High-Powered, Hot-Blooded

The elevator opened onto a square landing. There were four condo doors. Duncan walked to the one on the left. He opened it and flipped on a light, then motioned for her to step inside.

The space was large and open, like the lofts she’d seen on the Home and Garden channel shows she liked. There were hardwood floors, a seating area in the middle, a flat-screen TV the size of a jumbo jet, windows with a view of Los Angeles and a kitchen off to the right. Her entire house, including the backyard, would easily fit just in what she could see. No doubt his place had more than one bathroom. Maybe she could send the twins over here to get ready on Friday nights. There would be a whole lot less screaming for the mirror at her place if she did.

Duncan closed the door, then glanced at her.

“It’s nice,” she said, taking in the neutral beige walls and taupe sofa. “Not a lot of color contrast.”

“I like to keep things simple.”

“Beige is the universal male color. Or so I’ve heard.”

She followed him into the sitting area. Or great room. She wasn’t sure what it was called. The leather furniture looked comfortable enough and there were plenty of small tables. She put her purse on a chair and set the box on the table next to it. Duncan walked into the open kitchen.

“Want some wine?” he asked.

“Sure.”

He looked back at her, his eyes bright with humor. “It’s not in a box.”

She laughed. “Lucky me.”

While he poured, she brought out her decorations. There were three musical snow globes with different holiday settings. Two flameless candles that sat on painted bases. Some garland, a snowman liquid soap dispenser and a nativity scene. The last was still in the box, the small porcelain figures protected.

She glanced around the room. The candles and the garland could go on the dining table. The snow globes fit on the windowsill. Duncan didn’t seem to have any blinds to get in the way. She spotted a hall bathroom and put the soap there, then set up the nativity display on the table under the massive T V. When she was done, Duncan handed her a glass of wine.

“Very nice,” he said. “Homey.”

“Are you lying?”

“No.”

She couldn’t tell if he meant it or not. “I wanted to bring a tree, but wasn’t sure you were the type.”

“My housekeeper would be unamused.”

She wasn’t surprised.

“Want to see the rest of the place?” he asked.

She looked around at the open room, the tall ceilings, and resisted the need to say “There’s more?” Instead she nodded.

Next to the half bath she’d noticed was a guest room. It was bigger than any two bedrooms at her house, but that no longer surprised her. On the other side of the bath was a study. The walls were paneled, a big wood desk stood in the middle, but what caught her attention were the trophies on the built-in bookcases. There were dozens of them, some small, some large. A few were of boxing gloves, but most were figures of a man boxing.

“You won these,” she said, not really asking a question.

He nodded and sipped his wine.

She crossed the carpeted floor to read a few of the engravings. Each trophy had his name. There were dates and locations. She also saw medals in glass cases.

“I don’t get it,” she said, facing him. “Why do people want to hit each other?”

The corners of his mouth turned up. “It’s not all about hitting. There’s an art to it. A talent. You need power but also smarts. When to hit and where. You have to out-think your opponent. It’s not all about size. Determination and experience play a part.”

“Like in business,” she said.

“The skill set translates.”

She wrinkled her nose. “Doesn’t it hurt when you get hit?”

“Some. But my uncle raised me. Boxing is what I knew. Without it, I would have just been some kid on the streets.”

“You’re saying hitting people kept you from being bad?”

“Something like that. Put down your glass.”

She set it on the desk. He did the same, then stepped in front of her.

“Hit me,” he said.

She tucked both hands behind her back. “I couldn’t.”

The amusement was back. “Do you actually think you can hurt me?”