Read Online Gilt Trip (The Boston Uncommons Mystery Series Book 3) by Arlene Kay - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Arlene Kay
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now?”
He dodged Cato, spun ’round, and winked. “Wish me luck.”
PER ORDER OF the Boston police and Euphemia Bates, Shaolin City was closed until further notice. Every student received an email with the bad news, but I got a phone call as well. If Justin Ming’s voice astonished me, his suggestion floored me.
“You know about the closure,” he said. “We’ll probably be out of commission for a few days, maybe a week. Lieutenant Bates wouldn’t say.”
“That’s a shame.” Caution was both watchword and friend. My response was neutral, noncommittal.
His voice sounded strange—subdued but focused. Weird. “I know you’re under a time crunch,” he said, “so I thought you might want a private lesson. Tonight.”
I’m usually quick on the uptake, but that had me stumped. “Where? I thought the dojo was closed.”
“There are other things we can do,” Justin said. “Perhaps at your apartment?”
“Oh. Yeah, I guess so. Our living room has lots of space, and I’m not busy tonight. Should I call Mrs. Swann too?”
He paused, as if I’d broken protocol. “That’s your decision.”
“What time will you be here?” I checked the Swedish Mora clock in the corner. It was nearly two o’clock, and I had things to do.
“Does six o’clock suit you?” His velvety baritone seeped through the phone lines.
“Sure. I’ve been reading the material you distributed, and I do have a few questions.”
No doubt Master Moore was eager to fill the empty coffers. Justin Ming, like many personal trainers, was trying to build his clientele and keep them satisfied. I phoned Anika immediately and explained the situation.
“Private sessions? Hmm. Very entrepreneurial. Unfortunately, Bolin made dinner plans, so I can’t join you.” Anika hesitated. “I’m sure you’ll be fine, but maybe you shouldn’t tell Dem about this. You know that boy has a short fuse when it comes to you.”
“Really?” The idea thrilled me. “Call me when you get home, and I’ll give you a full report.”
I spent the next three hours running errands and reviewing galleys with my editor. No three-martini lunches for that girl. She was a workhorse who expected and got the same stamina from her authors. At five o’clock, I slipped into wushu gear and trotted Cato around the Common for his thirty-minute constitutional. As usual, his surly nature asserted itself, and he rebuffed all attempts to civilize him. Wise pedestrians gave our duo a very wide berth.
When Justin Ming arrived promptly at six o’clock, Cato charged the door, prepared to do battle. Then an amazing thing happened. The sifu entered, bent down, and spoke softly to Cato in a language I couldn’t understand. It might have been Mandarin or magic based on the impact his words had on my dog. Instead of baring his teeth, the irascible spaniel licked Justin’s hand and rolled over for a tummy scratch. Was this the technique Ming used to soothe the females who vied for his attention?
“You look like a serious student,” he teased. “All decked out in your uniform. Even got your white sash.” Justin’s black belt, the highest rank in wushu, was draped around his trim waist in a toothsome display of male beauty. He surveyed the spacious living room and nodded. “A lovely space, Eja. Tranquil.”
I’d pushed back furniture to clear the area, although I wasn’t sure what Justin had in mind. CeCe, whose parties were legendary, had loved to entertain in that room. She had hosted fifty or more guests for cocktails with room to spare.
Justin motioned me into the center of the room. “We will start by stretching,” he said. “Then we can try some basic kung fu patterns.” He moved with a grace that any panther would envy, stretching, lunging, and twirling like a top. “Your turn,” he said. “Stretch.”
My attempts to imitate him were a dismal failure reminiscent of my worst childhood memories. Under Sifu Ming’s watchful eye, I sank like the Titanic .
He dodged Cato, spun ’round, and winked. “Wish me luck.”
PER ORDER OF the Boston police and Euphemia Bates, Shaolin City was closed until further notice. Every student received an email with the bad news, but I got a phone call as well. If Justin Ming’s voice astonished me, his suggestion floored me.
“You know about the closure,” he said. “We’ll probably be out of commission for a few days, maybe a week. Lieutenant Bates wouldn’t say.”
“That’s a shame.” Caution was both watchword and friend. My response was neutral, noncommittal.
His voice sounded strange—subdued but focused. Weird. “I know you’re under a time crunch,” he said, “so I thought you might want a private lesson. Tonight.”
I’m usually quick on the uptake, but that had me stumped. “Where? I thought the dojo was closed.”
“There are other things we can do,” Justin said. “Perhaps at your apartment?”
“Oh. Yeah, I guess so. Our living room has lots of space, and I’m not busy tonight. Should I call Mrs. Swann too?”
He paused, as if I’d broken protocol. “That’s your decision.”
“What time will you be here?” I checked the Swedish Mora clock in the corner. It was nearly two o’clock, and I had things to do.
“Does six o’clock suit you?” His velvety baritone seeped through the phone lines.
“Sure. I’ve been reading the material you distributed, and I do have a few questions.”
No doubt Master Moore was eager to fill the empty coffers. Justin Ming, like many personal trainers, was trying to build his clientele and keep them satisfied. I phoned Anika immediately and explained the situation.
“Private sessions? Hmm. Very entrepreneurial. Unfortunately, Bolin made dinner plans, so I can’t join you.” Anika hesitated. “I’m sure you’ll be fine, but maybe you shouldn’t tell Dem about this. You know that boy has a short fuse when it comes to you.”
“Really?” The idea thrilled me. “Call me when you get home, and I’ll give you a full report.”
I spent the next three hours running errands and reviewing galleys with my editor. No three-martini lunches for that girl. She was a workhorse who expected and got the same stamina from her authors. At five o’clock, I slipped into wushu gear and trotted Cato around the Common for his thirty-minute constitutional. As usual, his surly nature asserted itself, and he rebuffed all attempts to civilize him. Wise pedestrians gave our duo a very wide berth.
When Justin Ming arrived promptly at six o’clock, Cato charged the door, prepared to do battle. Then an amazing thing happened. The sifu entered, bent down, and spoke softly to Cato in a language I couldn’t understand. It might have been Mandarin or magic based on the impact his words had on my dog. Instead of baring his teeth, the irascible spaniel licked Justin’s hand and rolled over for a tummy scratch. Was this the technique Ming used to soothe the females who vied for his attention?
“You look like a serious student,” he teased. “All decked out in your uniform. Even got your white sash.” Justin’s black belt, the highest rank in wushu, was draped around his trim waist in a toothsome display of male beauty. He surveyed the spacious living room and nodded. “A lovely space, Eja. Tranquil.”
I’d pushed back furniture to clear the area, although I wasn’t sure what Justin had in mind. CeCe, whose parties were legendary, had loved to entertain in that room. She had hosted fifty or more guests for cocktails with room to spare.
Justin motioned me into the center of the room. “We will start by stretching,” he said. “Then we can try some basic kung fu patterns.” He moved with a grace that any panther would envy, stretching, lunging, and twirling like a top. “Your turn,” he said. “Stretch.”
My attempts to imitate him were a dismal failure reminiscent of my worst childhood memories. Under Sifu Ming’s watchful eye, I sank like the Titanic .
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