The Charmer

KATE HOFFMANN has been writing for Mills & Boon since 1993. She’s published sixty titles, most with the Blaze® imprint. Kate lives in south-eastern Wisconsin with her cats, Tally and Chloe, and her trusty computer. When she’s not writing, she works with local school students in music and drama activities. She enjoys talking to her sister on the phone, reading Vanity Fair magazine, eating Thai food and travelling to Chicago to see Broadway musicals.

Dear Reader,

The Charmer marks my sixtieth title. It’s difficult to believe I’ve reached that milestone. It seems like just yesterday I was sending off my first manuscript and hoping that a publisher might be interested!

I’ve loved writing stories for Mills & Boon readers and I hope to continue to do so for many years to come. I’ve been lucky to find a home here, now with the Blaze® line, and you’ve helped by watching and waiting for my stories—especially for the Quinns.

I also owe a special thanks to my ever-patient editor, Brenda Chin, who has been with me through most of these books and always helps me give you a story that you’ll enjoy.

So, this book is for you, the readers. Thank you for all your support over the years, for your letters and e-mails, and for the opportunity to do work that I love so much. There are two more books coming, The Drifter in March and The Sexy Devil in May, making this another trilogy.

Happy reading!

Kate Hoffmann

The Charmer

Kate Hoffmann

For all my readers, everywhere!

Table of Contents

Cover

About the Author

Title Page

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Epilogue

Copyright

Prologue

Angela@SmoothOperators.com

January 6, 5:30 a.m.

Heading out for my 7:00 a.m. interview on Daybreak Chicago. Hope you all remember to tune in. I’m a bit nervous, but excited at the same time. Call in with questions! I’ll post more later.

ANGELA WEATHERBY GLANCED up at her image in the video monitors, squinting into the bright television lights that illuminated the studio. She looked worried. Quickly, she pasted a cheery smile on her face.

The chance to make an appearance on Daybreak Chicago had seemed like a good idea when it had first been offered. But now, faced with the prospect of airing her dirty romantic laundry, Angie wasn’t so sure.

With her Web site, SmoothOperators.com, she could be anonymous, just another jilted lover with a score to settle. But on morning television, for all of Chicago to see, she might come off looking like a first-class bitch, out for revenge.

She glanced over at Celia Peralto, her Web master and best friend, who stood next to one of the cameramen. Ceci grinned and gave her a thumbs-up.

A sound technician approached her from behind and clipped a microphone to her collar. “Just tuck the wire under your hair,” he advised, “and set the pack on the chair next to you.” With trembling fingers, Angie did as she was told.

“Thirty seconds,” the producer called.

“Just relax,” the host said as she took her place in the opposite chair. “This isn’t the Spanish Inquisition. Just a fun segment on single life in Chicago. And it’s great publicity for your Web site—and for the book you’re planning to write.”

The book. Her publisher was expecting the manuscript in three months and though she had gathered all sorts of anecdotal research from her Web site, the book still had to be written.

“Good morning, Chicago! I’m Kelly Caulfield and I’m here with our next guest. About two years ago, Angela Weatherby founded a Web site called SmoothOperators.com and it has become a national sensation. What began as a way for single girls in Chicago to network over their dating horror stories has evolved into something akin to the FBI’s most-wanted list for naughty men.”

“I wouldn’t put it that way,” Angela said. “These men aren’t criminals.”

“I suspect some Chicago bachelorettes would disagree. Through the Web site, women are helping each other avoid those men who make dating miserable for all of us. And the trend is spreading—the site adds new cities every week. So, tell us, Angela, what gave you the idea for your Web site?”

Angie shifted in her chair, then drew a deep breath. If she just focused on answering the questions, her nerves would eventually calm. “After a series of not-sonice boyfriends, I felt there had to be a way for me to avoid guys who weren’t interested in an honest and committed relationship. I started blogging about it and before long I had over a thousand subscribers. They added their stories and my friend and Web master, Celia Peralto, put their comments into a database. Now, you can check out your date before you even step out the front door. As of last night, we have files on almost fifty thousand smooth operators in cities all over the country.”

