Kiss & Tell

“For me Alison Kent’s name on a book means that I am guaranteed to have a story that is realistic, entertaining, compelling and sexy as all get-out.”

—ARomanceReview.com

“Alison Kent has created in her giRL-gEAR series a believable, modern world where men and women behave just a little bit naughtier than they do in real life.”

—AllAboutRomance.com

“An outstanding tale of passion, sensuality and a dark fascination, Ms. Kent’s romance turns up the heat.”

—Romantic Times BOOKreviews on The Sweetest Taboo

“Alison Kent delivers a knockout read.”

—Romantic Times BOOKreviews on All Tied Up

“Alison Kent mesmerizes us with a compelling love story brimming with scorching sensuality and abiding love.”

—Romantic Times BOOKreviews on Call Me

Dear Reader,

I am a pop culture junkie. Not an addict, mind you. Or overly obsessive. I do love hearing who has landed plum movie roles, finding out what television series are canceled or renewed, seeing unexpected guest stars show up on network TV, etc. But I don’t wait for news on celebrity Starbucks sightings, or even care much about the love lives of the stars. Still, I know that’s not the case with everyone.

Funnily enough, I created the character of Caleb McGregor—aka Max Savage—long before stalkarazzi shows were as popular as they now are, but I’m glad I waited until the age of You Tube and TMZ to write his romance with Miranda Kelly, aka Candy Cane. Having one of them dreading the impending bombardment of the media and making the other one an expert at doing the bombarding made the story great fun to write.

I hope you get a kick out of Caleb and Miranda as they kiss and tell, kiss and don’t tell, then don’t kiss and tell some more! You can e-mail me at ak@alisonkent.com to let me know if you do. Stop by my blog at www.alisonkent.com/blog to visit with other readers and lovers of Harlequin Blaze, and to win all sorts of books and fun prizes. I’ll see you again in March 2009, when I’ll be hitting the track for Blaze’s 0—60 miniseries.

All my best,

Alison Kent

ALISON KENT

Kiss & Tell

TORONTO • NEW YORK • LONDON

AMSTERDAM • PARIS • SYDNEY • HAMBURG

STOCKHOLM • ATHENS • TOKYO • MILAN • MADRID

PRAGUE • WARSAW • BUDAPEST • AUCKLAND

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Alison Kent is the author of five sexy books for Harlequin Temptation, including Call Me, which she sold live on CBS 48 Hours, several steamy books for Harlequin Blaze, including The Sweetest Taboo and Kiss & Makeup, both Waldenbooks bestsellers, a number of sizzling books for Kensington Brava, including the Smithson Group series, as well as a handful of fun and sassy stories for other imprints. She is also the author of The Complete Idiot’s Guide to Writing Erotic Romance. Alison lives in a Houston, Texas, suburb with her own romance hero.

Books by Alison Kent

HARLEQUIN BLAZE

24—ALL TIED UP

32—NO STRINGS ATTACHED

40—BOUND TO HAPPEN

68—THE SWEETEST TABOO

99—STRIPTEASE

107—WICKED GAMES

120—INDISCREET

197—KISS & MAKEUP

213—RED LETTER NIGHTS

“Luv U Madly”

225—GOES DOWN EASY

287—INFATUATION

To Walt, for TMZ

To Brenda, for Dumbledore

To Helen Kay, for making sure I stayed sane

Contents

Prologue

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

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Prologue

April…

“AN APPELLATE RULING has paved the way for a retrial in the case of Baltimore businessman E. Marshall Gordon. The CEO of EMG Enterprises was the fifth member of the board of directors to face charges of conspiracy to commit fraud related to EMG’s off-the-book partnerships. More on that in our national news segment after the break.

“And coming up in our celebrity beat, we have the latest from Max Savage on Colorado congressman Teddy Eagleton’s recent divorce from his wife of twelve years, and his romantic connection to Ravyn Black, the lead singer of the chart-topping emo band Evermore—”

“Enough, already.” Corinne Sparks reached to flip off the small television set she kept in the back room at Under the Mistletoe, almost knocking over a glass vase of hyacinths and lilies as she did.

Miranda Kelly, Corinne’s employer and owner of the flower shop in the resort town of Mistletoe, Colorado, had been seconds from doing the same thing. Neither one of them enjoyed seeing pieces of their lives on the news, and to be mentioned that way, one on top of the other—first her ex-husband, then Corinne’s estranged daughter—was too much.

“Tell me about it.” Miranda had been intent on using the quiet spring day for bookkeeping, but the specter of her past impinging on her present allowed room for little else in her head. “I left Baltimore so I wouldn’t have to be bombarded by the media’s obsession with everything related to Marshall. I sure don’t want to think about him while I’m paying bills.”

Frowning, Corinne resituated two of the lilies that had slipped in the close call. “I thought you left because the SOB couldn’t keep his zipper zipped.”

Well, there was that, thought Miranda, swiveling on the bar stool she used at the short end of the long L-shaped worktable that served as a desk. “That’s why I divorced him. And seeing his face every time I turn on the news these days reminds me how stupid I was to marry him in the first place.”

“He wasn’t a cheater when you married him,” Corinne reminded her.

