Body Check

by Lisa B. Kamps

  She paused, momentarily stunned at the large crowd that still filled the small space. All the tables were occupied, with more people gathered around the bar, standing and sitting. A few women—and even a few men—were gathered around the piano in the corner, laughing and talking as Darren played an upbeat song.

  The piano had been Jodi's idea, one that they hadn't quite agreed on at first. But it looked like it was entertaining the crowd, at least tonight, so maybe Jodi had been right.

  "Wow, I didn't think it would be this crowded still."

  "I know. It's great, isn't it? This is better than I thought it would be. Come on, they're over here." Val grabbed her wrist again and led her through the crowd, not stopping until they reached the other side of the bar. A reporter stood chatting with Jodi and Renee, her head nodding as she took the occasional note. Val stopped next to her and quickly introduced Alyssa, but so quickly that Alyssa didn't catch the reporter's name.

  Not that she had been paying attention anyway, because her focus had suddenly shifted to the large man standing behind the reporter, casually leaning against the wall.

  Randy's head turned and his gaze met hers, intense and unblinking. He wasn't exactly scowling, but he wasn't smiling, either. Alyssa briefly wondered why he looked irritated, then turned her attention back to the reporter, who was already busy asking questions.

  Alyssa calmly answered them, surprised that they were relatively simple and straight forward. They were the kind of questions Val had told her to expect when the four of them had discussed the possibility of interviews. Simple, direct, a few about Alyssa's background and experience, a few about where she had come up with the ideas for the menu.

  The entire encounter was almost anti-climactic, after the way Alyssa had built it in her mind in just the short time since Val had pulled her from the kitchen. The most difficult thing was posing for the picture, and Alyssa wished she didn't look so bland compared to her three friends. But she was in her uniform: traditional white jacket, black pants, black nonskid shoes. Her hair was pulled back, and she was wearing minimal make-up. What was the sense of wearing make-up when she knew she would just sweat it off in the kitchen? There was nothing to do about it except smile for the photographer, and hope the camera didn't really add extra weight to her curves.

  Alyssa had been ready to return to the kitchen, already feeling guilty for being gone so long, when the reporter suggested one more picture. This time, though, she asked Randy to join in, as investor. Alyssa threw a questioning glance at Val but didn't say anything, since her friend didn't seem fazed by it. Maybe Val had changed her mind, and didn't care that people knew her brother had lent them the money.

  The photographer took care lining them up, and somehow Alyssa ended up right next to Randy, on his left side. Of course they'd put the man in the middle, not only because of his height, but because it made more sense. But did they really need to put her right next to him? She tried to move, but Randy's arm, draped so casually around her shoulder, tightened and held her in place. There was nothing she could do except smile and wait for the photographer to finish.

  The light flashed a few more times, then the man lowered the camera and nodded. Alyssa tried to move, wanting to escape back to the kitchen, but Randy's arm still held her in place. She tried to ignore the heat running through her from just that small bit of contact, and was thinking of a way to escape his hold—would anyone notice if she pinched him?—when the reported stepped closer, her eyes fixed on Randy with a glint that surprised Alyssa.

  "Mr. Michaels. As investor, a male investor, how do you justify supporting a business that objectifies men and treats them as sex objects?"

  Alyssa felt Val stiffen next to her, felt herself stiffen at the question. Yes, Val had said they should probably expect it, had even come up with the perfect answer. But none of them had ever expected that question to be asked of Val's brother.

  And apparently he hadn't expected it either, not if the slight tightening of his arm around her shoulder was any indication. Alyssa felt a shudder of tension shoot through him, felt it ease just as quickly and wondered if she imagined it. She looked up at him, and suddenly wished she hadn't.

  A smile tilted up the corners of his mouth, showing off that dimple, but the smile didn't touch his eyes as he watched the reporter. His head turned and he looked down at her, his arm tightening just a bit more before he looked back at the reporter.

