One Man Rush

скачать книгу бесплатно


“Hey, I was here first,” Leandre whined until Marissa smiled serenely at him.

“And I’m so grateful that you’re considering my offer, Mr. Archambault. May I give you a call tomorrow to follow up on our conversation?”

Leandre grinned like a kid playing teacher’s pet, his smile so ingratiating and fake it was all Kyle could do not to snarl.

“I look forward to hearing from you.” He acted as if he wanted to say more, but the valet rolled up with the guy’s flashy black-on-black BMW X5. “I’m very interested.”

As he slid into his car like a snake into its den, Marissa released her hold on Kyle’s arm.

“What business did you want to discuss?” She turned on him, arms folded, her manner decidedly less pleasant under the harsh exterior lights surrounding the valet’s key rack.

“I was trying to save you from that low-life.”

“The only thing you accomplished was scaring off business and potentially harming my bottom line.” Her violet-blue eyes gave no quarter, the unusual color vivid even through the glasses. “In a night when you’ve already cost me a bundle, how can you honestly deny me the chance to sign on some potential candidates for my services?”

“Is that what dating is all about these days?” He snagged his keys and handed them to one of the kids retrieving cars. “Fattening up your bottom line?”

MARISSA FELT AS THOUGH a pin had been stuck in the balloon of her frustration. All her righteous indignation at Kyle’s he-man tactics hissed away as she deflated right there in the parking lot.

Kyle’s words exposed a weakness she wasn’t proud of, the fact that she might be selling out to help her mother. But, oh, God, what choice did she have?

“What’s the matter?” he continued to rant, oblivious to the raw nerve he’d struck. “Cat got your tongue? Truth hurt?”

A snappy comeback was really called for right about now. She needed to deflect and march away. But she’d failed on every level tonight and she didn’t have it in her to argue with a man who hadn’t let her off the hook for her shortcomings.

“Actually, yes.” She shoved her glasses higher on her nose, wishing she had a plastic barrier to shield the rest of her body from this man’s appeal. “Perhaps you have struck too close to the truth for my liking.” She cleared her throat to get rid of the frog that lurked there. “I will take your complaint under advisement.”

Blindly, she reached for her keys on the valet stand, but they all looked alike to her, and for some reason, the display appeared blurry.

“Oh, crap.” Suddenly, Kyle was right beside her, tilting her chin up in his big, broad palm, angling her face under the hideous fluorescent lights. “I made you cry.”

The utter horror in his voice snapped her out of the momentary self-pity. Thankfully, her voice was steady.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she chided, mustering all the cool disdain possible. “Spring is hay fever season. Something on the grounds has been making my eyes water all night.”

“Do I look like I was born yesterday?” He held his hands away from his body and stepped back, as if to give her an unimpeded view.

She wanted to laugh, her emotions boiling over after a day from hell. No, a year from hell. But no matter that he was being irreverent, her gaze raked over him from head to toe, lingering in the middle. Heat flared inside her as she responded the way any red-blooded woman might to an invitation to ogle a man who looked like him.

“Um. No.” Her grip tightened on her shawl, her arms hiding her body’s reaction to him. “You look full grown to me.”

The throaty hitch in her voice couldn’t have sounded more sexually aggressive if she tried. But damn it, she hadn’t tried. She just felt inexplicably attracted to him and that scared her.

“Your car’s ready, sir,” a young valet informed them from behind Kyle. She hadn’t heard Kyle request his car—the kid must have just recognized him and brought the automobile around.

The teen must have been there for a while as he’d already vacated the driver’s seat of the midnight-blue Audi coupe. Now he held the passenger side door open, as if he fully expected Marissa to get into the car with Kyle.

Her excuse hovered on her lips.

But the sexy hockey god shut it down by darting in with a precisely aimed kiss that sealed in the words.

It was more functional than anything, but that didn’t stop her heart from leaping into overdrive in her chest. Before she even had the chance to process what had happened, his lips were beside her ear, whispering softly into her hair.

