Sand, Sun...Seduction!

by Stephanie Bond

  “Well?” Tom Sternon prompted.

  Macy looked into his eyes and did something she never dreamed she’d do. “Thank you for the offer, Mr. Sternon, but I don’t think ANN is the place for me.”

  * * *

  “WE WANT YOU to come back to work for us.”

  At the pleading tone in his former boss’s voice, Armando smiled.

  When he’d opened the door of his Houston condo to find Charles Barrington, the CEO of Hollister Chemicals, standing in his hallway, this was the last thing he’d expected to hear. They were now in Armando’s living room, Barrington perched on the edge of the sofa, briefcase in hand.

  Armando had been back in Houston for two weeks and he’d been bracing for the fallout that was sure to erupt when Macy’s exposé hit the media. He’d come home to face the music, having realized he’d accomplished nothing by hiding out, only to discover nothing had happened.

  Until now.

  And the twist was so surprising he didn’t know how to react to Barrington’s request.

  “Excuse me?” Armando said, completely puzzled by this turn of events. “I let a corporate spy get her hands on our most promising formula and you want me to come back to work for you?”

  Barrington nodded.

  “Why?”

  Barrington grinned. “Bond and Martin couldn’t make the formula work. We want you to take another stab at it.”

  “What makes you think I can?”

  “Because you already hold three similar patents for us. You’ve got the magic touch, Cutler. They might have gotten hold of your formula, but without you, they can’t make it work.”

  Understanding dawned. “I get it,” Armando said. “You’re terrified Bond and Martin are going to hire me.”

  “Um…er…,” Barrington stammered. “Yes, that’s true, but—”

  “Let me save you the spiel. I don’t want to come back.”

  Barrington’s face blanched. “They’ve already hired you.”

  “No.”

  Relief flashed over his ex-boss’s features. “We’ll double your previous salary.”

  “Simply to keep me from working for Bond and Martin?” Armando shook his head. Laughable that the biggest mistake he’d ever made in his life was ending up being the most lucrative.

  Scratch that.

  The biggest mistake of his life was trusting and falling for Macy Gatwick.

  Get over it. Time to stop licking your wounds and accept responsibility for your sexual indiscretions.

  But chiding himself didn’t stop him from feeling like an idiot. How could he have believed she was falling for him the way he’d fallen for her? Though her sexual feelings had seemed real enough, they’d differed in the emotional bond. He’d felt it, but clearly she had not. She’d been looking for a story, and sex had been nothing more than a means to an end.

  You don’t really believe that, insisted a hopeful voice in the back of him mind. If you were nothing more than a story to her, why hasn’t the story broken?

  How he wanted to think that he’d been as special to her as she’d been to him! But he was afraid to believe. Afraid to trust.

  “I’ll do whatever it takes,” Barrington said, taking a contract from his briefcase. “We want you back. Along with the raise, you’ll get a promotion.”

  “I think you’d regret the offer if I accepted,” Armando said, and then he told Barrington about Macy Gatwick.

  “You spilled your guts to a reporter?” Barrington exclaimed.

  “I didn’t know she was a reporter.”

  “This is…I can’t believe…what is it with you and women?” Barrington got to his feet, stuffed the sheaf of papers back into his briefcase.

  “I guess I’m just a fool for love.”

  “You’ve got to find out when she intends to break this story. We have to get our ducks in a row. Hire a spin doctor to do serious damage control.”

  “I take it the job offer is off the table?”

  “Hell, yes, you’re a serious liability,” Barrington said. “Even Bond and Martin won’t hire you after this hits the fan. Now call that woman and find out what’s going on.”

  Armando realized Barrington was right. He couldn’t keep walking around with his breath bated. He had to know when Macy’s exposé on him would surface, for his own sake as much as for Hollister Chemicals.

  He looked up the number for Gotcha magazine and placed the call with sweaty palms. When the receptionist answered, he asked for Macy.

  “Ms. Gatwick isn’t in. May I take a message?”

  “Could I speak to the managing editor, please?”

  “Who may I ask is calling?”

