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A Scent of Seduction
Colleen Collins


Kathryn Walters may once have been a career-obsessed book editor with a libido that fell asleep in the time-out corner, but no more. Ever since she and Coyote Sullivan—sports editor and Native American hottie—shared a sniff of a supposed lust potion, things have really heated up. So much so that she's abandoned her nightly fantasies in favor of a much steamier reality.But are the fireworks the real deal? Or is this fling the result of the potion? And if the stuff isn't fake, what do they do when the bottle runs dry?









A SCENT OF SEDUCTION

Colleen Collins





TORONTO • NEW YORK • LONDON AMSTERDAM • PARIS • SYDNEY • HAMBURG STOCKHOLM • ATHENS • TOKYO • MILAN • MADRID PRAGUE • WARSAW • BUDAPEST • AUCKLAND


To Carrie Alexander and Jamie Sobrato




Contents


Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Coming Next Month




1


STRIDING DOWN a line of cubicles, Kathryn Walters checked her wristwatch, the Tag Heuer she’d treated herself to after her promotion to San Diego Times book editor a year ago. Eight forty-five. She huffed a breath, mentally cursing the nonstop phone calls she’d juggled this morning, more than she typically received in an entire day, all in response to her book review in yesterday’s Sunday edition. The way people were reacting—most titillated, a few outraged—you’d think she’d marched naked through the streets twirling a flaming baton, not merely reviewed a murder mystery.

An erotic murder mystery.

Kathryn loved experimenting with the book section, introducing little-known authors and cutting-edge stories. She’d purposefully chosen Bound in Brasilia for its darkly erotic tone and kick-ass murder mystery, both of which lured the reader into its world of sex, crime and suspense. Especially the sex.

She couldn’t help but smile to herself. It had been a calculated risk reviewing something certain people might view as porn, but she’d figured the word of mouth could garner her more reader votes for the coveted Crest of the Wave award for best Times editor. The fifteen-grand prize meant she could finally make the down payment on the beach condo of her dreams. Her own home. Security.

It’d been three long years since she’d lost both, along with her career, reputation, friends—the list felt endless. Funny how naive she’d been back then, thinking that speaking up about a corporate scam was the right thing to do. She knew better now. Much smarter to keep your mouth shut, mind your own business, keep your nose to the proverbial grindstone.

Win that prize and own her home again.

An intern stumbled to a stop in front of her. “Gr-great review, Ms. Walters.”

She halted. “Thank you.”

“Are those, uh, books the kind…” A shy smile exposed braces.

She glanced around, her five-eleven stature giving her a bird’s-eye view into the cubicles. Interesting how many people had stopped working, looking up at her with titillation written all over their faces. Nice to know so many people had read Sunday’s book section.

“The kind?” she prompted, looking back at him.

He shuffled in place. “Are those books the kind you’ll be reviewing again?”

“If you mean, will I be reviewing more…thought-provoking books, the answer is yes.”

She eased past the intern, biting back a smile. Thought-provoking? More like body-provoking.

A few weeks ago, when she’d selected Bound in Brasilia for her next review, she anticipated it would shake up readers. What she hadn’t expected was how deeply it would shake up her. The protagonist’s journey into the steamy South American jungle while she tracked a shaman who ignited buried dreams had nudged Kathryn into thinking about her own long-ignored personal needs. She couldn’t even remember when she’d last taken a vacation or treated herself to a manicure, or just been lazy for an entire day. It was as though she was terrified that if she let up on herself for even a minute, she’d lose the opportunity to earn back what she’d lost.

While reading that book, she’d especially yearned to rekindle one specific long-lost need. Sex. In her zeal these past few years to rebuild her life, she’d managed to shove her libido into some deep freezer and lock the door. Thanks to Bound in Brasilia, however, that door had blasted open. Oh, she stayed focused on work, still put in more overtime than anyone else at the Times, but her overstimulated brain cells were tickling and teasing her at every opportunity, fabricating all kinds of scorching, experimental fantasies.

And all of them with a certain man.

Coyote Sullivan.

Of course, what woman didn’t want Coyote, the Times’s cocky and impossibly sexy sports editor? The man had the dark, sultry looks of a Johnny Depp, the gambling instincts of a Donald Trump, the sexual aura of a Bono. She’d sometimes wondered if his parents had actually named him Coyote, or if he’d adopted it as he became more like the mythical animal—part trickster, part outlaw, with a gleam in his eye that said he had an appetite for all things. No wonder he invaded her daytime—and especially nighttime—fantasies. Oh, to be wicked with a man like that.

But her attraction was more than just superficial hots. At odd moments, she’d caught glimpses of her former self in him, those parts she’d once enjoyed and had worked hard to bury. Sometimes it was the sound of his boisterous, carefree laughter that made her recall a time when she didn’t worry so much. Other times it was the gleeful way he went after something—a story, a bet—that made her miss how she’d once lived life greedily, eager for the next experience.

Occasionally she even had the crazy thought that experiencing Coyote would transform her. Not into the woman she once was—that woman was long gone—but into someone new, someone unafraid to live fully again, who celebrated her self instead of denying it.

Brushing back her shoulder-length hair, Kathryn strode into the kitchen, smiling at the crossed-out S in the Watch Out for Spillage sign over the sink. Being early November, people were revving up for the holidays, getting in a more playful mood. A cork bulletin board on the far wall was covered with everything from a calendar of upcoming events to worker’s comp regulations. Doughnuts were piled on a plate on one of the nearby tables. The room smelled of coffee, cinnamon, and a telltale hint of Forbidden, her best pal Zoe’s—the Times gossip columnist—favorite perfume.

“Kath, baby,” murmured Zoe, peering at her through her ever-present prescription sunglasses while pouring coffee into a mug. Zoe, born to wear a miniskirt, came across as all flash and spark but Kathryn knew differently. That slight New England accent gave away her friend’s privileged roots.

“I knew you were reviewing a hot new book, but you didn’t tell me how hot.” Zoe touched a finger to her tongue and made a sizzling sound as she pressed it to her denim-skirted rump. “That book review should keep you in the lead for the Crest of the Wave.”

Kathryn tossed her heavy tote on the counter, promising herself for the nth time she’d stop lugging around so many books. “If it doesn’t piss off the conservative types too much.”

“Lots of people act incensed at anything that hints of sex, but deep down they love it. Trust me, Kath, you’re a little over a week away from making that down payment on that killer condo and taking that exotic vacation.”

“Condo, great. Vacation, who cares?” Kathryn helped herself to a mug.

“All work no play makes Kathryn—”

“A dull, but successful girl.”

Zoe blew on her coffee, giving her a knowing look. Zoe was one of the few who knew about Kathryn’s crash-and-burn past, empathized with it, but didn’t approve of her friend’s workaholic tendencies to make up for it. In Zoe’s world, there were far better ways to soothe old wounds.

“So,” she said conspiratorially, “how many times did you reread the good parts?”

Kathryn glanced over her shoulder to ensure they were alone, turned back to filling her cup with hot water. “Oh, maybe two times.”

“Two times what?”

“Anyone ever tell you you’re incorrigible?”

“All the time.”

Giving up a grin, Kathryn dipped a tea bag into her cup. A light scent of chamomile laced the air. “If you must know, enough times to memorize a particular scene on a train and add a few jungle-hot details of my own.”

“Girl, it’s time to make those fantasies come true.”

“Like I have the time.”

“Hon, make some.”

Kathryn started to retort something about her priorities, when a familiar, boisterous laugh filled the room.

Her body went on alert.

It was him.

The man who’d been stoking her fantasies, driving her crazy with desire, making her nights damn near unbearable.

She slid a look over her shoulder, watching Coyote stroll into the room with one of his staff sports writers. He dipped his six-foot-plus height to catch his buddy’s comments. Coyote’s chocolate-brown eyes twinkled as they joked, his teeth flashed white against the mocha of his skin. He was, quite literally, tall, dark and handsome. Not the kind of commercial handsome seen on billboards and TV, but a rougher-edged look, a raw masculine appeal that wasn’t completely polished.

Today he wore a tangerine-colored Polo shirt that accentuated his broad shoulders and tan khaki pants that covered thick, drawn-out legs. He wore his hair rakishly long, which was either a trend, his derision for convention or simply the fact the man had better things to do than remember mundane events like haircut appointments.

She’d often seen him jogging at lunch, his muscular body barely concealed beneath tank tops and shorts, and had thought his grace of movement belied his cockiness. The same way his laugh lines contradicted the arrogance in his articles.

He turned and caught her looking at him.

Heat feathered over her.

They held each other’s stare.

Her inner thighs tingled as his gaze flicked downward, slowly following the line of her body, then back up until those lethal brown eyes met hers again. What she read in his look was blunt, hot, candid.

Just when she thought her hormones couldn’t take any more, one corner of his mouth lifted in a lazy, sexy grin, pushing her mind into that train scene….

The hero and heroine in a darkened compartment. Outside the window, a swirl of lush jungle foliage, the cry of a bird. Inside, the air drenched with humidity and lust. The man and woman morphing into Coyote and Kathryn, panting for breaths as they ripped and tugged at their clothes, the wheels clattering faster, their hearts racing, the temperature rising—

“Kathryn,” said Coyote, interrupting her thoughts, “looks like it’s just the two of us.”

