Harlequin KISS August 2014 Bundle

by Amy Andrews, Aimee Carson, Avril Tremayne

  Even his own daughter.

  She pushed the bitter memory aside and concentrated on the guilt that had been trying to hijack her all day. When a few of the blog commenters had taken up the virtual vitriolic pitchfork and called for Hunter’s blood Carly’s heart had sunk. She had no problem with tossing a few, or twenty, truth-filled sarcastic jabs in his direction, but the vicious turn of the comments had been awful.

  But it was done. Time for the pesky little guilt gnats to swarm around someone else.

  Carly followed her friend into the old bar. In anticipation of its fifth annual drag queen pageant every inch was packed, from the scuffed wooden floor to the sea of tables and the long bar lining the wall, crowded with patrons of all ages and walks of life. Instantly her tension eased. It was the perfect place to put today behind her.

  But Abby clearly wasn’t on board. “I’m worried about you, Carly.” Hardcore and gloomy on the outside, creamy sensitive filling on the inside, Abby went on. “Hunter Philips is trouble.”

  Let me count the ways, Carly thought as she trailed Abby through the crowd. He was irritatingly sexy, intriguingly mysterious and possibly criminal, just for starters. “I just want to interview last year’s pageant winner and forget about today, okay?”

  “Good luck with that,” Abby said as she came to a halt, and Carly almost plowed into her back as she continued. “Because he might have something to say about your plans.”

  Her throat suddenly tight, Carly peeked around Abby. Her gaze landed on Hunter, leaning against the bar. She let out a groan.

  Her day had officially gone from bad to worse.

  From across the room, his frosty gaze slid to hers, landed, and claimed her attention—something the man excelled at. Her body vibrated and her heart thumped louder than the subdued music pulsing through the speakers hanging from the ceiling.

  “What are you gonna do?” Abby said, staring at Hunter.

  Nerves scrambling for cover beneath the force of his gaze, Carly said, “I’m thinking.”

  * * *

  From his position at the bar Hunter stared at Carly, disappointed in himself. Even after today’s blog posts, he couldn’t help but appreciate the miniskirt hugging legs that had taunted him during the first show. The hot pink blouse left her shoulders bare. And her sleek brown hair was loosely pulled back, displaying the elegant curve of her neck.

  “Now that she’s here,” Booker said from beside him, breaking Hunter’s mental listing of her attributes, “are you going to go over there?”

  “No.” Elbow on the bar counter, Hunter kept his gaze on Carly as he answered his friend. “I’m going to make her come to me.”

  “How do you know she will?”

  Despite today’s online disaster, despite everything this troublemaker had put him through, Hunter’s lips tipped up at one end. “She won’t be able to help herself.”

  “Does she have a problem with impulse control?” Booker said dryly.

  Memories of her crossing her legs on that first show and circling him in the alley brought a faint smile to Hunter’s face. “You might say that.” His gaze lingered on the pretty reporter—a frustratingly fascinating mix of good humor, determination, moments of genuine warmth...and the occasional sultry come-hither vibe. “Impulse control is especially difficult when her curiosity gets the better of her or she’s backed into a corner.”

  “Dude, she’s backing us into a corner. After her post today my secretary fielded no less than ten calls from clients asking about the negative publicity.” Booker’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. “I still say the worst of those comments came from blog trolls planted by our competition.”

  “I think our business competitors have better things to do with their time,” Hunter said, suppressing a smile, and then he eyed the lovely Carly Wolfe again. “But it’s definitely time to forgo the defensive and embrace the offensive.” Something he hadn’t done in a very long time.

  An unexpected anticipation surged, and eagerness permeated Hunter’s every cell with the old familiar thrill of the chase. He was looking forward to carrying out his plan...

  FOUR

  Caught in Hunter’s intense stare, Carly felt her stomach rock with nerves as she ran through all her options. Leave. Stay and ignore him. Or choose confrontation.

