Page 34 of Devoted in Death

When she started for the elevator the cat sat, stared at the opening doors with his suspicious bicolored eyes.

“I’m not a big fan of the moving box, either, but... I’ll be back,” she said as the door closed.

She hadn’t had time, not really, to fully appreciate Roarke’s Christmas gift as the dojo had been completed while they were away.

Now she stepped out into it and took one long, relaxed breath.

The floors, soft gold, gleamed. The space boasted its own little garden where white flowers fanned over the stones of a quietly bubbling water feature in the far corner. Sliding panels concealed a small kitchen area, fully stocked with bottles of spring water and energy drinks.

Coffee was banned, which didn’t seem right in any world, but she’d had to accept the edict.

More panels opened to a dressing area fully stocked with white towels, with mats, with gis of black or white. And the door within would lead to the shower, and through that she could access the gym if that space was more to her taste.

He’d even thought of art—but, then, the man thought of everything. Serene gardens, arching cherry blossoms, green hills misted with morning.

The space spoke of peace and discipline, and simplicity.

And was a fully operational holoroom.

The gift had been twofold. The dojo, and Master Lu. When time allowed she could go to the master for instruction, or schedule a session in her own dojo.

And when it didn’t, she could call him up holographically.

She did so now, eager for a good, strong workout with a master of martial arts.

His image shimmered on in the center of the room. He wore his hair in a long queue, and a plain black gi over his sinewy body.

He clasped one hand over the other, bowed. “Lieutenant Dallas.”

“Master Lu. Thank you for this honor.”

“I am pleased to have a worthy student.”

“I only have thirty minutes, but—”

“Then we must make each count.”

“Your flying spin kick is, well, almost unbelievable. I’ve never been able to get that height, or that form. If—”

“You are very kind. This will come. For this our first lesson, you will learn to breathe.”

“To... ‘breathe.’”

“Breath is the beginning of all. Breath,” he said as he approached her, “then breath and movement. Hands.”

He took her hands, pressed one palm to her belly, the other to her heart with his dark eyes locked on hers. “Breath is life. You are not the pebble washed to shore by the wave, but the fish that swims in the wave. Breathe in to fill, to draw in the light. Slow,” he told her, “with awareness. Breathe out to empty. And pause, hold in that space between. Now in to fill.”

She breathed.

When she took the elevator back up, she had to admit her brain had cleared out. Who knew there were so many ways to breathe?

When the elevator opened to the bedroom, and Roarke stood there unbuttoning his shirt, well, she lost her breath.

His hair fell nearly to his shoulders, a black silk frame for a face created to steal the breath, to weaken the knees, to capture the heart. It had done all to her, and more.

There were times like this when he looked at her, just looked, and those perfectly sculpted lips curved, those eyes—wilder, bluer than any sea—lit with what she knew was love, it wasn’t just more. It was all.

“A session with Master Lu?”