“The two—?” Had he read her mind?

He held up his hand, fingers splayed wide. “I’m only five votes behind you for Crest of the Wave.”

Crest of the Wave. Right.

“Great,” she lied.

“Cool, there’s still some left,” he said, distracted by the plate piled with baked goods. He helped himself to a doughnut. As he took a bite, he shot a glance at Kathryn that made her insides liquefy. A long moment passed as they stared at each other again.

Coyote grabbed a second doughnut, then left the room with his buddy, the two of them arguing good-naturedly about the Lakers’ ability to pull off a three-peat.

Left alone again with Zoe, Kathryn unbuttoned her jacket. “It’s hot in here.”

“It’s hot wherever that man goes,” Zoe said with a wink. “I think he likes you.”

“He likes anything in a skirt,” Kathryn muttered as she grabbed her tote. Rummaging through it for a breath mint, her fingers wrapped around a small, clear plastic bottle she used to keep vitamins in. She pulled it out, frowned at its current contents—a pale, somewhat viscous liquid. She smiled.

“I’d almost forgotten I had this—remember?” She held it up for Zoe to see.

“Is that the bohunk potion that strange little man tried to sell us a few weeks back? I thought Ethan turned it over to the police crime lab.”

Ethan Ramsey, the crime-desk reporter and their happy-hours pal. “He did. After I filched a sample.”

“Kathryn Walters! Ms. Law-Abiding Citizen stole something?”

“Filching isn’t stealing, is it?” She laughed. “Blame it on that book. Lately I just have these urges to…well, break a few rules.”

“About time. Life isn’t a dress rehearsal, you know.” Zoe held the vial up to the light. “It sparkles a little.”

Kathryn peered at it. “Where?”

Zoe tilted the vial. “There. See?”

If anything, it had a luminescence to it, like moonlight on water. But then, Kathryn and Zoe often had different takes on things. “Uh-huh,” Kathryn said noncommittally.

“So, did you try it out?”

Kathryn rolled her eyes. “Yeah, sure, while in my jammies watching Jay Leno. Seriously, even if I’d remembered it was in my tote, the stuff’s bogus.”

“That shop owner told a pretty compelling story, though. How it’s a Yucatán love potion extracted from the jaguar, known for its mysterious scent that seduces the other beasts of the jungle. Had some kind of funky name—”

“Balam K’am-bi. A Mayan dialect that stands for �jaguar’ and �sex.’”

“Count on you to remember the details. I really dug the part where he said the stuff gives the world’s greatest sexual experiences to those who dare to use it.”

“He gave a good sales pitch.”

“Yeah, gave me some good ideas where to dab it, too.”

“Zoe.”

“Incorrigible, I know. But you have to admit, Kath, what happened between Ethan and Nicole was pretty amazing.”

“Like I know? I never see Ethan anymore.”

“Me neither. That’s because he’s so busy after hours with a certain police officer named Nicole.” Zoe wriggled her eyebrows.

“About time. He’s had a thing for her forever.” Kathryn frowned. “I know this sounds crazy, but before Ethan disappeared from our lives, didn’t he accidentally spill some of that potion on himself?”

“Don’t be so in-between-the-lines, Kath. You think that potion had something to do with the sudden combustion between him and Nicole?”

She thought about that for a moment. “No, they’d been attracted to each other way before then.”

“Yeah, kinda blows the whole lust-potion theory.” Zoe pushed the sunglasses up into her curly auburn hair and blinked. “Not that I ever believed a word of it, of course.”

“Me, too. Although you’re right—that swarthy little fellow’s tale was compelling. No wonder he made a killing selling it to unsuspecting tourists. Everyone yearns for—”

“Great sex and lots of it.” Zoe took the top off the bottle. “Kath, girlfriend, you can’t live off yesterday’s orgasms. The difference between a nonexistent sex life and a fab-ul-oso one is often mind over matter. Trust me, just thinking you’re gonna get some spectacular nooky can make it happen.”

“Well, it’s been fun talking about nooky or the lack thereof, but I gotta go.” She glanced at her wrist. “That editorial-and-management team meeting is starting in a few.”

Zoe playfully touched a little potion behind Kathryn’s right ear. “Go forth and team build, baby.”



KATHRYN ENTERED the conference room and looked around at the twenty or so people, most clustered in groups, chatting and laughing. She’d attended plenty of meetings in this room, but today it felt different. As though she could follow the threads of everyone’s conversations, even sense people’s varying moods.

Such as Lester, the fiftysomething business editor and office curmudgeon, who sat off by himself with a when-will-this-be-over gloom on his face. Or the flirtatious heat generating from Coyote and one of the newsroom assistants, a twentysomething stuffed into tight clothes with long, blond-streaked hair—one of those women Kathryn called the Beyonce-Wannabe-Babes. The young woman laughed and coyly touched Coyote on his arm.

Like I care, thought Kathryn, knowing full well she did. Well, not much.

Yeah, sure, that’s why he’s heating up your dreams every night.

“Treats, everyone!” trilled the food editor, Gail Rhodes, interrupting Kathryn’s mental dialogue. Gail sailed into the room carrying a tray of baked items, the trail of her jasmine perfume mixing with the scent of chocolate wafting off her tray.

Not like me to be so sensitized to everything. Had to be the combination of people’s reactions to the review, the stress of the contest and now a dreaded team-building jail term. Normally at a function like this, Kathryn would sit up front, paying attention and taking copious notes. That now seemed downright silly. Notes at a team-building meeting? Gee, that seemed about as interesting as writing a review of an accounting book.

Kathryn veered toward the back of the room, deciding the best way to survive the next two hours of rah-rah, go-team-ness would be to sit somewhere away from ground zero. Several times as she brushed past someone, she swore she got that look again. Titillated.

“Are those tricks or treats, Gail?” barked Lester.

“Chocolate cherry muffins made with no sugar or fat.”

“Just what I thought,” he mumbled. “Tricks.”

Kathryn had always liked Lester, one of those people who never gave a rat’s ass what people thought of him. An excellent neighbor for the next few hours.

As she settled onto a seat next to him, she asked, “Not up for counting fat grams today?”

He shot her a look. “My idea of a balanced diet is a cheeseburger in each hand, but don’t tell Gail. That woman would have me tarred and feathered.”

“Or buttered and floured.” While setting down her tote, it caught between their chairs.

“Let me help.” He grunted while lifting it. “What the hell do you carry in here?”

“Girl stuff and books.”

Grumbling something about lead-filled girl stuff, he leaned forward just as she did, and their heads lightly bumped. When their gazes met, he too was giving her that look.

“It was only a review, Lester.”

He gave his head a shake, his expression slowly returning to its usual disgruntled state. “What review?”

Gail suddenly appeared, sans goodies, in a swirl of pink and glittering jewelry. She reminded Kathryn of one of those mothers in a fifties sitcom, overly pressed and poised as though reality never touched her.

“Mind if I join y’all?” Not waiting for an answer, she sat primly on the other side of Lester, who shot a beleaguered look at Kathryn.

“Should’ve taken a muffin,” she said under her breath.

She heard a familiar, deep-throated laugh behind her, followed by a whiff of men’s cologne—spicy, earthy—as a husky male voice whispered into her ear, “Your book doesn’t match its cover.”

Coyote.

His breath puffed hot against her ear, sending small fires skittering along her skin. She flashed on something she’d once read about the coyote being heard before it’s seen.

She turned slightly, her eyes locking with those warm brown ones. She’d never been so near to him, never fully noticed the thickness of his hair or its rich, inky-black color. His face was a marvel of flat, angular planes, indicative of his Native American heritage.

Don’t stare at the man. Say something.

She cleared her throat, frantically backpedaling to recall what they’d been talking about. Oh, right. The book. “Bound in Brasilia’s cover matches the book perfectly, I think.” As if, sitting this close to Coyote, she even remembered.

“Not that book,” he said teasingly. “I mean our book editor’s cover—” his eyes slid down her knockoff designer pants suit, back up “—doesn’t match what’s inside.”

A moment of sexual energy crackled between them, sharp and hot, and she had the heady sensation of that delicious age-old tug-of-war between the sexes.

He moved imperceptibly closer, his eyes growing darker. “Didn’t mean to insult you.”

“You didn’t insult me,” she whispered, her heartbeat accelerating.

One corner of his mouth lifted. “Then tell me what I did do.”

Or what I want you to do. She swore she felt the heat pumping off his body, caught the play of light in his eyes that was downright predatory. The man of her dreams was merging with the very real man staring at her as though he could consume her, head to toe, right here and now. And she suddenly knew no fantasy—no matter how hot, hedonistic, uninhibited—would be as amazing as experiencing the real thing with Coyote.

“Attention, everyone!” chirped the woman at the front of the room, clapping her hands loudly. “Our team building is about to begin!”

With great effort, and no small regret, Kathryn turned around and pretended to pay attention.