  His leather jacket was sleekly urbane, not Harley-riding-belt-and-spike. Paired with dress pants and a tailored blue shirt left open at the throat, he looked movie star classily casual. And this time when he’d tracked her down he wasn’t alone. Next to Hunter a gangly man slouched unceremoniously against the counter. Despite the crowded room, apprehension skittered up her spine at the thought of facing Hunter after today’s debacle. He was clearly here to see her, and ignoring him would only prolong the agony.

  Because how could she interview last year’s winner and enjoy herself with him assessing her from afar, producing the goosebumpy awareness he always generated?

  “Let’s just get this over with,” she finally said to Abby.

  Carly forced her feet in his direction, her nerves stretching tighter with every step. As she drew near, she managed a bright smile.

  “Mr. Philips.” She stopped in front of the two men. “Amazing how I keep running into you. If I’d known you were coming I would have worn a shorter skirt.”

  “Pity I didn’t call you ahead.”

  “This doesn’t seem like a place you’d usually hang out,” Carly said. “Are you here to compete in the pageant?”

  Hunter’s gaze swept across the room and landed on a contestant—a drag queen sporting a figure-hugging miniskirt and a pair of killer wedge shoes even Carly would be afraid to wear lest she break an ankle. “My collection of miniskirts isn’t up to the task,” he said dryly. A second participant joined the first, sporting a Marilyn Manson look made of red latex. Hunter turned his iced blue eyes back on Carly. “Interesting job you have.”

  “I’m trying to convince my boss to expand my column to include interesting community members.” Her smile grew bigger as she stepped closer. “Today I proposed I do a story on you. She said no, but I think once she watches our second show she’ll change her mind.” Ignoring his disconcertingly alert eyes, she leaned close, hoping to get a rise out of him. “I don’t think she’ll be able to resist the fascinating Hunter Philips.”

  His cool demeanor didn’t budge. “Unfortunately she’ll have to.”

  Carly stared at him. Was he furiously irate, mildly fuming or calmly annoyed at her for her blog post today? Damn it, she shouldn’t care. All she wanted was to interview last year’s drag queen winner, move past the ridiculous remorse and get her confident mojo back.

  “If you’re so eager for my company you could just ask me out,” she said. “Instead you keep hunting me down.” She finally tore her gaze from Hunter to his scraggy brown-haired friend, eyeing him curiously. He wore a gaming T-shirt emblazoned with the words ‘Carpe Noctem’—Seize the Night—well-worn jeans, and ratty athletic shoes. “And this time you brought backup too. How very FBI of you.”

  Hunter ignored her quip and nodded at Abby, as if he remembered her, before training his eyes on Carly. “Abby, Carly—meet Pete Booker,” he said, tipping his head in his friend’s direction. “Conspiracy theorist, computer genius, and—” he held Carly’s gaze as that secretive smile appeared “—my business partner.”

  Unwanted remorse bloomed bigger in Carly’s gut as polite greetings were exchanged around her. Great, now she was looking at two reasons to feel guilty. Pete was cute, in a boyish kind of way that defied his description. Juxtaposed with the coiled, darker edges of his partner, he appeared downright innocent. And both men were looking at her with veiled accusation.

  “I suppose your presence tonight is in response to the discussion on my blog,” she said.

  “Discussion? The dialogue after your post was
more like a...” Hunter’s voice died out, and he looked to his partner as if he needed help.

  Carly knew very well he didn’t.

  “Firing line?” Pete suggested helpfully.

  “Bloodbath,” Hunter said.

  “Or maybe a feeding frenzy?” his partner went on.

  Hunter said, “Better still—”

  “No need to go at it all night, boys,” Carly said dryly. She blinked back the wave of regret that had swelled the moment they’d started their repartee, but a small resigned sigh still escaped. “That wasn’t my intent.”

  Despite the surrounding chatter, the electrically charged atmosphere popped. Two pairs of eyes were trained on her. Carly was only concerned with one set. Hunter’s.