  "I don't think I've ever been treated as a sex object before, but I'm hoping that changes tonight. Let me get back to you in the morning on that one." Then he pulled Alyssa even closer and leaned down to kiss her. Not a quick peck, not a hasty meeting of the lips. This was a full blown open-mouth tongue-involved kiss, complete with flashing camera as the photographer caught every detail.

  Chapter Six

  Street noises drifted through the open bedroom window: tires whooshing against the pavement, the metallic rubbing of brakes that needed replacement, the brief blare of a horn. It was too much noise, especially for the late hour and her state of mind. Alyssa thought about getting up and closing the window, blocking out the sound so she could sleep.

  But the night was cool and the open window allowed a fresh breeze to blow into the room. Alyssa was willing to make the trade-off. And if she was going to be honest with herself, she wouldn't be falling asleep any time soon. It didn't matter how much exhaustion tugged at her, because the mortification was stronger.

  How could he have done that? Why had he done that?

  She rolled over and punched the pillow, imagining it was her friend's brother. He was so arrogant and cocky, he thought he could get away with anything he wanted. She punched the pillow again, but only felt a brief second of satisfaction before rolling to her back with a frustrated sigh.

  What had Randy hoped to prove, both with his answer and that embarrassing kiss? Alyssa knew he had been surprised by the question, knew he had been almost angry by it. So why had he leaned over and kissed her, like he was telling them that he was her sex object? It made no sense. And if he was going to do something that stupid, that irrational, why couldn't he have turned to his right and kissed Jodi instead?

  Alyssa didn't like the brief flare of jealousy that flashed inside her at that thought, which didn't make sense either. With a groan of frustration, she kicked off the covers and walked out to the kitchen, not bothering with the overhead light. She always kept the stove light on anyway. Between that and the light from the street outside, there was plenty to see by.

  It wasn't like she needed a lot of light anyway. Her apartment was small, barely more than a collection of rooms above a coffee shop in Fells Point. A bedroom, barely big enough for her queen-size bed—as long as it was pushed against the wall. A bathroom with the necessary toilet, sink, and tub. A small living room, crammed with a love seat and overstuffed chair, two end tables, and one television set she rarely used. The kitchen was merely an extension of the living room, which was supposed to give the illusion of more space. A counter island separated the two spaces and gave her room to work, room to eat. But she had provided her own appliances, specifically her stove, and the rent was affordable, which allowed her to save more money.

  After tonight, she'd be lucky if she didn't have to move into a cardboard box.

  She pulled the bottle of white wine from the refrigerator and uncorked it, reached for a glass then thought better of it. Why bother with a glass, when she could drink straight from the bottle? Not her usual style, but after tonight, she didn't care. The wine would soften the edges of her mood. The bottle was half-filled. With luck, the wine would work its usual trick and she wouldn't even remember tonight's disaster. That was the only good thing about wine: more than a glass, and her memory was wiped, without the horror of a hangover the following morning.

  She closed the refrigerator door, plunging the room back into partial darkness, then tilted the bottle to her mouth and took a long swallow. By all accounts, tonight should have been a success. It was a success—right u
p until that stupid reporter asked that stupid question, and stupid Randy had given her that stupid kiss.

  Val was upset at her brother, but only because Alyssa was upset about the kiss. Jodi and Renee were upset, but only because of the reporter's question.

  Alyssa was upset, because she was convinced the entire thing would explode after the article came out, and ruin what they had worked so hard to make a reality.

  She lifted the bottle and took another swallow. Was she overreacting? Val thought she was, about any potentially negative publicity, anyway. As for the kiss? No, Alyssa didn't think she was overreacting.

  She lifted the bottle and drained what was left, then moved to throw it into the recycling bin when she froze. There had been a scratching sound, almost like a shuffling footstep, just outside her door. There shouldn't be anyone outside her door, not when the downstairs door was locked.

  Had she locked it? What if she had been so upset that she forgot? Then anyone could come upstairs to her apartment. She had never had problems before, but that didn't mean anything.

