Reflected in You: A Crossfire Novel

in the office makes my skin dry.”
    “I’ll come, too,” my mom offered.
    I eyed her delicate heels skeptically, but then again, my mom wore nothing but heels. For her, walking in those was probably the same as walking in flats was to me.
    We headed back to the Crossfire at the standard stride rate for Manhattan, which was something of a steady, purposeful clip. While weaving around human obstacles was usually part of the process, it was far less of an issue with my mom in the lead. Men moved reverently off to the side for her, then followed her with their eyes. In her simple, sexy wrap dress of ice blue, she looked cool and refreshing in the humid heat.
    We’d just turned the corner to reach the Crossfire when she came to an abrupt halt that caused Megumi and me to crash into the back of her. She stumbled forward, wobbling, and I barely caught her by the elbow before she teetered over.
    I looked at the ground to see what had held her up, but when I didn’t see anything I looked at her. She was staring at the Crossfire in a daze.
    “Jesus, Mom,” I urged her out of the flow of pedestrians. “You’re white as a sheet. Is the heat getting to you? Do you feel dizzy?”
    “What?” Her hand went to her throat. Her dilated gaze remained fixed to the Crossfire.
    Turning my head, I followed her line of sight, trying to see whatever it was that she did.
    “What are you two looking at?” Megumi asked, frowning down the street.
    “Mrs. Stanton.” Clancy approached, having abandoned the town car he’d been driving at a safe but discreet distance behind us. “Is everything all right?”
    “Did you see—?” she began, looking to him with her question.
    “See what?” I demanded, as his head snapped up and his trained gaze raked the length of the street. The absoluteness of his focus sent a shiver down my spine.
    “Let me drive you three the rest of the way,” he said quietly.
    The entrance to the Crossfire was literally across the street, but something in Clancy’s tone brooked no argument. We all climbed in, with my mother taking the front seat.
    “What was that about?” Megumi asked after we’d been dropped off and had moved into the cool interior of the building. “Your mom looked like she’d seen a ghost.”
    “I have no idea.” But I felt ill.
    Something had frightened my mother. It was going to drive me crazy until I found out what it was.

Chapter 7
     
    My back hit the mat with enough force to knock the air from my lungs. Stunned, I blinked up at the ceiling, trying to catch my breath.
    Parker Smith’s face came into view. “You’re wasting my time. If you’re going to be here, be here . One hundred percent. Not a million miles away in your head somewhere.”
    I grabbed the hand he extended to me, and he yanked me to my feet. Around us, a dozen more of Parker’s Krav Maga students were hard at work. The Brooklyn-based studio was alive with noise and activity.
    He was right. My thoughts were still stuck on my mom and the bizarre way she’d reacted when we returned to the Crossfire after lunch.
    “Sorry,” I muttered. “I’ve got something on my mind.”
    He moved like lightning, tagging me first on one knee, then my shoulder with rapid-fire slaps. “Do you think an attacker is going to wait until you’re alert and ready before he comes after you?”
    I crouched, forcing myself to focus. Parker crouched as well, his brown eyes hard and watchful. His shaved head and café au lait skin gleamed beneath the overhead fluorescent lighting. The studio was in a converted warehouse, which had been left rough for both economic reasons and atmosphere. My mother and stepfather were paranoid enough to have Clancy accompany me to my classes. The neighborhood was presently undergoing revitalization, which I thought was encouraging but they thought was troubling.
    When Parker came at me again, I blocked him. The tagging came fast and furious then, and I pushed all other thoughts aside until later, when I was home.
    When Gideon came over about an hour later, he found me in the bath surrounded by vanilla-scented candles. He undressed to join me, even though his damp hair told me he’d already showered after spending time with his own personal trainer. I watched him strip, riveted. The play of muscles beneath his skin and the inherent gracefulness in the way he moved sent a delicious sense of contentment sliding through me.
    He climbed into the deep oval tub behind me, his long legs sliding in on