Her Singapore Fling by Kelly Hunter Page B

image. It was an image that had no place inside dojo walls and she knew it. So too did Jacob’s students, who fell ominously silent, one by one, as she descended the stairs.
    Jacob hadn’t seen her yet, he was rifling through an equipment trunk with two of his students, and she didn’t know whether to interrupt him or not. All she had to do was catch his eye, give him a nod, and walk out of the door. It should have been easy enough to do, but given the way her stay here was progressing even that small interaction had the potential for disaster.
    She started across the training-room floor only to halt when Jacob looked up, caught her gaze, andheaded towards her. For a man who’d spent half the night pounding on a boxing bag he looked remarkably well rested.
    Jianne, on the other hand, had resorted to artifice in order to disguise her sleepless night.
    â€˜You’re heading off to work?’ he asked when he reached her, his voice low and gruff, just one more swipe at a woman’s composure. From the loose-limbed way he walked to the broad expanse of his T-shirt-clad shoulders, everything about Jacob had been designed to render women sleepless, and right now she resented every bit of it.
    Jianne nodded, her throat the tiniest bit dry for words. Nothing a cup of tea wouldn’t fix. Not that she had one handy.
    â€˜How?’
    â€˜I’ve called a taxi.’ Croaky words, but audible nonetheless. Maybe there were flaws in his chest musculature after all. She let her gaze drift downwards and swallowed hard.
    Unlikely.
    â€˜How are you getting home?’
    â€˜The same,’ she croaked.
    â€˜I can collect you from your workplace on a motorbike, if you don’t mind the ride.’
    â€˜I don’t mind the ride.’
    â€˜Five-thirty suit?’
    Jianne nodded again and gave him the address. Jake’s teaching uniform involved loose black karate pants, the remarkably well-fitting T-shirt, and no black belt whatsoever. His students were a ragged crew, mostly young men, and apart from their black trousers there was nouniformity there either. They wore any kind of T-shirt that pleased them or indeed none at all. No women, she noted. Not in this class at any rate.
    â€˜My advanced class,’ he offered, noting her curiosity. ‘Most of them have been coming here for years.’
    They were all staring at her, every last one of them. ‘Anyone would think they’d never seen a woman walk down those stairs before,’ she said nervously. ‘They haven’t.’
    â€˜Oh.’ Jianne reeled at the implication. Jacob was an extremely physical man. A man who enjoyed women. Surely he’d had women in his bed during these past twelve years? Even if he had been too discreet to telegraph the fact. ‘So…what do you want me to do? About the pretending to be together. Do I kiss you good morning in front of them?’
    â€˜I wouldn’t recommend it,’ he muttered. ‘Just smile and walk away, Jianne. I’ll take care of the rest.’ He took his own advice and headed back towards his students. Jianne made her way across the rear of the training hall towards the door, her shoes tapping out a rapid staccato that sounded wrong somehow, here within this gathering of warriors.
    She turned when she reached the door. Turned to look her fill of the husband she’d run away from all those years ago. He looked her way, almost as if he’d felt her watching him, and she caught her breath at the intensity of that brilliant blue gaze. He was right about not needing a kiss, she thought with a catch in her breath. Because this was a vow—a reckless, untempered pledging of raw desire, dark needs and passion enough to incinerate them both.
    Jianne raised her chin and held Jacob’s gaze a great deal longer than she should have before finally making her exit.
    Â 
    At five twenty-five that afternoon, Jianne shut down her computer, leaned back in her