  “Armando Cutler.”

  A minute later, the managing editor was on the line. “Greg Winston here.”

  Armando introduced himself and said, “I need to know when you’re going to run Macy’s article about me.”

  There was a long moment of silence and then Winston said, “We’re not.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “We’re not running the story.”

  Hope bloomed in his heart and then something else occurred to him and all hope vanished. With a story like this one, Macy had the opportunity to end up on television. “She took the story elsewhere,” he said flatly.

  “A representative from ANN came to see her last week,” Winston confirmed.

  Armando hadn’t thought he could feel any worse about this than he already did, but he was wrong. “She’s given them the exclusive.”

  “No,” Winston said, sounding jovial. “She refused them, too.”

  The roller coaster of hope was back. “What do you mean? Did she get a better offer?”

  “She’s burying the story. I gotta tell you, Cutler, I don’t know what hold you have over her, but it’s a powerful one. You’ve turned my most cutthroat reporter into a lovesick puppy.”

  Hope morphed into excitement. “Can you tell me where she is?” he asked. “I need to speak to her.”

  “You don’t know?”

  “Just tell me,” Armando commanded.

  “Macy went back to Costa Rica,” Winston said, “to find you.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  “YOU CAME BACK after Tarzan,” Amelia Pettigrew had just greeted Macy in the lobby of the Coronado Bed and Breakfast.

  “I did,” Macy confirmed.

  Amelia looked over at Harry, who was busy cleaning the lenses of his binoculars. “I told you she was in love.”

  “You did at that.” Harry smiled.

  “You guys haven’t left yet?” Macy said, surprised to find the elderly couple still in Costa Rica.

  “We decided to move here,” Amelia said. “In fact, we’re meeting with a real-estate agent in twenty minutes.”

  “And after that,” Harry said, putting the strap of the binoculars around his neck and then slipping his arm around Amelia’s waist, “we have an appointment with a local chaplan.”

  “You’re getting married!”

  Amelia blushed as Harry kissed her cheek. “We are. Next week, here at the Coronado.”

  “And you and Tarzan are invited,” Harry added.

  “That’s wonderful! Congratulations. I’d love to come to the wedding, but I can’t speak for Tarzan.”

  “You haven’t told him that you love him yet, have you?” Amelia nodded.

  Macy caught her breath. “That’s what I’m here for.”

  “The main road to San Pablo is still washed out.” Harry shook his head. “That was one hell of a mudslide.”

  “I don’t care if I have to hack my way through the jungle,” Macy declared. “I must get back to the cabin.”

  “Go get your man,” Amelia and Harry said in unison.

  * * *

  THREE MISERABLE HOURS later, Macy finally reached the San Pablo Waterfalls, but once there she was hit with indecision and disappointment. She didn’t know what she expected to find. Armando showering under the falls as he’d been the very first time she’d laid eyes on him?
>
  She tilted her head up in the direction of the cabin, trying to see it through the thick overgrowth of trees, but she couldn’t from where she stood. Dejected, she plunked down on a boulder, swiped the sweat from her forehead and pulled a bottle of water from her knapsack. Had coming back here been a huge mistake? Was Armando still furious? Could she convince him to forgive her and give her a second chance?

  “You look like you could use a cold shower.”

  Macy jerked her head around and gasped to see Armando standing behind her, wearing swim trunks and a University of Texas T-shirt. She’d never seen a more beautiful sight.

  “How did you know I was here?”

  “A cute elderly couple at the Coronado told me.”

  Her pulse skittered. He’d been looking for her. “You went to the Coronado?”

  “It was my first stop after the airport.”

  “Airport?”

  “I just flew in from Houston.”

  “You’ve been to the States?”

  Armando nodded. “I also know you didn’t publish that story. And I know you turned down a job offer from ANN.”

  She swallowed hard. “You do?”

  “Why, Macy?”

  “I realized I’d been acting like a black-chested swallow,” she said.

  Armando laughed and the sound filled her with joy. “I came to tell you that I don’t blame you for doing your job, but I needed to know…” He paused, gulped.

