Dare She Kiss & Tell?

‘Oh, my, what a fantastic debut by Aimee Carson. I loved it! It really has everything that I like in a good contemporary romance: a feisty heroine who is far from perfect, snappy dialogue and sizzling chemistry—and I mean sizzling. *That* scene in the elevator…whew! The romance and relationship between Alyssa and Paulo is actually quite simple, but perfectly done. Aimee’s writing flows beautifully, and she has created two great characters. I applaud her for Alyssa’s “bad girl” roots, I loved her! The book is well written and developed, with plenty of sass and sparkle. I can’t wait to read more from Aimee in the future.’

—everyday-is-the-same.blogspot.com on

SECRET HISTORY OF A GOOD GIRL

About the Author

The summer she turned eleven, AIMEE CARSON left the children’s section of the library and entered an aisle full of Mills & Boon® novels. She promptly pulled out a book, sat on the floor, and read the entire story. It has been a love affair that has lasted for over thirty years.

Despite a fantastic job working part-time as a physician in the Alaskan Bush (think Northern Exposure and ER, minus the beautiful mountains and George Clooney), she also enjoys being at home in the gorgeous Black Hills of South Dakota, riding her dirt bike with her three wonderful kids and beyond patient husband. But, whether she’s at home or at work, every morning is spent creating the stories she loves so much. Her motto? Life is too short to do anything less than what you absolutely love. She counts herself lucky to have two jobs she adores, and incredibly blessed to be a part of Mills & Boon’s family of talented authors.

Aimee Carson’s first book,

SECRET HISTORY OF A GOOD GIRL,

was published in

Mills &

Boon Loves …

a collection of novels from our fantastic new authors.

The collection is still available to buy from

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Dare She Kiss & Tell?

Aimee Carson

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

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To my dog, Akiko,

who is really just a cat incognito.

Thanks for the entertaining attitude.

CHAPTER ONE

ARMS crossed, legs braced shoulder width apart, Hunter Philips stood in the Green Room at Miami’s WTDU TV station and studied the woman on the monitor, mentally preparing for the upcoming clash. On screen Carly Wolfe smiled at the talk-show host and the audience. The little troublemaker was prettier than he’d imagined, with long, glossy brown hair pulled forward over one shoulder and elegant legs crossed. Her leopard print slip dress was flirty and seductively short, matching a pair of killer heels. An outfit perfect for the host’s live midnight show, but mostly for visually seducing a guy into a stupor of compliance. Every man in the viewing area with a functioning libido was quite likely licking their TV screen about now.

Clearly smitten, the blond talk-show host leaned back in his chair, his mahogany desk catty-corner to the leather love seat where Carly Wolfe sat. “I enjoyed your daily blog accounts of your…shall we say …” Brian O’Connor’s smile grew bigger “…creative attempts to obtain Hunter Philips’s comment before running your story in the Miami Insider. Owning a network security consultant business must leave him little time for the press.”

Her smile was warm and genuine. “I was told he’s a very busy man.”

“How many times did you contact him?”

“I called his secretary six times.” The woman laced her fingers, hooking them at the end of her knee, and sent the host a delightfully mischievous look. “Seven if you count my attempt to hire his company to help with my social networking security settings.”

The wave of laughter from the audience blended with the host’s chuckle. He was clearly charmed by his guest, and Hunter’s lips twisted in a humorless smile. Carly Wolfe’s fun-loving nature had the audience firmly twined around her delicate pinky finger, which meant Hunter was in some serious trouble.

“I don’t know for sure,” Brian O’Connor said, oozing the easy sarcasm that made him so popular with the heavily sought-after twenty-to-thirty-five-year-old demographic, “but I imagine Hunter Philips’s company usually deals with more complicated accounts than simple social networking settings.”

A playful twinkle appeared in her gaze. “That’s the impression I got from his secretary.”

