by Aimee Carson
“You have smooth negotiating skills,” his partner said. “I’m lousy with clients.”
“Perhaps because you expect everyone to speak fluent binary code.”
“It’s the language of the future, my friend,” Pete Booker said. “And I might have crummy people skills, but I’m brilliant at debugging our cross-platform encryption software. Which I finished in record time, so round of applause for me.”
Hunter suppressed the grin. His friend, a former whiz kid and quintessential technogeek—the stereotype Carly Wolfe had clearly been expecting—hated meetings of any kind. And while Hunter had a healthy ego, was comfortable with his skills as an expert at cyber security, “mathematical genius” didn’t even touch Booker’s capabilities. Unfortunately what Mother Nature had bestowed on Booker in brains she’d shortchanged him in the social graces, leaving Hunter the front man for their business. Still, theirs was a formidable team, and there was no one Hunter trusted more.
“But I didn’t call for applause,” Booker said. “I called to tell you we’ve got trouble.”
Familiar with his friend’s love for conspiracy plots, Hunter maintained his role as the straight man. “More trouble than those secret silent black helicopters?”
“Chuckle on, Hunt. Cuz when Big Brother comes to haul you away, you won’t be.”
“I promise I’ll stop laughing then,” Hunter said dryly.
“Do you want to hear my news or not?”
“Only if it’s about another sighting of Elvis.”
“Not even close,” Booker said. “It’s about Carly Wolfe.”
At the mention of the delightfully charming menace, Hunter frowned as he pushed through the revolving bank door and was dumped out onto the bustling, skyscraper-lined sidewalk. “Go on.”
“As per your suggestion I did a little research and found out her dad is William Wolfe, founder and owner of Wolfe Broadcasting. You know—the one that owns numerous media outlets throughout the country.” Booker paused as if to emphasize what came next. “Including WTDU TV station.”
Hunter stopped short, instantly alert, and people on the sidewalk continued to stream around him. He hadn’t completely recovered from his mental tango with the lovely Carly Wolfe. But the little troublemaker suddenly had the potential of being a much bigger troublemaker than he’d originally thought. “The station that airs Brian O’Connor’s show,” he said slowly.
“One and the same,” his partner said.
Hunter forced the breath from his body in a slow, smooth motion, fighting the odd feeling of disappointment. So far he’d thought Carly Wolfe had been blatantly frank about all that she’d pulled. Her moves had been amusing because she was so upfront in her attempts to get what she wanted from him. Unlike his ex, whose manipulations had all been done behind his back. And while there were clearly no rules to the game he and Carly were engaged in, there was a sort of unwritten gentleman’s agreement—if she’d been a man, that was, which she most clearly wasn’t.
In Hunter’s mind Carly had crossed the line into unfair play. Because she hadn’t had to charm her way onto the show—a thought Hunter had found intensely amusing. No, she’d just picked up the phone and called her father. Making her more of a user than a wily charmer. The disappointment dug deeper.
“The second show is the least of our problems,” Booker said seriously. “With that kind of connection she could maintain this public fight forever. Enough to eventually hurt the business.”
Hunter’s cheek twitched with tension. Firewell, Inc. wasn’t just about money and success. It was about redefining himself after his old life had been stolen from him. The pause was long as Hunter grappled with the news.
“I hope you have a plan,” Booker went on. “Cuz I’ll be damned if I know what to do next.”
As usual, the weight of responsibility sat hard on Hunter’s shoulders, and his fingers gripped the phone. But eight years ago Booker had stuck by Hunter when no one else had, believing in him when most had doubted his honor. On that truth alone Hunter’s business, his success—even the contentment he’d eventually found in his new life—none of it would have been possible without the loyalty of his friend.
Hunter forced his fingers to loosen their grip on his phone. “I’ll take care of it.”
He didn’t know how, but it was going to start with a discussion with Ms. Carly Wolfe.
