Читать книгу A Scent of Seduction - Colleen Collins - Страница 7

“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.”