COYOTE LEANED back in his seat, eyeing the flush filling Kathryn’s cheeks. She’d tried to act cool—tried—but he’d caught the flash of heat in her eyes. Like distant lightning, warning of an approaching storm.

Oh, yeah, the book editor’s insides were a lot different than her tightly wrapped cover.

Up until a few weeks ago, he hadn’t paid much attention to Kathryn, having written her off as one of those power-hungry career types who preferred getting ahead over having a life. But lately he’d caught some simmering looks from her that had sparked his interest. Unusual, because she wasn’t his type. He liked big breasts, big hair, and as little clothes as possible. Women who played it loose, fun, easy. Unlike Kathryn, who had tight ass written all over her.

Or so he’d thought.

He scraped his hand along his jaw, thinking he’d have to check out the book review people were talking about. She didn’t seem the type to invite controversy, but she’d also not seemed the type to look at him as though figuring out if she wanted him over easy or hard. As the old saying went, still waters ran deep.

A thought hit him. She chose that book to get people’s attention, for herself. A risk, sure, but great odds. After all, sex sells. Or in this case, sex equaled more votes for Kathryn Walters for the Crest of the Wave. Slick move on her part.

Except she had a little problem between her and the prize.

Him.

He loved to win.

And that fifteen-grand prize wouldn’t hurt, either.

Maybe she intrigued him, but that didn’t mean she dulled his competitive edge. He was, after all, the Coyote, accustomed to playing both sides against the other.

Only in this case, he bet he could take the prize and Kathryn, too.



FIFTEEN MINUTES LATER, everyone stood in groups of three or four. In Kathryn’s were herself, Lester, Gail and—heaven help her—Coyote.

She felt jittery, as though she’d consumed too much caffeine, although all she’d had this morning was herbal tea. Part of her recent getting-healthy diet, although suddenly the thought of no chocolate was tantamount to going a lifetime without sex.

She’d much prefer to have her chocolate and her sex, hopefully at the same time.

She slid Coyote a look, thinking how cruel the karma gods could be. She was this close to winning the Crest of the Wave, and the guy who made her want to break her diet and dip herself in Godiva was gaining, fast. She needed to keep her wits about her to compete with him, not get all gooey inside every time he was near.

Inside. Insides.

So that’s what he meant by her cover not matching her insides. Well, it was true. She just thought she’d been hiding it better. Or maybe she had been, except it seemed little got past Coyote and his sharpened instincts.

“Okay, everyone!” said the moderator into the microphone, “we’re going to start things off with a little warmth and love.”

“I need a drink,” muttered Lester.

Gail blinked at him. “That would only give you a lot of empty calories—”

“Oh, shut up.”

“I’d like each group,” continued the moderator, “to give each other a hug.”

There was a long moment of awkward silence in the room. Someone giggled.

“I’m serious,” said the woman, smiling broadly. “I know you all work hard, sometimes even compete with each other—”

Kathryn and Coyote exchanged a look.

“—but let’s put all that aside and kick off this event with a big group welcoming hug.”

After a pause, Coyote opened his arms wide. “Let’s go for it, gang,” he said lightheartedly, placing his arms around Gail’s and Kathryn’s shoulders. “Come on, Lester, it won’t kill you.”

“Says who?” With a hefty sigh, he placed his beefy arms around the women.

The four of them moved forward, closing the space.

Coyote smelled Gail’s flowery perfume, heard Lester’s mutterings, felt a silky strand across his cheek…Kathryn’s hair.

Someone stumbled, causing him to lean into her. His face pressed into soft hair scented with coconut shampoo. He turned his head, trying to right himself, and his mouth brushed against a patch of exquisitely soft skin behind her ear…

The moment of contact was like a jolt, followed by a rush of hot, aching need that flooded his body. The need surged higher and deeper and hotter. He rode the strong tidal pulsing, caught in the churn of a desire unlike anything he’d ever experienced before—intensely carnal and at the same time revelatory as though it held an answer. And he almost held on to this answer, except a fog crept over his mind, and the answer faded and disappeared into nothingness.

He stood there, fuzzy headed over exactly what had just transpired.

With great effort, he pulled away and looked into Kathryn’s eyes, vaguely aware he’d never noticed their color before, blue like a languid summer sky. Or the light flush of her flawless skin. Or the ripe pink of her mouth.

It was as though he’d never seen her before.

And at the same time, he felt as though he’d known her forever. That she’d always been, and would always be, a part of his life.

A haziness descended over him and he gave his head a small shake. For a man who’d always prided himself on knowing the stakes and playing to the edge, he felt damn clueless about what had just transpired.




2


“PUT THISQUESTION in your column, dog. Does Spencer �The Monster’ Maxson have what it takes to make a comeback? I can answer unequivi—unequi—Shit, what’s that word?”

“Unequivocally.” Coyote signaled the bartender as he and Spencer took their seats. Late-afternoon sunlight sifted through the thatched roof over the bar, part of the tropical decor at San Diego’s trendy rooftop watering hole, Taboo.

“Unquiv—what you said.” The neighboring stool creaked under Spencer’s two-hundred-sixty-plus-pound frame. “The answer is yessir, I got what it takes. That shoulder injury is a thing of the past. Shit, my shoulder’s not just mended, it’s evolved.”

“Don’t push it, Spence. Remember that time your hamstring was acting up—”

“Hey, I just wanna get on the field to show what I got. Check this out.” Spencer flexed his massive brown arm, decorated with a bright yellow lightning-bolt tattoo. Several women down the bar craned their necks for a better look.

“Better than Popeye,” Coyote said.

“Better? If that dude were still alive, he’d turn greener than his spinach lookin’ at The Monster’s bicep.”

“I don’t think Popeye died.”

“Huh?”

“He’s a cartoon character.”

Spencer snorted, dropped the pose. “I knew that. Anyway, all I’m sayin’ is I’m ready to come through in the red zone for the Stars.”

The L.A. Stars, the new NFL team for Los Angeles. Everybody was eagerly watching the new team’s first season, and Coyote knew Spencer felt the pressure to perform not just well, but damn well.

“Glad to have you back, Coyote,” greeted the bartender, her long blond hair pulled back in a ponytail. She wore a sea-green tank top decorated with palm trees, hula dancers and the word Taboo in silver sequins across her chest. “Your usual?”

“Thanks, Eva.”

While Spencer ordered, Coyote scanned the roof and its lagoonlike pool, scattered teakwood tables and plush couches nestled in private cabanas—all with a view of the distant bay. This was a great date spot—women loved curling up in those cabanas to watch the sun go down. Today, however, was business. A get-together for the Times employees and their friends hosted by none other than the publisher, Anthony Tallant, himself. Cash bar, but the treats—trays heaped with exotic-looking appetizers being circulated by waiters—were free for the taking. When a daily paper splurged on anything, it meant good news.

In the center of the rooftop loomed a copper fountain nestled between swaying potted palms. The metal sparkled gold and orange under the gurgling cascade of water. Nearby stood the associate sports editor, Dean Rock, who flashed Coyote a baleful look. Poor Dean, cornered by Barbara Bitterman, the managing editor, who was undoubtedly spouting corporate tripe ad nauseam. Which was why Coyote made it a habit to be too busy to attend bullshit management meetings and send his associate sports editor instead.

Tallant, impeccably dressed in his usual three-piece suit, strolled from table to table while glad-handing employees. Coyote respected Tallant for his energy and drive but didn’t entirely trust the man. But then, Coyote didn’t trust anyone who’d been “to the manor born,” which was a world apart from the subsidized housing he grew up in, where a walk to school meant sidestepping winos and junkies.

At the end of the bar sat Lester, staring off into the distance and looking like a puppy that’d lost its favorite toy. Lester, pining?

Coyote followed his line of vision.

His breath hitched.

Kathryn.

Across the rooftop, she sat at a small table with Zoe, their heads bent toward each other conspiratorially as they talked. Sea breezes lifted and played with Kathryn’s hair, which she’d occasionally brush out of her eyes. Despite the scattered conversations, clinking glasses, and waiters barking orders at busboys, he could still catch fragments of Kathryn’s low, throaty laughter. The sound rippled toward him, warm and inviting and sensual.

Her suit jacket lay draped over the back of an empty chair next to her. She wore a short-sleeve green blouse that looked almost prim the way it buttoned neatly to her neck. In contrast, its simple look accentuated her long, slender arms. When she talked, she had a way of gesturing that reminded him of a dancer. Poised, elegant. Had she learned that in dance classes, or was sophistication inbred?

Funny how he knew more than he wanted to know about Anthony Tallant’s blue-blooded heritage, Ivy League education and three marriages, but he hadn’t a clue about Kathryn’s past. He’d never overheard her talking about her family or where she’d gone to college or if there was a Mr. Kathryn.

Coyote paused on that last one.

Was there a man in her life? He’d never seen a ring. And as he recalled, she’d shown up solo at the company Christmas party. But he didn’t need those clues. Any woman who kept up the work hours she did wasn’t going home to a warm bed.

