"I'm serious about having you design a new logo. But I also wanted a lunch date with you."
"Do you always get what you want?"
"Always." Ronin bent his head closer to hers. "As far as the logo is concerned, I'd like a bolder design that speaks of Japanese jujitsu, not the Brazilian method that's become so popular."
An edge had crept into his voice. "I take it you don't approve of that method?"
"Brazilian jujitsu is the preferred form for MMA fighters and I have no issue with the method. Just the guys who claim to have training in it. Few of the dojos around here have a qualified leader. They add the term 'Gracie method' and students flock to their classes. I'm traditional in that I train students to master techniques and learn control, not only to fight."
Everything about his physical charisma compelled her. Even when he wasn't looking directly at her, she could see the fire dancing in his eyes. She watched the agitated muscle popping in his jaw and how his full lips flattened into a thin line. All subtle movements that she might've missed if she hadn't allowed his magnetism to pull her in. A section of hair fell across his cheek and she had to curl her fingers into her palms to keep from brushing it aside. "Were you a good fighter?"
"I don't have TKO stats, or an official win-loss record, or a medal or a winner's belt. But I did make a whole bunch of money fighting, and that allowed me to start Black Arts."
"And that was the endgame for you? The only reason you fought?"
Ronin seemed surprised she'd moved so close. He reached out and followed a section of her hair from her scalp to the end where it rested against her breast. "You're the first person to ask me that in a very long time. It'd be tempting now, even fourteen years later, to say I only fought to earn my place so I didn't have to fight anymore." He stroked her hair again and the blunt edge of his fingertip grazed her cheek. "But the truth is, I like fighting. I like matching my skill against another opponent. In class, we work the techniques, but we're always careful not to hurt the students. But on the mat during a match? Pain isn't a concern. The fighting is raw."
The gentle way he touched her hair as he spoke so nonchalantly about violence gave her a surprisingly intimate peek into this complex man. "Do you still fight?"
"Four years ago a Brazilian jujitsu practitioner publicly questioned my credentials and openly mocked me for claiming I'd studied in Japan and that I was part Japanese. Normally I don't bother with martial arts politics, but when he brought it into my house? Making those claims in front of my students? I couldn't let it slide."
"Is that why you've got security at the front door?"
"Partially. He did just walk in with twenty of his students and disrupt my classes. I had no idea if they'd brought weapons, so I took preventive measures after that incident to provide better security for my students."
"What happened? Was him showing up on your turf like he'd declared war?"
Ronin smiled. "He said he'd meet me anytime, anyplace, so I suggested a time and a place. He bragged near and far about the public beat-down he was about to dish out."
"And?"
"I lost."
Her mouth fell open. "Are you serious?"
"No. But telling you the truth will put me in a different light in your eyes, and I'm not ready for that. I'm liking the way you're looking at me now, Amery."
She blushed. "Tell me anyway."
He kept absentmindedly running his fingers down that same section of hair. "I wiped the floor with him. He wanted it real-I gave him real. I broke his arm and his nose. I dislocated his shoulder. I cracked his ribs. All within five minutes."
Amery fought a shiver. "Did he do any damage to you?"
Their eyes met. "He dislocated my finger and gave me a deep bruise on my hip." He tugged on the end of her hair. "How did we get so far off topic?"
"It's not off topic. It's stuff I need to know if you and I are . . . ah, working together."
He seemed amused that she'd kept her answer professional.
"I'll work up some design ideas for the logo."
"Perfect. But on the personal side of us working together, mark your calendar tomorrow night for the 'hot chick getting hit on in a bar' challenge."
"Ronin-"
He held up his hand, forestalling her argument, and took his phone out of his pocket. "What's your number?"
Amery recited the digits, watching him plug the numbers in. Then her phone buzzed with a text message.