Rock Rhapsody

by Rachel Cross

  “Yep.” Amy backed up, but not before she'd gotten a whiff of him. He smelled of oranges and cinnamon—a cologne maybe? She studied his strong jaw and the column of his neck.

  I wonder if he smells even better up close.

  Confident with his ability to make it around the perimeter, she took a warm-up lap. It was chilly teaching in the rink. Her leggings and top under the thin fleece jacket were not protecting her from the cold. She shivered and increased her speed, her body heating up after a few times around the rink.

  He started his third lap under her watchful eye. His ankles were wobbling a bit and he was trying to add the glide to the step—too soon.

  He picked up his pace and she accelerated over to him, but she didn’t make it before he wiped out and landed on his ass with a “Fuck!”

  Thankfully, he had been going fast enough to slide and didn't do any damage.

  She offered her hand, but he ignored it, getting awkwardly to his feet.

  Amy put herself directly in front of him. The spicy citrus smell was even more pronounced. Her nose twitched and she stared at the thick, strong column of his neck. Her body throbbed to life.

  It was that goddamn penis picture. Her subconscious was salivating. It didn't help that she hadn't had even a hookup since long before Enchanted came off the road in May. A three-month dry spell was too long, apparently.

  Amy tamped down her attraction. “Let's walk before we try to run, shall we?” She strove for encouraging, but her voice sounded overly perky even to her.

  He's not a child.

  “If you've never been on skates, it’s going to take a bit of time to get to the glide stage,” she tried again.

  Shane cleared his throat. “I'm ready,” he insisted.

  “Okay, Shane. If you're that eager to move forward, let's try it this way.” She glided away to demonstrate, her best encouraging smile firmly in place. “Keep your feet parallel. Use your right foot like this.”

  Shane did a credible glide across the ice.

  “Good, good. Keep going. Remember to keep your weight distributed and your arms level with your hips, like mine. Yours are too high.”

  He mimicked her. “Like this?”

  “Yeah, that's terrific. Now be sure to push off with the inside edge of the blade.”

  “Will my ankles ever feel stable?” he asked.

  “Eventually, it takes a while though.”

  He grunted, making his way with more determination than grace across the ice.

  “Stroke and glide. You should be good at that.”

  Now where did that come from?

  She masked her discomfort with a vacant expression.

  He glanced up, grinning. An honest to God, genuine smile that made her stomach flip. He was transformed when he smiled. His beautifully sculpted mobile mouth opened to reveal perfect white teeth, crystalline blue eyes framed by eyelashes so dark they seemed incongruous with his dark blond hair—hair threaded with very expensive highlights or an excess of time in the California sun. Now she could see how he was leading man material—it hadn't been evident in his tight-lipped countenance before.

  “Oh yeah? Could be I know something about that.” He gave her another of those predatory glances.

  She widened her eyes, striving for guilelessness. “Well, you are a dancer, right?”

  He turned away, but not before she saw him shake his head.

  This could be fun. She rarely got to play the ditz anymore since she was the tour veteran—mamacita Kyle called her. The veterans had looked out for her when she was the rookie, now she returned the favor.

  “Once we have a reasonable glide, we'll work on the crossover for the coming weeks. It's a little trickier. You might want to get some pads.”

  Shane glanced up from his perusal of her body and lifted his brows. “I don't need pads.”

  Amy pressed her lips together, holding back her retort.

  Narrowing her eyes, she skated up in front of him until he had to stop. She surveyed him critically, reaching out a hand to run it down the front of his chest. She gave him another thousand-watt smile, saying, “Yes, you are fit.” Her smile turned pouty. “But you don't have any . . . padding.”

  When she skated around behind him, he whipped his head around so fast he almost tottered over. Folding her arms across her chest she said breathlessly, “Shane, I'd hate to see your body become a mass of bruises while you're learning.” She rested a hand on the forearm he held out for balance. “I'll tell you what. I'll bring some hockey gear for you—-it can help protect the more sensitive areas,” she smiled with all her teeth and glanced up at him through her lashes, “and we'll see what you think. Okay?”