  “Yes?”

  “I need to know why you didn’t release the story. Is it because you feel this…this…”

  “Passion,” she supplied. “The grandest passion I’ve ever felt. I’m more passionate for you than I am for journalism and that’s saying something. Until now, being an investigative reporter was my greatest love.”

  “And now?” he murmured, moving ever closer through the palm fronds.

  Her hands were trembling. “I turned down ANN to prove my love for you.”

  “Ah, querida,” he breathed, and gathered her into his arms. “I’ve never felt this grand passion before, either.”

  She looked deeply into his eyes. “It all happened so quickly.”

  “Like a lightning bolt,” he agreed. “But when it’s right, it’s right.”

  “You know,” she said. “I can be a writer from anywhere in the world.”

  “Even Costa Rica?”

  “Especially Costa Rica.”

  “That’s good,” he said, “because I’ve been thinking that maybe I’d like to start my own company. A green company seeking alternative sources to fossil fuel.”

  “Costa Rica is big into ecology.”

  “Now, about that shower,” he said, reaching out to take her hand. “Have you ever made love underneath a waterfall?”

  “I can’t say that I have,” she murmured, rapture spreading through her heart.

  Armando took her by the hand and led her up the rocky steps to the waterfall, and there behind the tropical waters, they made love while the red-throated swallows flitted happily through the trees.

  * * * * *

  The game of hockey hasn’t exactly been kind to Lainey Harper. In fact, she wouldn’t mind forgetting all about it. But when pro defensemen Cooper Mead turns up in her bar, his hard physique and well-practiced charm are hard to resist…

  Read on for a sneak peak of Playing Dirty by Taryn Leigh Taylor.

  1

  “IT’S ABOUT DAMN time you got here, Darius. I know my fa—I know Martin wasn’t much for punctuality, but if you want to keep working here, you’re going to have to show up on time.”

  Lainey kicked the beer fridge closed and froze, as though the act had triggered a curse that turned her to stone. In truth, though, her paralysis was directly attributable to the animal magnetism of the man on the other side of the counter.

  Black hair just long enough to curl against his collar?

  Check.

  Dark stubble framing a smirking mouth?

  Check.

  Muscled arms that could make angels weep and women purr?

  Check and check.

  “You’re…” Cooper Mead, number sixteen, the Portland Storm’s latest acquisition, currently tied for highest scoring defenseman in the league. “Not Darius.”

  “Nope.” The single syllable, deep and rough, was enough to detonate an estrogen grenade low in her tummy.

  Dammit.

  Cooper freakin’ Mead! Standing in Martin’s crappy little sports bar—her crappy little sports bar now, she reminded herself. And boy, was he something to behold. All six feet two inches and 220 pounds of him, per the team stats page. Lainey cursed the lapse in internet browsing judgment that had led to that knowledge. She hadn’t watched hockey, talked hockey, thought of hockey in years, but in the three months since she’d come back to Portland, the nadir of all her broken dreams and bad luck, she was already falling into bad habits.

  And Cooper Mead was the kind of bad habit that would be hard to break.

  With great effort, Lainey beat back the hormonal fallout and cast a wary glance around the bar. Oregon might be a long way from Denmark, but something here was definitely rotten.

  The Drunken Sportsman wasn’t the type of place that attracted professional athletes. Hell, some weeks it barely attracted enough armchair athletes to keep the lights on and the doors open.

  Right now, there were two groups of them, a middle-aged couple sporting his and hers Trail Blazers T-shirts and eating nachos in the booth farthest from the door, and four guys at a table by the window who were stretching a pitcher of beer as far as it could go while staring zombie-like at the basketball pregame coverage on the hulking television above the bar.

  She needed to replace it with a couple of flat screens spread around the room for more optimal viewing. She made a mental note to add that to her list and turned back to the defensive juggernaut who stood across from her.

  Other than him, there was nothing—and no one—out of place. And yet something about the situation had her on edge. She glanced at Cooper Mead’s wicked mouth, the corner quirked up in a grin that did weird things to her insides.

