by Lori Foster
They stepped outside to a full brilliant moon—and feminine chaos.
“Oh, my word.” Gillian got jostled by a gathering crowd of women.
Frowning, Brett took notice of one particular woman. Blonde hair bounced around a pretty face dominated by big brown eyes. She wore no makeup that Brett could see. All serious business, she was handing out stacks of flyers to the other women, who all talked at once.
“What do you suppose is going on?” Gillian asked.
“Don’t know.” He reached out and snagged a flyer for himself. No one paid any notice to him. He skimmed the words—WAVS: Women Against Violent Sports—and laughed. “Drew isn’t going to like this.”
“What is it?” Gillian accepted the flyer he handed to her. She read it quickly, then let out an exasperated breath. “My job just got harder, didn’t it?”
Brett barely heard her. He and the petite blonde had locked gazes. She was small enough that she’d barely reach his chin. Not exactly a good physical fit, but the lower parts of him didn’t seem to care.
He smiled and gave her a nod.
Color rushed to her face and she jerked around, giving him her back as she talked to a redhead. Brett didn’t mind the snub because it afforded him a quick survey of her hips in the slim, faded jeans.
Cute. Real cute.
Gillian elbowed him. “Really, Brett. Men are so easy.”
Drawn back to her, he laughed and took her arm, urging her across the street. He’d come back and talk to the blonde after he saw Gillian safely to her car. “And you think women aren’t?”
“Not in the same way, no.”
“Amen to differences.”
Gillian smiled, too. “It doesn’t bother you that she’s protesting your sport? What did the flyer call it? Human cockfighting?”
“She doesn’t understand it, that’s all. No big deal.” A lot of folks were misguided about the level of dedication it took to compete in MMA fighting. It wasn’t just one discipline of fighting but a complex, complementary set of combat techniques including boxing, kickboxing, martial arts, grappling, and wrestling.
He sure as hell wouldn’t let a feminine fear of the sport keep him from pursuing a woman who interested him.
“You plan to explain it to her?”
“Why would I?” They reached Gillian’s sporty RX8, and Brett waited for her to unlock the door.
“You don’t feel defensive about it?”
He shook his head. “Everyone has a right to his or her opinion. Doesn’t matter to me.”
“Well.” She slid into her seat. “You show admirable restraint. If it was me—”
“You’d be bristling, I know.” He braced a hand against the roof of the car and leaned down toward her. Grinning, he said, “I saw you get all miffed about a supposed insult to those groupies trying to get a free pass at Drew.”
She lifted her chin. “It was an insult.”
“The comment about their implants? Just a fact, nothing more.” He tapped the roof of the car and stepped back. “Man has a right to his preferences.”
She peered across the street toward the protesters. “Such as a preference for that one?”
Brett looked, too. She was short and slim in a very sweet package. “Yeah.”
Gillian laughed as she shook her head. “Good luck, then. But you know, as soon as she finds out that you’re a fighter, you’ll be at a disadvantage.”
Probably. “If she doesn’t ask, I won’t tell her.” Brett closed her door. “Drive safe, now.”
Still smiling, Gillian started her car and drove away.
Heading back over to the cluster of women, Brett saw the little blonde take note of his approach. Visibly flustered, she made herself busy real fast.
The act didn’t deter Brett; at least now he knew that she was aware of him, too.
He’d always been partial to little gals, and this one, with the mulish set to her mouth and her determined air, especially intrigued him.
Rather than scare her off by being too direct, he asked the group, “You ladies enjoying the night air?”
Almost as one they turned to look at him and went mute. A few twittered. One smiled at him. And another said in a low, throaty tone, “Well, hello, there.”
The redhead, in a protective gesture, stepped in front of the blonde who interested him.
Brett grinned. He’d always enjoyed female attention, and now was no exception. “Hello back atcha.”
The blonde stepped out from behind the redhead and huffed. “Excuse me, but we’re trying to work here.”
“So I see.” He held up the flyer. “Got a protest planned, do you?”