  Chapter Four

  Well at least he didn't have some eastern European old goat barking at him. Amelia Astor was pretty much what he had expected after reading her bio online and looking at a few pictures. She looked like Ike's idea of a foil. And her outfit? She wasn't doing herself any favors with black leggings and a shapeless, ratty fleece, which covered her to mid-thigh.

  Her features were perfect. He could certainly see why the skating world had been whipped into a frenzy over her eight years ago, with her flawless skin and girl-next-door, fresh-scrubbed beauty. That pert, little nose, those wide-set, wholly vacant blue eyes, and masses and masses of thick, golden hair scraped back into a fat ponytail. Oh, she was beautiful—if you liked that soulless beauty queen look—and her chipper personality grated.

  Learning a new skill was tough, and being instructed by this girl with her manic cheerleader mien added insult to injury. He didn't want or need her continual litany of platitudes or aggressive enthusiasm.

  What was particularly irksome was how easy she made it look. He'd thought it would be a breeze. He was in the best shape of his life and had a knack for picking up everything from complicated dance choreography to surfing. But the ice was slick, the blades on the skates thin, and his ankles weak and unstable. There was not one thing easy about this sport, and it irritated the hell out of him. He'd been on the ice no more than ten minutes before he realized his athleticism wasn't going to help much. This was going to be work and more work, and take much longer than he'd anticipated. It was no wonder her rabid enthusiasm was getting on his nerves.

  He'd seen pictures of her online from her youth and, lately, skating in the Enchanted show. Pictures of her smiling in her figure-hugging, tiny sequined dresses. It was a look reminiscent of the one he knew so well as an adolescent, dragged to his sister's beauty pageants. This woman was an Astor. Her father a descendant of one of the wealthiest families in America. Though only a thousand miles separated her birthplace in New York from his in Tennessee, she may as well have grown up in a different country for all he had in common with her.

  His agent had done a masterful job of finding the type of woman who did not appeal to him. He'd expected to like her if only because she'd been described in her youth as a fierce competitor, her skating in her prime rapturously lauded as that rare combination of grace and athleticism.

  According to the Internet, she'd been unflappable in contests, nailing even the most complicated triples. She'd put in enough flawless performances to be at the top of her game at the last competition before the Olympics—the Nationals. If there was criticism that kept popping up, it was a certain robotic feel to her skating, a lack of her own personality injected into her programs. After meeting her, he could understand that complaint—from what he could tell, she was about as deep as a puddle.

  And then she'd up and quit. Right before the Olympics. Boom. Done. Over.

  The great hope for Olympic medal glory quit to join an ice show. Hell, she was born into affluence and likely spoiled—maybe she wanted to be the center of attention in a different venue, or maybe she couldn't hack it. He slung his bag into the trunk.

  He'd settled into the driver's seat when an assortment of motley vehicles began pulling into the lot. What was this? A hockey team arriving for practice? He studied the people piling out of th
e vehicles. There wasn't a single enforcer among them. And he would know, he'd spent a lot of time watching old hockey footage. He watched them enter the arena laughing and joking, one guy pulling a cooler. Was she safe in there? More cars filled the lot, a constant stream until at least a dozen people had made their way into the building.

  Something wasn't right. And he'd left her in there.

  Shane put his window down and turned off his car. He was about to open his door when Amy exited the building and skipped across the parking lot to a man chatting with two other guys next to the car one over from his. He scrunched down in the seat as she gave the tallest man a hug. The other two men greeted her before walking toward the building. So the princess had a boyfriend? The man wasn't much over six feet, but even from where he sat, Shane could see the musculature in the trim body.

  “So who is the mystery man?” the guy said, his voice carrying in the sudden quiet of the parking lot.

  “Shane Marx,” Amy said.