Hunter stared at Carly’s captivating amber-colored eyes and creamy skin, his body appreciating the entire package. Physical attraction he’d learned to ignore, but these last few weeks he’d grown intrigued and amused as Carly Wolfe’s attempts to get his comment had proved increasingly more ingenious. Unfortunately the sassy sex appeal and the spirited sense of fun was an irresistible combination.

No doubt she’d learned to use her charms to her advantage.

Despite the need to pace, the urge to move, Hunter remained still, mentally running through his options for handling the journalist as he assessed her on the monitor. Years ago he’d undergone extensive training, learning how to wait patiently and ignore the chaotic pump of adrenaline surging through his body—no matter the danger. And what did it say about the sad state of his life when danger now came in the form of a pretty reporter?

Hunter forced himself to listen as the host went on.

“Ms. Wolfe,” Brian O’Connor said. “For those few Miamians who haven’t read your article, tell us about the program Hunter Philips created that has you so upset with him.”

“It’s a break-up app called ‘The Ditchinator,’” she said. There was a second ripple of laughter from the audience, and Hunter’s lips twisted wryly. Leave it to Pete Booker, his partner, to choose an insulting name. “Voicemail, text messages, even email,” she went on. “We’ve all been dumped coldheartedly before.” She turned to the audience with an inviting smile that called for solidarity among the rejected. “Am I right?”

A rousing round of applause and whistles broke out from the crowd, and Hunter grimaced. His reason for designing apps on the side was to fight his growing restlessness—an uneasy edginess he couldn’t explain—not to bring about a potential PR problem for his company. Especially with a program he’d created eight years ago during a moment of weakness. He never should have given his partner the go-ahead to rework the idea.

Forcing his attention back to the monitor, Hunter listened as the host addressed Carly. “Are you still interested in speaking with Mr. Philips?”

“I’m more than interested, Brian,” Carly Wolfe said. “I’m dying to talk to him—if only for a minute.” She turned her winning expression toward the audience, and her beguiling charm reached through the television screen and tugged hard on Hunter’s libido. “What do you guys think?” she said. “Should I keep pursuing Mr. Philips to hear what he has to say for himself?”

It was clear from the whoops and cheers that the audience was ready to string Hunter up, and his muscles tightened with tension, like rubber bands stretched to the max.

Long ago he’d been secretly tried, convicted, before being metaphorically hung for being the bad guy—all thanks to another beautiful reporter who had needed her story. This time he had every intention of fighting back…with any means necessary.

“Mr. Philips?” a crew member said as he entered the room. “You’re on in one minute.”

With the announcement of a commercial break, Carly relaxed in the love seat arranged diagonally to the host. She hoped Hunter Philips was watching the show and saw that the audience was as fired up about his insulting app as she was.

She was no stranger to humiliation—was becoming quite the expert, in fact. And who hadn’t experienced an impersonal break-up these days? But the memory of Jeremy’s insensitive Ditchinator message boiled Carly’s blood. If he’d simply broken it off with a quick text message she would have been over him in about forty-eight hours. Okay, probably less. The way she’d learned Thomas had dumped her—via a newspaper article and, worse, to save his financial bottom line—had been a theme park ride of embarrassment, minus the thrills and fun. The Ditchinator took the experience in a different direction. It was heartless, for sure. But the worst part? It was so…so…flippant.

And just how horrendous would it have been if she’d actually been in love?

There was no way she was going to let the elusive Hunter Philips remain in the shadows, raking in money at other people’s painful expense.

The commercial break over, the host said, “We were lucky to receive a surprise phone call today. Ms. Wolfe, you’re about to get your wish.”

Carly froze, a strong sense of foreboding and inevitability curling in her chest, and she forgot to breathe as the host went on.

“Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome to the show the creator of The Ditchinator—Mr. Hunter Philips.”

An electric flash zapped Carly’s every nerve, leaving her body numb. Great. After chasing Hunter Philips for weeks, he’d trumped her maneuvers by turning up when she was most unprepared. Crafty little devil.