  “What was your intent?” Hunter’s voice was deceptively soft, with the same steely tone as when he’d faced the threat in the alley. “To lose our bet?” he said.

  Her smile grew tight. “I’m sure the money your app is now making will make up for today’s below-the-belt punch.”

  “Except now I’m getting called by every journalist in town,” he said, and then he lifted a brow with the first hint of amusement of the evening. “And it’s not my fault your efforts have shot the app sales to number ten.”

  “Eight,” she said.

  He hiked a brow. “Even better.”

  Oh, he knew the number. Carly’s lips flattened, which made maintaining her fake smile difficult. “I should probably thank you for the flowers you sent me today, expressing your appreciation.” When the delivery boy had dropped the bouquet off at work, there had been no way Carly could receive the smugly sent flowers without retaliating via her blog. “But I won’t.”

  Hunter’s eyes lit with full-on humor now. “I hope the orchid and miniature bamboo arrangement I sent was unique enough for you.”

  Her mouth tightened. He would remember her words and get it just right. Just like he’d remembered her mention of tonight’s pageant. Boy, he was the first man in her life to really muck with her mojo. Carly’s lips compressed further, practically blocking bloodflow now, but she managed to bite out, “They were beautiful too.”

  As Carly maintained Hunter’s gaze the tension blanketing their small foursome reached a smothering capacity until Abby broke the spell.

  “Hey,” Abby said, “you two are killing my end-of-the-workday happy place.” With a less than happy frown on her black-lipsticked mouth, Abby turned to Pete Booker. “I’m going to enjoy a drink at a table that just opened up. You can join me if you want. And when you say no could you at least send the message via The Ditchinator to abby_smiles@gmail.com?” With that, Abby headed toward the empty table.

  “Uh...” An awkward expression crept up the brown-haired man’s face, and his gaze shifted from the back of Carly’s creature-of-the-night friend to Hunter, and then to Carly. Most likely he was trying to decide which was worse—sharing a drink with a pessimistic lady simply dressed like a vampire or the two people who were actually going for each other’s throats. “Excuse me,” he said, and then headed off to join Abby.

  Hunter watched the two with curious interest. “She doesn’t bite, does she?”

  “Trust me,” Carly said, maneuvering into the empty spot at the bar left by Hunter’s partner. “She’s all doom-and-gloom bark on the outside and no bite on the inside.”

  “Does she write for the lifestyle section too?”

  “No. She’s an investigative reporter. Me...” Carly gave a slight shrug. “I find people more interesting than facts.”

  “Like the renowned photojournalist turned California State Senator Thomas Weaver?”

  The name cuffed her on the cheek with all the force of a full-on slap, and Carly’s face burned. “You’ve been checking up on me again.”

  “You haven’t left me any choice.” His face had an expression she’d never seen before: curiosity. “The news media speculated you fell for the senator and gave him a free pass in your article. Is it true?”

  Guilt and humiliation resurfaced, and she curled her nails against her palm. She hadn’t completely fallen under Thomas Weaver’s spell, as accused, but she’d cared about him. Had her actions been unethical? Technically, no. Her story had been done and published before they’d gotten involved. Inappropriate? Probably. Stupid? Most definitely. Because she should have avoided even the appearance of a conflict of interest. Something William Wolfe, founder and CEO of Wolfe News, Broadcasting—procreator and father of Carly Wolfe, The Disappointment—never let his daughter forget.

  “I didn’t fall in love.” She hiked her chin. “It was closer to a very intense like.” He tipped his head in humor, and she went on. “And I didn’t give him a free pass.”

  “I didn’t think so.”

  She was surprised and pleased he believed her, but the feeling of validation ended when his enigmatic smile returned.

  “Did you sleep with him before or after you got his story?” he said.

  Her angry retort was cut off when someone squeezed into the space behind her, pressing her forward...and against Hunter’s hip. A firestorm of messages bombarded her: heat, steel and a hard-edged awareness. A faint flicker of eyelids was Hunter’s only reaction.