“The night is young. We’ll go for a quick drive and I’ll have you back in an hour, safe and sound.”

She seriously doubted she’d be any more “sound” after spending time with a man who scrambled her thoughts and made her pulse race. But the night had done a number on her. The pressure had built to such a boiling point with her mom that she didn’t know where to go next to afford the medicine she needed. And in order to snag the man she’d promised Stacy, Marissa would have to beat out the competition.

“Come on,” he urged, his lower lip grazing her cheekbone in a caress that kicked off a hum of awareness deep inside her. “I think you’d agree we have some unfinished business between us.”

Easing back from him, she found his steady gaze on her and realized she couldn’t even look away, let alone walk away. She had no idea if the unfinished business he referred to had to do with her matchmaking proposition or the heat sizzling along her skin. Right now, she wasn’t sure she cared.

With an unsteady nod, she agreed to his terms and headed for his car.

4

IN THE PARKING LOT OF THE Normandy Farm Hotel, Stacy Goodwell tried to say good-night to the man stuck to her like glue.

“Thank you for offering to walk me to my car.” She stepped back from the overeager concert promoter she’d danced with earlier tonight and promptly caught her heel in a crack between the pavers. She stifled a wince. “But I’ll be fine from here.”

“Are you sure?” He reached to steady her and looked skeptical about her ability to navigate the parking area.

“Absolutely.” She danced away again and gave him a friendly wave. “Good night.”

Blake had seemed harmless enough at first. But she was a wretched judge of people. It had been proven many times in a colorful dating career that included a charming thief who’d stolen all her jewelry and an in-the-closet gay man who’d only wanted her as a smoke screen for his disapproving parents. True to form, Blake had gone from fun to pushy about twenty minutes ago and Stacy was stuck trying to send him on his way.

In some ways, she didn’t blame her father for wanting to help her find a great guy through a matchmaking service. She could honestly see his point. On the other hand, how could she look at herself in the mirror if she allowed her father to pick the men she dated? The idea was ludicrous. But telling that to her dad was even tougher than shaking her clutching escort.

Initially, she’d hoped that setting her sights on an impossible date request in the form of hockey star Kyle Murphy would buy her time until she figured out what to do next. Sort of a passive-aggressive rebellion. She hadn’t counted on her father being on board with the plan—micromanaging the process and bullying her into attending the fundraiser tonight. In hindsight, she realized the idea of her landing a socially acknowledged great catch had appealed to his competitive side, which was legendary. He’d made Kyle Murphy a personal mission.

What a mess.

“What kind of gentleman would I be if I left a lady alone out here?” Blake Someone-or-other caught up to her and gave her a knowing you’ll-be-mine-soon look that set her teeth on edge. The diamond studs in his eyebrow winked in the light of a streetlamp.

It was a flaw of her character that she couldn’t just tell guys like this to buzz off. For one thing, she expressed herself better in writing, where she had time to think and formulate her ideas. She loved her job with the local paper even though her dad considered it a waste of time. For another thing, she was a confirmed people-pleaser and preferred to coast along without making waves. She was the queen of disappearing after a trip to the ladies’ room.

But Blake Whoever was proving tough to shake. Where was Marissa Collins to run interference?

“Actually,” Stacy improvised, her feet killing her in the new stilettos that had pinched her heels even before she’d twisted her ankle. “My matchmaker insists I don’t start any relationships unless she’s involved. She already spoke to me tonight about agreeing to dance with you without—you know—following proper procedure.”

A flimsy excuse or a stroke of genius? She’d realized early on that Blake had only been hitting on her because of her wealthy father. Concert promoters liked to cozy up to the folks who owned big arenas, the same way her father hoped to woo business from the Murphy family if Stacy dated Kyle.

“You have a matchmaker?” He raised his diamond-studded brow.

“A strict one, unfortunately. My father insisted on it.” She extricated her arm from his hand and hated herself for playing the “dad” card. How would she assert her independence when she still relied on the family clout? “If you’d like, you can catch her in the lobby. Her name is Marissa.”