She planted her hands on her hips and tipped her head back to stare up at him. “Do you care?”
“Nope.” Roger’s Rodeo had more than adequate security. If the women got too rowdy, they’d be shown the door. “Just curious.”
The smiling female sidled up close to him. “Audrey organized us tonight just to hand out the flyers. But we do hope to stage a protest soon. Would you like to join us?”
“Well, now, I don’t know.” He glanced back at the blonde. “You’re Audrey?”
She hesitated, but finally nodded. “Yes. Audrey Porter.” She held out a hand.
Brett engulfed it in his own. Small, soft, with short, clean nails. “Nice to meet you, Audrey. I’m Brett Bullman.” He watched her face for any signs of recognition, but saw none. Huh. So Audrey protested the sport without knowing the competitors. Interesting. Not that he was a headliner . . . yet. But he soon would be, especially after he signed with the SBC and won his first fight there.
He smiled at her. “You’re the one in charge?”
As if seeking courage, she glanced around at the other women. “Yes.”
He held on to her hand. “Did you plan to go inside to hand out the flyers, too, or just out here?”
“God, no,” the redhead rushed to say. “We wouldn’t go in there.” She looked as though the idea horrified her. “Fighters hang out in there.”
She said fighters with the same disdain she’d give to demons. Brett smothered a grin and nodded. “Yes, ma’am, they do indeed.”
“It could be dangerous,” she insisted. “They really are brutal specimens.”
“They can be.” In a fight, a mixed martial arts fighter could take as well as give major punishment. “I have a solution. How about you ladies wait out here, and I’ll escort Audrey inside so she can hand out more flyers? You’ll be double-tagging the customers. What do you say?”
“Absolutely not!” the redhead said.
Audrey sputtered. “No, I couldn’t . . .”
But the other women supported his cause with enthusiastic encouragement.
Ignoring the nays, Brett nodded. “Great. Give us twenty minutes.” Teasingly, he said to the disgruntled and surly redhead, “You can hold down the fort until I return Audrey, can’t you?”
“Of course, but there’s no way Audrey will—”
“It’s okay, Millie,” Audrey assured her friend.
Then she handed Brett her stack of flyers. “I’m only going in if you give a flyer to everyone in there.”
“I’ll do my best.” Tugging Audrey in his wake, Brett got her away from the clinging Millie and just inside the lobby of the bar, near the coat check. Suddenly she dug in.
Over his shoulder, he saw her wide eyes as she looked beyond him into the crowded, dark, noisy bar. Music blared, strobe lights flickered, and people laughed. Roger’s Rodeo had great atmosphere, but Audrey looked like he wanted her to enter a brothel.
To be heard, he moved closer to her. “Something wrong, Audrey?”
Her slender fingers contracted on his before she pulled her hand away. She twisted her hands together. Swallowing, she glanced up at him. “I have a confession.”
Damn, but Brett wanted to kiss her. Bad. Right here, right now. He could give her all kinds of things to confess.
Instead, he leaned one shoulder on the wall in a deceptively casual s
tance. “Yeah? What’s that?”
“I’ve never been in a bar.”
Unbelievable. He missed a few beats there before asking, “Never?” When she shook her head, he asked, “Why not?”
A preoccupied couple stumbled out, and it was obvious the woman was tipsy. Her date held her up, laughing with her, nuzzling her neck while she tried to stroke him.
Audrey looked aghast. She stared so hard at the couple that Brett caught her chin and brought her attention back to him.
“They must have been celebrating.” He smiled.
“Oh.” She turned to get one last look at the couple before they stepped outside. “A little too much celebrating if you ask me.”
Brett preferred not to judge. Over the years, too many people had drawn conclusions about him, and found him guilty by association. He hadn’t liked it, so he tried not to do it.
Besides, to him, Audrey looked more fascinated than repulsed. Had she lived such a sheltered life that she’d missed out on some fun?