  Alyssa gripped the bottle in her hand and tiptoed across the living room, straining her ears as she stopped in front of the door. There was the sound again, louder this time. And yes, it definitely sounded like a footstep—

  She jumped back, a small shriek escaping her at the loud knock. She froze again, wondering what she should do. Ignore it? Call the police? Answer the door?

  She gripped the bottle by the neck and held it over her shoulder, then stepped closer to the door. "Who is it?"

  "Me."

  Who answered a question like that? Nobody, because it wasn't an answer. But she recognized the voice anyway, just from that one little word, and felt frustration bubble through her. She shouldn't recognize the voice at all, so what did it mean that she did?

  Alyssa slid the safety chain from the door and turned the deadbolt, then opened the door, still holding the bottle in her hand like a bat. Randy stood in front of her, leaning against the doorframe with a grin on his face. He had changed since leaving the restaurant, and was now wearing faded jeans and a polo shirt. It was the first time she had ever seen him in anything except a suit or dress clothes, and she let her eyes wander, from the thickness of his black hair, all the way down to the form-fitting jeans hugging his muscular thighs, to the casual sandals on his feet.

  She hadn't figured him for a sandals guy, and was surprised at how sexy they looked on him. Funny, because she hadn't figured herself to be a woman who liked men in sandals.

  "What do you want?" So what if she didn't sound very welcoming. She wasn't. Her attitude didn't change when he held up a bottle of wine and grinned at her.

  "I thought we were supposed to meet for drinks but since you left so fast, I thought I'd bring the drinks to you." His gaze drifted to the bottle still held in her hand, and she quickly tucked it behind her back. "Is it okay if I come in?"

  Alyssa opened her mouth to say no, but he was already pushing by her, heading straight to the kitchen. She shut the door, maybe a little harder than she meant to, because he turned around and looked at her, one dark brow raised in question.

  "Do you have any lights in this place?" He asked the question a second before bright light flooded the kitchen—and the living room—and Alyssa hurried over. She turned off the switch for the overheads, then flipped the switch for the smaller lights. A gentle glow illuminated the kitchen and fell into the living room, softer and more inviting than the harsh overheads.

  On second thought, maybe she should have left the overheads on.

  Randy was opening and closing drawers, looking for...something. It wasn't until he found the corkscrew that she remembered the bottle of wine he had carried in. And the empty bottle in her hand. She shook her head and tossed the empty into the recycle bin, then moved out of the way as Randy stepped backward, almost bumping into her.

  "Why don't you get some glasses while I open this?" He didn't even look at her, just started opening the bottle, like it was a given she would listen to him. Apparently it was, because she had pulled two glasses from the rack under the counter island before she realized what she was doing.

  "I don't think this is a good idea."

  "And why is that?" Randy popped the cork from the bottle then filled the large glasses nearly to the rim, not looking at her until he finished. He picked up both glasses and handed one to her, then leaned against the counter, watching her.

  He was so close, she could feel the warmth coming from his body, a vitality that proclaimed his strength, his very essence. He was big and hard and very much alive.

  And standing less than six inches away.

  Alyssa lowered her eyes and studied the deep red of the wine in her glass. The smell was rich, earthy, with undertones of a subtle spice. She took a sip and closed her eyes, letting the wine spread across her tongue before swallowing.

  "Is it okay? I wasn't sure what kind to get."

  Alyssa opened her eyes, surprised to see him watching her so intently, almost as if he was waiting for her approval. She took another sip then nodded. "Not bad."

  The corners of his mouth lifted in a smile, his hazel eyes reflecting a hint of mischief. "Not bad, huh? I guess that's a good thing, then."

  A few seconds went by before Alyssa understood, before she realized he was referencing their conversation from a week ago when she had asked what he thought of the food. She smiled back before she could stop herself, not wanting to encourage him, not wanting him to even be here.

  Having him here was dangerous.