Putting her feet in high gear, she took advantage of her escort’s hesitation and hurried away as fast as her tyrannical shoes would allow. Weaving around a commercial truck, she never looked back, stopping only when she arrived at her base model American-made minivan. She’d bought the used silver Dodge Grand Caravan after her father berated her for wrecking the new Jaguar he’d bought for her twenty-first birthday. She’d only just gotten her license at twenty-one, after years of being chauffeured at his insistence. Who gave a new driver an expensive foreign car as a first vehicle? He’d been so mad about the wreck, he hadn’t dared yell more when she’d replaced the ride herself with money earned working for the local paper.

She dropped her keys twice and hurried to put the right one in the lock. Was it upside down? The fit seemed tight.

Come on.

Peering toward where she’d left Blake the Snake, she jammed the key in again and twisted hard.

“Are you trying to wreck my van on purpose?”

A male voice behind her startled her into a partial coronary and she jumped backward half a foot. A rumpled, grouchy-looking man wearing a faded Phantoms T-shirt glared at her. Thick, dark hair curled around his forehead and stood straight up in the middle as if he’d recently tried to pull it out. Low slung jeans revealed a good body, if a little underfed. Dark heavy eyebrows needed waxing about a decade ago. He carried a rolled up poster under one arm, probably fan paraphernalia from the hockey team’s fundraiser.

“Excuse me?” Her heart beat fast as she realized how isolated they were. The doorman seemed a million miles away and her touchy-feeling former dancing partner must have given up.

The man bent to retrieve her keys, which she’d dropped when he’d scared her to death. They were at least four feet away and half under the vehicle in front of hers.

“I wanted to know if you’re trying to break into my van or if you’re just doing your damnedest to scratch the paint.” He handed over the keys and dropped them into her palm, careful not to touch her.

The gesture was so remote and aloof that she felt both grateful he didn’t crowd her and miffed that he’d made such a production of not touching her. A silly thought, obviously.

“Your van?” She scrutinized the vehicle. The gray cloth interior was just as she remembered.

“Yes. Mine.” His gaze narrowed. “Have you been drinking?”

“Of course not.” She tried to put her key in the lock again.

“Would you like me to call you a cab?”

“I’ll be fine, thanks.” Flipping the key, she tested the lock in vain and got a sinking feeling in her stomach.

This wasn’t her van.

“Why don’t you try this one?”

Turning to face him, he held out his set—two keys on a plain silver fob, a far cry from her set of seven on a ring stuffed full of charms, including a stuffed leopard that helped her find them in her purse.

“I must have made a mistake,” she admitted, feeling oddly foolish. She did things like this all the time, so it wasn’t as though she had a problem being in the wrong. She’d accepted her lack of grace long ago—about the same time she’d realized men had tunnel vision when it came to women. Guys who were staring at your cleavage didn’t notice when you tripped over your feet.

Yet the stranger in the Phantoms shirt didn’t seem distracted by her cleavage. He zeroed in on her eyes in the dim light of the parking lot and seemed to see straight through her.

“Do you drive a Caravan?” he asked, not glaring anymore.

“Yes.” Pivoting, she stretched up on her toes to see around the lot. Where the heck had she parked?

And why did the guy in the Phantoms’ shirt make her feel so suddenly naked when he didn’t look at her with even the tiniest bit of male interest?

“I have to say I’m surprised.”

“Excuse me?”

“You don’t look like you belong in a minivan.”

“I love my Caravan,” she said fiercely, probably because her choice in cars had been questioned by her dad more than once. As she shifted her weight, her feet protested how long she’d spent on the tarmac.

“Me, too. Can I give you a lift to help you find yours?” He edged past her cautiously, giving her plenty of personal space until he took her place in front of the driver’s-side door. “You look like your feet hurt.”

How had he noticed when he hadn’t looked anywhere but her eyes?