Body Check

by Lisa B. Kamps

  No, he had no idea what had possessed him to do it, but he knew what possessed him now. She did, with her soft curves and spicy scent and the hot taste of her mouth against his. And he suddenly wanted more, needed more.

  He ran a hand along her back then down, cupping the roundness of her ass and lifting her against his throbbing erection. Her body was warm, pliant, and he moaned, needing more, now.

  She suddenly stiffened against him, her hands flat against his chest, pushing. A few seconds passed before his mind cleared enough to realize she was no longer kissing him back, that her body was no longer warm and soft against his.

  He pulled away, mortified and embarrassed. Christ, what the hell was he doing? He had a woman, a virtual stranger, trapped between his body and her car.

  Randy stepped back, his chest heaving with each breath, and looked down at the woman in front of him. Her eyes were round, her full lips red and swollen from his kisses, her face pale in the dim light from the single light pole at the corner of the gravel lot.

  "What are you doing?" Her voice was a harsh whisper, husky in the night surrounding them. Randy moved back another step, surprised at the desire that still held him in a tight grip.

  The question settled between them, harsh and accusing. What the hell was he doing? This was so out of character, even for him. Respectable? Christ, no wonder Montgomery had looked so dubious at their last meeting. He was mauling a woman in a fucking parking lot, a new low, even for him.

  He took another step back, colliding with the side of his car and setting off the alarm, which caused them both to jump. He muttered a curse and tried to dig the keys from his pocket, fumbling them before he finally pressed the alarm button.

  Silence settled around them, heavy and accusing.

  Randy ran a hand across his face, the scratch of stubble rasping through the silence. He glanced at the woman in front of him, almost afraid to look at her, afraid of the accusation he would see in her eyes.

  But there was no accusation, only bewilderment and surprise as she watched him. One shaking hand came up as she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, and he suddenly wondered if her hair was as soft as it looked.

  And dammit, shouldn't he know that? He had just had her pressed against her car with his tongue rammed down her throat. Yeah, he was respectable all right.

  "I'm sorry. I didn't mean—" He stopped himself before uttering the lie. Yes, he did mean. He shouldn't have, but he did. He cleared his throat. "I'm sorry."

  She watched him, her whiskey-colored eyes wide in her oval face. One corner of her mouth tilted up, just briefly, as if she was thinking about smiling then decided against it. Her head tilted to the side, the ends of her light brown hair curling around her shoulder with the movement.

  "Do you even know my name?"

  The question hit him in the chest with the force of its amused bluntness. And she was amused, he could hear it in her voice, see the brief glimmer of it in her eyes. And what the hell kind of question was that, anyway? Did she really think he was such a reprobate that he'd maul a woman whose name he didn't even know?

  "Of course I do. It's—" And he stopped, frozen. His mind was a total blank. No, it couldn't be. He knew her name. He had to know her name. Val had introduced them, had introduced all three women—her partners in this restaurant thing—to him. Of course he knew her name.

  What the hell was her name?

  Her laughter rang clear between them, the sound musical, like crystal glasses being gently touched together. She shook her head and opened the car door, easing herself into the seat and putting the key in the ignition. The car started, the engine hesitating only briefly before catching with an uneven rumble. She lowered the window and looked up at him, her full mouth tilted just slightly.

  "Good night, Mr. Michaels."

  He watched as she pulled away, tires crunching on gravel before she turned onto the street.

  The tail lights had long since disappeared before Randy got into his own car, his mind barely registering the hum of the powerful engine as he started it.

  What the hell was her name?

  **

  "Your brother is an arrogant buffoon."

  Alyssa slid a spatula under the burger and flipped it onto the waiting plate, not bothering with bun or garnish. She grabbed the plate and moved it to the counter, then eased onto the stool next to Val and fork-cut the burger into several smaller pieces.