After an unsuccessful attempt to find Carly Wolfe at her office—followed by a successful discussion with a Gothically dressed coworker of hers—two hours after Booker’s call Hunter drove through a rundown neighborhood lined with derelict warehouses. What was Carly thinking of, doing an interview here? It was far from the upscale, trendy end of Miami, and the moment he’d turned into the questionable section of town his senses had gone on alert.
Hunter pulled in front of the metal building that corresponded with the address he’d been given, parking behind a blue Mini Cooper that looked pretty new, and completely out of place. He turned off his car and spied Carly coming up the alley bisecting a pair of ramshackle warehouses. Her attention was on her cell phone conversation.
His moment of triumph was replaced by an uneasy wariness as two twenty-something males exited a warehouse door behind her, following Carly. Both looked big enough to play defensive end for a professional football team. With sweatshirt hoods covering their heads, shoulders hunched, and hands shoved into their pockets, their posture was either in defense against the unusually chilly air…or because they were hiding something.
Their steps cocky and full of purpose, the menacing-looking duo called after her, their intent clearly on Carly, and Hunter’s senses rocketed from his usual tensely cautious state straight to Defcon One: battle is imminent.
Sonofabitch.
Pushing all thoughts of confrontation with Carly aside, heart pumping with the old familiar adrenaline of a pending threat, Hunter reached for his glove compartment.
“Abby,” Carly said into her cellular, plugging her other ear as she tried to hear over the garbled reception and the city noises echoing along the graffiti-covered alley. “Slow down. I can’t understand a word you’re saying.”
“He came by the office, asking where you were.” Abby’s voice was low and ominous. “Things are about to get ugly.”
Carly grinned at the doomsday prediction. Abby, Carly’s beloved Gothic friend, colleague—and perpetual pessimist—never failed to disappoint. Despite Abby’s predictions that it would end with Carly being bound, gagged and stuffed in the trunk of a car, the interview Carly had just finished with the two graffiti artists had gone better than expected. Outwardly they might resemble your basic gangsters, but their raw artistic talent had blown her away.
“Who came by?” Carly said.
“Hunter Philips.”
Carly stumbled slightly, and her heart sputtered to a stop before resuming at twice its normal rate. Gripping her phone, she tried to focus beyond the noisy traffic and a distant call from someone, somewhere. “What did you say to him?”
“Sorry, Carly,” Abby said with a moan. “I told him where you were. It’s just, well…he caught me by surprise. And he’s so…so …”
“I know,” Carly said as she puffed out a breath, sparing her friend the impossible task.
“Exactly,” Abby said, leaving Carly relieved his beyond-description effect wasn’t just on her.
He was too edgy and guarded to be a charming playboy. Too chillingly in control to play the bad boy. Beyond the iced stare he was criminally beautiful, with a dangerous appeal that was so flippin’ fascinating Carly had had a hard time focusing on her morning’s dull assignment about a new nightclub. Another earth-shattering story to add to a gripping portfolio filled with articles on the latest club, gallery or silliest hottest trend. But who could concentrate when there was someone like the enigmatic Hunter Philips filling her thoughts?
Tonight, hopefully she could keep her mind off Hunter by slaving away on her piece about the graffiti artists. Another in-depth profile arti
cle her boss probably wouldn’t publish.
With a sigh, Carly said, “Thanks for the warning, Abby.”
“Be careful, okay?” Abby said.
Carly reassured her she would and signed off, still so caught up in her attempt not to think about Hunter Philips that she didn’t notice the man who stepped in front of her, failing to adjust her stride. She smacked into a solid chest, triggering an adrenaline surge that shot her nervous system straight to nuclear meltdown…until she looked up at Hunter Philips’s face and the whole hot mess got a gazillion times worse.
While her heart added additional force to its already impressive velocity, Hunter put an arm about her waist, pulled her around, and plastered her to his side. Carly’s senses were immediately barraged with several competing sensations at once.
Hunter’s frosty slate-blue eyes were trained on the two men she’d interviewed. There was an utterly steely look in Hunter’s face. His lean, well-muscled—and protective—body was pressed against hers. And beneath his sophisticated hip-length leather jacket a hard object at his waist dug into her flank.