  She tossed back the wine and sat the empty glass on the counter with a loud clink, then folded her arms in front of her. Oh God, she was in her pajamas! Why was she just now realizing that? Granted, it was nothing more than a loose cotton shirt and a pair of matching ladies' boxers. But that was all she had on, no bra, no underwear. And she suddenly felt naked, exposed.

  And entirely too aware of the man in front of her, watching her in surprise.

  "Okay, we had our drink. Thanks. You should go now." Alyssa meant to move past him, to show him to the door and close it behind him, maybe even shove the chair in front of the door when he left. But she must have stumbled, or maybe she just didn't move quick enough, because he was suddenly right there, his large hands resting on her shoulders, stopping her.

  "Are you trying to get rid of me?"

  "Yes." She blurted out the answer without thinking, then frowned when he smiled at her. His fingers tightened on her shoulders, and his smile faded just a bit.

  "You have so many knots in your shoulder, I can feel them without even trying. Are you always so tense?"

  Only around you. She didn't say the words out loud, though. That would be telling him too much. "It's been a little crazy the last few months."

  "Turn around, I'll give you a quick massage."

  "No, really, that's okay." She might as well have been talking to herself for all the attention he paid her. Without waiting, he turned her around, then gently pushed her head forward and slid the hair away from her neck. Just the touch of his fingers grazing the sensitive skin of her neck was enough to send chills racing down her back.

  This wasn't a good idea. It was a terrible idea. Especially after drinking the wine, knowing what it did to her, already feeling the effects. And she meant to tell him that but then his fingers dug into her shoulders, gently pressing, and all coherent thought vanished. Tingles shot across her shoulders and down her arms, through her belly and lower. She should tell him to stop, she knew she should, but his hands felt too good. Warmth exploded against her skin wherever he touched, knots and tension disappearing as he kneaded her aching muscles, working each kink from her shoulders.

  Her legs threatened to turn to jelly and she leaned against the island for support, afraid she might melt in a puddle right there at his feet. He needed to stop, she really should tell him to—

  "How's that feel?" His breath was warm against her neck, sending more shivers racing along her skin. She thought she mi
ght have nodded but she couldn't be sure. His hands moved lower, pushing against her shoulder blades, warmth replacing the tightness she had been carrying for months. Her head dropped even more, and for a brief second she thought how much better this would feel if she was laying down, if she didn't have her shirt on.

  No, she shouldn't be thinking like that. That was insanity.

  Her breath hitched in her chest with a sharp hiss when his lips touched her neck. Heat spiraled deep inside her, and she knew she really should tell him to stop, before he went any further, before she completely lost herself.

  But she didn't want him to stop. Instead, she tilted her head to the side, giving him free access to her neck, giving into the sensation of his soft mouth against her skin. His hands drifted down her back, then slipped around her, under the hem of her shirt. His touch was light, teasing, as he dragged his fingers slowly up her ribcage, up further until he cupped her breasts in each hand. Her nipples drew tighter, forming hard peaks that he teased and flicked with his fingers. And all the while his mouth worked its magic on her, gently nipping her earlobe, gently nipping the corded muscle between her neck and shoulder.

  The wine wrapped its gauzy blanket around her, mixing with the warmth of his hands and the heat of his mouth, pulling her into a soft haven of nothing but sensation. She was putty in his hands, and she didn't care.

  She moaned and leaned back against him, feeling the hard wall of his chest behind her, feeling the hardness of his erection pressed against her back. She wanted to touch him, to feel him, but her hands were glued to the counter, unable to move.

  His hands didn't have that problem.

  He gently pinched each nipple, then dragged his hands down along her sides, down lower until they dipped into the waistband of her flimsy shorts. He gently tugged them down, past her hips, to her thighs. Her skin pebbled and burned at his touch, yearning to feel more.

  And she did.

  He dragged his hand up, dipped it forward and lightly teased the curls at the juncture of her thighs. Breath escaped her on a soft moan as her hips surged forward, searching.