Читать книгу A Scent of Seduction - Colleen Collins, Colleen Collins - Страница 5

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.