Alarms clanged in Carly’s head. She was aware she should recognize the article biting into her, but she couldn’t place it.
Hunter’s words reeked with cool authority as he addressed the men. “I think you two should take off,” he said, looking ready, able and more than willing to fight if need be.
Thad, one of her interviewees, took a step closer, his bad attitude reflected in his tone as he spoke to Hunter. “Who asked for your opinion?”
Wary readiness oozed from Hunter’s every pore. The two beefy young men looked as if they’d been in a brawl or two, or maybe fifty, but Hunter’s low voice remained smooth, without the tiniest hint of fear. In truth, Carly got the impression he was almost enjoying himself.
“No one asked,” Hunter said, with an undeniably dangerous edge to his tone. “But I’m giving my opinion anyway.”
Thad bristled, but Marcus, his graffiti-painting partner in crime, glanced at Hunter uneasily, as if sensing the new arrival wasn’t someone to mess with.
“Ease up, man. We’re good,” Marcus said to Hunter as he grabbed his friend by the sweatshirt and pulled him back a step. “We just wanted to tell Carly she left her recorder.”
“Yeah,” the other replied with an even worse attitude. “And we ain’t asking for your help.”
Carly’s stomach tipped under the tension of this testosterone-fest run amok, but the vicious surge of flight-or-fight response had finally ebbed, leaving communication possible.
“Hunter, back off. This is Thad and Marcus,” she said, nodding at each in turn. “I just finished interviewing them.”
Hunter looked down at her, his expression confirming that he thought she’d just crawled out of the deep end of crazy.
She held out her hand toward Thad, waiting for her digital recorder. Clearly she was more distracted than she’d thought.
Thad, still glaring at Hunter, began to remove his hand from his pocket, and Hunter’s body instantly, reflexively, coiled protectively tighter. Damn, did the man ever ease up? The hard object at his left hip bit deeper into her flank, reminding her of its presence.
What the hell was that?
But focusing wasn’t easy with the feel of his body pressed against her, the smell of his woodsy cologne, and his hand curved around her hip.
As Thad placed the recorder in her hand, Carly said, “I’ll call next week to set up a time to finish.”
After a nod at Carly, Thad tossed Hunter a venomous look, and the two friends headed back down the alley toward the side door to the warehouse.
After a few seconds of watching them go, Hunter said, “You can’t be serious?”
“About what?”
“Interviewing them.”
“Why not?” Carly looked up at him, not sure if she wanted to kick his butt for insulting her tetchy interviewees or kiss him for taking them on while thinking they were a threat to her. Even with the touchy situation resolved, not a single one of his tensed muscles had relaxed—as if he didn’t quite trust it wouldn’t turn ugly. Of course, her senses were still very much in tune with every inch of his body.
And there were a lot of inches. All of them hard.
Her shoulder was jammed against a solid chest. The arm wrapped around her waist held his lean hip to hers, and his long, powerfully built thigh pressed against her leg. This was no laid-back, artsy type—her usual preference. There wasn’t a single soft spot on him. Every part was honed to perfection. And if his demeanor during a perceived threat was any indication, in a pinch his body could be used as a weapon …
With a clarity that smacked her system into heretofore unknown heart-rates, the identity of the object digging into her side suddenly became known. Ignoring the mutinous thrill, she whispered fiercely, “Is that a gun at your hip?”
It was a rhetorical question, because she knew the answer. How was she supposed to stop obsessing about the man when he showed up going all action-hero on her? And just which side of the law was he on?
Without blinking, he stared at her for a long moment, as if searching for the right way to respond. And then his lips twitched. “Perhaps I’m just happy to see you.”
After a split second of stunned adjustment, she rolled her eyes at the ridiculously old joke. “Only if there’s something seriously wrong with your anatomy.” A spark of amusement briefly lit his eyes, and she knew a comeback was forthcoming. “And forget trying to weasel your way out of my question by assuring me that there is nothing wrong with your anatomy.”
