Perfect Strangers

“James.”

“Yes?”

“If I ask you a few questions about what just happened, will you tell me the truth?”

“Yes.”

I search his face, but it’s open and guileless. All the weird murderous energy from when Chris was here has vanished. I remember how quickly he changed gears at the restaurant—molten lava to cool cucumber—and wonder what else he can turn on and off in the blink of an eye.

“Had you ever met Chris before?”

“No.”

He didn’t hesitate, but he also didn’t say, “Of course not!” or “Where the hell would I have met your ex-husband?” Just a simple no and that’s it. Which of course isn’t good enough.

Exasperated, I say, “Don’t you even think it’s weird that I’m asking?”

“You’re upset. The two of you have a contentious relationship. It’s not strange that you’d be shaken to find us both in your apartment when you came home.”

Narrowing my eyes, I ask, “How do you know we have a contentious relationship?”

His voice softens, as do his eyes. “Aside from what was said…your body language. Your face. Don’t forget, I’m very attuned to you.”

Oh. Yeah. That.

I drop into the chair across from him and study him in minute detail. I can’t shake the feeling that I’m missing something, but I take another tack.

“Okay, so here’s an observation. I’m just going to put it out there, and I’d like to get your feedback.” I wait until he nods to go on. “You were very…how do I put this? You seemed dangerous when you were interacting with him. Like you could’ve literally killed him.”

“He’s an asshole,” he says without heat. “A condescending, arrogant, narcissistic asshole who thinks his shit doesn’t stink. That kind of person always brings out the worst in me.”

When I simply stare at him, waiting for more, he says, “But you’re right: I could have literally killed him. I’m a fourth degree black belt in Krav Maga.”

“What is that?”

“A fighting system developed by the Israeli military that focuses on real world combat situations. It’s similar to other martial arts: judo, karate, and the like.” He smiles. “Only more badass.”

“Uh-huh.” I blink for a moment, picturing him grappling around barefoot on a mat on the floor with another guy in one of those belted cotton dude-kimono situations, trying to crack open each others’ heads. “And you practice this…”

“Krav Maga,” he supplies into my pause.

“Right. You practice it regularly?”

He nods.

“And I’m guessing a black belt is the most advanced?”

“Yes. And within the black belt level are five degrees, each more advanced than the last. One more and I’ll be considered a master.”

So that’s why he’s so freakishly strong. He’s the Caucasian Bruce Lee.

He sees my smile. “What’s funny?”

“Are your fists registered as lethal weapons?”

He snaps into one of those karate chop poses with his hands flat and his arms bent at an angle in front of his chest. Accompanied by a high-pitched, theatrical “Hiyah!” it makes me laugh.

“Better.” He reaches across the table and takes my hands, giving them a reassuring squeeze. “Now it’s my turn to ask a question: are you okay?”

I know he means because of the unexpected appearance of Chris. “To be completely honest…” I take a deep breath. “No. Seeing him brings back a lot of bad memories. A lot of...”

“Ghosts,” murmurs James, gazing at me.

He knows. He obviously knows. Whether Edmond told him or he looked me up himself, James knows about what happened to my family.

Emotion tries to claw its way up my throat, but I fight it back, refusing to give in to it. Holding his gaze, I say, “Don’t feel sorry for me. I don’t want your pity.”

His response is instant. “I could never pity you. You’re one of the strongest people I’ve ever met.”

“You barely know me.”

“I know you.” He pauses for a beat. When he speaks again his voice is lower. “Better than your husband ever did.”

That statement causes such a riot of conflicting feelings, I’m tempted to call up my therapist of long ago who recommended breathing exercises for dealing with strong emotions and tell her she’s an idiot. Withdrawing my hands from his, I sit back in my chair and simply look at him.

He waits patiently in silence, his expression unreadable, until the sound of a guttural moan floating from across the courtyard makes him quirk a brow.

When it comes again, he says, “Is that..?”

“Yes, it is. Welcome to my world.”

The moans increase in volume. James says, “Who?”

“Oh, you haven’t seen the resident exhibitionists doing their thing?”

“No. I live on the other side of the building, facing the boulevard.”

“It’s Gaspard and Gigi.”

As if on cue, Gigi wails and Gaspard grunts. I make spokesmodel hands toward the windows. “Voilà. Morning and evening performances every day of the week, no reservations necessary, admission is free.”

“You can see them?”

“From the bedroom and living room windows, I can practically count all their teeth.”

James studies me with interest. “You’ve watched them.”

He says it as a statement, not a question, in response to which my cheeks grow hot. “Yes.”

His eyes sharpen, and his voice drops an octave. “You liked watching them.”

Another statement. Maybe he does know me.

Maybe he knows me quite well.

I have to moisten my lips before I answer, because my heartbeat is going haywire and my mouth is suddenly dry. “Yes.”

Before I have time to feel embarrassed about my admission, James stands. He takes my hand and pulls me to my feet, then leads me out of the kitchen and into the living room. He stops a few feet away from the windows, off to one side so we’re hidden behind the heavy velvet drapery but have a clear view to the outside and the lighted apartment across the way.

Gigi is naked on her hands and knees on her bed, head thrown back, bare breasts bouncing as Gaspard drives into her from behind, his hands gripped around her slender hips.

Pulling me in front of him, James wraps his arms around my body so my own arms are pinned at my sides. Then he lowers his mouth to my ear and whispers hotly, “You want me to fuck you while we watch them fuck, don’t you, sweetheart?”

There’s no need for my answer this time, because we both already know what it is.