"It's Cat, right? Malcom calls you Cat. You're his favorite student. I've never known him to have a favorite. I'm Ridley Cromer."
She closed her eyes briefly. Thunder roared in her ears. Her brain short-circuited. His voice was pitched so low that it seemed to slide beneath her skin and find its way directly into her bloodstream like some strange new drug. No one touched her. No one dared. He had broken that taboo. She didn't know how to feel about it.
"You're quick. Very fast," he went on, as if she wasn't the rudest person in the world for not answering him. "I couldn't help but watch you sparring the other day. You were wiping up the floor with men ranked much higher than you. Men with a lot more experience. It was a thing of beauty."
A thing of beauty. She would hold that close to her and think about it when she was alone. A compliment. Coming from someone who clearly could best anyone in the dojo, probably including Malcom, it was very high praise. Still, she couldn't stand there being an absolute idiot.
She finally found her wits and gave the door a desperate twist, flashing what she hoped was a careless smile of thanks over her shoulder at him. She yanked open the door, but found when she stepped back she stepped right into him. Right into him.
His body was as hard as a rock. It was rather like smashing herself against an oak tree. His arms came around her automatically to steady her. The heat radiating from him nearly burned right through her clothes.
To her absolute horror, she banged the door closed again as she threw herself forward and away from him. She nearly ran into the heavy glass, but his hands were suddenly at her waist, gently moving her away from the door.
One moment she was heading for danger; the next he had literally lifted her and put her a foot away from the door.
"Kitten, you'd better let me get that."
Color rushed up her neck into her face. To her everlasting mortification, she could hear male amusement in his voice. She was an idiot--a tongue-tied idiot--and he'd think she was crazy. Still--she gulped air--that was for the best. He'd just dismiss her, hopefully never look at her again. Not with those eyes. Those beautiful, antique gold eyes. Who had eyes that color?
He pulled the door open and held it, waiting for her to go through. Thankfully she found her legs and moved past him, once again throwing a small, hopefully thankful smile at him over her shoulder. She walked stiffly to the counter and shoved her things beneath it on the other side.
She was absolutely certain someone needed to file away books in the back where no one could see her. Someone else could make the coffee tonight and she'd just go hide.
"Cat, great, you're here." David Belmont, the owner of Poetry Slam, threw her an apron. "Get to it, hon. Everyone's been complaining because apparently my coffee doesn't taste like yours. I've watched you a million times and I do exactly the same thing, but it never comes out like yours."
"You don't like making coffee, David," Catarina replied, and put on her apron. Which she found hilarious because he owned the coffee-house.
The moment she was behind the coffee machine, David moved into position to take orders and money. Clearly there he was in his element, chatting up the customers, remembering their names, talking them into some of the bakery goods sold with the coffee. He even remembered the poetry or short stories they wrote. He was awesome with the customers, and she was awesome with the coffee. They made a great team.
She didn't look up when anyone ordered. It was part of her strategy to keep in the background. The mouse in the coffee-house. Unfortunately, because she was great at making any type of coffee drink, the customers were aware of her. She was the reigning barista, and the customers had begun to fill the coffee-house nightly.
She had worked hard to learn what she needed to in secret. She read, watched countless videos and committed coffee books to memory. Before that, she'd had to learn to read. She was a little smug about it. Rafe would never, ever think to find her in a bookstore/coffee-house. Never. She was poor little illiterate Catarina.
She kept her eyes on the espresso machine when she heard Ridley give his order in a soft, low tone that set a million butterflies winging in her stomach. She already knew exactly what he wanted, just as she did with most of the regulars. He hadn't been coming in all that long, but she was aware of every breath he took--just as the other women were. She certainly remembered what he liked for coffee.
She knew exactly where he sat without looking up. He always pulled out a book, usually on mediation or essays from a Zen master, while he drank his coffee. He savored coffee. She'd watched him, sneaking looks of course, and he always had the same expression on his face. She knew she put it there. She might not be a conversationalist, but she made spectacular coffee.
She forced herself to make fifteen more coffees before she looked up. Her gaze collided with his. All that beautiful, perfect, molten gold. She almost fell right into his eyes. She blushed. She knew she did. There was no stopping the color rising into her cheeks. He gave her a faint, sexy smile. She looked down without smiling back, concentrating on her work.