“Don’t you think this is unfair to the men out there? An ex-girlfriend might not be the most objective person to provide commentary.”

“You’d check out the plumber you wanted to hire or the doctor you planned to visit, right? We offer information and leave it to our visitors to decide the truth in what they read. And I think we’re doing a service. We’ve even unmasked a number of cheating husbands.”

Kelly leaned forward in her chair. “Well, I looked up my cohost, Danny Devlin, and he wasn’t very well reviewed on your site. Your rating system goes from one to five broken hearts, with five being the worst. And he’s rated a four. Care to comment?”

Angela opened her mouth to reply, then snapped it shut. A glib answer here might turn the interview in a different direction. “Mr. Devlin is always welcome to defend himself. We’re open to differing opinions. We just require that the discourse be civilized.”

Kelly flipped to her next note card. “Well, that leads us to the book you’re writing. Tell us about that.”

Angela drew a deep breath and focused her thoughts. She’d practiced her pitch more than once in the mirror at home. “I hope the book will be a guide to the different species of smooth operators out there. Most of these men fall into one of ten or twelve categories. If women can learn to spot them quickly, maybe they’ll save themselves a bit of heartbreak.”

“And what professional credentials do you bring to the table?” Kelly asked.

“I have an undergraduate degree in psychology, a masters in journalism and experience as a freelance writer. And I’ve dated a lot of very smooth operators myself,” Angie replied, allowing herself a smile. “I’m curious as to why they behave the way they do, as are most women.”

“Let’s take a few questions from callers,” Kelly said. For the next three minutes, Angie jousted with a belligerent bachelor, commiserated with two women who’d just been dumped and fended off the evil glares of Danny Devlin, who had wandered back onto the set. When the six-minute segment was finally over, she sat back in her chair and breathed a sigh of relief.

“You were wonderful!” Kelly exclaimed, hopping out of her chair. “We’ll have to have you back again.”

“The switchboard went crazy,” the producer said as she walked onto the set. “The most calls we’ve ever had in this time slot. Let’s book another interview for next month. Maybe we can do a longer feature segment when the book comes out.”

Angie stood up and unclipped the microphone. “That would be lovely,” she murmured as she handed it to the sound technician. “Thank you. Is there anything else I need to do?”

“Get that book written,” Kelly said. “And personally, I think Danny Devlin deserves five broken hearts. He dumped me by e-mail.”

Angie crossed the studio to Ceci, then grabbed her arm and pulled her along toward the exit. “Let’s get out of here,” she said, tugging her coat on. “Before Danny Devlin corners me and demands that I take his profile off the site.”

The early morning air was frigid and the pavement slippery as they walked through the parking lot. When they reached the relative safety of Ceci’s car, Angie sat back in the seat and drew a long, deep breath. It clouded in front of her face as she slowly released it. “So, how was I? Tell me the truth. Did I come across as angry or bitter?”

“No, not at all,” Ceci said. “You were funny. And sweet. And just a little vulnerable, which was good. You were likeable.”

“I didn’t seem judgmental? I want people to look at the Web site as a practical dating tool. Not some organization promoting hatred of the opposite sex.” She glanced over at Ceci. “I really do like men. I just don’t like how they treat women sometimes.”

Ceci smiled as she started the car. “Sweetie, if we didn’t like men so much, we wouldn’t waste our energy trying to fix them. Someone has to hold these guys accountable.”

“Did you get through to Alex Stamos?” Angela asked, turning her attention to the next bit of research for her book. “He’s been ducking my calls for a week now.”

“I got his assistant. She says he’s out of town for the next few days on business, but he’ll be sure to get back to me when he returns. She also mentioned that she had a few stories of her own about the guy.”

“You made it clear that this interview would be anonymous, didn’t you?” Angie asked.

