“I don’t have much of a social life.”
“No boyfriend?” he asked quietly.
She shook her head as she ran her fingers over an etched pommel.
“But surely you have friends that you like to spend spare time with?”
“Yes,” she said, glancing up at him. “I’m very close with all three of my roommates.”
“And what do the four of you like to do in your free time?”
She shrugged and touched a different sword grip. “Free time is a bit of a rarity these days, but when I have some, the usual—play video games, go out to the bars, hang out, play poker.”
“That’s usual for a group of girls?”
“My roommates are all men.” She glanced up in time to see the shadow of displeasure that crossed his stoic features. Her heartbeat leapt. His short, glossy, near-black hair was damp at his neck from perspiration. She suddenly imagined herself slicking her tongue along his hairline, tasting his sweat. She blinked and glanced away.
“You live with three men?”
She nodded.
“What do your parents think of that?”
She gave him a sharp glance over her shoulder. “They hate it. Much good it does them. It’s their loss. Caden, Justin, and Davie are awesome people.”
He opened his mouth but paused. “It’s unconventional,” he said after a few seconds, his clipped tone telling her that he’d edited what he’d been about to say.
“Unorthodox, perhaps. But that shouldn’t seem unusual to you, should it? Didn’t you tell me the other night you were a lot of that?” she asked, returning her attention to the swords. This time she wrapped her hand around the grip and squeezed, liking the sensation of hard, cold steel in her fist. She ran her hand up and down along the column.
“Stop that.”
She started at his tone, dropping her hand as if the steel had suddenly burned her. She looked up at him in amazement. His nostrils were slightly flared. His eyes blazed. He jerked his chin and took a rapid swing of water.
“Do you fence?” he asked her briskly as he set the bottle of water on a table.
“No. Well . . . not really.”
“What do you mean?” he asked, stepping toward her, his brow furrowed.
“I do a fencing program with Justin and Caden, but . . . I’ve never touched a sword before,” she said sheepishly.
His puzzlement faded abruptly. He smiled. It was like seeing the sunrise over a dark, brooding landscape. “Are you talking about playing on a Game Station?”
“Yes,” she admitted a little defensively.
He nodded toward the rack. “Take that end one there.”
“Excuse me?”
“Take the last sword. Noble Enterprises designed the original program for that fencing game you play. We sold it to Shinatze a few years back. What level do you play at?”
“Advanced.”
“You should understand the basics then.” He held her stare. “Pick up the sword, Francesca.”
There was a hint of a dare to his tone. His smile still lingered around his full lips. He was laughing at her again. She lifted the sword and glared at him. His grin widened. He grabbed another sword and handed her a mask. He tilted his head toward the mat. When they faced each other, Francesca’s breathing becoming rapid and choppy, he tapped his blade against hers.
“En garde,” he said softly.
Her eyes went wide in panic. “Wait . . . we’re going to . . . right now?”
“Why not?” he asked, taking his stance. She glanced nervously at her sword, then his unprotected chest. “It’s a practice sword. You couldn’t hurt me with it if you tried.”
He thrust. She parried instinctively. He advanced, and she retreated clumsily, still blocking his blade. Even through her haze of alarm and bewilderment, she couldn’t help but admire the flex of his honed muscles, the coiled strength in his long body.
“Don’t be afraid,” she heard him say as she defended desperately. He hardly seemed to be exerting himself at all. He might have been taking an evening stroll, with as much effort as he exhibited. “If you know the gaming program, your brain knows adequate movements to engage with me.”
“How do you know?” she squeaked as she leapt out of the way of his blade.
“Because I designed the program. Defend yourself, Francesca,” he said sharply at the same moment he lunged. She yelped and blocked his blade just inches from her shoulder. He continued to attack without withdrawing, pressing her backward on the mat, the metallic clangs and hisses of their swords filling the air around them.
He advanced quicker now—she felt the amplification of his strength along the shaft of her blade—but his expression remained completely calm.
“You’re leaving your octave unguarded,” he murmured. She gasped when he struck her right hip with the side of his blade with casual precision. He’d barely tapped her, but her hip and buttock burned.
“Again,” he said tensely.
She followed him to center of the mat, his cool, effortless besting of her making her blood boil in her veins. They tapped swords and she attacked, lunging toward him.
“Don’t let your anger at being beaten make you foolish,” he said as they engaged.
“I’m not angry,” she lied through clenched teeth.
“You could be a good fencer. You’re very strong. Do you work out?” he asked almost conversationally as they thrust and parried.
“Run long-distance,” she said, and then squawked in alarm when he landed a particularly strong blow.