  “And I wonder...” His voice was low, controlled, the scent of his woodsy cologne subtle. “If I slept with you, would you drop your little vendetta?”

  Along with anger, a fierce thrill seared her veins. All from a suggestive comment meant to provoke. Despite his words, she knew he was too self-controlled to follow through on his suggestion. God help her if he ever did. She struggled to maintain a bland tone. “Depends on how good you are.”

  “Compared to who?”

  “Everyone else.”

  His intense gaze held a hint of amusement. “Hopefully that’s not as many as the number of stories you’ve written.”

  “Did you come tonight to insult me?”

  Someone bumped Carly from behind, pushing her more firmly against Hunter, and he cupped the back of her shoulder to steady her. Every blood vessel in her body grew thick, the blood forced to pulse in jetstream fashion. His hand was warm and seductively smooth, free from calluses that would snag her skin during a caress.

  “I didn’t come to insult you,” he said, staring down at her, his eyes lit with definite humor now. Was he amused by her attempt to continue breathing despite their contact? “That’s your MO, not mine,” he said.

  Carly stared up at Hunter’s sensual mouth, the square cut jaw, and eyes that were either icy fire or fiery ice. Carly wasn’t sure which. Her voice was strained. “Then why are you here?”

  “I came to give you fair warning,” he said.

  All sorts of warnings were ringing in her head. Professional ones. Personal ones...

  She knew she should reply, but the sizzling feel of his palm cradling her from behind was fascinatingly protective and yet unyieldingly hard at the same time. She finally pushed the words past her tight throat. “Fair warning?” A repeat of his last two words was all she could manage.

  Brilliant. Now you sound like a stupid, mindless parrot.

  His gaze scanned her face. “Maybe putting you on notice is a better description.”

  Her mind spun. On notice about what? That her body was turning traitor? Trumped by her own libido. Damn. As if she wasn’t already privy to that disturbing piece of news. She stared up at him, fascinated by the restrained, coiled stillness of the body pressed against hers. Outside an electrifying gaze alive with awareness, and a hard chest that slowly rose and fell—a marked contrast to her increasingly shorter gasps—he didn’t move. No swooping in for a kiss, pushing his advantage.

  And a very small part of her was...disappointed.

  “Notice?” she said, dismayed she was down to single-word responses.

  Hunter leaned forward to speak at her ear
, his voice low, her pulse pounding.

  “You started this war, Carly.” The shimmer of his breath on her cheek sent a fresh wave of hot prickles down her back. “I just hope you’re ready for the fight.”

  Without warning he turned and headed off, leaving Carly reeling in the aftermath. And with the sinking feeling he’d just become infinitely more dangerous.

  * * *

  Saturday night, Hunter turned into the WTDU TV station’s parking garage, dark save the lights hanging from the concrete beams overhead. He pulled into a space, turned off his car, and sat back in the leather seat, settling in to wait. He’d shown up early with the plan of catching Carly before she entered the studio for the show.

  The thought of seeing her again wound Hunter’s insides tight. He struggled with the now familiar combination of distrust, amusement, and ever-growing attraction. In the theater, her fascination with his past had been unmistakable...even as she’d questioned his relationship with the mob.

  His lips twisted wryly. Carly Wolfe was an unusual woman. With her around, boredom was certainly no longer an issue. At first it had been easy to write her off as nothing more than a vindictive, publicity-driven journalist. But he’d seen her remorse over the results of her blog. He’d thought her outraged innocence during the first show was an act, but this confident, modern woman had a kernel of naivety at her core. He was beginning to realize she truly believed in what she was doing. Worse, her zest for the unusual—and unfortunately for her job—made her all the more attractive. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt so passionately about something.

  Before his ex had gotten her story and left? Before he’d been forced out of the FBI? The memories still felt like a vacuum, threatening to suck him down. Unfortunately there was no telling what Carly would say on the show about his app, or in an attempt to learn the inspiration behind its creation...