“Double or nothing,” I repeated.

He crossed his arms over his chest and leaned against the wall. “I’m listening.”

“I’ll make you a bet. You can win your money back. Every cent. But if you lose, I get double.”

“And what money would that be?”

“The million you owe me.”

“Ah.” He thought for a minute, then asked, “And just how do I manage to do that?”

“Uh-uh-uh,” I said, stepping closer. “You’re going to owe me two million if you lose. Are you sure you don’t want to think about it? Perhaps put it on the back burner, let it simmer?”

His gaze took a leisurely tour of my body, pausing on my girls, Danger and Will Robinson, before continuing. “I’m pretty sure I’m up for whatever you throw at me.”

“It’s your funeral, buddy.” I looked around his apartment and found just the thing. After retrieving a tieback off his curtains, I walked back to him and explained the rules. “Okay, you have to trust me. Stand here and put your hands behind your back.”

He pushed off the wall and walked over to me, his expression wary but intrigued. “Is this going to hurt?”

“Only your bank account.”

He did as instructed, putting his hands behind his back.

“Do you trust me?” I asked.

“As far as I can throw you.”

“Good enough.” He was strong. He could probably toss me a goodly distance.

I tied his wrists together behind his back, and while I knew his history, knew all the horrible memories that could surface with that one act, I also hoped this would begin to form a bond of trust between us. A thread of peace. He had to know that I would not hurt him. True, I couldn’t hurt him physically if I wanted to, but he had to know that sentiment applied to our emotional relationship as well.

He tilted his head. “Seems promising.”

“If you can hold this position without moving for —” I looked toward the ceiling and thought about it. “— for five minutes, you win. But if you even so much as flinch,” I added, shadowboxing to warm up, “then I win.”

“I can’t flinch?”

“No flinching. This is a flinchless game of concentration and control. I learned it in the air force.”

“You were never in the air force.”

“No, but the guys who taught it to me were.” I danced around, showing off my mad skill, probably intimidating the holy macaroni out of him. Poor guy. “These are fists of fury. They will get close. You’ll feel the air as they swoosh by you. You’ll stand in awe of their speed and accuracy. But if you move, you lose. You still up for this? Speak now or forever hold your peace.”

The lopsided grin he wore was a ploy, a ruse to get me to lower my guard. He cleared his throat and nodded. “I’m good.”

“Are you sure?” I threw a few punches in quick succession just to let him know what he was up against. He had to be at least a little nervous. “We’re talking a lot of money here. No one would blame you if you begged off now.”

“Have you ever boxed?”

“Took some lessons. Didn’t want to be anybody’s bitch in detention.” He didn’t look convinced, so I explained. “I went to a rough high school. Our mascot was a hit man named Vinnie.”

“I thought you went to La Cueva.”

“I did. I went to a subdivision of La Cueva called La Bettawatchyaass, Girlfriend. It was a portable building a little south of the main school. We didn’t get invited to many events.”

He acted as though he were fighting a grin, but I knew better. The only thing he was fighting was the paralyzing fear rushing through his body. He tried not to let it surface, to let it ruin this majestic image I had of him. Too late.

“In case you are unaware of this fact, my nickname in high school was Uppercut Davidson.” I threw one in to demonstrate.

“I thought your nickname was Charley.”

“Only to those who had nothing to fear from me.” I totally needed a tattoo on my neck.

“Has the clock started?” he asked, a dimple appearing on his left cheek.

I let my arms fall to my sides, and gave him one last chance with a challenging quirk of my brow I saw in a movie once. When he held fast, I couldn’t help but be just a little impressed.

“You are a worthy opponent, Reyes Farrow.” I took a deep breath, raised my fists to first position as it was called in ballet, and said, “Time to pay the piper.”

He watched, waiting for me to throw a punch to see if he would flinch. His eyes smiled behind his mask of concentration. I almost felt sorry for him. Especially when I dropped my arms again and gazed at him from beneath hooded lids.

“You are the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

He sobered and regarded me a bit more warily now.

I stepped to him, leaving only inches between us. Without releasing his gaze, I said, “Ever since the first time I saw you, when Earl was hitting you that awful, unforgettable night, your image has been burned into my mind. You were so unimaginably beautiful. And noble. And strong.”

He watched as I raised my hands and began unbuttoning his shirt. His mouth parted and he started to bend down to me, but I held up an index finger and wagged it.

“No moving, mister. Those are the rules.”

He narrowed his lids and straightened.

I unfastened the last button and pushed his shirt over his shoulders. The tattoos that ran across his chest, back, and shoulders were darker than most. Then again, they weren’t made of ink, but something supernatural, something otherworldly. Their lines interlocked like a maze with dead ends and traps that would keep a soul locked in the oblivion of space that existed between dimensions, lost for an eternity.