He planned to find out. “You don’t visit bars because . . . ?” he prompted.
Again flustered, she frowned and said, “I don’t drink.”
Nice. Brett had few aversions regarding women, but smoking, too much drinking, and cruelty of any kind were dead turnoffs for him. “Me, either.”
His admission surprised her. “But . . . then what are you doing here?”
“There are other things to do at a bar besides get hammered, especially at this bar, which is more like a club, ya know?”
Suspicion inched her back a step. “What else do you do here?”
Laughing, Brett leaned down to her to say, “Little Audrey, it’s not a whorehouse, if that’s what you’re thinking. Nothing wicked going on, I promise.” He put an arm around her and got her moving again.
People jostled them, danced around them, and along the way Brett handed out the flyers. A few of the fighters he’d met gave him a funny look, but they accepted the paper when he held it out, especially after they peered around him to see Audrey.
Despite some misconceptions, most fighters were not dumb louts. Fighters in the SBC were more often astute than obtuse, and with one look at Audrey they surmised exactly why Brett was passing out her info.
By the time Brett got them to the other side of the room, he was out of flyers—which meant he now had both hands free. He tugged Audrey over to watch the antics on the mechanical bull for a while.
In no time, her eyes went wide with exhilaration and curiosity.
When one fellow got tossed hard, Brett felt Audrey’s gasp and gave her a short, quick hug. Bending close to her ear, he whispered, “He only hurt his pride.”
They shared a smile, and Brett said, “Come on.” He got her as far as the hallway, then she resisted going any farther.
“I should get back out front . . .”
Brett held her elbow in a light grasp. It was quieter here, but music from the band filtered in, overlain by the drone of laughter.
He glanced at his watch. “We have a few minutes yet. Let me show you around the rest of the bar.” When she balked, he added, “That way, if you stage a protest, you’ll already have the lay of the place.”
After biting her bottom lip, Audrey agreed.
He wouldn’t mind nibbling on that soft, plump lip, too—but it was too soon for that, so Brett showed her the billiards room instead. Next he let her peek in on the arcade, and he then took her to where they served food on the upper level.
In awe, Audrey walked to the railing and looked down on the crowded barroom floor.
“I had no idea the bar itself was so . . . huge.”
Leaning back against the rail, Brett watched her. Colored lights from below flickered over her face and in her eyes. She looked . . . mesmerized. And hot.
“Wanna come back with me sometime?”
She jumped as if he’d goosed her, and then she turned those big eyes on him.
Oh, yeah, Brett thought. He had to have her.
“Research,” he fibbed, remembering that he had to play it cool. “The more you know about the place, the better. Early evening during the week, the fighters are scarce. We could come on a weekday, and you could plan things out then. Like where best to stage your protest, what day of the week, and what time. All that.”
When she still looked wary, he lifted both hands, palms out. “No obligation or anything. Just thought I’d offer to help.”
“I don’t know.” Her brows pinched down as she studied him. “Why would you want to help?”
Pushing off the rail, Brett stepped closer to her and again, he put his fingers to her chin, lifting her face. “I think you’re cute as hell, Audrey Porter, and I want to get to know you better.”
Her chin tucked in. “Are you serious?”
“Oh, yeah. You have no idea how hard it is not to kiss you right now.”
“Not to . . .” She couldn’t even finish.
“Kiss you.” He brushed a thumb over her bottom lip, then dropped his hand and took a step back. Damn. “But I can tell you’re not ready for that yet, are you, Audrey?”
She snapped her mouth shut and scowled at him. “No, I am not.”
“Then I’ll just practice patience.” Brett held up a flyer. “But this is important to you, right? So for now, I’m okay with just helping out. For you.”
Giving him the same study she’d give a two-headed toad, Audrey put a hand in her hair. “This is nuts. How am I supposed to respond to all that?”
“How do you want to respond?” Before she could answer, Brett said, “Don’t think about what you should do. Just tell me what you want to do.” He tried a persuasive grin. “Come on, Audrey. Fess up. You know you want to.”