  He sucked in a breath.

  So much for secrecy. Bitch. It would probably be everywhere tomorrow.

  The man gave a low whistle. “You're teaching Shane Marx to skate?”

  He gritted his teeth.

  “Yep,” she replied.

  “I caught that movie he was in, the superhero thing. It was decent, but he was miscast.”

  Shane scowled.

  The man continued, “What's he like?”

  She mumbled something he couldn't quite catch, but whatever it was, the other man laughed. “That bad?”

  He stiffened. Wait a minute. She was complaining about him?

  She waved her hand dismissively and nodded. “Oh he's good-looking, but he's a grouch,” she said.

  Shane's mouth dropped open.

  “You'll deal with it.”

  “And when you add that to his chronically on-the-make vibe, it’s . . . well, let's hope he's a quick learner and we can end this association sooner rather than later.”

  This was the woman who had spent the last hour training him? The perky, grinning debutante was badmouthing him? So he'd had a few fantasies about taking her up against the wall of the ice rink. He hadn't said he wanted to. And he hadn't realized he was so obvious. Clearly his initial assessment of her had been off.

  The other man laughed heartily.

  Who was this asshole? If his girlfriend was telling him this, why was he laughing?

  “You really didn't like him,” he said.

  Amy sighed and took the man's hand, leading him away. “I don't know him, Kyle. So I'm going to see how this plays out. And I'm not going to let a personality clash get in the way of training. It's his money that's paying for rink time, so let's take advantage of it.” He watched them enter the building.

  That fact that they were using the facility on his dime was one thing, the fact that she couldn’t keep her mouth shut was quite another. He pulled on his baseball hat and stalked toward the pulsating music and into the rink.

  • • •

  Sounds of a hip hop number with an infectious beat throbbed through him as he entered the cold arena. The rink was brightly lit, so he hugged the outer wall. He stood in the shadows, searching across the ice, then froze. There she was, in tight, black spandex—was that a tank top? Amy had taken off the ugly fleece, revealing well-defined arms and a decent, if small, rack. She was on the petite side—the top of her head would fit under his chin—but you could see the power in her legs and that tight ass. God, that ass. He groaned softly. He would've preferred if she'd kept that perfect, high, round bottom covered up. Now he would have trouble focusing no matter what she wore.

  She was laughing with one of the guys—most of the men and women were lacing up skates, joking around. She left the side of the rink where she'd been chatting and started to skate. He pulled down his ball cap and hunched his shoulders; she glanced over, but in the shadows with his hair covered, she probably didn't get a good look.

  Another song came on and she grinned—and it was quite a departure from the ferocious smiles she'd treated him to. She was completely in her element as she whirled around the rink at lightning speed. He watched dumbfounded. He knew this song, the summer's dirtiest hit. And there she was dancing to it, swinging that majestic booty. More skaters joined her on the ice. They had choreographed this song? It wasn't like they could perform it at a family ice show. This song was filthy and the skaters out on the ice were demonstrating moves that looked more like a striptease number than ice dancing. But it was . . . playful. They were laughing and having a great time out there.

  He’d had days like this in TruAchord. Once they were all goofing off onstage before a show in some town somewhere—singing some nasty rap song and having a helluva time. Their manager reamed them out for risking their squeaky clean reputation. But those were the days before everyone had a recording device on their phone and their silliness would end up on YouTube, inciting outrage. They were allowed their harmless fun and a bonding experience with boys, not yet men, who were too often on the road.

  Some of the skaters were still warming up, performing a few moves in synchronization, skating forward and backward with ease he envied, hooting and one-upping each other. Eventually Amy made her way over the rail near him, laughing so hard she was holding her side. He must've moved, for she peered into the shadows.

  “Shane?” She mouthed his name, all traces of humor swept from her face.

  He tugged the ball cap and took a dozen steps forward to meet her. She cast a furtive glance over her shoulder.