  Val looked up from the menu samples she had been studying, her dark eyes slowly coming into focus as Alyssa's words registered. She let out a heavy sigh and grabbed a fork, spearing a piece of the burger.

  "What did he do this time?"

  Alyssa sank her own fork into a piece of the meat and gently blew on it, then popped it into her mouth. She closed her eyes and slowly chewed, the flavors mixing on her tongue, exploding with a rich fullness as she swallowed. She didn't want to admit it, but the flavor was exactly what she had been looking for.

  With a sigh, she made a few notes on the pad resting in front of her, then took a sip of water. That done, she looked over at Val and grinned.

  "He kissed me."

  Val started choking on the bite of burger, hastily swallowing and reaching for her own water. Her eyes widened in alarm, she turned to Alyssa. "He did what?"

  "He kissed me. In the parking lot. Last night."

  "Oh my God. I'm going to kill him! Unless—" Val paused, carefully studying her friend. "Did you want him to kiss you?"

  Alyssa opened her mouth to say no, then closed it again. No, she hadn't wanted him to kiss her. She hadn't even expected it, and was so surprised at first, she didn't even know how to react. But heat and desire had quickly overtaken good sense and the next thing she knew, she had been melting against him. Melting. His body was big, warm, hard—all over. A little shiver of excitement raced through her at the memory of just how big and hard he was. And intense.

  She sighed, then looked over at Val. "He doesn't even know my name."

  "What? Of course he does. He's seen you before and I introduced all of you to him. Why wouldn't he know your name?"

  "He may have seen me around and you may have introduced us, but I don't think he was paying any attention. Trust me, he doesn't know my name. I asked him."

  "That idiot! Wait until I see him. Who does he think he is, pulling something like that—"

  "Val, stop. I said he kissed me, not forced himself on me."

  "So...you did want him to kiss you?"

  Alyssa shrugged and took another bite of the burger. "I wasn't expecting it, no. But—" She stopped and shrugged again.

  But what? The kiss had surprised her. He had surprised her. And she still didn't know why. He had walked her to her car and then, wham, he was suddenly kissing her. She barely knew him, had barely even talked to him. In fact, she was pretty sure last night had been the first time they had ever really talked, period. Not that anyone would describe their brief exchange of words last night as conversation.

  So why had he kissed her? That was what she couldn't figure out. She wasn't a beauty, not by any stretch of the imagination. No, she wasn't ugly—just average. Average height, average weight. Well, okay, she could probably stand to lose a few pounds or more, but she enjoyed food—a good thing, considering what she had chosen to do with her life.

  There was nothing spectacular about her, nothing that would make her stand out. Certainly nothing that should draw the attention of someone like Val's brother. Her hair was average brown, cut into a no-nonsense easy-care style that she either wore loose around her shoulders, or pulled back off her face. Even her clothes were average, simple, casual, understated. She opted for comfort, not chic.

  So why on earth would Randy Michaels suddenly kiss her like he had?

  The question had kept her up for hours last night, long past the time she should have fallen asleep. And she firmly told herself that it was the question only: her tossing and turning had absolutely nothing to do with the lingering heat of his kiss, of his tou
ch. Of the memory of that hard body pressed so firmly against hers.

  "Okay, I'm confused now."

  Alyssa turned back to Val, only to feel her friend's dark gaze piercing her with a look that saw too much. "What are you confused about?"

  "What I should do with my bonehead brother. Do I hit him upside the head with a two by four and tell him to stay away from my friends? Or do I try to fix him up with you?"

  Alyssa rolled her eyes and ignored both questions. "How do you like the burger?"

  Val gave her a knowing look but didn't say anything about Alyssa's attempt at changing the subject. She took another bite, chewed and swallowed, then smiled. "It's pretty good. Perfect, actually."

  "Then you probably shouldn't use a two by four on your brother. Adding the bacon was his idea."

  "Really?" Val grabbed the last piece and popped it into her mouth. "Maybe we could name it after him, call it the Bonehead Burger."

