Gilt Trip (The Boston Uncommons Mystery Series Book 3) Read Online Free Page A

room.
    Heather Exley curled her lip and refocused on the sifu. I envied her limber body and the way she maneuvered it so effortlessly. Even in my youth, I was ungainly, despite lessons in tap and ballet. During gymnastics class, I earned the distinction of being the only child unable to perform a cartwheel or climb a rope. Talk about humiliation.
    A sudden thought brightened my gloom. According to Deming, Heather Elliot Exley was one of least intelligent females on the face of the earth. Perhaps the Creator had compensated for mental deficit by awarding her great beauty and a kick-ass body. I’m uncertain which of us got the better bargain.
    Justin Ming clapped his hands and gestured for silence. “Now we try the squat and kick.” He modeled the exercise for us, moving in a rapid, sensuous blur that was worth watching but impossible to follow. Apparently most of the class shared my view.
    “I will ask our student, Miss Phaedra Jones, to also demonstrate. Learning is facilitated by viewing another student.”
    I experienced one of those “aha” moments as the brunette brawler from the locker room stepped center stage. Phaedra Jones. So that was her name. I had to admit it was pretty cool, a Greek morality play straight from the pen of Euripides. His Phaedra also failed to control her emotions and had paid the ultimate price. I hoped that her modern namesake would fare better.
    All that ruminating cost me. I totally missed Phaedra’s little show and Justin’s narrative. When we were told to replicate her movements, the rest of the class sprang into action. My version was woefully inadequate, but I was shielded from shame by a sizable pillar. My relief was short-lived when I glanced behind me and spied Master Avery Moore, beaming gently, missing nothing. I had skated by the first Shaolin Law, but with my lackluster performance and spotty record, commandment number two was a problem. I had a bad attitude.
    Class ended at 8 p.m., and I prepared to flee. My escape plan was perfect. Only the master’s smiling visage stood in my way.
    “You are troubled, Ms. Kane. Frustrated?” His voice was gentle, but the words had bite.
    “This is difficult for me, Master. I must try harder. Tomorrow I start private sessions.”
    “Fine. Guidance is something we all require. But it must be reinforced through discipline and practice.” He patted my shoulder and glided toward Justin Ming, the sizzling sifu, who was surrounded by his honor guard of doting females. Heather Exley led the pack, but the one called Phaedra was nowhere to be found. Had she slipped out to tryst with her other sweetie, or was she nestled in Justin’s office awaiting a very private lesson?
    I puzzled over that while walking up Newbury Street. Thus far, my quest for improvement had hit some major snags. Most of them were attributable to my own sloth and inertia. On the other hand, material for my next novel was plentiful. Lust, love, and jealousy combined with exertion and sweat—a virtual Pandora’s Box lay open at Shaolin City.
    Several blocks from home, he cornered me. As I passed an alcove, a pair of strong arms encircled my waist and pulled me close. I didn’t scream or even panic. Those arms were very familiar as was the faint scent of Creed’s Royal-Oud.
    “Okay, Mystery Minx, what’s the story?” Deming used a stern courtroom voice, an outgrowth of his youthful obsession with Perry Mason.
    “Alert the media. I’m taking a walk.” I wiggled free and trotted up the street with Deming at my heels.
    “Not so fast, missy. You’re up to something.”
    Here’s a tip for confounding a lawyer. Go on the offensive and admit nothing.
    As we waited for the stoplight to change, I whirled around, hands on hips, and faced him. “I thought you were working tonight. You owe me an explanation.”
    Deming showed the advantages of multi-culteralism by sputtering outraged comments in three languages. “Don’t get mad. I finished early and came over to find