His attention followed the curve of her pale arm, to how the wind rippled and pressed the thin fabric against her breasts. Her round, pert breasts. He ran his tongue along the inside of his bottom lip, imagining the supple, soft texture of her skin. How it’d feel to kiss her, tangle his tongue with hers, to taste her…

He’d found her interesting lately, but his interest was bordering on an obsession after this morning’s crazy group hug.

He’d thought about it all day, trying to analyze what exactly had happened at that moment of contact. He’d analyzed sports plays for years, from who threw the ball to whom and how that affected the outcome of whatever, but damn if he could come up with a blow-by-blow of what had transpired with Kathryn. All he knew was he’d been swept up in a tsunami of heat and need, caught up in a wild churn of needs and desires. In the midst of the chaos, that epiphany—that she was the one—had risen in his mind only to disappear in the fog that descended. Then he’d been left standing there, disoriented and fuzzy brained and wondering what the hell had just happened.

If one hug had affected him like that, he was dead meat should…

“Dollar for your thoughts, man,” said Spencer.

Coyote scrubbed his knuckle across his chin, avoiding his pal’s scrutiny. “Just thinking.”

“Didn’t know that kinda look was called thinking.”

“Didn’t know you’d suddenly become a psychic, reading people’s thoughts.” Coyote snagged an appetizer off a passing tray, a pygmy piece of toast with a glob of green on top.

“Didn’t know you’d suddenly gotten testy about your lady-man self.”

Coyote chewed, knowing his pal was right. It wasn’t like him, but then he hadn’t felt much like himself today. Or since this morning, to be exact. He was edgier, more restless. Except for the few moments when he wasn’t hot and bothered thinking about Kathryn. “Sorry, man.”

“Nothin’ wrong with standing your ground, dog. Lemme see…so you were just thinking about, maybe, that redhead in the corner?” He cocked a look at Coyote. “Very cute. For you, I mean. The Monster Man, of course, ain’t looking.”

“You’d be a fool to. Kimmy’s a catch.”

“You’re preaching to the choir.” Spencer grinned, flashing a silver bicuspid. “She’s class, sass, and if I ever even thought about fooling around, she’d burn my…” He widened his eyes dramatically.

Coyote laughed. He’d always liked Kimberly, Spencer’s soon-to-be wife. Being a personal trainer, she well understood an athlete’s temperament. More important, she was the grounding force in Spencer’s life. Because what made him a stellar athlete—his willingness to push himself, go to the extreme—could also be his weakness. When that weakness had toppled him, Coyote and others had seen Spencer through the rough times and now he was back on top, at the top of his game.

“Anyway, I wasn’t checking out the redhead.”

“Oh?” Spencer waited.

“Do I have to tell you everything?”

“I tell you everything, dog.”

It was true. Back in Spencer’s days with the San Diego Chargers, he’d been Coyote’s mole, helping him get scoops no other writer in the NFL market could snag. In a way, it was Spencer who’d helped open the door to the promotion, which put Coyote in the prestigious position of being one of the youngest sports editors in the NFL market.

“Okay, I was checking out her friend.”

Spencer glanced back at the table. “The librarian?”

“Editor.”

“Same thing.”

“Hey, I’m an editor, too.”

“Yeah, but you write about sports. What kinda editor is she?”

“Book.”

Spencer snorted. “That’s what I’m talking ’bout. Librarian. All uptight and rule-freaky. Not your type.”

Coyote would have said the same thing a month ago. Hell, even two weeks ago. Uptight Kathryn in her coordinated suits, sensible shoes, all-business attitude. But just as the fate of a game could change in the blink of an eye, so could a guy’s take on a woman.

Or so he’d learned today.

“Word to the wise,” he said, putting an arm around Spencer. “Never judge a book by its cover.”

“Excuse me, Mr. Maxson?” interrupted a suit sitting on the far side of Spencer. “Can I get an autograph for my wife?”

While Spencer made small talk and signed, Coyote turned, seeking Kathryn.

She looked up and caught his gaze.

And in that moment, he swore the world shifted, changed, intensified. The distant bay sparkled brighter, the temperature spiked, and damn if her scent didn’t ride the salt-tinged air and wash over him, again and again, stoking his need, firing his imagination, taking him higher, hotter….

Blowing out a puff of breath, he massaged his eyes with a thumb and forefinger. He was no stranger to a member of the opposite sex getting under his skin, but what was brewing between him and Kathryn made him feel out of control and more than a little crazy. He liked his life to be predictable, easy, comfortable. Which meant sidestepping romantic entanglements. Well, serious romantic entanglements. His life had been serious enough growing up. These were his fun, carousing, devil-may-care days, and he planned to keep it that way.

“Here’s your beer.” Eva set down two bottles.

“Thanks,” he said, sliding a ten at her. “Keep the change.”

“You’re welcome, Coyote.” She folded the bill, slipped it down her top and gave him one of those looks.

“I’m waiting for someone,” he lied.

She paused, the smile a tad slow in coming. “Guess I misread the weather report,” she said softly before heading down the bar to another customer.

Coyote took a pull on his brew, turned, and settled his gaze back on Kathryn.

Who was watching him with a funny half smile.

He smiled back, hoping she hadn’t caught that little Eva exchange.

She gave him an amused look.

Okay, she had. To change the subject, he held up his hand, fingers splayed wide. Five votes behind you, baby.

Was that a “you don’t say” smirk?

He held up four fingers. Three. Two. One. He waved bye-bye.

She made an O with her lips as though to say, Oh, that’s what you think.

He leaned back against the bar, liking this teasing game. Liking Kathryn revealing her playful side.

After a moment, she raised her forefinger.

He frowned. One?

With a mischievous grin, she slowly lowered her finger until it rested on the edge of her drink. After a pause, she circled her finger around the rim of her glass, staring at him with a look that made his prick wake up. She seemed too far away for him to see details, and yet it was crystal clear how she let her finger slide down the side of her glass. Down, up, her finger traced a deliberate path in the trickling moisture that made him ache for more. He could almost feel her warm hand cupping him, the teasing scratch of her nails, the increasing pressure, the searching, playing, squeezing…

A spasm of primal need ripped through him and for a hot, suspended moment, all he could think about was getting inside her and working her, hard, making her crazy the way she was making him.

Next to him, Spencer was wrapping up—“Dude, it’s always great to meet a fan”—and would soon be back in Coyote’s face with his damn “Now, what’re you thinking?” routine, meaning it was time to take a time-out.

Meeting her gaze, he flicked his tongue across the lip of his beer.

Her eyes widened.

After a just-you-wait smile, he turned away, resisting the urge to douse himself with his beer. Instead, he took a long, cold drink, although it would take a lot more to temper the fires raging in his body.



“COYOTE’S STARING at you,” murmured Zoe before taking a sip of her cosmopolitan.

“And I’m staring back,” whispered Kathryn. In spite of herself—the self who’d made a career these past few years practicing common sense and restraint—she was staring boldly at the man, her nerves electrified like a pile of iron filings streaming toward a magnet.

Sunlight seeped through the thatched roof over the bar, causing shimmering bands of yellow to fall across his black hair, which in the muted light had the color of varnished mahogany. The falling light emphasized the flat, angular planes of his face. He’d changed into jeans and a T-shirt—probably kept a spare set of clothes handy at work for sports events—and she thought how he was one of those men who looked as hot dressed up as he did down. No surprise that sexy bartender had flirted with him, although slipping the bill down her top seemed, well, a bit tame. A man like Coyote deserved something more naughty, daring, experimental.

Although Mr. Daring had a bit of a sheepish expression at the moment.

She arched an eyebrow, telegraphing that yes, indeed, she’d witnessed it.

He shrugged. After a beat, he held up his hand, fingers splayed wide.

Five fingers. Oh. She got it. For the five votes he was tailing her. Cocky, wasn’t he?

As though he’d heard that thought, he confirmed it with his trademark canary-eating grin that grew as he went to four fingers, three, two, one. Then, with a catch-me-if-you-can wink, he waved at her.

He thinks he’s going to pass me, and I can eat his dust. Wily Coyote, thinking he had the game all tied up before the outcome, eh?

Time to play a new game.

She raised one finger.

He frowned.

With a sly grin, she lowered her finger until it rested on the edge of her glass. Then, slowly, she circled her finger around its rim, staring at him with a look that only a dead man wouldn’t feel.

He leaned forward, an unholy gleam in his eyes.

For a moment, an old tape played in Kathryn’s head. Don’t play in your own backyard if you want to get ahead and rebuild your life. All that matters is security, security, security.

Security, security, security.

It’d been her mantra for three long years. Whenever she had some downtime, an afternoon to be lazy, or the opportunity to play hooky and do something unpredictable and—gasp—fun, the old tape played again. Security, security, security.

Screw that.

It mattered, yes, but not at the expense of living, for crissake. In Bound in Brasilia, the protagonist was both a kick-ass businesswoman and a hot, sexually adventurous woman. So what if that world was fiction? Couldn’t Kathryn make it real in her own life? Because now was her opportunity. Something had been sizzling between her and Coyote ever since this morning, and if she ignored it or pretended it’d never happened, she’d miss out.