“I said that you wanted to give him a chance to set the record straight,” Ceci said. “But I think getting an in-depth profile of each of these types might be kind of tricky. Especially once they’ve seen the site.”

“Maybe I shouldn’t do the interviews and go with my original plan.”

“Absolutely not,” Celia cried. “I think having a conversation with each of these types makes them real. Just move on to the next guy on your list and catch up with Stamos later.”

Angie had been working as a freelance writer ever since she got out of college. It had been a hit-and-miss career and there were times when she barely had enough to pay the rent. The blog had just been a way to exercise her writing muscles every day, but once it took off, she was able to attract advertisers and make a reasonably constant paycheck from the Web site.

She sighed. Her parents, both college professors, had wanted her to become a psychologist, but when she finished her undergrad studies at Northwestern, she’d decided to rebel and try journalism.

This book would give her instant credibility as a journalist—and it might appease her parents as well as open a lot of doors. The advance alone was nearly gone, lost to car repairs and computer upgrades. Right now, every Tom, Dick and Mary was a blogger. But not many people could say they were a real author.

“You’re right,” she said. “I can work on Charlie Templeton. Or Max Morgan.” But would they be willing to talk? She’d have to readjust her strategy. If the men weren’t going to be identified in the book, then maybe a bit of subterfuge to get their stories wouldn’t be entirely out of line.

1

ALEX STAMOS PEERED into the darkness, the BMW’s headlights nearly useless in the swirling snow. He could barely make out the edge of the road, the drifts causing the car to fishtail even at fifteen miles per hour.

He’d done a lot of things to boost business at Stamos Publishing and as the new CEO, that was his job. But until now, he’d never had to risk life and limb to get what he wanted. His cell phone rang and he reached over to pick it up off the passenger seat. “I’m in the middle of a blizzard,” he said. “Make it quick.”

“What are doing in a blizzard?” Tess asked. “I thought you were leaving for Mexico tonight.”

He had decided to put off his midwinter vacation for a few days. Business was much more important than a week of sun and windsurfing at his family’s oceanside condo. “I have to take care of this business first. I’m leaving the day after tomorrow.”

“Where are you?”

“The middle of nowhere,” he said. “Door County.”

“Isn’t that in Wisconsin?”

“And you failed geography, little sister. How is that possible?”

Tess groaned. “That was in eighth grade.”

“There’s a new artist I need to see. He hasn’t been returning my calls, so I decided to drive up and pay a personal visit.”

“Well, I thought you’d want to know. The Devil’s Own got a great review in Publisher’s Preview,” Tess said. “And the distributors have been calling all afternoon to increase their orders. At this rate, we’re going to have to go back for the second printing before the first is out the door, so I just wanted to let you know that I’m going to put it on the schedule for later next week.”

Tess was head of production at Stamos Publishing. She and Alex had been working together on his new business plan for nearly a year and this was the first sign that it was about to pay off. Until last year, Stamos Publishing had been known for it’s snooze-inducing catalog of technical books, covering everything from lawnmower repair to vegan cookery to dog grooming. But as the newly appointed chief executive officer, Alex was determined to move the company into the twenty-first century. And that move began with a flashy new imprint for graphic novels.

From the time he was a kid, walking through the pressroom with his grandfather, he’d been fascinated by the family business. While most of his peers were enjoying their summers off, he’d worked in the bindery and the production offices, learning Stamos Publishing from top to bottom.

His dream had been to make Stamos Publishing the premier printer in the comic book industry. That way, he could get all the free comic books he wanted. But as he got older, Alex began to take the business more seriously. He saw the weaknesses in his father’s management plan and in the company’s spot in the market and vowed to make some changes if he ever got the chance.

The chance came at the expense of his family, when his father died suddenly four years ago. His grandfather had come back to run the business, but only until Alex was ready to take over. Now, nearly all the extended Stamos family, siblings, cousins, aunts and uncles, depended upon him to keep the business in the black.

