pout. It’s not professional.”

“You do. And it’s adorable.”

“I don’t—huh?” Adorable? He was sweet as well as sexy? Here was a man who might be worth giving up duty and rainbows…spank me with a sackbut.

Other pairs were doing a sort of mime-in-box thing. I held up one hand, flat like I was pressing it to a mirror, and circled it. Time to get some mental space too. “Hey, how many viola players does it take to make a batch of chocolate chip cookies?”

Glynn matched his palm to mine and followed me effortlessly. Without looking. “How many?”

“Ten. One to make the dough and nine to peel the M&Ms. It’s funny because they’re violists.”

“Ha.” His eyes were still on Mishela.

“Why does she need a bodyguard, anyway? She’s no Hollywood star.” I did a quick double hand wave.

He followed, again effortlessly, again without looking. “She’s important to Mr. Elias, and Elias is important to us.”

“Us.” I snapped my fingers and so did Glynn. Damn, he was good. “Who’s us?”

“A neighborhood watch.”

“I see.” Glynn the Dangerous. A homey neighborhood watch guy? I circled double figure eights. “This important Mr. Elias… You don’t mean Kai Elias, do you? President of Steel Security’s board?”

“Among others.” Glynn followed, hands level with mine. “Mishela’s his ward. If something were to happen to her, it would…distract him from more important matters.”

“What, like counting his money?”

“Like government consulting.”

“So you’re telling me that business mogul Kai Elias not only lives in Iowa but is part of your neighborhood watch?” I’d just realized Glynn’s palms traced his figure eights over my breasts. Blushing hot, I changed to patting my head and stomach. “What government consulting does he do? Coralville’s city council?”

“A bit bigger. The Pentagon and White House.”

That sounded more like bazillionaire Elias. So what was he doing playing around with a neighborhood watch? “Does Elias—”

“He’s a very private person. That’s all I know.”

It cut off that topic, at least for now. I switched motions and subjects. “So you bodyguard in Iowa for a living?”

“I do a variety of things, of which guard is one. And I’m only based in Iowa. I work all over the world.” He mirrored my new gesture, a taffy-pulling motion. It made his pecs dance under the wedge of T-shirt revealed by his jacket.

My tongue lolled. Oh, for the jacket totally off, so I could see the whole chest ballet.

His tongue poked out. Oops, apparently my tongue-rolling wasn’t purely mental. I sucked my lust—and tongue—back in.

But it reminded me. “Why the jacket all the time? You don’t strike me as the cold type.” In fact, the times we’d touched, he’d struck me as very, very hot…yeah.

“I’m more comfortable with it on. Are you done with the interrogation?”

“Interro—” I stuck fists on hips. “And what does that mean?”

His fists hit his hips at exactly the same instant. “Interrogation. To ask questions, or a formal examination. What would you call it?”

“Having a conversation.” I frowned.

He frowned in exactly the same way. But something, maybe the quirk of a black brow, made me realize he was teasing me, confirmed when he added, “Such a cute pout.”

“I do
not
pout.” Sweet, strong and funny. I was closer than I’d ever been to throwing aside duty and dreams to clamp on to his ass or chest and never let go. If I had to endure much more of this enforced closeness…but it had to end, hopefully soon, and then I’d run away. Permanently. I’d never again be close enough to feel…to smell…to kiss…

“Stop, people, stop-stop-stop!” Dumas clapped. “That was terrible. Clearly we need to go back to the basics. Report tomorrow at six for a half hour of drill.
Everybody
.”

I jerked back. There was a general groan, but I groaned loudest.

I was such a schmuck.

If you’ve got the job, do the job.
I wanted to grab Glynn and never let go. I wanted to run away and never come back. But I trooped down into the pit, took up instruments and played my very best. Tomorrow I’d come back. I’d try like heck to get out of acting drills, but I’d return. Sometimes the personal code of honor thing sucks.

Rehearsal went better with the local fill-in actors not so spooked at trumpets and drums coming from the pit. Even the dog playing Toto, a little terrier belonging to my uncle (everybody is related in Meiers Corners, even the livestock), stopped trying to hide behind the scenery.

Dumas staged the final bows, and when the house lights came up, he clapped his hands. “Good job, people. Sit down for notes.”

Mishela slid to the edge of the stage, her ankles dangling over into the pit. Her expression was a poignant combination of eager and hesitant. “Hey, Junior. Where’s Rocky?”

“She’s at another rehearsal tonight.”

Her face fell. “Oh. Well. Meet you at Nieman’s?”

And chance her shadow? Not. “I would,” I began, and her face fell further. Still I plowed on. “But money’s a bit tight—”

“Glynn could pay.” She smiled at the dark essence back in the wings. “Right, Glynn?”

He couldn’t have possibly heard her, but he nodded. Or rather the top of the shadow folded once like a nod.

“So, Nieman’s?”

Her face lit so hopefully. I remembered she was lonely and sighed. If Glynn could suck it up and do what was needed rather than what he wanted, so could I. “Sure. Nieman’s.”

“Mishela.” Dumas trotted up to the pit wall, a frown on his thin face. “As the star, you need to be in top form.”

“Glynn will make sure I don’t stay out too late, Mr. Dumas.” She nodded toward the big shadow.

“Ah, Glynn.” Dumas repeated the name like my dad would say “profit margin”. “Well, all right. But just to make sure—I’ll come along.” After dropping that bombshell, he raised his voice. “Let’s go, people. I want to get these notes done before I expire.”