Stunned, and irritatingly impressed by his move, Carly felt her heart hammer, and she forced herself to breathe as the man appeared, heading toward her amid the audience’s applause. He wore dark pants and a classy black, long-sleeved knit shirt that hugged a chest too delicious to contemplate. Talk about feeling unprepared. Delectable torsos could definitely prove to be a distraction.

His dark hair was short on the sides, with just the right amount of thickness on top. His tall frame, replete with lean muscle, moved with a sinewy grace that exuded a lethal readiness—conjuring images of a night prowler poised to pounce.

Carly had the distinct impression she was the target.

Brian O’Connor stood as the man strode toward the couch and the two shook hands across the desk. The applause died down as Hunter Philips sat on the love seat beside her. The leather cushion dipped slightly…and Carly’s stomach along with it.

The host said, “So, Mr. Philips—”

“Hunter.”

The man’s voice was smooth, yet with an underlying core of steel that triggered Carly’s internal alarms, confirming that this was not a man to treat lightly. But after all the stunts she’d pulled, well…it was too late to back down now.

“Hunter,” the host repeated. “Miami has been following Ms. Wolfe’s blog updates as she tried several unusual techniques to get you to comment before she ran her column, and I’d like to know what you thought of her attempts.”

Hunter Philips shifted in the seat to face her, his intense iced-blue eyes landing on Carly. A static energy bristled along her nerves, paralyzing her. A classic “deer meets headlights” moment.

Hunter’s smile was slight. Secretive. “I was disappointed we couldn’t accept your social networking job. It sounded fascinating,” he said dryly. “And sadly,” he went on, “I wasn’t able to use the Star Trek convention tickets you sent as an enticement to accept your offer.”

An amused murmur moved through the audience—most likely because Hunter Philips was so far from the stereotype to attend such a function it was laughable.

Which was probably why Brian O’Connor was chuckling as well. “Thoughtful gift.”

Hunter Philips studied Carly, his brow crinkling mockingly. “It would have been even better if I were a fan of the franchise,” he said, his nerve-racking gaze pinning her down.

Mentally she shook herself from her stupor. Now’s your chance, Carly. Just keep it cool. Keep it easy-breezy. And for God’s sake, whatever you do, don’t let your emotions get the best of you again.

She tried for her standard disarming smile, the kind that usually won people over, holding out little hope that it would sway this darkly dangerous man next to her. “Sci-fi isn’t your thing?”

“I prefer mysteries and thrillers …”

“I’m sure you do.” He was mysterious, all right. “I’ll keep your genre preference in mind next time.”

His lips curled at one corner, more in warning than humor. “There won’t be a next time.”

“Pity.” Those watchful eyes made the hair at her neck prickle, but she refused to back down from his gaze. “Even though chasing your comment ultimately proved fruitless, it was still fun.”

The host chuckled. “I liked the story of when you tried to deliver a singing candy-gram.”

“That didn’t even get me past Security,” Carly said wryly.

Hunter lifted an eyebrow at her, even as he addressed the host. “My favorite was when she applied online for a position at my company.”

Despite her nerves, and the smoldering anger she was beginning to feel building inside her, she tried injecting a little more false charm into her smile. “I’d hoped a job interview would at least get me personal contact.”

“Personal contact is good,” Brian O’Connor commented slyly.

Hunter’s gaze grazed purposefully across her lips—setting off a firestorm of confusion in her body—before returning to her eyes. “I can see how Ms. Wolfe’s charms would be more effective in person.”

Carly’s heart contracted, and her anger climbed higher as comprehension dawned. He wasn’t simply checking her out; he was accusing her of flirting with intent. And the warning in his gaze made it clear he was less than amused. But engaging others came naturally to her. She liked people. Especially interesting people. And the fascinating Hunter Philips was overqualified for the title.

“Well …” She struggled to keep her irritation from showing. “While you specialize in avoidance, I’m much better at one-on-one.”

“Yes.” His tone held an intriguing combination of both accusation and sensual suggestion, setting her every cell thrumming. “I imagine you are.”

