Harlequin KISS August 2014 Bundle

by Amy Andrews, Aimee Carson, Avril Tremayne

  “I need—” Her throat clamped hard, blocking the rest of her words, but she forced her feet to carry her closer to her father. She scanned the turquoise waters of the Atlantic. The late afternoon sun was sparkling on the surface and the salty breeze was balmy. The cold weather that had arrived when she’d first met Hunter had finally passed and moved on. Much like Hunter himself. Pain pierced her. His absence was like an empty chair at a crowded table, a constant reminder he’d walked away. But he’d been right. It was past time to deal with her father as an adult.

  “I don’t want to fight with you anymore,” she said. She drew in a breath. “I know raising me wasn’t easy.”

  A small frown slipped up his face and he looked uncomfortable with the topic—or maybe he was simply suspicious of her intentions. It was several seconds before he responded. “I run a multi-billion dollar company with hundreds of people on the payroll,” he said, his voice a mixture of exasperation and defeat. “But I never knew how to handle you.”

  “I’m not a staff member to be managed, Dad,” she said. “I’m your daughter.”

  He sent her an aggravated look. “Employees are easier.”

  “Yes, because you can simply dictate what you want.” Carly sighed and crossed her arms. “People in real relationships don’t respond well to the method.”

  He stared at her for what felt like forever, and then shook his head, looking a hundred years older than he should. “I’m sure your mother would have done a better job,” he said, his face haggard.

  The sting of tears returned. “I’m sorry I was a difficult teen.”

  “It’s just...” He blew out a breath and rubbed a hand across his forehead, leaving the wild eyebrows in even more disarray. He caught her gaze with an almost urgent intensity. “I won’t be around forever,” he said, his voice firm yet sincere. “And one of these days your choices are going to get you into real trouble.”

  A dull ache thumped, and Carly pressed her fingers to her temples, hoping to ease the sudden pounding. “Okay,” she went on reluctantly. “You were right. Thomas was using me.” She dropped her hands to her side. “But I didn’t love him,” she said. That fact had been made abundantly clear when she fell in love with Hunter.

  The constant free-falling feeling returned and fear froze her chest, making its work difficult. For a moment she could scarcely breathe.

  Damn. Love didn’t just hurt. It paralyzed.

  “I know,” he said.

  Surprise drew her brows together in confusion, but her father went on with a small wave of his hand.

  “Oh, I didn’t believe that you’d slept with the senator for the story any more than I believed the rumor you’d fallen in love with him and let your emotions cloud your objectivity. I knew better. And in some ways...” he shook his head with a grim look “...I almost wished the latter was true.”

  Shocked, she stared at him, her mouth gaping as she tried to make sense of the words. “I don’t understand.”

  He heaved out another heavy breath. “At least then you would have risked your career for something more than a fascination for a man just because he’d been labeled an individualist.”

  Carly held still, absorbing the words that were hard to hear even as her father went on, serving up more of the same.

  “And since then you’ve been in and out of a number of relationships. Most of the men weren’t worthy of your time, but I wouldn’t have cared so much if you’d actually loved one of them.”

  She opened her mouth to speak, but there were no words of defense. And so far love had yet to provide her that warm, fuzzy feeling that got paired with the condition. Since the moment those elevator doors had closed in her face, with Hunter’s words haunting her, she’d started to wonder if her relationships since Thomas had been about avoiding the big L. Because Hunter’s accusations had left her raw, bleeding, for the second time in her life—abandoned again, without the chance to explain herself. Her father hadn’t wanted to hear her side three years ago, and Hunter didn’t want to hear hers now.

  But maybe her father was finally ready to listen.

  “Thomas and I didn’t start seeing one another until after the story was done,” she said.

  “I know that now.” He paused, his frank expression brutally painful. “I wasn’t as convinced back then.”

  It hurt to hear the truth and it seemed horribly unfair. But life wasn’t fair, and maybe it was never meant to be. Regardless, it was up to her to handle herself, despite feeling she’d been wronged. And maybe that was the ultimate lesson.

