Gilt Trip (The Boston Uncommons Mystery Series Book 3) (2 page)

My gracious home in the Tudor, a bequest from my late friend, still feels somewhat alien to me. It is prime real estate, a historic part of Boston’s Back Bay located right where Commonwealth Avenue kisses the nape of the Public Garden. In short, my condo encompasses 4,000 square feet of sheer luxury, complete with priceless antiques, paintings, and accessories. Chalk it up to CeCe’s exquisite taste and limitless checkbook. I had nothing to do with it.

There’s also the matter of Cato, a less desirable inheritance. He’s an irascible spaniel, a rescue with sharp teeth and a fierce snarl for almost everyone. Cecilia Swann doted upon him, and Cato in turn adored my friend. With me, he maintains a spirit of détente, eyeing my ankles whenever I offend and confronting Deming with fangs bared.

I wrestled with the Medeco lock and stepped inside to the insistent shrilling of the phone. After fending off Cato with a treat, I lost myself in the mellow voice of my fiancé.

“Been busy today,” he observed. “Dad said you and Mom are planning something.”

So much for stealth. I opted for door number three—truth, or a reasonable facsimile of the same. “We’re planning an excursion,” I said. “Want to join us?”

“Wish I could, but I’m swamped with work. A very demanding client wants my personal attention.” Deming’s law practice was booming, a consequence of Boston’s thriving business sector and his brilliance, not necessarily in that order.

“Hmm. Is this client male or female?” I was only half joking. Deming had been quite the Lothario before we got together. Even now, needy women constantly swarmed him. His manner hardly encouraged intimacy, but his film star looks, an exotic Asian/Swedish combo, prompted normally reserved females to forsake dignity and decades of breeding in the name of passion.

Chill, Eja. Your insecurity is showing.

Deming answered my question without pause. “Horton Exley. Horty. You’ve met him. Hasn’t changed a bit since his days at Yale.”

I racked my brain for memory crumbs. “I don’t recall any Horton Exley. The one I knew was Ames. Younger brother or cousin probably. Smart, downtrodden, moderately good looking.”

“Watch your step, Ms. Kane. You’re spoken for.”

“Don’t I know it.” A warm sensation surged through embargoed parts of my person as I envisioned his arms around me. My voice grew husky at the promise of things to come.

“Drop on over when you finish work.”

Deming chuckled. “I might be late. Very late.”

“No problem. I’ll leave the light on. Use your key.”

“Will you make it worth my while?”

I took a breath and whispered words of sweet surrender. “Count on it, big boy.”

Chapter Two

I SEARCHED IN vain for a loose-fitting garment with some hint of style. My closet was awash with sweat pants and jogging outfits too unsightly to even consider. Since I loathed the mere concept of exercise, the pickings were slim. Unfortunately, I was not.

A sudden brainstorm made me plunge into the back of the spacious closet where CeCe had once stored her shoes by type and season. I took a more minimalist approach to shoes and every other wardrobe staple. Unlike the Swann tribe, Eja Kane was stylistically stunted. It took persistence, but I found it: a pristine black jogging suit with white piping and tons of attitude. I’d purchased it in a fit of conscience after glimpsing a particularly unflattering photo. Almost immediately, buyer’s remorse had set in. The offending garment stared reproachfully at me until I’d banished it untouched to closet Siberia. Tonight it would finally get a star turn.

The phone rang at 5:45 p.m., announcing Anika’s arrival in the lobby. Her attire, a loose-fitting emerald number, was as flawless as her complexion; her blond hair was pinned in a loose chignon that accentuated spectacular cheekbones. Both of us wore athletic shoes, although hers appeared to have been used before, probably during sessions with her personal trainer. Neither one of us wore jewelry.

“You look perfect, Eja.” Anika lowered her voice. “But you might want to tie your hair back. Exercise is a messy business, you know.”

Hair is my one point of vanity. While many women bemoaned their thinning locks, mine remained thick, dark, and wavy, a legacy of my staunch Russian forebearers.

Anika gave me a conspiratorial grin. “Tell me. Are we really there to exercise, or is this an undercover assignment?”

“No tricks,” I said, “strictly legit. If I get some background material, that’s a bonus. Trust me, this is a crusade.”

“Fine, dear,” Anika said. “I sent Po back home. We can walk down Newbury and get there in plenty of time if we hustle.”

