York, Boston, Miami or Los Angeles.
“ With Kansas City and Chicago so close by, St. Louis is an ideal location for the tournament,” Gian said. “Students and fans of the martial arts will turn out to see fighters they’ve only seen on ESPN. I’m sure you’ve already noticed how much more economical it is to host the event here, with hotels, transportation, and tourna ment venues costing a fraction of what they do on either coast. You’ll more than recoup your investment, Mr. Hok.”
“The money isn’t the issue most concerning me, Mr. Piasanti.” Pritchard grinned. “This tournament will be an audition for you and your Sheng Li fighting tech niques. It will be your introduction to the international fight community. Your competitors and potential fran chisees must be impressed with a dynamic presentation. If you fail . . .” He raised a speculative eyebrow and swirled the last of the red wine in his goblet.
“I won’t fail,” Gian stated, his jaw hardening. “My students won’t fail.”
Pritchard smiled. Kuriko’s toes burrowed deeper into Gian’s crotch.
“That’s the fighting spirit, Mr. Piasanti.” Pritchard raised a hand and summoned their waiter with two hooked fingers. “I shall leave you and Kuriko to enjoy dessert, and perhaps, catch up?” Their server scurried to their table and cheerfully accepted Hok’s black credit card.
“Thank you, Hok,” Kuriko said, her Russian accent turning “thank you, Hok” into “zank you, Howk.”
“Stay,” Gian said, perhaps a bit too quickly. “The green tea ice cream is pretty good here.”
K uriko narrowed her eyes at Pritchard, and her shoul ders rose with the deep breath she took through her nose. If her body language hadn’t been specific enough, Kuriko’s next words made her preferences clear. “I am sure that you have better things to do this evening than sit in on old home week between me and Gian,” she said. “I’ll see you at the airport in the morning, Hok. Goodnight.”
Pritchard muttered his farewells and left, Kuriko’s eyes tracking him until his driver was closing him in his Town Car. When Kuriko returned her gaze to Gian, he nearly shrank from the heat blazing from her eyes. The last time he had seen that fire, he had ended up dehy drated and exhausted after two days and two nights in Kuriko’s suite at the Mandarin Oriental Hotel. With Manhattan’s skyline sprawling in the background, he and the limber marketing executive émigré had wiped the walls with each other.
Gian had looked forward to her return for this meeting, and not just because of the business opportu nity it heralded. Kuriko’s intelligence matched her unusual beauty, the result of her Japanese and Ethiopian- Russian ancestry. Gian watched her comb her fingers through her straight black hair, and he had a vague memory of that hair tickling over his torso. As she spoke, he watched her ruby lips form her words. When she asked their waiter for sugar cane juice to sweeten her coffee, her lips wrapped around the word “juice” and reminded Gian of her lips wrapped around the heaviness between his legs, which now rested snugly beneath Kuriko’s bare toes.
“ Pritchard is obviously quite serious about partnering with you and making Sheng Li an international brand, but he’ll proceed no further until he sees the reception you get at the International Martial Arts Champion ships.” Kuriko leaned over the table, her long hair nearly sweeping into her coffee. “He’ll be watching your exhibi tion matches most closely.”
Gian sat back in his chair, shifting to clear his crotch of Kuriko’s foot. “Why’s that?”
“There are rules to the championship matches. The combatants are highly trained athletes skilled at competition fighting. The audience is familiar with them, for the most part, and knows what to expect, a winner and a loser. There are no rules for the exhibitions and the fighters are either unknown or old ponies trotted out for a
“ With Kansas City and Chicago so close by, St. Louis is an ideal location for the tournament,” Gian said. “Students and fans of the martial arts will turn out to see fighters they’ve only seen on ESPN. I’m sure you’ve already noticed how much more economical it is to host the event here, with hotels, transportation, and tourna ment venues costing a fraction of what they do on either coast. You’ll more than recoup your investment, Mr. Hok.”
“The money isn’t the issue most concerning me, Mr. Piasanti.” Pritchard grinned. “This tournament will be an audition for you and your Sheng Li fighting tech niques. It will be your introduction to the international fight community. Your competitors and potential fran chisees must be impressed with a dynamic presentation. If you fail . . .” He raised a speculative eyebrow and swirled the last of the red wine in his goblet.
“I won’t fail,” Gian stated, his jaw hardening. “My students won’t fail.”
Pritchard smiled. Kuriko’s toes burrowed deeper into Gian’s crotch.
“That’s the fighting spirit, Mr. Piasanti.” Pritchard raised a hand and summoned their waiter with two hooked fingers. “I shall leave you and Kuriko to enjoy dessert, and perhaps, catch up?” Their server scurried to their table and cheerfully accepted Hok’s black credit card.
“Thank you, Hok,” Kuriko said, her Russian accent turning “thank you, Hok” into “zank you, Howk.”
“Stay,” Gian said, perhaps a bit too quickly. “The green tea ice cream is pretty good here.”
K uriko narrowed her eyes at Pritchard, and her shoul ders rose with the deep breath she took through her nose. If her body language hadn’t been specific enough, Kuriko’s next words made her preferences clear. “I am sure that you have better things to do this evening than sit in on old home week between me and Gian,” she said. “I’ll see you at the airport in the morning, Hok. Goodnight.”
Pritchard muttered his farewells and left, Kuriko’s eyes tracking him until his driver was closing him in his Town Car. When Kuriko returned her gaze to Gian, he nearly shrank from the heat blazing from her eyes. The last time he had seen that fire, he had ended up dehy drated and exhausted after two days and two nights in Kuriko’s suite at the Mandarin Oriental Hotel. With Manhattan’s skyline sprawling in the background, he and the limber marketing executive émigré had wiped the walls with each other.
Gian had looked forward to her return for this meeting, and not just because of the business opportu nity it heralded. Kuriko’s intelligence matched her unusual beauty, the result of her Japanese and Ethiopian- Russian ancestry. Gian watched her comb her fingers through her straight black hair, and he had a vague memory of that hair tickling over his torso. As she spoke, he watched her ruby lips form her words. When she asked their waiter for sugar cane juice to sweeten her coffee, her lips wrapped around the word “juice” and reminded Gian of her lips wrapped around the heaviness between his legs, which now rested snugly beneath Kuriko’s bare toes.
“ Pritchard is obviously quite serious about partnering with you and making Sheng Li an international brand, but he’ll proceed no further until he sees the reception you get at the International Martial Arts Champion ships.” Kuriko leaned over the table, her long hair nearly sweeping into her coffee. “He’ll be watching your exhibi tion matches most closely.”
Gian sat back in his chair, shifting to clear his crotch of Kuriko’s foot. “Why’s that?”
“There are rules to the championship matches. The combatants are highly trained athletes skilled at competition fighting. The audience is familiar with them, for the most part, and knows what to expect, a winner and a loser. There are no rules for the exhibitions and the fighters are either unknown or old ponies trotted out for a
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