‘Oh shoot!’ Her body braced and muscles shuddered. Dripping with sweat, Aileen blinked at the man looming over her.
Detective Inspector Callan Cameron’s electric blues, with their special hint of grey, assessed her with an intensity enough to burn through paper. They clearly didn’t like what they saw. ‘Fifty times in as many minutes, Mackinnon! What’s wrong with ye?’
What’s wrong? Her stomach growled, ready to eat itself. Her clothes stuck to her like a second skin, making her body itch, and her breath raced faster than the speed of light. That’s what was wrong!
Aileen tried to turn onto her side. The mat underneath should’ve been comfortable, but after this torture, it was akin to a hard stone grinding into her aching arse.
Another moan slipped through her clenched lips. Her dark brown locks, now appearing pitch black thanks to all the sweat, had broken out of their militant ponytail.
Bloody inspector! Now she had to deal with this haystack for the rest of their—
‘Up!’ The word lasered through her constant pants.
Aileen muttered a few curses between shallow gasps.
They didn’t sound as muted as she’d thought.
‘If ye’d channel some of yer frustration here, ye wouldn’t be on yer arse all the time.’
She continued to huff, a steam engine with no signs of stopping. Aileen’s legs quaked, so she pushed against the mat with shivering arms and landed on her rump. She’d be able to use her legs sometime tomorrow, she hoped. ‘Can we call it a day?’
Callan folded his arms, muscles bulging like taut balloons. Had they grown overnight? Unlikely.
There wasn’t a hint of perspiration on his scowling face. A soot-black mop and scruff jaw with the barest of prickly beards gave him an edgier, dangerous look – never mind those defined bones. ‘Ye can’t ask yer enemy for a timeout. For all ye ken, they’d finish ye off in two minutes, given yer less than average stamina.’
Aileen gritted her teeth. ‘I’m not going off to war. Help me!’
Still, the infernal man didn’t move. His sharp eyes scanned the barn, which was fitted with fitness tools, searching for more torture equipment.
She wouldn’t give him the chance. If she wanted to get back to Dachaigh using her own legs, she had to end this.
Aileen crouched on all fours and gripped Callan’s forearm, then used the last millilitre of fuel left to heft herself up.
The ground quaked, those torture-buffers – aka blue mats – providing some cushion for her legs. White light blinded her, beating onto her damp back. Was it suddenly hot in here?
Aileen’s throat pleaded mercy. A woman lost in the desert was better hydrated.
This had been a bad idea.
Callan had taken it upon himself to teach Aileen self-defence. For the four sessions they’d practised together, Aileen had found herself on her arse more than her feet.
The inspector never promised to be a gentle person; he represented his features: all muscle and not an ounce of fat to spare. Add this to Coach Callan and diamonds could be more yielding – he showed as much mercy as Henry VIII to an adulterous Anne Boleyn.
She didn’t want to listen to his instructions. Her pumping blood and ceaseless pants obstructed her hearing, Aileen only hoped to get out of there in one piece.
Callan muttered a jab. ‘If ye don’t do as I tell ye, this is useless!’
Aileen peeked up at him, her petite height nowhere near his six feet plus. Damn him! Her tiny frame meant he often picked her up and dropped her on the mats, as if she were a twig. It frustrated her, to say the least. How do you hurt a boulder?
He cares enough to want to protect you.
‘I don’t have the time to follow your ridiculous exercise regime.’ She spewed a few more curses. His fitness mindset hadn’t rubbed off on her, although his affinity to curse had.
It caused him to scowl harder. ‘I ken what ye’re trying to do. Ye can’t distract me. Move! Fifty push-ups followed by fifty squats.’
‘I’d be dead on the floor!’
His lips twitched as he waved her off. ‘Get moving!’
Was he trying to hold a smirk? She could manage some kickboxing, especially with him as her target.
Crossing her arms across her chest, she pursed her lips. ‘Not doing it.’
Callan tipped his chin, as if contemplating her argument. ‘I won’t let ye solve cases with me if ye don’t.’
Hell, he drove a hard bargain. No more sleuthing?
‘Five squats and two push-ups.’
‘Twenty and ten. I’ll let ye have an extra piece of the chocolate-hazelnut tart.’
A fool would refuse it. She might learn to walk without her legs. Or a generous serving of chocolate with hazelnut might resurrect her.