“I’m going to run forty thousand,” Tess said. “I know that’s double the first run, but I think our sell-through will be good.”

“I guess we were right about the graphic novels,” he said, keeping his concentration on the road. Though they weren’t comic books, they were the next best thing. The edgier stories and innovative art had made them popular with readers of all ages. And Stamos was posed to grab a nice chunk of the market. “What else?”

“Mom is upset,” Tess said. “One of her bridge club ladies showed her that Web site. The cool operators site.”

“Smooth operators,” he corrected. “What did she say?”

“That a nice Greek boy won’t find a nice Greek wife if he acts like a malakas. And she also said the next time you come to Sunday dinner, she’s going to have a conversation with you.”

“Great,” Alex muttered. A conversation was always much more painful than a talk or a chat with his mother. No doubt he’d be forced to endure a few blind dates with eligible Greek girls, handpicked by the Stamos matriarch.

“Some people think that any P.R. is good P.R. I don’t happen to agree, Alex. I think you need to do some damage control and you need to do it fast. I’m looking at your profile on this page right now and it’s not good. These women hate you. Heck, I hate you, and I’m your sister.”

“What do you suggest? I’m not about to talk about my love life in public.”

“Who suggested that?”

Alex cursed beneath his breath. “The owner of the Web site called to interview me. Angela…I can’t remember her last name. Weatherall or Weathervane.”

“She wants to talk to you?”

“I guess. Either that, or she wants to yell at me. But I’m almost certain I’ve never dated her.” He cursed softly. “What makes her think I’m the one at fault here? Some of these women are just as much to blame. They were ready to get married after three dates.”

“You have had a lot of girlfriends. Listen, Alex, I know you’re a nice guy. So why can’t you find a nice woman?”

The car skidded and he brought it back under control, cursing beneath his breath. “I’ll figure this out when I get back.”

“So this artist must be pretty good for you to drive through a blizzard to see him.”

“A little snow is not going to stop me,” he replied.

“And this guy isn’t just good, he’s…amazing. And oddly uninterested in publication. The novel came through the slush pile and I figure the reason he’s avoiding me is because he’s got another publisher interested.”

“So, you’re just going to drive five hours in the snow and expect he’ll want to talk business?”

“I’m a persuasive guy,” Alex said. “My charm doesn’t just work on the opposite sex. Besides, if I’m his first offer, then I have a chance to get a brand-new talent for a bargain-basement price. I’m not leaving without a signed contract.”

The car skidded again and Alex dropped his phone as he gripped the wheel with two hands. He gently applied the brakes and slowed to a crawl as he fished around for the BlackBerry. But he couldn’t find it in the dark. “I have to go,” he shouted, “or I’ll end up in the ditch. I’ll call you after I check in.”

“Let me know when you’re settled,” Tess replied.

Alex found the BlackBerry and tucked it in his jacket pocket, then turned his attention back to the road. He knew Door County was well populated, at least in the summer. But in the middle of a Wisconsin winter, the highway was almost desolate between the small towns, marked only by snow-plastered signs looming in the darkness.

Was he the only one crazy enough to be out during a blizzard? Alex leaned forward, searching for the edge of the road through the blowing snow. A moment later, he realized he was no longer in control of his car. Without a sound the car hit a huge drift and came to a silent stop in the ditch.

This time, Alex strung enough curse words together to form a complete sentence, replete with plenty of vivid adjectives. He wasn’t sure what to do. The car wouldn’t go forward or backward. Even if he got the car back on the road, it was becoming impossible to see where the road was. He didn’t have a shovel, so there wasn’t much chance of getting himself out of the ditch.

Alex grabbed his gloves from the seat beside him and pulled them on. If he could clear some of the snow from beneath the wheels, he might be able to get back on the road. If not, he’d call the auto club for a tow. He grabbed a flashlight from the glove box, then crawled out of the car, his feet sinking into a three-foot drift.