  The only control she had was over her own behavior.

  “Carly,” her father said, “when are you going to grow up and stop flitting from one guy to the next?”

  Her heart wrenched, the pain stealing her breath. The time to come clean was now. Would he be happy to hear she’d finally fallen in love when he learned that in all probability her emotional development came at the cost of her job? Her boss had hired her despite her past, giving her the second chance that she’d just destroyed.

  But the agony of losing Hunter put the threat in perspective.

  “I’ve been asking my boss for approval to write a story on Hunter Philips.” The tone in her voice must have held the warning that bad news was ahead, because her father looked as if he was bracing for the impact, and a little part of her heart died again. “She finally gave me the go-ahead, but...” Her voice stalled. She was too afraid to go on, dreading the look of disappointment in his face. Apparently her expression said it all.

  “You’ve slept with him,” he said, his face resigned.

  Her heart clenched even as her stomach rolled. He eyed her steadily, and she wished she could read more beneath the weary acceptance.

  “You can’t do the story now,” he said.

  “I realize that.”

  “You have to tell your boss why.”

  “I realize that too.”

  Neither one of them spoke of the obvious.

  Her throat so tight it was painful, she said, “I’m in love with him.”

  The expression on her face must have conveyed the massive ache in her heart, because her father didn’t look happy for her. He looked like he was sharing her pain but wasn’t sure what to do about it.

  He took a hesitant step closer. “Carly...”

  Letting the emotion wash through her, Carly crossed the last few feet, and he folded her awkwardly in his arms.

  The hug was brief, but full of the familiar smell of the peppermints he loved, before he set her back. “I’m sorry he hurt you,” her father said gruffly.

  Conscious of his discomfort—her father would never be the touchy-feely sort—she tried to smile. She couldn’t have her father thinking it was all Hunter’s fault. She cleared her throat, clogged with unshed tears. “He’s a good guy,” she said. “An honorable one.”

  Too bad he couldn’t believe she had the ability to be honorable too.

  Her father raised a bushy eyebrow. “What are you going to tell your boss?”

  She lifted her chin. “The truth,” she said. And it was a good thing Hunter had pushed her to quit being stubborn about her dad, because she would need his support in the coming weeks. “I’m going to write the best damn profile piece I can on someone else and offer it as a replacement,” she said, steadily meeting her father’s gaze. “And then I’m going to go on Brian O’Connor’s show, meet Hunter face to face, and finish what I started.”

  * * *

  “Were you given a hard time when you backed out of tonight’s Brian O’Connor show?” Booker asked.

  Jaw clenched, eyes on the three-foot-long punching bag hanging in the well-stocked gym of his home, Hunter swung with his right arm. His fist connected with a satisfying thwack. “Not really,” he said. He did his best to ignore the digital clock on the wall.

/>   11:44 p.m.

  A sickening feeling rose, burning his chest and his gut, as Hunter went on. “There isn’t anything left to debate.” Except maybe his sanity, considering he’d had to learn the same lesson all over again.

  He landed another solid punch, forcing back the urge to pummel the bag in frustration, knowing Booker was waiting for him to say more. But Hunter was washed out, too tired from his workout—and the current state of his life—to engage in much conversation.

  The week since he’d arrived home from Las Vegas had been busy, consumed by a job that at one time had seemed perfect. Hunter had managed to carve out some time to explore the idea he’d formulated after Carly had questioned his career priorities. But after all that had happened, dealing with Carly on live TV again went beyond his abilities. Surviving this evening, knowing she’d be on the air without him, was proving to be tough.

  It would take a miracle to get through the next quarter of an hour without losing his mind, or his resolve not to watch the show. Hunter glanced at the clock.

  11:45.

  Hunter began to pummel the bag, the repeated thumps filling the silence until his friend spoke again.

  “It’s on in fifteen minutes,” Booker said, as if every cell in Hunter’s body wasn’t acutely aware of that fact. “Are you gonna watch?”