His amused tone was intentionally bland. “There’s nothing wrong with my anatomy.”
She knew that all too well, but she was also perfectly capable of admiring masculine beauty without succumbing to the appreciation. And she hoped to heaven Hunter wouldn’t wind up being the exception, because his ultra-cool aura wrapped in hard-edged alertness provided a kind of excitement no man had before. Ever.
Just remember what happened the last time you found a man intriguing and fell victim to your emotions, Carly.
She wouldn’t let her fascination sway her again. She couldn’t let her fascination sway her again. Her career was only just now recovering.
“Who are you?” She pulled herself from his grasp and turned to face him, ignoring her crushing disappointment at the loss of his touch. “And don’t tell me you’re a simple network security consultant because by the end of that show I knew you were more. And today proves my instincts right.”
He looked down at her with the intense focus that always set her on guard. “What else do your instincts tell you?” he said.
That she’d never met anyone like the enigmatic Hunter Philips. That no man had ever intrigued her so thoroughly. But mostly that he was a force to be reckoned with.
“That you could have taken those two guys down with your bare hands,” she said, staring up at him, knowing in her heart it was true.
After a long pause with no response from Hunter she debated her next move. She was dying for a visual confirmation of the object that adorned his hip, and there was only one ploy she could think of to accomplish her goal. He was decidedly more dangerous than she’d originally believed, which meant she should pass on the plan. Her palms were growing damp at the thought.
Don’t do it, Carly. Don’t do it.
Oh…what the hell.
Tamping down her nerves, she stepped even closer, his nearness providing her with a forbidden adrenaline rush. “I think you could have taken them on bare-handed without so much as wrinkling your clothes.” She began circling him slowly, not having to work hard at the sensual tone. “Not a mark on your pressed white shirt …” As she rounded his side his alert gaze followed her with a keen interest that prickled her skin. Sweat pricked between her breasts. “Not a crease in your dark pants …” She ignored his probing, assessing eyes, afraid she’d lose her nerve. “Or the classy black leather jacket …”
Heart thumping harder, she stopped in front
of him and began to run her fingers down the edge of his sleek coat, as if to feel the material. What would he do when she tried to take a look?
“Am I right?” Fingers on his lapel, she risked a glance at those oh-so observant eyes, now lit with awareness, and an exhilarating rush skittered up her spine. “Would you have delivered two right hooks and emerged victorious and wrinkle-free?” Tense with anticipation, she began to lift the edge of his coat to get a peek at his hip.
Brow creased in subdued humor, Hunter pulled his jacket back in place, blocking her view. “Maybe.”
Good God, he was a tease.
She dropped her hand to her side, the disappointment intense. Damn. The more she learned, the more captivating he became—and the more she wanted to uncover.
In light of everything, an interesting possibility suddenly dawned bright. She narrowed her eyes. “Are you a former crook?” Her answer came in the form of a quizzical eyebrow. “You know …” She tipped her head curiously. “One of those high-tech, illegal hacker guys who gets caught, serves his time, and then starts a security firm helping businesses protect themselves from people like them.”
Hunter leaned back against the graffiti-plastered alley wall, crossing his arms. He seemed entertained by the question. Truthfully, he seemed entertained by the entire situation. And he appeared intent on driving her crazy by not answering, along with goading her every chance he got.
“What does your gut say?” he said.
“My gut says there is more to you than meets the eye.” Carly crossed the pavement and turned to lean a shoulder against the metal wall beside him, close enough to get his attention. Hopefully his full attention, without compromising her own.
She had to hike her chin to meet his gaze. Flirting with a man your own height was so much easier. Flirting with a guy when you weren’t sure which side of the law he fell on …?
She lifted a brow. “Are you going to answer my question?” Not one of those beautifully wrought muscles moved. His ready-for-anything aura was undeniably fascinating. “For all I know you’re a threat I should run screaming in the other direction to avoid.”