  Alyssa laughed then promptly shook her head. "That doesn't exactly fit with the image we're going for, does it?

  "Not really. But I bet we could make it work. We women do have a sense of humor, you know."

  "Maybe." Alyssa shifted positions on the stool, then propped her elbow on the stainless steel counter. "Val, did you tell your brother what kind of restaurant we're opening?"

  "Of course I did. Why?"

  "Because when he was here last night, he called it a sports bar."

  "Well, I guess it kind of is. Just not the kind he's thinking of."

  Val had a point. Maybe. The idea of the restaurant had come about when all four of them—her, Val, Jodi, and Renee—had been dragged yet again by their then-boyfriends to a sports bar featuring enhanced waitresses dressed in tight white tank shirts and skimpy orange shorts. Having been abandoned at the table by all four men, the four friends had complained once again about the lack of fairness. Why couldn't there be a sports bar geared toward women? A casual restaurant that featured hard bodies instead of scantily-clad women dressed in tight tank shirts or super-short kilts?

  The idea had been borne over margaritas and wings. Now, almost two years later, The Maypole was becoming a reality. The name had been derived from slang for male anatomy, narrowly winning out over Twigs and Berries or Giggle Stick's, mainly because The Maypole sounded a little classier than the other two. They had done the market research, scouted locations to find the best area, invested heavily in equipment and décor and marketing. Alyssa had spear-headed the menu with input from the other three and came up with a refined, slightly classier version of the typical sports bar menu. Something besides just burgers and wings, something that would attract a large female clientele without alienating the men.

  The restaurant was small, with twenty tables and a moderate sized bar. But the building they had leased had an option to expand to the second floor if needed. Not that Alyssa—or any of them, really—thought they'd need it. At least, not right away. Yes, they hoped. But all four of them were realistic, and knew that they had long days and even longer nights ahead of them.

  On paper, everything looked like a guaranteed success. But that was on paper. The reality could be something completely different. Alyssa still had knots in her stomach thinking about everything that could go wrong.

  The reaction of their single investor was pretty much at the top of her list. Because in spite of Val's assurances, Alyssa wasn't convinced that Randy completely understood what they were doing.

  "So do you want me to do anything about him?" Val's question pulled Alyssa from her thoughts, and she looked over at her friend in momentary confusion.

  "Who?"

  "My brother. The arrogant buffoon."

  "Oh." Alyssa slid down off the stool, shaking her head as she grabbed the empty plate. "No, don't bother. I think he surprised himself, too, so I doubt anything will happen again."

  "Then why do you sound so disappointed?"

  "I'm not!"

  "Hm. If you say so." Alyssa could feel her friend's stare burning in the middle of her back and she resisted the urge to roll her shoulders. If Val saw any weakness—any interest—she'd pounce on it like a vulture and go in for the kill. "You know, Randy's really not that bad, once you get to know him."

  And it was too late. Alyssa rinsed the plate off then turned back to Val.

  "No thanks, I'll pass."

  "I'm just saying that I think you two would be cute together. And if you're interested, I'd be okay with that. You know, in case you were worried I wouldn't be, or something."

  "Val, he doesn't even know my name. So no. Just, no, okay? I don't need you deciding to do any matchmaking, especially not with your brother, especially not now."

  Val sighed, a heavy sound laced with theatrics that made Alyssa smile. "Fine, I won't. But I still think you two would be cute together."

  Jodi burst through the swinging doors, her long blonde hair floating around her flushed face. Alyssa was grateful for the interruption, knowing that whatever had Jodi fired-up would now command all of Val's attention. Jodi Randall was normally level-headed and calm, until somebody pushed her buttons the wrong one. And from the ice gathered in her clear blue eyes, somebody had definitely pushed her buttons.

  "I'm going to kill him!"

  "Who?" Val asked the question on a sigh, knowing as well as Alyssa did that only one person could push Jodi to this point.