Her lips flattened. If she was going to be accused of using flirting as a tool, she might as well give him her best shot. She leaned a tad closer and crossed her legs in his direction, her dress creeping higher on her thigh as planned. “And you?” she said, as innocently as she could.

His glance at her legs was quick but hair-raising, followed by a look that acknowledged both her attributes and her attempt to throw him off. In contrast to the wild knocking in her chest, he was cool and collected as he went on. “It depends on who the other ‘one’ is.”

She wasn’t sure if he was truly attracted to her or not. If he was, he clearly could control himself.

“I’m good with a face-to-face with someone I find intriguing and clever,” he went on. She got the impression he was referring to her. And yet somehow…it wasn’t a compliment. “The encrypted résumé you sent to my office was interesting and creative. The simple substitution cipher you used was easy to decode, but still …” a barely perceptible nod in her direction “…it was a genius touch that ensured it got passed directly to me.”

“As one who seems overly keen on protecting information,” she said with a pointed look, “I thought you’d appreciate the effort.”

“I did.” His tiny smile screamed Caution! Trouble ahead! and his words made it clear why. “Though my silence on the matter should have been response enough.”

“A simple ‘no comment’ would have sufficed.”

“I doubt you would have settled for that.” His powerful gaze gave her the impression he knew her every thought. An impression made even more annoying by the fact that he was right—she wouldn’t have been satisfied with that easy get-out. “And since I declined your offer of a meeting,” he went on, “I’m returning the secret decoder ring you sent as a gift.”

As another twitter of amusement moved through the studio audience, Hunter reached into his pants pocket and then held out the tiny object, his gaze on hers. For a moment she detected a faint light in his eyes. Despite everything, he had been amused by her attempts to meet with him.

Stunned, she stared at him blankly.

Hunter patiently continued to hold out the ring and said dryly, “I half expected you to show up and request membership at the boxing gym I use.”

He almost sounded disappointed she hadn’t.

Feeling more confident, she smiled and held out her hand for the gag gift. “If I’d known you frequented such a facility I’d—” He placed the ring in her palm, warm fingers brushing her skin, and the electric current upped her prickly awareness of him by a billion watts. Her traitorous voice turned a tad husky. “I’d have been there.”

“I suspect you would have,” he murmured.

Carly had the feeling the man was noticing, cataloguing and storing away every detail about her. To what dark purpose she had no idea. The thought sent an illicit shimmer of excitement down her spine. Trapped in his gaze, Carly struggled for a response, but Brian O’Connor spared her the effort, announcing they were cutting to commercial.

During the break, Hunter leaned closer. “Why are you chasing me down, Ms. Wolfe?”

The confidential conversation emboldened her, and she lifted her chin. “To get you to publically admit your mean-spirited app sucks.”

He cocked his head in caution. “You’ll be waiting a long time.”

She ignored his response. “Eventually—” her smile held zero warmth “—I’m going to get you to pull it off the market so no one else has to suffer.”

“I’m curious …” His lethally secretive smile returned. “How much of your body will you expose for your cause?”

Clearly he was trying to get her riled. She fought to maintain her cool. “Which parts would prove most effective?”

“I’m open to suggestions.”

“My middle finger, perhaps?”

“I prefer rounder …” his eyes skimmed her breasts, leaving her sizzling “…softer parts.” His gaze returned to her lips. “Though your sharp tongue holds a certain appeal.”

She considered sticking her tongue out at him until his eyes returned to hers—seemingly unaffected, still unerringly focused, and full of a dangerous warning that left her breathless.

Fortunately the host announced the end of the commercial. Desperate for oxygen, and a break from Hunter’s maddening effect on her body, she tore her gaze from him back to Brian O’Connor as he addressed her.

“Now that you have Hunter’s attention,” the host said, “what would you like to say?”

Go to hell came to mind. Unfortunately this wasn’t cable—no swearing allowed.