  Her friend from the parking lot approached and Shane's jaw tightened.

  “What are you still doing here?” she asked, her expression hard—all vestiges of the woman who had spent the hour training him gone.

  He stared at her and saw what she'd masked before. Keen intelligence and irritation shone out of those thickly lashed blue eyes.

  Her boyfriend came to a sudden stop, skates spitting ice shards at the rail.

  “Shane, Kyle,” she said by way of introduction. “Look, if you're trying to keep a low profile, this isn't the way to do it,” she continued impatiently, making a shooing motion with her hand.

  A few skaters glanced over but continued practicing their dance moves as the song changed to a seventies standard.

  “I came in to remind you that if you can't keep your mouth shut about training me,” he glanced at Kyle, who grinned, “we'll have a problem.” He struggled to keep his tone even, but failed miserably.

  Amy cocked her head and a furrow appeared between her brows, marring all that doll-like perfection.

  “I'm not the one blowing your cover—” she began.

  “I heard you tell him,” he indicated Kyle with a jerk of his head, “in the parking lot.”

  Kyle's grin widened, but Amy cast a downward glance at the ice and rubbed her hand across her face. She was probably remembering what else she'd said.

  She didn't even have the grace to look apologetic as her cool, disinterested gaze met his evenly.

  “Kyle's my partner and he can keep his mouth shut. But if you value your anonymity, you'd best get the hell out of here before one of them,” she jerked her head toward the ice, “gets a good look at you,” she said, dismissing him with a backward glide.

  He and Kyle exchanged a long look. But it was more of an assessment than a warning. A boyfriend who was her skating partner? He'd be surprised if that didn't spell disaster if his own experiences playing where he worked were anything to go by.

  “Ciao,” Kyle said, also skating backward, still smiling like a fool.

  Shane grunted and stepped back into the shadows. He stayed another hour to watch, barely able to keep his eyes off Amy's black clad body. He'd been with women in seriously good shape but this woman . . .her spins and leaps out on the slick surface blew him away. Like her or not, she was fucking awesome.

  Chapter Five

  Amy waited outside the rink the following evening. She checked her watch again. Damn it, he was fifteen min
utes late. If she wasn't careful, her friends would be bumping into him when the lesson ended. Maybe she could lock the front door and send him out the back? Her stomach twisted with irritation.

  Finally, she heard the growl of an expensive engine, and his silver fancy car turned into the lot.

  He strode over, bag in hand, and she scowled at him—she’d taken the gloves off last night and they weren't going back on.

  “You're late.”

  He shrugged.

  She put her hands on her hips, blocking his access to the front doors. “My time is valuable, so don't be late again or you won't find me here waiting.”

  He laughed, but it was humorless. “Oh, you'll be waiting. You need the rink time for your friends.”

  She backed up a step and he brushed by her into the building.

  Amy stalked after him. “Listen, Shane.”

  He stopped and turned around. “You listen. You're using my money to have your friends work out. Let them pay for their own rink time.”

  She stared at him. “There's a minimum rink rental of three hours, I don't think—”

  “Then I'll use what I pay for.”

  Oh he would? Skate for three hours? We'll see about that.

  “Fine. Get your skates on.” She turned away to send a group text, letting her friends from Enchanted know they wouldn't get rink time tonight. Only eight were able to make it anyway, since most of them worked weekend nights wherever they could during the summer when the show was on hiatus.

  He wanted a three-hour workout, he'd get one. He may not be able to walk tomorrow, but she'd give him his money's worth and then some.

  • • •

  Shane lost count of how many times he'd fallen, but he knew he'd be sporting a spectacular collection of bruises tomorrow. He staggered to his feet and met the slave driver's eyes. Her expression registered begrudging respect—or maybe sympathy—before her features resettled themselves into bland disinterest. She held out a hand to help him to his feet. He ignored it, rising slowly, painfully. His ankles screamed in agony, his legs, limp noodles.