Hustle we did. It’s shameful, but her sixty-year-old form floated comfortably ahead of my heaving body. We arrived at Shaolin City as the church clock boomed the hour and the dojo door closed.

“You made it,” Justin Ming said with an easy smile. “And brought a most welcome guest.” He bowed to Anika. “Greetings, Mrs. Swann.”

“You know each other?” I asked, gasping for breath.

“I had a small part in the fitness event she sponsored at the Boys and Girls Clubs.” Justin flashed a fetching pair of dimples. “Nothing particularly memorable.”

Anika extended her hand in a charming gesture. “Nonsense, Mr. Ming. The children loved you. I was merely window dressing.”

Justin waved us in toward a well-appointed room where supplicants were seated in a circle around Master Avery Moore. There was absolute silence as if they were praying or meditating. I gave Justin a puzzled look.

“They are expressing reverence for the master and freeing their minds to learn.” He raised his eyebrows. “Worth trying on occasion, wouldn’t you say?”

Avery Moore nodded a welcome and addressed the group. There was a mix of genders and ages, but the common factor appeared to be total absorption in his words. This crowd was intense and very fit. Even the women had plenty of muscle. I noticed the gusher, the shapely brunette I’d seen earlier hovering about the master. Tonight she wore a red bandanna that highlighted her olive complexion. She occupied pride of place next to Justin and directly across from Avery Moore. From her air of familiarity, I supposed she was a regular.

The master stood slowly and started speaking. “How many of us truly know ourselves? Kung fu is a discipline, something that will guide you to a path of health and happiness.” He inhaled and gazed at us with omniscient emerald eyes. “Learn the ten Shaolin Laws, and they will set you free. They bind us as a community.” With a flick of his hand, he summoned Justin Ming, who leapt to his side ready to obey. “Confidence. Awareness. Agility. These things lead to self-control and mastery. Study Sifu Ming for inspiration.”

Justin Ming executed a series of quick, graceful maneuvers worthy of a dancer. For a big man, he certainly knew how to move. It wasn’t spiritual inspiration I saw on the faces of other women in the group as they watched Ming’s performance. They seemed transfixed, mesmerized, and thoroughly turned on, a carnal triumph of the flesh.

The quest for his favors heated up as the snarky brunette turned febrile eyes on her competitors. One willowy blonde almost drooled. Their behavior was a common ailment that I understood so well. Deming also has a black belt in karate. A lithe, flexible man is capable of incredible acrobatics and can be dynamite in the sack.

Master Moore ended his soliloquy and urged us to grab a mat and start stretching. Justin stood in the center, serving as our coach, cheerleader, and examplar of clean living. Anika dove right in, showing exceptional skill and zeal. While I was no superstar, I managed to finish the routine without disgracing myself or sustaining injury. Meanwhile the master walked about, complimenting and encouraging each student with a friendly smile or pat on the back.

“This is not new to you, Mrs. Swann. Perhaps you will not be challenged.” Avery Moore pointedly omitted me from his comment. The man obviously valued honesty and feared that any greater challenge would kill me.

“My skills are rusty, Master. Your guidance will be most helpful.” Anika knew how to ladle up praise when it suited her. Humility was prized in this community.

“Private lessons might suit you better. That has been the preferred method through the ages, and progress is faster.” For a saintly guy, Avery Moore had a smooth sales pitch. Private lessons were a costly venture for anyone other than a Swann.

“My daughter-in-law would join me,” Anika said. “Is that possible?”

“Of course. Justin will accommodate your schedule.” With a quick bow, the master glided away and out the door.

“Private lessons?” I asked. “They’ll laugh me out of here.”

Anika patted my cheek. “Don’t sell yourself short. You’re doing fine.” She swiveled toward Justin Ming. “I guess class is over now. Mr. Ming is occupied with his admirers, so we’ll speak with him tomorrow.”

Occupied, indeed. The sexy sifu was holding court, doing his best to avoid bloodshed while accommodating both the eye-popping blonde and the predatory brunette.

“I know her,” Anika whispered. “We’ve met at several charity events.”

“Which one?”

“The blonde. That’s Heather Elliot Exley, Horton’s wife. Isn’t she lovely?”

There was that name again. Horton Exley was Deming’s frantic client. If her behavior towards Justin was any indication, Heather was the clingy type who needed constant reassurance. No wonder her hubby was antsy.