She trailed her finger slowly, deliberately around the edge of her glass, keeping her eyes locked with Coyote’s. Around, then down the side of the glass, cupping the curve of the glass and letting her fingers lightly play, touch and tease, feeling a jolt of pure female sexual power as she watched him. She felt wild and empowered by her boldness.

Empowered and wicked and downright take-me-now sexy.

She swore she could feel Coyote’s reactions to her. Electric. White-hot. Just like in her nighttime dreams when he’d magically appear and they’d act out one erotic episode after another from the book. Although those scenes were set in the jungles of Brazil, a far more exotic locale than sitting here at a rooftop bar, sipping a spritzer.

Although if she let her mind go, the overhead sun could be set in Brazilian skies, the distant, crashing waves could be faraway pulsing drums, and the sweet taste of her drink was juice from an overripe mango, slices of which had been hand-fed to her by Coyote.

Their gazes held for a prolonged moment, during which she swore her heart was pounding more wildly than imagined distant drums. He raised his bottle of beer, drawing her attention to his lips. Broad, seductive lips that fit perfectly into the angles of his face.

Lightly, he flicked the tip of his tongue against the lip of the bottle. Once. Followed by a direct look that described everything else that would follow.

She shuddered as a trickle of sweat coursed its way between her breasts.

“Earth to Kathryn.”

Coyote looked away, breaking the spell.

“Huh?”

Zoe waggled her red-tipped fingers at Kathryn. “Girl, if anybody had walked between the Coyote and you, they’d have melted.”

Her career-minded self didn’t want to be company gossip. She’d seen office flirtations that had seemed merely playful to the participants end up scandalizing a career. Especially a woman’s career.

She flattened her hands on the tabletop. “You think people saw?”

Zoe shook her head. “It’s too crowded, plus the Time-sters are too self-centered to care about much except themselves.” She motioned to a plate of appetizers. “While you were in the Coyote Zone, I nailed us some appetizers. These bacon-wrapped scallops are positively orgasmic. You should have one. Or three.”

Kathryn’s mind nearly short-circuited imagining multiple orgasms with Coyote.

“You’ve been holding back, Kath. When did you and Coyote link up? Spill.” Zoe popped the appetizer into her mouth.

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you. And we haven’t linked up—” although, heaven help her when they did “—more like we’ve felt each other’s vibes.”

Zoe did a double take. “Picking up vibes?” She laughed. “You sound so sixties!”

“Peace and love, baby.”

“Is this my best pal, the career-climbing book editor and nun-in-training? That’s either the best wine spritzer in the world or you’ve finally come to your senses and decided to walk a few baby steps on the wild side. And it’s about time. You’ve been on the success treadmill for the past three years with zero time off. You need to step off the conveyer belt and wiggle your toes in the hot sand.”

They sat in silence for a moment, surrounded by chattering voices and clinking glasses. Overhead, white seagulls flew in lazy circles in a clear blue sky.

“I need to confess something,” Kathryn whispered.

“Something wicked, I hope?”

“Beyond wicked.”

“Beyond?” Zoe scooted her chair closer. “Tell mama all about it.”




3


“HAVE YOU EVER been in a perfectly normal situation,” murmured Kathryn, swiping a strand of hair from her eyes, “and had someone’s touch—just a touch—transport you to a place where anything goes?”

“Hot damn,” Zoe breathed, her eyes wide behind her sunglasses. “This is getting good. Where was this so-called-normal situation?”

“This morning’s team-building meeting.” Kathryn picked up a cracker heaped with cream cheese and caviar. “I’ve been thinking about it all afternoon. In fact, I can hardly think of anything else. It’s been hell trying to get any work done, let me tell you. Girl, I’m ravenous.” She gobbled the laden cracker.

“You tease. Stuffing your mouth on the verge of a major confession. Who touched you?”

Chewing, she reached for another appetizer while shooting Zoe a look.

“Okay, duh, Coyote. Hot. Now, tell all. How? Why? Where?”

“You’ll think I’m crazy.” She picked out a coconut shrimp and took a bite. “Wow,” she said around the mouthful. “This is fantastic. I’ve never tasted anything this yummy before.”

“Shrimp, great. Back to crazy, I dare you to show me one totally sane person at the Times, and that includes our pal Ethan, whose well-mannered Britishness fools people into assuming he’s sane, but I digress.”

Kathryn looked around. “Speaking of Ethan, where is he?”

“Gone again. Probably off with his new ladylove. I think our pal’s lady-killer days are a thing of the past. But enough about his sex life.” Zoe wiggled her eyebrows. “Let’s talk about yours.”

“I don’t have a sex life.” Kathryn finished off the coconut shrimp.

“Not yet, you mean.”

Kathryn’s focus drifted back to Coyote, who was talking with his mountain-size buddy at the bar. The way he slouched casually against the bar, the taut muscles of his back evident underneath the T-shirt, triggered a tiny shudder that rippled down her body and settled between her legs.

A flash of movement caught her eye. At the far end of the bar sat Lester, waving at her. She almost didn’t recognize him because of his ear-to-ear grin.

“What’s with Lester?” asked Zoe. “He hates company parties.”

“Maybe the free appetizers lured him.” She gave him a return wave, turned back to Zoe. “Where were we?”

“You confessing. Me all ears. Coyote touched you and I want every hot, kinky detail right now.”

“Right.”

Kathryn reached for another appetizer, but Zoe’s hand stopped her. “Appetizers can wait. Besides, I thought you were on a diet. Not that I think you need to be on one,” she added quickly.

Kathryn had almost forgotten about her all-important diet, yet another item on her constantly evolving list of Important Things to Do, none of which were any fun. “Screw the diet. So what if I have a round tushie, it’s my tushie, and I’m gonna love it anyway.”

“Tushie, great. Back to the confessional.”

“Okay. At the team-building meeting this morning, we were instructed to do a group hug.”

“How lame.”

“I know. I thought Lester was going to bolt, but Coyote said, �Let’s just do it…’” Do it. She bet Coyote knew all kinds of ways to do it. All kinds of inappropriate, illicit, downright dog-dirty ways. She pressed her suddenly moist palms against her slacks.

“Let’s? So it was you, Lester and Coyote group-hugging?”

“And Gail.” She paused, unsure how to explain what happened next.

“That’s it? The four of you group-hugged?”

Kathryn nodded.

“That’s the most boring story I’ve ever heard. You skipped the good part.”

“Yes, well, we moved together to hug,” she said carefully, still trying to piece together in her own mind what had happened, “and somebody lost their balance, causing Coyote to fall against me, or maybe I fell against him.” She paused, thinking. “No, no, he fell against me and next thing I knew his lips were brushing against a spot behind my ear. You know, that soft patch of skin right behind your ear that when touched or softly blown on makes your skin prickle all over?”

Zoe fanned herself with a cocktail napkin. “Oh, to be soft-patch kissed by a man like that.”

They each helped themselves to an appetizer and noshed for a long moment in silence. Over the speakers, a Jack Johnson tune played, its kick-back surfer beat underscored by the distant, crashing waves.

Zoe finally broke the silence. “So, was that the end of your confession?”

“No. After Coyote’s lips brushed that soft patch, we were still hugging, or maybe clinging to each other, or maybe I was clinging to Coyote, anyway, suddenly my world—” She raised her right hand as though taking an oath. “I swear, Zoe, my world rocked off its axis.” She picked up her glass and downed the rest of her drink.

Zoe peered at her over the top of her sunglasses. “Please don’t tell me you’ve been without so long that you took advantage of a group hug to cling to the hunk in the group.”

Kathryn’s jaw dropped. “That’s ridic—”

“I’m worried about you, Kath. You’re emerging from a long dry spell. I think we should hire you a booty call or something so you can vent some steam before you fall into another group hug.”

“Oh, I get it. Zoe’s being funny. Ha-ha.”

Zoe leveled her a look.

“You’re serious.” Kathryn crossed her arms. “You, Ms. Wild Thang, who by the way was totally with me on how a simple touch could rock a person’s world, don’t believe something out of this world happened during an off-kilter group hug?” After a moment of silence, she sighed heavily. “How much do you think a booty call would cost?”

“Why, there you are, darling!” From across the rooftop, Gail Rhodes, her cheeks as pink as her dress, called out to their table. “I’ve been looking all over for you!”

“Is she talking to us?” whispered Zoe.

Kathryn lowered her voice. “She’s been calling me every hour on the hour since that damn team meeting.”

“You clung to her, too?”

Kathryn gave Zoe a look.

“Sorry,” Zoe murmured just as Gail descended on their table in a cloud of jasmine-scented perfume.

“Imagine!” Gail said breathlessly, batting her eyes at Kathryn, “we see each other again.”

“Imagine,” Kathryn muttered.

“Is that seat taken?” Gail asked, pointing to the empty chair with Kathryn’s jacket tossed over its back.

“No,” said Zoe.

“Yes,” said Kathryn.

“Yes,” corrected Zoe quickly. She shrugged apologetically to Kathryn. “I forgot.”

Gail pouted her disappointment. “So, what’re you girls drinking?” Her bracelets jangled as she gestured toward their glasses.

“Cosmo,” said Zoe.

“Spritzer.”