  Hunter’s abdomen clenched as if hit. His chest and arm muscles burned from his intense workout, but in a way the pain was an improvement. Since his argument with Carly he’d moved through his days in a trancelike state. Numb. Anesthetized. Trying hard to forget the maddening sight of Carly talking with Terry.

  And the devastated look on her face as the elevator doors had closed...

  With a hard jab, Hunter’s fist met the bag, jarring his left arm. But the sensation did nothing to ease the conflicting images in his head.

  “Because I think you should tune in to see what she says,” Booker went on.

  “No.” Hunter punctuated the word with a mighty slug. “I’m not watching the show.”

  Public curiosity had swelled since he’d backed out forty-eight hours ago. True to form, Carly hadn’t canceled her commitment to appear. Whether she’d stuck with it for the publicity, or for some other reason, he wasn’t sure. But he’d seen the advertisement announcing the replacement topic: the debut of Carly Wolfe’s new series. A column spotlighting a different Miami resident every week. She’d finally reached her goal.

  The question was, who had she chosen as her first subject?

  The clock on the wall read 11:47, and bile rose in the back of his throat. His stomach churned at the thought of watching her discuss everything he’d vomited out in a fit of anger. Muscles coiled tight, he felt the dark potential twine its way around his limbs. He refused to watch as the woman he loved traded in all they’d shared to achieve the career goal she’d chased for three years.

  The familiar feeling of betrayal, the boil of resentment, left him battering the stuffed leather bag with a one-two punch that jarred him all the way to his soul.

  “I find this situation very interesting,” Booker said. “I’m usually the one who sees a conspiracy at every turn.”

  Hunter raised a wry eyebrow at Booker. “Are you saying I’m being paranoid, like you?”

  His shaggy brown hair was in need of a trim, and Booker’s smile was wide as he brushed his bangs back. “Your suspicions don’t involve whole nations and large governmental agencies. So, compared to me, you’re small-time.” His voice changed to a more serious note. “But you are skeptical of everything that moves, Hunt.” He paused before going on. “And I think you’re wrong about Carly.”

  Pushing aside the crushing doubt made worse by Booker’s chastising expression, Hunter shot his partner a doubtful look. “Of course you’d say that. You married her best friend,” Hunter said. He was still trying to adjust to that particular turn of events.

  “Abby and I decided it would be better for our relationship if we didn’t discuss you two.”

  “Smart move. Still, you might be biased.”

  “Or I might be right.”

  Hunter’s chest clamped hard, squeezing with a grip so tight it made breathing and circulating his blood a mammoth chore. His heart still managed to pump the lingering fear to the far reaches of his body. Fear that he’d learn he’d screwed up the one good thing to happen to him in so long that he hadn’t recognized it for what it was...

  Real. Genuine. And built to last.

  With a silent curse, Hunter closed his eyes. The last time he’d made love to Carly his heart had claimed it was legit. That she was on the up and up. But he’d taken one look at her talking to Terry and his heart had taken a sharp U-turn. All the old suspicions, the duplicities of the past, had come screaming back. The avalanche of anger, humiliation, the need for self-preservation had plowed into him with a force that had swept him up in its wake.

  If Carly hadn’t run the story he’d accused her of going after, what then?

  He opened his eyes and began punching the bag again, the lingering question feeding the massive knot growing in his chest.

  Hunter was saved from dwelling on the unbearable thought when his friend spoke.

  “Is it back to business as usual, then?” Booker said.

  Hunter stopped punching and turned to face his friend and business partner. Regardless of the outcome tonight, the status quo had changed. He couldn’t continue to pretend his life was enjoyable. Actually, it wasn’t even tolerable. Making money hand over clenched fist wasn’t good enough anymore. It was time to come clean about his plans.