Even with the flashlight, it was impossible to see through the blowing snow. Blackness surrounded him as he dug at the snow with his hands. But for every handful of snow he pulled away, two more fell back beneath the tire. Alex knew the only safe option was to wait in the car for help.

He pulled out his phone to call for a tow, but his gloves were wet and his fingers numb from digging in the snow. The BlackBerry slipped out of his fingers and disappeared into the snowdrift. “Shit,” he muttered. “From one bone-headed move to the next.” Was it even worth searching for the phone?

He decided against it, figuring the BlackBerry would be ruined anyway. As he struggled back to the door, headlights appeared on the road. For a moment, he wondered if the car would even see him in the blinding snow, but to his relief, the SUV stopped. He waded through the drift as the passenger-side window opened.

“Hi,” he called, leaning inside. “I’m stuck.”

A female voice replied. “I can see that.”

Alex could barely make out her features. She wore a huge fur hat with earflaps and a scarf wound around her neck, obscuring the lower part of her face. In truth, she was bundled from top to toe, except for her eyes. “Can you give me a ride into town?”

“No,” she said. “I’ve just come from town. The road is nearly impassable. I’m on my way home.”

Her voice was soft and kind of husky…sexy. He felt an odd reaction, considering it was the only thing that marked her as a woman. “I’d call for a tow, but I lost my cell phone.”

“Get in,” she said. “I’ll take you to my place and you can call from there.”

“Let me just get my things from the car.” By the time Alex retrieved his duffel, his laptop and his briefcase from the BMW, he was completely caked with snow. He crawled into the warm Jeep and pulled the door shut. “Thanks,” he said. He glanced over his shoulder to find two dogs in the backseat, watching him silently, their noses twitching. The larger of the two looked like a lab mix and the smaller had a fair bit of terrier in him.

“What are you doing out on a night like tonight?” she asked.

“I could ask the same of you,” Alex said with a grin. “I’m glad you were as brave as I was.”

“Stupid is more like it. And I’m not driving a sports car,” she said.

“It’s not a sports car,” he said. “It’s a sedan.” He glanced over at her. It was impossible to tell how old she was. And the only clue to her appearance was a lock of dark hair that had escaped from under her hat. “Do you live nearby?”

“Just down the road.”

He settled back into the seat, staring out at the swirl of white in front of them. He couldn’t see the road at all, but she seemed to know exactly where she was going, expertly navigating through the drifts. Before long, she slowed and turned off the highway onto what he assumed was a side road and then a few minutes later, into a narrow driveway, marked by two tall posts, studded with red reflectors. The woods were thick on either side, so it was easy to find the way through the trees.

A yard light was visible as they approached and, before long, Alex could see the outline of a small cabin made of rough-hewn logs. She pulled up in front and turned to face him. “The front door’s unlocked,” she said. “I’m just going to put the Jeep in the shed.”

Alex grabbed his things from the floor and hopped out, then walked through another knee-deep drift to get to the front steps. As he stamped the snow off his ruined loafers, the dogs joined him, racing through the darkness to the porch.

He opened the door a crack and the animals pushed their way into the dimly lit interior. The cabin was one huge room, with a timbered ceiling and tongue and groove paneling. A stone fireplace covered one wall and windows lined the other. The décor was like nothing he’d ever seen before, every available space taken with bits and pieces of nature—a bird’s nest, a basket of acorns, a single maple leaf in a frame on a bent-willow table.

He kicked off his shoes and stepped off the rug, but then froze as the dogs growled softly. They’d seemed so friendly in the car, but now they watched him suspiciously as he ventured uninvited into their territory.

“The phone is over there.”

He turned to see her standing in the shadows on the other side of the kitchen. “Do they bite?” he asked.

“Only if I tell them to,” she murmured. There was a subtle warning in her tone. It wasn’t surprising, considering she just allowed a stranger into her home. For all she knew, he could be some deranged psycho—driving an expensive European sedan and wearing ruined Italian loafers.