“Yours looks empty,” Gail said, leaning closer to Kathryn. Through lowered, thick lashes, she murmured, “Let me get you a refill.”

Without waiting for an answer, she leaned over and plucked the glass, managing to lightly press the back of her hand against Kathryn’s arm in the process. Her face close to Kathryn’s, she whispered, “Anything else you’d like?”

Kathryn literally felt her jaw drop. Gathering her wits, she finally managed a barely audible “No.”

“Because I’d do anything—”

“No! I only want a spritzer. That’s all. Nothing else.”

With a sly wink, Gail left in a swirl of pink and jasmine.

“I see muffins in your future,” murmured Zoe as they watched Gail sashay away.

Kathryn helped herself to a sip of Zoe’s drink. Setting down the glass, she said, “I know what the problem is. Nothing happened in that group hug. This is all happening because of that book I reviewed. Everyone’s seeing me in a new light.”

“Yeah, a hot spotlight. Although Gail Rhodes…? I mean, I thought she was a die-hard hetero. Not that I’m prejudiced or anything, but that woman was flirting with you.”

“I think it’s time for me to leave,” Kathryn said, scooting back her chair.

A ting-ting-tinging sound drew everyone’s attention. Next to the fountain, Barry Huttner, the Times’s chief operating officer, tapped the side of a glass with a knife.

“Everyone, your attention, please!” he said. As the conversations quieted, he continued, “Our publisher, Mr. Tallant, would like to say a few words.”

“Wonderful.” Kathryn sat back down. “I’m stuck.”

Anthony Tallant walked up to the fountain, carrying himself with the confidence of a man who’d never known struggle. “Thank you, everyone, for joining us on this lovely afternoon at Taboo. I hope you’re enjoying the appetizers, courtesy of the Times.”

Somebody whooped, followed by a ripple of laughter.

“Well, one person is obviously enjoying them,” he quipped, then grew serious. “As all of you know, the Times turns one-hundred-thirty-five-years old this year, a milestone for not only the oldest paper in the state, but also San Diego County’s oldest business.”

More applause.

“One reason the paper has survived this long is its willingness to take risks and tackle new ideas. This year my vision has been for the paper to increase its readership, and toward that means we kicked off the Crest of the Wave, awarded by the most readers’votes for their favorite Times editor. I’m very pleased that since we announced this contest, our circulation has increased seven percent.” He waited for applause. “And although votes are still coming in, we can safely say the winner will be one of two people who’ve taken the lead. In fact, the reader response has been so fantastic, we’ve decided to put Kathryn and Coyote on the road.”

Someone yelled, “Road trip!”

Kathryn froze.

Coyote laughed out loud.

“Not literally on a road trip,” said Tallant. “But down the road to a PR event. Tomorrow, they’ll be at Ocean Beach to hand out prizes for a surfing competition, to be covered of course by the San Diego Times.”

Tallant talked for a few more minutes before wrapping up with his customary “thanks for the hard work” sign-off. As he exited, shaking hands, people started milling about again. Gail was at the bar, ordering.

“Tell Gail I had to go.” Kathryn stood, grabbed her jacket, still more than a little in shock she’d be giving out awards for a surfing contest. She reached into her purse. “Give her a ten for me, okay?”

Zoe waved her hand. “I’ll get it. Better leave while the leaving’s good.”

With a nod, Kathryn did. She headed quickly to the elevators.

At street level, she walked briskly down the street. Traffic hummed, palm trees swayed and the horizon glowed pink and orange with the setting sun.

What did people wear to surfing-award ceremonies? One thing she was certain of, a knockoff designer business suit was hardly surf-babe attire. Maybe she’d stop at a little dress shop tomorrow, purchase something new. A summer dress. Sandals. Maybe a cute sweater to go with it. Never knew about California beach weather—could be cold or hot, even in the dead of winter.

She thought of Coyote looking at her, the way his eyes had devoured her.

Maybe she’d also buy some very sexy underwear. White, sheer, lacy.

Security, security, security.

The old voice was back. Now that she was away from the party atmosphere, security again took a front-row seat in her mind. She needed to win the Crest of the Wave to buy her dream condo with the beachfront view, not lose her head—and future—over a teenage infatuation.

“That’s right, don’t blow it,” she lectured herself. So what if the man was a walking molten mojo, she had to keep her head on straight.

She pulled back her shoulders, picked up her pace and walked purposefully down the sidewalk. Going somewhere, having a purpose, rebuilding security, that’s what really mattered.

Which she kept reminding herself all the way home, because somehow it didn’t ring as true as it once had.



THE NEXT DAY, at 4:50 p.m. sharp, Coyote stood partway down Ocean Beach Pier looking east down the long walkway toward its entrance. Late-afternoon fog had rolled in, cutting visibility to fifteen or twenty feet. Everything else was cloaked in gray, giving the world a surreal effect.

He’d been standing here for ten minutes, watching for Kathryn.

He checked his watch again. Four fifty-one. He was never a clock watcher, except when it came to sports, but today he was on pins and needles waiting and watching for her. The award ceremony kicked off in nine minutes. At the end of the pier, several hundred or so feet behind him, surfers, family, fans and a ragtag assortment of the media—mostly from the Times—were gathered for the festivities. He’d already passed the word to his team that this story and photo were to be on page one of tomorrow’s sports section, and no way was Kathryn being late going to blow it for him. He’d be in the photo shoot solo, if need be.

Come to think of it, that wasn’t such a bad idea.

His picture, his name, his do-gooding for handing out awards. There was a whole new, younger audience who’d see that photo and cast their votes for him.

A cold wind whipped past, and he buttoned his jacket. Time to split, get back to the ceremony. If Kathryn didn’t make it on time, tough. To the Coyote would go the spoils.

He started walking to the end of the pier.

Soft running steps behind him.

He turned back and saw the form of a woman, her hair flying as she ran in his direction.

Kathryn.

As she grew closer, the mist cleared and he saw her more clearly. Her hair flying, the hem of her long polka-dot dress—make that red polka dots—fluttering behind her, a smile on her face when she recognized him.

She reached him, heaving breaths.

“Hi,” she said, sweeping a ringlet of hair off her cheek. She wore a bright red sweater that nearly matched the flush in her cheeks.

“I was worried you’d be late,” he mumbled, trying to sound worried.

“Me, too.” She laughed lightly. “Me, late! Can you imagine?”

Believe me, I tried. “No, it’s difficult to imagine.”

He wrapped her arm through his—it felt so natural, as though they’d done this a hundred times—and began walking with her. A little boy tossed a piece of bread into the air. A flutter of white broke through the mist as seagulls descended on the food, their calls greedy and shrill.

To the victor go the spoils, although it wasn’t such a pretty sight.

“If this gets any worse, nobody’s going to be able to see their awards,” Kathryn joked.

They walked in silence for a few moments, their footsteps sounding almost hollow in the mist. Yesterday, he’d barely been able to contain himself around her, but today he was more in control. She was, too, it seemed. Which made sense, considering this PR event could mean the difference between winning and losing.

Nevertheless, he missed how he’d felt yesterday after that group hug. Crazy, teetering on a thin edge of control. He’d never felt that intensely over a woman before.

He glanced at her dress, realizing those weren’t red polka dots, but cherries. Bright red cherries, all over her. A zing of attraction zigzagged through him.

“You look nice.”

“Thank you. I thought I’d wear something appropriate for a surfing ceremony.” She gestured at her dress. “Well, I guess cherries don’t exactly evoke surfing, but it’s better than one of my stuffy business suits.”

He was surprised she described her work image as stuffy. Although that word pretty much nailed it. He’d long ago learned that few people took off their rose-colored glasses when analyzing themselves—everyone seemed to think they knew the best, did the best, were the best. Or maybe that came with the territory when you made a career interviewing sports stars.

Another gust of wind whipped past, and she shivered.

“You should’ve worn something warmer than that sweater.” He knew better than to insult a woman’s choice of clothes. “I mean, it’s pretty, but you’d have been better off wearing a down jacket in this weather.”

“I picked up the outfit at lunchtime when the temperatures were pushing eighty. Never crossed my mind it might get this cold by five.”

So she’d bought the dress especially for today’s event?

Or for him?

“That’s the California coast for you,” he said. “Hot one minute, a fog layer rolling in the next.” The parallel with himself didn’t escape him. He had a reputation for running hot and cold, playing artist one moment, con the next. Juggling people and events in his quest to get ahead, the way he’d been willing a few minutes ago to snatch the photo-op glory for himself only. In his defense, he’d never acted with malice, although that justification suddenly felt thin.

He stopped and shrugged out of his jacket. “Here,” he said, wrapping it around her shoulders. “This will keep you a little warmer.”

“Oh, I can’t. You’ll get cold.”

“Let me take care of you.”

He looped her arm through his again and they continued walking down the pier. And for a moment, he felt like a better man.



FORTY MINUTES LATER, at the end of the pier, the festivities were breaking up. Some people were gathering their belongings, others stood chatting in small groups. Off to the side, several teenage boys and a girl stood with their trophies while Lacey, a Times staff photographer, peered at them through the camera viewfinder.