Chapter Four

At Nieman’s, Glynn sat between me and Mishela. Then Dumas wedged a stool between me and Glynn. My head knew that was a good thing, but my body wanted to shoot him. Then Dumas monologued on Method acting until I wanted to shoot myself.

One drink of that was about all I could take. “I’d better get home. The store opens early.”

Glynn rose too. Maybe he was as bored with the lecture as I was.

But I was trying to keep my distance from him, so I waved him down. “I’ll walk myself home. It’s not like Meiers Corners is dangerous.”

His stance, muscular arms over jutting chest, said quite firmly we were leaving together or not at all.

Mishela rose. “Might as well give in. Glynn’s made up his mind.” As we headed out she added. “And sausage doesn’t sell itself.”

“You sound like my dad.” I’d probably be okay with Mishela chaperoning.

“No, this sounds like your dad.” Adopting a booming, jolly voice, Mishela said “Sausage doesn’t sell itself,
ja
?”

“Whoa. That’s uncanny.”

“Wait,” Dumas’s tenor whined from behind us. “I haven’t finished telling you about Strasberg’s students. James Dean, Marilyn Monroe—”

“Anybody in this century?” I tried to derail him. “Allison Scagliotti? Seth Green?”

Dumas sniffed. “Method acting is continuing to evolve.” He strutted east on Main.

Which wasn’t my way home, but I was curious, so I followed. “Meaning they’re not?”

“Meaning it doesn’t matter. All of today’s stars are Method’s philosophical descendants.”

We passed Bob’s Formalwear and Ritsa’s Pizzas. (The owner’s name was actually Rita, but the sign maker messed up and gave it to her for free. She liked it better and kept it.) Dumas was talking at a clip that would make any fine-print announcer proud.

I had to trot to keep up. Behind me, Glynn kept pace merely by stretching his long, muscled legs. I wished he’d lead the way so I could watch his glorious glutes, but he insisted on covering our rears—just sear me to seal the juices. What about the man made me think body parts? Rubbing, heating, damp body parts… I refocused on Dumas, expounding on how Method acting revolutionized American theater.

Mishela was trotting alongside me, her face confused. “Where are we going?”

“Otto’s B&BS, my hotel,” Dumas said. “Now the Method was actually created by Konstantin Stanislavski, who—”

“BS?” Mishela grinned. “I’ve heard of a B&B, but what’s a B&BS?”

I said, “Bed and breakfast smorgasbord. Uncle Otto runs it.”

She turned to me. “Isn’t smorgasbord Swedish?”

“Uncle Otto isn’t restricted by geopolitical boundaries. Surely you’ve heard of such traditional German favorites as dumpling pizza, sauerkraut egg rolls, sausage-fried chicken—”

Dumas gave a pointed little
ahem
. “Interesting tangent—if you like complete irrelevancy. As I was saying…”

He started in on sensory-memory exercises. That led into the tale of the anorexic actress, who recalled what she ate so clearly that she revomited it. Yeah, good times.

Dumas was describing the regurgitated orange juice in loving detail as we passed the stone edifice of the Sparkasse Bank, when Glynn snarled and grabbed him by the collar.

I thought maybe he’d finally had enough of Dumas’s babbling. But Glynn tossed Dumas behind us, then barred Mishela and me, his powerful arms thrust out like a special forces crossing guard. Skidding to a stop, I peeked under his jacketed arm.

Three men were running across the bridge toward us.

Nylons smashed their faces, but their eyes glowed like red coals. Two waved knives. The third brandished a black cloth bag.

They zoomed in, over the river and on us before I could even gasp.

And I thought,
well hell
. Meiers Corners was dangerous after all.

I considered what to do. I’m a black belt so it might seem obvious—just kick and punch my little heart out. But while Joe Shmoe could kick and punch and even scratch, my training required my response to be reasonable and appropriate. It’s counterintuitive, but the martial arts don’t train you to fight—they train you so you don’t have to fight.

If these guys were only thieves wanting my wallet, they were welcome to my buck ninety-five. I pulled my cash and tossed it onto the sidewalk, the pennies clunking like plastic.

They didn’t even look. So, not after money. Then what? Or who? Their red eyes made them look like Star Wars Jawas.

Or zombies.

Ooh. I could go all Jackie Chan on their asses if they were zombies. Zombies couldn’t sue. I bent into ready stance just as Glynn reached into his jacket and pulled something out with a menacing ka-
click
.

A dagger sprang into his hand, scary-long and gleaming silvery-white. He held it steady, its sharp point angled slightly up. Serious. Deadly.

I nearly peed my pants. But at least now I knew why he wore that leather jacket, even indoors.

It hid his long, elegant weapon.

Dammit, looming danger. No time for naughty thoughts.

Glynn surged forward, met the first goon. His left fist knocked the man back even as his long leg came up, snapping a kick through the goon’s head. Muscled lightning snapped back for a second hit,
bam-bam
. With a crack of bone the goon’s jaw sagged, white shards poking through skin and stocking. His eyes rolled back, his knees folded and he collapsed in a dead heap.

As he fell, Glynn rammed his knife straight into the second goon’s breastbone.

I froze in shock.

It was them or us, but the casual violence stunned me. Bone is the human equivalent of concrete, but the knife embedded to the hilt, goon blood blossoming. The thug fell to the pavement with a thud, a second dead heap. Glynn’s dagger stuck up from his chest like a flag planted for king and country.

The third man flashed by, a bag ready, headed straight for Dumas and Mishela. Mishela jerked Dumas away at the last instant and the bag swished air. The thug pivoted, spun in for another try.