  Maybe I’m allergic to hockey.

  Squaring her shoulders, Lainey strove for professionalism in the form of the official bartender’s mantra. “So, not-Darius, what’ll it be?”

  “How about Sex on the Beach and a Screaming Orgasm?”

  No.

  Don’t say it, she thought with a desperation that surprised her. Please don’t go there.

  A flicker of indecision crossed his handsome face, one that gave her hope that her telepathy had worked. Then he turned on that easy grin, bracing an arm on the bar and leaning closer.

  “But if I’m going to do my best work,” he confided in a soft growl that prickled between her shoulder blades, “I’ll probably need something to drink first.”

  Aaaand he went there.

  “Good one. Very original. You’d think, with me being a bartender and all, I would’ve heard that one before.” She forced herself not to roll her eyes. If getting hit on in bars had taught her anything, it was that derision had more impact when delivered with some restraint. It was important not to cross into “the lady doth protest too much” territory or the playboys and the drunks would never leave you alone.

  In response, he upped the wattage of his smile and reached over the bar to liberate a maraschino cherry from the fruit caddy.

  “Sarcasm. Nice. You’re feisty. I like that.” He popped the pointedly sexual fruit in his mouth and chewed. “But in my defense, it’s not the small-talk portion of the evening I excel at. Give me your number and I’ll prove it to you.”

  Lainey wanted to be offended, she really did, but damned if his megalomania wasn’t working for him, in a basic “the hormones want what the hormones want” kind of way. Still, a woman had to have standards.

  “Listen, I appreciate the display of manly bravado, but as much as I’d like to stand here and fend off your advances, I’ve got a drink quota to maintain. You act
ually want something, or are you just here to waste my time?” Lainey crossed her arms over her white tank top. Cooper Mead wasn’t the only talented defenseman here. Her nickname hadn’t been “The Ice Queen” for nothing.

  The memory came out of nowhere, like a slap shot to her brain—fast, powerful, and it hurt like a bitch. Her pulse thundered in her right wrist, the one she’d busted in the last hockey game she’d ever played, and she shook her hand to dislodge the sensation. No one had referred to her by her old hockey nickname in ages. The fact that she’d been the one to break that streak said a lot.

  One more reason she couldn’t let her guard down. She needed to fix up the bar, sell it for a tidy profit, and get the hell out of Portland back to the fabulous, hockey-less life she’d built for herself. The sooner, the better.

  It had taken hard work and single-minded focus to become one of the Zenith Advisory Group’s top hospitality consultants. And sure, that was just a fancy way of saying that she traveled the country staying in nice hotels and filling out comment cards—but the title came with a generous wage and her choice of locations. Which was why she’d never taken an assignment in Portland before.

  Too many ghosts here, and all of them wore skates.

  Cooper shot a pointed glance around the almost-deserted bar. “What happens if you don’t make drink quota?” He twirled the cherry stem absently between his finger and thumb. He had big hands.

  “Oh, you know, swarm of locusts, rain of fire, four guys on horseback.”

  He nodded, flicking the stem aside. “And what if I guarantee to make any trouble worth your while?”

  She didn’t like the way her heart sped up at the vow or the way she believed that he could make good on it. “Nice try, Slick, but I wasn’t kidding about the drink quota, so you’re gonna have to tell me what you want.”

  Cooper propped an elbow on the bar. “And here I thought I’d been pretty clear about what I want.”

  “To drink. What do you want to drink?”

  “Surprise me.”

  With a cocked eyebrow, she grabbed a highball glass and turned toward the liquor bottles that lined the shelves. Lainey couldn’t help but steal glances at him in the mirrored tiles that stretched from counter to ceiling behind the booze. Damned if she wasn’t kind of impressed that a guy who would approach with the lamest of lame pickup lines wasn’t standing there ogling her ass. He lifted a hand to rub the back of his neck as he waited, and Lainey noticed for the first time that he looked tired—not like he needed a nap, but like it would be nice to put down the weight of the world for a little while.