On Wednesday evening at 6:30, Russell Baker and I were jogging at Huntington Beach.

He was shirtless and jaw-droppingly sexy, and it was all I could do not to stare at him as we spoke. Staring at him while we spoke might have led to me running into a trash can. Still, I stole glances, every chance I had. I wondered if it was unethical to lust after my client.

"That's a wild story, Samantha Moon," he said. He always sounded so damn polite when he spoke to me. Too polite. I wanted him to sound...interested. This surprised the hell out of me. A few weeks ago, when he'd first appeared at my house, I had not thought of him as anything other than a client. But watching his fights, watching his skills, seeing the compassion in his heart, and his surprisingly peaceful aura for a fighter, well, something shifted.

That, and the fact that Kingsley had broken my heart all over again.

"It's more than a theory," I said.

"How can you be so sure, Samantha?" he said easily, smoothly, confidently.

"Call me Sam," I said.

"Sure thing, Sam," he said and looked at me and winked and something inside me did a sort of flip. My stomach? Or, perhaps, something further down?

I considered how much to tell Russell, and decided to keep things fairly sanitized for now. "Romero hired Andre Fine to deliver the dim mak to his brother."

"The dim mak," said Russell, shaking his head, "is only a myth."

"Myth or not, Caesar Marquez died two weeks later during your match, from no apparent punch or series of punches from you. Most people I'd spoken to - from the referee to Jacky - don't think you hit him hard enough to do any real damage."

Russell shook his head. "I'm not sure if I should feel relieved or discouraged."

"It is what it is," I said, hating myself for using such a generic idiom, but I was finding being in Russell's presence, jogging together at the beach, so damn exciting that I wasn't thinking straight anyway.

"I suppose so," said Russell smoothly. "Caesar was a tough fighter. It was hard to land anything on the guy."

"Could he have been champ?" I asked.

"Maybe," said Russell, and he looked at me and winked again. "'Course, he woulda had to go through me first."

"Of course."

I smiled. He smiled. His stomach muscles undulated. I somehow just missed running into a blue trash can.

Russell said, "You believe there's something to the touch of death?"

"I do."

"Why?"

"The police have gone through Andre Fine's records. There's evidence that he'd been paid for many such hits. For someone who wanted to preserve his legacy in fighting, he sure kept a nice paper trail of his illegal dealings."

"What exactly do you mean by evidence?" asked Russell. He breathed easily, smoothly, his elbows relaxed at his sides.

"Investigators found evidence of nine paid hits, totaling hundreds of thousands of dollars. Seven of the targets are dead."

"Let me guess," said Russell. "They died of unknown brain trauma."

I nodded, although I don't think Russell saw me nod. "Good guess."

"Weird," said Russell.

"Weird is right," I said.

"So, maybe there's something to this dim mak."

"Maybe," I said.

Russell looked at me. "Weren't you afraid that he might hurt you?"

"Naw," I said.

"I would have protected you," he said.

And for some reason, that bravado seriously warmed my heart. "That might be the nicest thing anyone's said to me in a while."

He grinned and flashed his perfect teeth. "Except, why do I get the impression you don't need any protecting?"

"Oh, I need some protecting," I said.

He slowed down and so did I. He placed his hands on his hips and sucked in some wind, although I got the feeling he wasn't very tired. By my estimate, we had jogged five miles.

"You're not breathing hard," he said.

"Nope."

"You're an interesting chick, Ms. Moon," he said.

"Like I said, call me Sam."

"Would you like to get some dinner, Sam?"

"I thought you would never ask."