Free Killer Instinct by Zoe Sharp Page B

had no real desire to hurt him. That is not a good way to go into a potential scrap.
     
    It's one of the things I stress hardest when I'm teaching my classes. By the time events reach the stage where you have to stand and fight, you have to be fully prepared to put everything you've got into it and not hold anything back. You might only get one chance.
     
    Most important of all now, was the fact that I didn't want him to damage me .
     
    Most people would have taken his expansive stomach as their first objective, but he looked like he was packing too much muscle. That left me with the smaller, harder to hit targets – ears, eyes, nose, throat and groin. These required less strength, but more accuracy and speed.
     
    I've found from experience that even the most slow-witted of men have pretty good reactions when you go for their wedding tackle. Often out of all proportion to the value of the equipment.
     
    While I didn't think for a moment that Len would go so far as to beat me to a bloody pulp right there on the dance floor, if I didn't come up with something pretty quickly, it was probably going to hurt. Lateral thinking was called for.
     
    I rubbed my hands together and glanced around me. “So, do we fight here or shall we go outside?” I said briskly, looking expectant. “Only, I'd hate to bleed on the furniture, seeing as the cleaners have obviously been round already today.”
     
    I glanced at his face and saw the faintest flicker of surprise. “Eh?” he said.
     
    “Well,” I went on, looking doubtfully around me at the floor space available. “I suppose we could have a go here, but if we're going to do the thing properly, there's not much room. I'd hate to crack my skull on the table leg when I fall over. Not on top of you already having broken my nose,” I added cheerfully. “God, they'll be mopping bits of me out of here for weeks. I hope your cleaners aren't squeamish, Marc?”
     
    Len was looking less sure of himself. I pressed the advantage, such as it was, for all I was worth. “Are you left or right handed? I only ask because I've been having a bit of trouble with a tooth on this side,” I said, gesturing to my mouth. “If you're going to clout me hard enough to knock a few teeth out, do you think you could make it on the right, about up here? It might just sort it out.”
     
    Len's hands had stopped clenching at his sides. He was starting to grin, which was not a pretty sight in itself. Thank Christ for that.
     
    I got to my feet, dragged my chair a little way from the table, and stood on it. I purposely didn't stand up straight, so that it only lifted me slightly higher than my opponent. “That's better,” I said. “Now I can reach.” I put my hands up in the classic mock-fisticuffs position. “OK, guy, whenever you're ready!”
     
    That did it. He threw his head back and laughed out loud. Then he turned and strutted to his bar stool. “See,” he said to Angelo, “I told you it was a load of bollocks.”
     
    I climbed down from my chair slowly and moved it back, feeling drained. You don't realise how much adrenaline you've been pumping round your body until suddenly you don't need it any more. My legs were wobbling so much I had to sit down. When I looked up Marc was watching me carefully. “Nice act,” he said quietly, with a cynical smile. “So, is this martial arts thing a waste of time, then?”
     
    I shrugged. “I don't know,” I said tiredly. “I don't teach martial arts. I teach self-defence.”
     
    “And what's the difference?”
     
    “Self-defence,” I said slowly, looking him straight in the eye, “is all about getting out of dangerous situations without getting hurt.”
     
    The smile faded gradually and he looked rueful. He nodded, understanding. “Like that?” he asked, inclining his head in Len's direction.
     
    “Yeah,” I said, finding a smile of my own. “Just like that. I've just defended myself. The fact I didn't have to resort to violence to