“Say cheese,” Lacey said.

A wave crashed against the pier. Spray rained on them. “Say shred, dudes!” one of the guys yelled, causing the others to laugh.

Lacey snapped some photos. “Great!”

Straightening, she motioned to Coyote and Kathryn. “You’re next. Stand a few feet in front of the railing over there.”

Kathryn looked past the railing into the mist. Twenty or so feet out, a wave suddenly rose, dark and ghostlike, before crashing against the end of the pier. Some people squealed as its thundering impact exploded in a rain of foam and spray.

“She’s got to be kidding,” Kathryn muttered.

“It’ll make a great picture,” said Coyote, next to her. He slicked his hand through his hair.

“We’ll look ridiculous.”

“No way,” Lacey said, adjusting her equipment for the shot. “It’s a perfect shot for the Crest of the Wave. Readers will eat it up. And maybe more important, Tallant will, too.”

Kathryn grimaced as another wave thundered against the pier, the pilings shuddering from its force.

“I could always do the shot alone,” Coyote said casually.

Women would swoon over a testosterone-and-spray-drenched photo of Coyote Sullivan in the Times. She could just hear the overloaded switchboard as women callers chipped their manicures frantically phoning in their votes.

“Over my dead body,” murmured Kathryn, accepting the challenge.

They stood exactly where Lacey told them to, side by side, taking direction—“Don’t cringe…stand straight…Kathryn, stop frowning…great laugh, Coyote!”—while waves crashed and cold ocean water spewed.

Twenty minutes later, Coyote and Kathryn hurried back down Ocean Beach Pier. Along the way fishermen lined the railing, diehards who cast their luck rain or shine, scents of French fries and hamburgers wafted from vendors’ stands, and the ever-present seagulls circled and squawked.

When they were almost at the end, a kid sporting a pink Mohawk clattered toward them on a skateboard. Kathryn jumped out of the way and dropped her purse, the contents spilling on the deck.

“Sorry, dude!” the boy called out as he rattled on down the pier.

Kathryn muttered a few choice words.

“You’re full of surprises,” teased Coyote, bending to pick up some of the spilled items.

“Shocked that I cuss?”

“Pleasantly so.” He held up a large jackknife. “Maybe more shocked at this.”

“That was a gift from my dad.” She took it, dropped it into her purse. “He thought it’d be good protection.”

Coyote did a double take. “Have you? I mean, used it for protection?”

Picking up a tube of lipstick, Kathryn laughed. “No. I mostly use it to cut up food. Before he died, he gave me other things I’ve never used—a wrench set, a power drill. What can I say—he always wanted a boy.”

Coyote moved closer. “I’m sorry.”

She nodded, not really wanting to discuss the family she’d lost. So many things in her past she wanted to keep that way. Locked-up memories in a box, best left unopened.

“For the record,” he murmured, “I’m glad you’re not a boy.”

For a still moment, they looked at each other, neither pretending that what was happening between them wasn’t.

Coyote broke the spell when he looked away and picked up a small bottle. “What’s this?”

Kathryn shrugged. “Nothing. I should toss it, but I keep forgetting to.”

“Nothing?” He held it up and examined the liquid. “Perfume?”

“No.”

It was clear, and yet on closer inspection he caught within it a hint of luminescence—a ray of moonlight captured within. And yet, when turned another way, it was clear again.

“Interesting,” he murmured.

“What?”

“Here, look for yourself.” While handing it to her, the bottle slipped and toppled down a hole in one of the wooden planks.

They both stared down the hole, watching it sift through the air before landing on a patch of sand.

Kathryn made a dismissive gesture. “Like I said, I’ve been meaning to throw it away—”

“I’ll go get it.” Coyote stood. “Tide’s low. It’ll be easy to find.”

“No, really—”

But he was already jogging toward the wooden stairs that led to the beach.

She gathered the rest of the spilled contents, thinking how she’d once pegged Coyote as unapologetically self-centered—most good-looking, charming men were—yet he’d been anything but that today. Loaning her his jacket, doing his best to make her comfortable during that drenched shoot, helping her when her purse took a tumble. And now digging around in the sand for that bogus lust potion.

The guy really did seem to want to take care of her.

Her last relationship, back in Chicago before her life took a nosedive, had been with a good-looking, charming guy who always watched out for number one, himself, with Kathryn a distant second. Or fourth or fifth if she factored in his dog, buddies, career and favorite bar. She wished she could say Steve had been the only guy who behaved that way, but he wasn’t. In hindsight—which was always twenty-twenty, right?—she chalked it up to women’s stereotypical attraction to bad boys, a habit she swore she’d never repeat.

She headed for the stairs, mentally cursing the new, too-tight sandals that were about as practical for shoes as thongs were for undies. At the bottom of the stairs, she stepped onto the sand. Her feet sank like cement.

Screw the shoes.

She slipped them off and left them, along with her purse, on a stair. She hadn’t walked barefoot on the beach in years. Embarrassing, really, to think how close she was to the Pacific, yet the last time she’d been to the ocean had been aeons ago in Jersey.

Underneath the pier, the hazy daylight shifted into layered grays. Wisps of fog hovered in the air and clung to the pilings. More sensed than seen were the shadowy figures of surfers and boogie-boarders bobbing on the distant, swelling waves.

“Found it!” called out Coyote, his tall, dark form emerging through the mist.

Her breath caught at the sight of him. Even in this surreal world, his skin still had that warm, brown glow. He’d rolled up the sleeves of his beige chambray shirt, the color almost stark against his muscled, suntanned forearms. Strands of black hair fell rakishly across his forehead. She’d once heard him say he was half Kumeyaay, the band of Native Americans who’d thrived in the San Diego area centuries ago. The Times had recently run a series of articles on local tribes, and she recalled how, in the late eighteenth century, the invading Spaniards had described the Kumeyaay as fine in stature and affable, but rebellious. They’d refused to be forced laborers and had openly revolted. Eventually, they were punished with expulsion from their ancestral homes.

She understood how it felt to leave one’s home and forced to adapt to a new lifestyle, a new community. For all their differences, she and Coyote shared something profound and fundamental.

The loss of roots.

He walked toward her, sniffing the open bottle. “Smells like…nothing.”

“Told you.”

He gave her a teasing smile. “Not like a woman to carry a bottle of something that’s nothing.”

“It’s a long story.”

“If it’s anything like your taste in books, I bet it’s a very interesting story.”

Heat flooded her cheeks. “You read it?”

“Bound in Brasilia? Yes. Well, the first four or so chapters. I bought it on the way home last night and read it after I went to bed.”

A hot wave swept over her as she imagined Coyote lying in bed doing anything.

He touched his finger to the vial opening and tipped the bottle slightly. “Is it a breath freshener?”

“It’s bogus.”

“Bogus?”

No way she was going to tell Coyote about the smarmy little man and his fabricated story of a lust potion and jaguars and sex and sex and…

She curled her toes in the sand as though that helped ground her. “Bogus, nothing, nada. All the same meaning.”

“And you’re carrying around nada because—?”

Oh, sure, she could just hear herself explaining this one. Well, it appears this weird little man dropped a vial of lust potion into Zoe’s purse, which she later discovered and handed over to Ethan who has connections to the police crime lab. It’s rumored unsuspecting tourists in dire need of a sex fix have been plunking down good money for this tap water, so it seemed wise to have the evidence analyzed. How did I end up with some? Oh, I got a wild hair and filched it.

“You’re right, it’s breath freshener,” she lied. “I’ve had it so long, it’s probably lost its minty taste.”

He righted the bottle, a drop of the liquid on his forefinger. “Let’s see. Stick out your tongue.”

She shook her head. “This is ridic—”

“You say that too much. You need to trust more.” He gave her a look. “And play more.”

The way he said play caused a flame of hot, ripe need to sputter to life within her.

She stuck out her tongue.

“Adventurous, I like that,” he teased, touching her tongue, lightly, with his finger.

She paused, tasting it. “Like I said, nothing—”

Her words halted as a subtle tingling started on the very tip of her tongue. Warm, as though she’d tasted a potent spice, or a chili, yet the heat wasn’t painful. On the contrary, it was pleasurable. Intensely so.

The sensation filled her mouth, raced down her throat, flooded her chest. She sucked in a breath, surprised how the chilly air instantly warmed upon entering her body. The tingling spread from her chest to her fingers, down her legs to her toes, until her entire body felt consumed with heat. A cascade of smells followed, crowding her senses—the ocean, fried foods from the pier café, Coyote’s masculine scent.

Oh, yes, his scent.

That was the most powerful. Soap from his morning shower, the natural musk of his skin, a splash of his earthy cologne. The sum total basic, shameless and teasing. Just like the man.

“Kathryn?”

She hadn’t realized she’d closed her eyes. She had some difficulty opening them, as though awakening from a trance. When she finally did, she stared into his eyes, mesmerized. Had she ever noticed how black, fathomless, shiny they were? Like polished obsidian.

“Are you all right?” Concern creased his features.

His rich, deep voice resonated through her.

“Everything,” she murmured huskily, “is wonderful. You’re wonderful.”