  “I had a long talk with the special agent in charge of the Miami division of the FBI,” Hunter said. With a look of surprise, Booker crossed his arms and leaned against the wall, clearly settling in to hear more. “They’re very interested in help with their caseload,” Hunter said, steadily meeting Booker’s gaze as he went on. “I signed on to become a part-time consultant.”

  A few moments passed, and then a smile slowly crept up Booker’s face. “Catching the criminals was always your specialty.”

  Relieved Booker understood, Hunter delivered the rest of his news as matter-of-factly as he could. “Which means I’m going to need more help in the day-to-day running of the business.”

  Booker didn’t hesitate. “Not a problem.”

  Narrowing his eyes, he wondered if his friend understood exactly what he was asking. “I thought you hated dealing with the clients.”

  The pause lasted long enough for his partner’s face to take on a guarded look. His words were cautious. “You set some pretty high standards, Hunt,” Booker said.

  Hunter stared at his friend, the implication of the statement washing over him as Booker swiped a hand through his shaggy hair again and went on.

  “I hate feeling as if I’m not doing a good enough job.”

  Stunned, Hunter stared at his friend. “Did I give you that impression?”

  “Not directly. But you’re a hard act to follow,” he said. “And you’re fairly demanding when it comes to your expectations.”

  The possibility that Booker had been avoiding clients for a reason outside his social discomfort had never occurred to Hunter. Booker’s voice dropped, and Hunter got a disturbing feeling the topic had widened to include more than just work.

  “Sometimes you hold the people in your life to pretty impossible standards,” Booker said.

  Hunter’s throat constricted so tight swallowing was impossible. He glanced at the clock on the wall.

  11:55.

  Booker picked up the remote control to the flatscreen TV mounted on the wall, holding it out to Hunter. “Do yourself a favor, Hunt,” Booker said. “Watch the show.”

  Heart thudding loudly in his chest, Hunter removed his gloves and took the remote. Without another word, his friend headed for the exit.

/>   Hunter stared at the black TV screen for a full four minutes, the digital numbers on the clock marking the passage of time, minute by agonizing minute. Either way, he had to know. He just wasn’t sure which would be worse. Losing Carly as a result of her actions...or his.

  Finally, unable to take the tension any longer, he pushed the “on” button and flipped to the right channel. His fifty-eight inch TV was filled with the image of Carly sitting on Brian O’Connor’s couch. Beautiful, of course, in a gauzy top and skirt. But the sight of her lovely legs, glossy brunette hair, and warm, amber-colored eyes was nothing compared to the shock he got when the camera panned to the right. Sitting next to her were two young adults in typical urban street clothes. Thad and Marcus. The two graffiti artists she’d been interviewing that day in the alley. The first Miami residents to be featured in her new series. Not him, after all, then.

  Hell.

  Nausea boiled, his chest burned, and Hunter gripped the leather punching bag to steady himself, his mind churning with memories. The vile words from his mouth. The stricken expression on Carly’s face. She’d said she needed a man who trusted her. A man who had faith in her. Who believed in her. He’d screwed up royally at the very moment he’d confessed he loved her.

  So how could he ever convince her now?

  TWELVE

  Despite the ebony-colored tablecloths with their centerpieces consisting of dried dead roses, the ambiance on the restaurant’s outdoor patio was festive. Carly was amazed that Pete and Abby had managed to find the perfect balance of Gothic and elegance to celebrate their recent marriage. Lit by candlelight that reflected off the blanket of fog covering the terrace floor, the evening was cast in an otherworldly glow. Waiters circulated, their platters laden with appetizers. Guests ordered drinks at two beautiful mahogany bars, crafted to resemble coffins. Or maybe they were real. If so, Carly hoped the caskets were new.

  In jeans, sneakers and a black T-shirt, Pete Booker cast his wife of two weeks an adoring look, and Carly’s heart tripped over a mix of envy and happiness.

  Standing beside her, her father muttered, “This is the strangest wedding reception I’ve ever been to.” He dubiously eyed a discreetly placed fog machine before turning his gaze to the bride’s outfit.