  "Darren Shepherd, who else?" Jodi huffed their new lead bartender's name. She stomped her foot against the floor, the heel of her shoe echoing against the tile, and ran one hand through her long hair. "Val, you have to do something about him. The man is entirely too cocky and arrogant for his own good."

  "Must be something in the water around here." Val muttered the words, bringing a smile to Alyssa's face and a confused frown to Jodi's.

  "What's that supposed to mean?"

  "Nothing, don't worry about it." Val slid off the stool then followed Jodi back into the dining room. Her hand stopped the door from swinging shut as she looked over her shoulder at Alyssa, a small smile on her face. "And don't think I'm forgetting this conversation, either."

  Alyssa didn't say anything, just shook her head and went back to the stove. She still needed to come up with one last dish, a signature plate that would really set their menu apart and get people talking. So she pushed all thoughts of arrogant men and searing kisses from her mind and went to work.

  Chapter Three

  Randy turned on his skates, racing backward, his eyes never leaving the puck. They were nearing the net, the dull roar of the crowd around them fading into white noise as the opposing player pulled back his stick and shot the puck forward.

  Randy dashed to the side, reaching with his own stick, then threw himself to the ice, stopping the puck with his body. It bounced off his side and shot away from the net, to be picked up by JP and moved to the other side of the ice. Randy jumped to his feet and skated toward the bench, jumping over it as his replacement hit the ice at full speed.

  He absently grabbed a bottle and shot a stream of water into his mouth, spitting it out as he watched the play down ice. JP passed the puck to Ian Donovan, who then passed it to Mathias Herron. The rookie slid around the back of the net and took the shot from an angle, deftly aiming the puck at the three hole.

  Score!

  Randy beat his stick against the boards, cheering for the goal. This might be Mat's first year playing, but already he was proving his worth. It was just a damn shame that the kid was an annoying mixture of cocky innocence that grated on Randy's nerves.

  He refused to look too deep into that one, his agent's words about younger—and better—players still fresh in his mind.

  Randy squirted one last stream of water into his mouth and swallowed, then jumped over the boards and moved to center ice for the face off. Play had been fast tonight, fast and smooth, bringing the Banners to a three-nothing lead by the end of the first period. They were now up eight-nothing with less than five minutes left in the third, and every single member of the Banners
was doing their best to give their goalie, Alec Kolchak, a shutout.

  But there was no mistaking the thick tension coming from the Florida team. Good natured ribbing was normal during games, but that had stopped over an hour ago. With the score so high, the comments now were biting, sarcastic, designed to create a reaction and start a fight, draw a penalty.

  Randy tightened his gloves around the stick and did his best to ignore the taunts, his eyes on the puck as the ref dropped it to the ice and scurried away. Something slammed into him with the force of a freighter, and he stumbled back before righting himself.

  "You're such a fucking pussy, Michaels."

  Randy shook his head and pushed by the other defenseman, ignoring the taunt. There was no way he'd be goaded into drawing a penalty for fighting and risk Alec losing a shutout. So he lowered himself over the ice and pushed forward, his attention on the play down the ice.

  "What's the matter, Michaels? Getting too old?"

  Randy clenched his jaw and skated away, still ignoring the taunt, ignoring the flash of anger that erupted in his gut at the words. Hell no, he wasn't too old.

  "Michaels, since when did you become such a pussy?"

  "Fuck off."

  "Oh, I'm so scared."

  Three months ago, Randy would have dropped his gloves and gone out swinging. But that was three months ago, before that damn meeting with his agent, before being told he was becoming a liability and that he was running the risk of not having his contract renewed.

  Damn Montgomery for telling him that.

  Randy shook his head again, refusing to be drawn into a fight, not when the puck was heading this way. He sat the blade of his stick against the ice, skating backward, side to side, waiting for the right moment to move in and dislodge the puck, to send it away from their own net.