He looked taken aback, even as a grin slow-danced across his face. “Uh, thank you. You’re wonderful, too.”

“Mmmmmmm.”

One side of his mouth still curled in a sexy grin, he suddenly looked down at his hand. “Whatever that nothing in this bottle was, it’s a warm nothing.” He flexed his fingers. “I swear the feeling’s traveling up my arm.”

She nodded, half taking in his words, more absorbed with her own carnal thoughts. Such as how his skin, all deliciously brown and sun kissed, turned her on. How would it feel to press her lips against that skin? To lick, rub, bite, devour? Just thinking about it was like holding a match to an already fuel-drenched libido. Erotic thoughts and ideas ignited, fired and exploded in her mind, heating her trembling body, accelerating her heartbeat until she swore if she didn’t do something, now, she’d implode.

“Come here, Coyote,” she whispered, picking out one of the more deliciously wanton fantasies. “Let’s play a game.”




4


COYOTE STOOD stock-still. Words raced and tumbled and plummeted through his mind, but not a damn one made it out of his mouth.

She wants to play a game.

Not that he hadn’t had his share of lively propositions before. Or indulged in some imaginative romps. Life, after all, was a feast and most poor fools were starving to death.

No, what left him speechless was how Kathryn had managed to sidestep the first, and often awkward, steps of the mating dance and waltzed straight to the heart of the matter. Let’s play a game. No cajoling, intimations, suggestions—none of the push-and-pull doublespeak that typically went on between a man and a woman. It was refreshing, and frankly damn sexy, to hear a woman say exactly what she wanted.

But it was more than simply her words. That was like saying fire was simply light, or a thunderstorm merely wet. It was how she’d evolved, almost overnight, from the all-business, no-nonsense woman he’d known at work to this hot, sexy, take-no-prisoners babe.

He’d never, never again judge a book by its cover.

She leaned seductively against a pier piling, her eyes damn near scorching his with their relentless intensity. If that bold, downright carnal look in her eyes indicated what kind of game she had in mind, he’d better fasten his seat belt, because he was in for one hell of a ride.

He cleared his suddenly dry throat. “What kind of game?”

She flashed him a don’t-you-just-want-to-know look.

That did it.

Raging male instinct roared through his veins as he fought the urge to cross the space and possess her, right here and now, over and over on this vast bed of sand.

But he didn’t.

Instead, he held back and attempted to cool his need with slow, deliberate breaths. Even if all he wanted was slick, sweaty, pounding-hard sex, he didn’t want it so bad that he blew it before the coin toss, so to speak.

He never got this worked up so early in a game—any game. Even last year when he had the plum job of covering the Super Bowl for the Times—the kind of perk that made his enemies put him on their Christmas gift lists—he was more in control sitting at the fifty-yard line with thousands of screaming, frenzied fans than he was here, underneath a pier, with only Kathryn.

A breeze lifted the hem of her pretty cherry-printed dress, and his attention dropped to catch a provocative flash of thigh. And, for a blood-boiling moment, he fantasized about what lay higher. Maybe a strip of filmy, translucent material that offered a mouthwatering peek of dark, curling hair. His palms grew sweaty, his chest ached, and just as his cock filled to bursting, the dress fluttered back down.

He emitted a low, painful groan.

Obviously the elements were on her side, working in tandem to torture him. His gaze dipped past the nowdemure hem hovering slightly below her knees, over her shapely bare calves, to her bare feet—when had she slipped off her shoes? Her fair, creamy skin told him this wasn’t the kind of woman who spent much time out of doors, if at all. And yet, here she was outside, barefoot—the sand, ocean and fog her backdrop.

She dragged one foot ever so slowly, seductively, in the sand while emitting a drawn-out, needy sigh that could have enticed Adam to forgo that one measly bite and devour the entire apple whole.

Coyote’s gaze lurched back up over the red-hot sea of cherries to those devilish eyes.

“What kind of game?”

He’d barely repeated the question when the tingling he’d felt in his hand spiked. He looked down and flexed his fingers, amazed at the building warmth that radiated up his arm and infused his chest. But it wasn’t just physical warmth. He also experienced a growing euphoria, almost dizzying in its intensity.

“Kathryn,” he murmured, thinking those damn cherries seemed to pulse a brighter red. Blood pumped hard and fast through his veins and if he could think through the all-consuming lust, maybe he could express more than saying her name while devouring her with his eyes.

“You’re,” he rasped, dragging a hand through his damp hair, “so…damn…hot.”

Hot, hot, hot. Kathryn could feel the word reverberating through her entire body. She sucked in a deep breath, her heart racing at the sight of Coyote. A film of moisture sheened his broad forehead, across which a strand of his jet-black hair loosely fell. He’d always had a dangerous ambience that naturally surrounded him, but right now it seemed darker, wilder, as though the predator was emerging through the man.

They stood staring at each other, their eyes probing deeply, silently into the other’s. The game had seemed easy at first, but now it had a perilous edge. It had become a force to be reckoned with, the way a storm crackles and flares on the horizon and you frantically bolt windows and doors to protect yourself from its imminent onslaught.

She breathed in deeply, filling her lungs with the brisk salt air. As she released it, whatever lingering concerns she had flowed out. Forget bolting windows and doors. I don’t want to protect myself from feeling. I’ve done that for too long. It’s time to discover the new Kathryn.

With that last thought, some small, lingering piece of resistance finally melted. At the same time, her senses notched up, and she felt acutely aware of everything around her. The sea air was sharper, the distant sunlight near radiant as rays probed the cocoon of fog, the outlying waves thunderous in their never-ending rise and fall. She’d never before felt so alive, so charged, so ready. Nothing felt wrong, and everything felt right.

“The game,” she murmured, “is like the one at the very beginning of Bound in Brasilia.” He’d read the first few chapters, so he knew what she was referring to. “Remember when they decided to reenact a previous meeting with their sensual truth?”

“I remember they screwed on a beach.”

She couldn’t hold back a soft gurgle of laughter. Trust a man and woman to describe it differently. “Well, I’m talking about what led up to that.”

In the story, the sexual tension had been taut as the protagonist insists the man tell her what he feels and wants, in great detail, before she lets him touch her. He describes his feelings, then his fantasies until their sexual excitement can no longer be contained.

Kathryn wanted that, too. With Coyote.

“Remember at the Taboo yesterday,” she asked, “when you held up your hand?”

“To tease you about my being five votes behind.”

“We surmised each other’s thoughts and feelings.”

His beautiful lips curved into a big, lopsided grin. “That we did, baby.”

Baby. She liked the deep tenor of his voice when he said the word. Deep and familiar.

“And, for the most part, we were right in our assumptions.”

He nodded.

“But if we’d been alone, as we are now, where the only real rule is that there are none, what might you have said to me?”

She smoothed a hand down her damp dress. Funny how she’d scurried down the pier, fighting both the chill of being doused and the cool weather, hunched into herself as though that provided protection.

Yet now her body felt deliciously warm. Almost too much so.

She unzipped his jacket, relishing the rush of coolness against her hot skin.

He rubbed a hand across his jaw, watching the zipper go slowly down before his eyes returned to hers. He lifted his hand, fingers splayed wide as they’d been yesterday.

“I remember a story my mother used to tell, about the mythical Coyote being responsible, in a roundabout way, for people having five fingers. You see, he and the Lizard, who were the very first beings, tried to make humans. But they fought bitterly because Coyote wanted to make them be just like himself while Lizard argued that if they did that, people could never eat or take hold of anything. Eventually, Lizard made people to have five fingers on each hand.”

She paused, then sputtered a laugh. “I set up this fantasy, and you tell a story about Coyote and Lizard?”

He smiled somberly. “My honesty is like the Coyote’s. It’s not always what I do directly in life that makes a difference, it’s often what I do indirectly.”

The moment dragged out so long, she began to wonder if she’d done the right thing. Her entire body might be quivering in anticipation, but that didn’t stop small, betraying thoughts from creeping to the surface. Security, security…

“What does that have to do with—”

“Shh,” he said, holding one finger to his lips, before holding up his hand again. “I’m letting the honesty of my words lead the honesty of my actions.”

Which was what the game was about. Being honest. Sensually, erotically honest.

Something passed between them, something as direct and powerful and potentially combustible as a line of gunpowder leading to an explosive device. She knew he felt it, too, this wild, flammable need ricocheting wildly between them. And the only thing that mattered was satisfying that need.

As though on cue, they shared a smile and whatever last, niggling reservations she had suddenly lifted, like a wisp of fog into the air.

He waggled his fingers lightly in the air, bringing the focus back to his previous topic.

It crossed her mind that he had elegant hands. Brown, long, tapered. Beautiful, really. She’d never thought that before about a man’s hands. But then, Coyote was a man of contradictions. Crafty one moment, open the next. Coarse, then sophisticated. No surprise this tall, dark and impossibly masculine man would have beautiful hands.

“I’m going to tell you how my five fingers represent my five senses.” He held up his forefinger. “The first is for sight.” He looked at her as though memorizing the moment. “I love how you look right now. How the sea has coaxed curls in your hair and misted your skin. It makes you look more alive, more primed.”




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