One look and her stomach did a crazy roll. What was wrong with her? She didn't have physical reactions to men. It was just not okay. She couldn't ever be stupid enough to wish for a relationship. She'd get someone killed that way. In any case, she'd be too afraid. She didn't even know what a relationship was.
But he was darned good to look at, she acknowledged with a secret smile. Darned good. The familiar rhythm of the coffee-house settled her nerves. The aroma of coffee and fresh baked goods swept her up into the easy atmosphere. Once the poetry slam started, darkness descended. There was usually little joy in the poems, but she enjoyed them all the same.
Bernard Casey, a regular who was usually first up at the microphone, accepted his caramel macchiato from David, took one sip, and pushed his head over the counter the way he did each evening.
"Hey, coffee woman. Heaven again."
She shot him a smile. It was safe to smile at Bernard. He loved coffee, his poems and little else. "Hey coffee man, glad you think so." He only looked at her once a day, and that was when he gave her the nightly compliment.
It was their standard greeting. Bernard waved and settled at his usual table right in front of the microphone, making certain he would be the first and last poet of the night.
*
RIDLEY observed Catarina over the top of the book he no longer had any interest in. She was beautiful and she was scared. Very scared. She thought she'd managed to downplay her looks, but a man would have to be blind not to see through her baggy clothes and attempts to tame her wild hair.
Her sunglasses didn't hide the perfection of her skin, and when she took them off and looked at a man with her exotic cobalt blue eyes, the color a deep intense violet at times, ringed with those long dark lashes--well--the punch was low and it was just plain sinful.
And then there was her mouth. Full lips like a cupid's bow. Turned up at the corners just slightly. Her lower lip could make a man go to his knees and fill his nights with erotic fantasies. When her lips parted and she gave a small, distracted smile, the one that meant she wasn't seeing you, any man worth his salt couldn't help but take on that challenge. When she smiled, like she'd just done to Bernard, the strange poet who poured out his feelings for her through his poems, Ridley knew a man would kill for her.
She was nothing at all like he expected her to be. He watched her at the dojo with Malcom during her lessons and training sessions. She was focused. Intelligent, which, when fighting, was important. She was quick, her reflexes good, and she moved with a fluid grace that took his breath away. He wasn't the only man in the dojo who stopped what he was doing to watch.
He expected her to be a man-killer. She should have been. She had the face and the body. She had the voice. She had a soft drawl, barely there, the kind of drawl that reminded him of drifting down the bayou on a lazy summer night with the sky above him dark and a thousand stars shining overhead and a woman, naked in his arms.
She should have had all the confidence in the world. She had confidence when she sparred with any man Malcom put her against, and so far she'd wiped up the floor with them no matter their rank. She was that fast. She had confidence behind the espresso machines and she had every reason to. She had confidence when she walked home at three o'clock in the morning and she shouldn't.
But she didn't look at men. She didn't talk to them. There was no flirting. He'd never seen her flirt with anyone. Not a man or a woman. She was definitely a puzzle, and one he wanted to solve.
He'd deliberately stepped up close to her, crowded her space, to see what she'd do. She hadn't defended herself. She hadn't told him to get the hell away from her. She froze. Breathless. Terrified. She'd confused the hell out of him, and that didn't happen very often. She'd intrigued him, and that happened even less often. She'd also done something insane to his body.
He was a man always in control. Always. Control defined him. He was a man and lived his life as a man. He was tough and liked things his way, and he always got what he wanted. He was single-minded that way. Women, especially man-killers, didn't do a thing for him. But Catarina . . . The moment her soft body had come up against his, the moment he'd touched bare skin, everything hot and wild and hungry in him responded. He wanted her. And he wanted her for himself. Exclusively. That had never happened before.
He looked down at his arms, at the tattoos he'd acquired so painstakingly over the years. He looked rough and mean. He knew that. It served him well to look that way. He deliberately wore his hair longer than most. He served notice to other men just who he was and what he was capable of. Men got the hell out of his way when he was after something. Especially a woman.