“Let’s stop at Starbucks for some chai,” I suggested. “We need to coordinate our story in case Deming gets suspicious.”

INSOMNIA AND I are old friends. Small wonder that I embrace the Sandman’s visits as a gift. After the evening’s exertion, I fell into a fugue state from which nothing and no one except Deming Swann could rouse me.

Sometime after midnight he slipped under the covers, put his arms around me, and gently kissed my neck. I’d deliberately worn a slinky black number in hopes of just such an encounter. Some women sleep in the nude, but I have curves to spare and serious issues with self-esteem and body image. I address them by wearing a dark, filmy silk that hides a multitude of flaws. It’s cowardly, I know, but an MFA from Brown is cold comfort to a struggling endomorph like me whose first husband dumped her for a sylph.

“Hush, baby,” Deming said. “Go back to sleep.” He slid the strap down my arm and stroked my skin. “So soft. So beautiful.” He touched the lacy undergarment beneath the silk. “Hmm. What is this? Feels like satin.” He slipped the thong off me, slowly, sensuously, and dangled it in the air. “Flimsy, isn’t it, for such a pricey little thing?” Deming’s voice grew low and husky. “Worth every penny.”

Suddenly sleep was the last thing on my mind. Even darkness couldn’t hide my full throttle flush. I leaned back against a wall of rock-hard muscles and sighed. “Don’t stop. Please. It feels so good.”

“This?” he asked, letting his lips wander. “Or maybe this.” Deming has large graceful hands with the long, slim fingers of a surgeon. When those fingers explore my nether parts, I melt faster than cheap chocolate.

“I missed you today,” Deming whispered. “I’ll be glad when this wedding spectacle is over, and we can start a normal life together.”

I studied his face in the pale glow of the night light. No surprise that he had worked his way up two coasts, devouring debutantes like salty snacks. His thick black mane curtained off the perfect profile of a film star. Deming had been the dark angel to his twin’s blond beauty, but they shared their mama’s beautiful eyes. I glanced away, unable to face the heat of those hazel orbs.

“Hey . . . not getting cold feet, are you?” He moved closer, his lips parting.

“Never. In fact, my feet and every part of me are toasty warm.” I’d never spoken truer words. My body temperature soars whenever he comes within striking distance. I’m emotionally vulnerable, out of control, ecstatic.

I cuddled even closer to him and pressed my lips against his. “I may be a little bit rusty, though. Let’s spend tonight brushing up on basics.”

Chapter Three

THE SIFU DIDN’T waste any time. The next morning, soon after Deming departed, Justin Ming phoned to schedule our private lessons.

“What time best suits you and Mrs. Swann?” he asked.

We agreed that 3:00 p.m. would work and that at least two lessons a week would be required. Luckily, after completing my most recent manuscript, I had time to spare and some extra cash as well. Weekly sessions were a bit of a letdown for someone who hoped for instant success, but even incremental progress was better than nothing.

“Then we can assess your situation,” Justin said without a trace of irony.

“Should I practice in between sessions?” I asked. “Remember, I’m on a tight schedule.”

“Ah, yes, your wedding.” He made a noise that from anyone else might have been a chortle. “Perhaps you can also attend some of the group sessions in the evening. Many students find that helpful.”

“Sure. Sounds great.” My mind wandered as luscious Mr. Ming launched into the sales spiel about uniforms and gear. After all, how much happy talk can one woman absorb in a phone call?

“I’ll start this evening,” I said. “Mrs. Swann might not be available, though.” From what Deming said, his caseload would keep him occupied for most of the week. Bolin, however, liked his wife at his side and seldom missed dinner at home. As the guiding force at Swann, Sevier and Miles, he could do whatever he pleased.

Afterwards, I immediately contacted Anika. Three o’clock worked for her, and we agreed to meet at Shaolin City that next afternoon. As I planned my schedule, I daydreamed a bit, did some maintenance chores, and walked Cato around the Common at such a brisk pace that he protested vigorously.

My group session at the dojo would be a solo act, but I felt less anxious about that since the steamy night with my fiancé. It sounds reactionary, especially coming from a card-carrying, fire-breathing feminist. A woman’s self-esteem should never be dependent on a man, even a spectacular specimen like Deming Swann. But having him at my side buoyed my confidence more than the burgeoning sales of my last three novels. Hard to believe that for two decades we were adversaries who derived great pleasure from avoiding and taunting each other.