But if she couldn’t speak her mind, she could at least get him to face the music—off-key notes and all. “On behalf of all those affected, I’d like to thank you personally for the creation of The Ditchinator and the message it sends: ‘It’s over, babe.’” In keeping with their interaction to date, she lifted an eyebrow that was outwardly flirtatious but heavy with biting subtext. “You’re quite the poet.”

“You’re easily impressed.”

“It must have taken you hours to compose.”

Hunter looked as if he wanted to smile. Whether despite her insult or because of it she wasn’t sure. “Only a few seconds, actually. But at least it’s short and to the point.”

“Oh, it’s extremely pointy, all right,” she said. She twisted on the love seat to face her opponent more directly, refusing to let him get an outward rise out of her. “But what makes the experience super-fun is the bulk email the Ditchinator sends, notifying friends and social network followers that you’re now single and available.” Her smile turned overly sweet. “Nice feature.”

“I thought so,” he said, as if she was being serious. But Hunter Philips was the sort of man who didn’t miss a thing, not with that disturbingly calculated gaze that bored into hers.

“It certainly is a time-saver,” the host said, clearly trying to rejoin the discussion.

Hunter’s intense focus remained on Carly. “I admire efficiency.”

“I’m sure you do,” she said.

“It’s a fast-paced world we live in,” Hunter returned.

“Perhaps too fast,” she said, aware they were still shutting Brian O’Connor out. Hunter wasn’t playing nice with the host. She doubted he ever played nice. And she was too engrossed in this visual and verbal duel to care.

“Care to hear my favorite feature of your app?” She threw her arm across the back of the couch and leaned closer. His woodsy scent filled her senses. “The extensive list of songs to choose from to accompany the message.”

The host chimed in. “The one I’d hate to be on the receiving end of is Tchaikovsky’s Nutcracker,” he said with an exaggerated shiver, clearly for the benefit of an amused audience.

She looked past Hunter to address Brian O’Connor, her tone laden with sarcasm. “Mr. Philips is very clever, isn’t he?” Her eyes crash-landed back on Mr. Ditchinator.

“Hunter,” the man insisted, his gaze trained on her. “And your ex-boyfriend’s choice of songs?”

“It was an extra-special title. ‘How Can I Miss You When You Won’t Go Away?’”

Though the audience gasped and snickered, Hunter Philips didn’t register the musical slight, and Brian O’Connor said, “Obscure. But effectively rude.”

“Which leaves me curious as to why Ms. Wolfe is using her column in the Miami Insider to target me,” Hunter said.

Hunter faced Carly again. Though braced for the impact, she felt the force of his gaze to her core.

“You don’t seem particularly angry at the man who sent you the message,” he said smoothly. “Your ex-boyfriend.”

“We hadn’t been together long,” she said. “We weren’t seriously involved.”

His eyes held hers as he tipped his head. “I find that hard to believe.”

“Why?”

“‘Hell hath no fury’ and all …”

Suddenly she realized he’d turned the tables and the attack was now on her. Subtle, so as to not raise the crowd’s ire, but there nonetheless. The insinuation increased the tension in the air until it was almost palpable, and their host remained silent, no doubt enjoying the show they were providing.

But Carly let Hunter know with a small smile that she was on to his game. “This isn’t a scorned woman’s vendetta.”

“You haven’t flipped the coin from love to hate?” Hunter said.

“Love is one emotion I’ve yet to experience,” she said. Although she’d come close once.

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Oh?” She feigned surprise. “Does that lessen the fun of your app for you?”

He was clearly biting back a smile. “Not at all.”

“Or is it entertaining simply to use your program to dump all your girlfriends?”

“I don’t sleep around,” he said.

Her brow bunched at his tone. Was he implying she did?

“I’m more …” He paused, as if searching for the right word. But she knew it was all for show. “Prudent in my choices.”

If her lips pressed any tighter at the obvious dig they would merge into one.

The light in his eyes was maddening. “Nor am I vindictive when it ends.”