She deliberately put distance between them, trying to work on the spinning, jumping kicks and accurate punches. She heard Conner and Rio talking about sparring and stood with Jeremiah, trying not to notice the amorous glances he shot her way. Her cat wanted to rub along the tree branches, basically rub anything at all. All she wanted to do was rub herself all over Conner, but if they wanted sparring then that’s what they’d get.

Felipe was first to stand opposite her, his fists doubled, his hands up and his eyes focused on her. She could see he was trying not to breathe—not to inhale her scent. She’d never noticed that his lashes were so long, curling a bit at the tips. He had a nice nose and a firm jaw. He was extremely handsome, not quite as muscular as Conner or Rio, but lithe and supple . . .

“What the hell are you doing, Isabeau?” Conner demanded. “He just nailed you six times in a row and you didn’t even try to block.”

“He did?” She blinked rapidly and looked around at the circle of faces, a little confused. Had Felipe actually moved? “He didn’t hit me.”

“He pulled his punch because if he touched you, I’d knock his teeth down his throat,” Conner bit back, clearly exasperated. “You still have to block.”

He looked very sexy when he was angry. She’d never noticed that before. She reached out to rub the frown from his face. He jerked back, his breath exploding out of his lungs. She dropped her hand, pouting a little. “I’m trying, Conner.”

“Well, try harder,” he said gruffly.

His voice was thick and sexy, and another rush of heat slipped like fire through her veins. She liked that. Felipe was replaced by Elijah. Elijah seemed as if he was paying more attention to Conner than to her. Experimentally, she threw a series of light punches and kicks, determined to drive Elijah back. He didn’t retreat as he should have, but flicked his hand toward her with incredible speed. She could actually see the flow of his muscle, the firmness of his jaw, the sensual shape of his lips.

Flesh smacked flesh and she blinked. Conner’s open palm had captured Elijah’s fist just a scant inch from her face. “Isabeau,” he snapped between his teeth. “You aren’t trying.”

“I was. Really,” she protested. How was she supposed to concentrate when Elijah’s entire body seemed made of flowing muscle? It was poetic. And sexy. Hot. Downright hot.

Conner made a sound that bordered on a snarl. Elijah backed away from Isabeau, dropping his hands and shaking his head. Tiny beads of sweat dotted his forehead. “I’m done here, Conner.”