She gazed over the rail again—and nodded. “I’m very curious, I admit.”
About the bar, or maybe about him, too? Brett hoped for the latter.
When she turned back to him, she caught him looking at her backside, and she started scowling again.
Brett grinned without shame. He wanted her, and he wouldn’t pretend otherwise. But because he didn’t want her to change her mind, he retreated a little. “What time do you get off work?”
“Depends. I’m a photographer, and if we have a big shoot to do, it can run over. But usually nine to five.”
“A photographer, huh? Like in a studio?”
She nodded. “Picture This.”
He’d seen the kitschy studios in malls. “Those places are everywhere, right?”
“Just like fast-food chains.” She made a face. “If I can save enough money, I hope to have my own, classier place someday.”
That disclosure surprised Brett. “A great goal. I’m sure you’ll get there.”
As if she only then realized that she’d shared a dream, she straightened. “Anyway, Mondays are usually light, Fridays are insane. The rest of the week is somewhere in between.”
So she didn’t work weekends? Good to know. And since he usually stayed in the gym till five, her hours meshed with his. “Let’s say six o’clock, Monday. Can I pick you up?”
“No.” She laughed as if the idea were absurd, then caught herself and cleared her throat. “I’ll just meet you here. Out in front of the bar, I mean.”
Rather than push his luck, Brett nodded. “Already looking forward to it.” After handing out the rest of her flyers to the diners, who set them aside without really looking at them, Brett walked her back out front to rejoin her friends.
To the women waiting, he made a show of holding up his empty hands, proof that he’d kept his word. Impressed that he’d given out all the flyers, the ladies made a show of congratulating him. Millie moved protectively to Audrey, as if she’d just returned from war, and spoke quietly with her. But Audrey must have reassured her, because after a quick and private conversation, Millie relaxed with a smile.
That one, Brett decided, was a true mother hen. But it didn’t bother him; since he’d grown up without it, he’d always considered protectiveness to be a good
quality. And if Audrey had friends who cared so much for her, it spoke of what a good person she was.
Brett bid them all a good night and headed for his truck. He’d have some questions to answer later, if any of the guys bothered to read the flyer. Though even if they didn’t look closely, he didn’t know how anyone could miss the headline:
STOP THE VIOLENCE. BAN THE SBC NOW!
Imagining Drew’s reaction, Brett couldn’t help but chuckle. Joining the SBC had already been interesting. Now, with Audrey Porter in the picture, he had even more to look forward to.
GILLIAN arrived at Drew’s impressive home at six o’clock sharp. She had to knock twice before he answered, and then he came to the door looking as if he’d just stepped out of the shower. Naked except for a medium-size towel that barely reached around his hips, he held the door open for her.
She gaped. She looked at her watch, frowned, and made her attention go to his face—instead of his chest or shoulders or, God forbid, his tight abdomen. “You did say today, at six, yes?”
“Yeah, yeah, six. Come on in. I had some shit run over so I’m behind a little. No big deal.”
She maintained her position on the other side of the door. “If you need to reschedule . . .”
Loosely holding the towel together with one hand, he reached out and grabbed her arm to haul her in. “Quit acting like you’ve never seen a naked man before.” He secured the door behind her. “I didn’t buy that shit about you being in your forties, but you’re sure as hell not a blushing schoolgirl, either.”
He turned away from her, and Gillian saw how the towel parted over his hip, down to his thigh. Her mouth went dry. “This is not at all professional.”
“Screw professional. Do you know what my schedule is like? No? Well, Loren does, and he still let his pain-in-the-ass sister sic you on me. So if we’re going to do this, we’re going to have to make it work. If you can’t do that . . .”
He left the question open-ended so that Gillian was forced to either agree to his unorthodox manner or call it quits.
She couldn’t quit, though, not with so much at stake. Feigning an air of indifference, she gestured at his towel. “Flounce around buck naked if it pleases you. It’s no matter to me.”
