The Choice by Jean Brashear Page A

with the cast, she taunted, “They didn’t like it when I won, either.”
    Cullinane almost smiled at that, but she didn’t like the gleam in his eye. He began removing his shoes. “You’re on, hotshot, ” he threw her jeer back in her face, “but don’t expect me to take it easy on you.” He nodded toward a closed door, then tied his hair back. “Pads are in there, if you want them.”
    Hoping she didn’t regret this decision, she declined. “I won’t have them on when the bad guys come.” And she had to prove she could take it.
    Cullinane shrugged. “Suit yourself.”
    She removed her sandals and set them out of the way. Expectation charged the mood of the room. She could all but hear their lips smacking at the prospect of her defeat.
    It couldn’t happen. She couldn’t let it. Too much needed to be proven to these men, but more importantly, to Cullinane—and herself. She’d won against bigger men before. Bigger wasn’t always better, especially very muscular men who often didn’t have her agility.
    She took a deep breath to calm her nerves, hearing Hiroshi’s maxim in her head: If one acts without fear and with total commitment, a weaker person can defeat a stronger one. The key was using his cockiness against him. Watching for the advantage, and letting him defeat himself. Drawing another deep breath and searching for the mind’s center as she’d been taught, she prepared herself to win.
    When Jillian moved toward him, Cullinane noted the light of battle in her eyes. Resolve spoke from every line of her frame.
    Damn, she was a hellcat—a warrior queen if ever he’d seen one. He’d never encountered a woman like her in his life. A moment’s regret flared that they’d met in these circumstances.
    Then she softened her body into limber waiting, arms out to defend, and he readied himself for her first move. Reluctant admiration struck when he realized she was going to make him move first. Clever—she knew it was a mistake to be the first to commit, but he’d bet anything that she sensed how impatient their audience was and was betting that he’d move first to satisfy the bloodlust of the others.
    But she was wrong. He’d proven himself long ago. His men could wait there until hell froze over, for all he cared.
    Suddenly, she was inside his guard, moving to strike. He reacted quickly, turning her and flipping her onto her back.
    Quick as a cat, she was back on her feet, eyes sparking, cheeks bright with anger. A snort of laughter from Fred didn’t help. To her credit, though, she didn’t lose her composure. She circled him slowly, looking for weakness, head held high and proud.
    He moved in on her, only to have her foot meet his chest hard enough he knew he’d bruise. Before he could unbalance her, however, she’d danced away, eyes alight with challenge.
    Arms in motion, he closed in sideways. Quickly she turned, sliding under his arm, delivering a quick liver kite. Stung, he whirled, grasping her arm and pulling her to him with one quick jerk, arm sliding across her chest to trap her.
    In a motion almost too quick to follow, Jillian’s foot lifted. He barely had time to avoid Fred’s fate, and in jerking away from her, he gave her the room to wiggle free.
    The mood in the room had altered. From jubilant anticipation of her speedy defeat, now he could feel from his men his own reaction. She was good. Unorthodox and wily...and skillful.
    He knew in that moment that he’d better drop all hesitation or she’d embarrass him, too. She was sweating and breathing fast, but her reflexes were still good, her movements limber. He had to take her seriously.
    A flare of triumph in her eyes told him that she knew she’d convinced him. He could stop the match now before he risked hurting her, but he’d better not, for her sake. His men resented her for embarrassing them in front of him. He’d better either defeat her soundly or suffer their same fate. To walk away with this unfinished would help no