“Pfft. He obviously had it in him to be one.” Miranda paused and tapped her pencil on the table’s surface, feeling an unexpected pang of hurt at the memory of Marshall’s infidelity. Logical or not, that pained her more than his criminal acts. “But I can tell you for a fact that the gossip sheets got it wrong. He did not go looking for sex elsewhere because he wasn’t getting any at home.”

“You’re preaching to the gossip-loathing choir here,” Corinne said, setting the finished arrangement in the refrigerated storage case for a late-afternoon delivery. “I know firsthand how much garbage gets printed as truth. Then again, in Brenna’s case, a lot of the garbage is the truth.”

Corinne had been working at the flower shop for five years now, ever since Miranda had moved back to the small Rocky Mountain town where she’d grown up, and bought the business from its retiring owners.

She and Corinne had been good friends long enough for Miranda to know the extent of the conjecture printed about her employee’s daughter, as well as the grief Brenna Sparks—the very same Ravyn Black mentioned in the Max Savage news segment—had caused Corinne. It was enough grief to bring about mother and daughter’s current alienation.

But since the television mention gave Miranda the opening, she took advantage and voiced what had been on her mind. “I’d been wondering when the congressman’s divorce was going to be final.”

“Such a proud moment, too,” Corinne said with a snort, “having to face that your daughter lacks the decency to keep her hands off a married man.”

And now Teddy Eagleton wasn’t married. Miranda sighed. “Ravyn—Brenna’s an adult. She’s been on her own for a long time now. And she’s the one who’ll have to answer for the things she’s done.”

“Really? Because she hasn’t had to answer for much of anything yet.” Corinne returned to her end of the worktable and flipped through the rest of the sale tickets to make certain she’d completed the day’s most pressing orders. “And, unlike your ex, I wonder if she ever will.”

Miranda knew Corinne was talking about the money she’d sent her daughter for college expenses—four years’ worth of lab fees, textbooks, tuition for extra classes when Brenna had pretended to change her majors, as well as room and board. The money had been spent instead on funding her band.

Brenna had paid for equipment and instruments, a practice room, stage clothes and traveling, not even completing her first semester, and making Corinne feel like a fool—especially since Brenna had bribed her little sister Zoe to intercept mail sent by the university in Washington State in order to keep their mother from discovering the truth.

Miranda knew, too, that several times over the past six years—since Evermore’s first album had hit it big—Brenna had tried to pay back her mother the money she’d stolen, and that Corinne had refused it, wanting nothing to do with what she called her daughter’s ill-gotten gains.

It wasn’t hard for Miranda to understand Corinne’s feelings…except that it was. Brenna’s “unexpected needs” had depleted the girls’ college fund, and Corinne was now struggling to find what Zoe would require for the basics as a freshman next year. She was struggling, too, with trusting Zoe, who’d been just as culpable as Brenna.

“Will you have to testify at the retrial?”

Corinne’s question snapped Miranda out of her reverie and dropped her back into the pit of worry she’d been doing a fairly good job of steering clear of. “I don’t know. My attorney says there’s a good chance I will, but he’s doing all he can to keep it from happening. Trust me, if I have to fly into Baltimore, I’m going to fly out as fast as I can.”

“You know, I’m surprised there haven’t been more reporters snooping around, seeing how this is your family’s home.”

“You and me both.” Not that they’d have an easy time finding her; when she’d returned to Mistletoe, she’d legally taken her mother’s maiden name for her own—a protective measure she’d felt necessary at the time.

Corinne went on. “I figured the ones hungry enough for a statement would at least make the effort. Especially considering the scope of your ex’s crimes.”

A scope that had cost thousands of EMG employees their pensions and almost as many investors everything they’d owned. “Marshall was always a big believer in the grand scale. The more money, the more power, the more covers on Forbes the better.”

“Or at least he was a big believer until he was sentenced to all those big years. I guess that was one grand scale he never saw coming.” Corinne tore her copy of the next ticket from the order book and turned to study the shelf of vases, choosing an elegantly flared one of cut crystal. “You think the outcome will be any different this time?”

Miranda turned back to her laptop. Like her employee, she had work to do. “As far as him being guilty or innocent? No. But it better be different in that this time it sticks. I don’t want to look up every five years to find a reporter sticking a microphone and camera in my face.”

1

November…

MISTLETOE, COLORADO’S

THE INN AT SNOW FALLS

PRESENTS

CANDY CANE

APPEARING NIGHTLY IN

CLUB CRIMSON

IT WASN’T IN Caleb McGregor’s bag of reporter’s tricks to go after a story by drinking himself under anyone’s table, but here he was, at the Inn at Snow Falls’ Club Crimson, in the lovers’ resort of Mistletoe, Colorado, looking for clarity in the bottom of a glass.

Several glasses actually.

He knew better. Of course he knew better. But knowing better hadn’t kept him from recently making the biggest mistake of his life. Neither did it negate the fact that he’d found many an answer to an intriguing question when his nose—or his blood alcohol level—was where it didn’t belong.

Even when he was sober, his intuition rivaled that of the female population of Baltimore—the city he called his base of operations rather than home, home being a word with too much emotional resonance and Caleb not being a feelings kind of guy.

And that sixth sense had shifted into high gear the minute the lounge singer had taken the stage.

Unfortunately, the Scotch he’d downed had left him with a slippery grip on the instincts insisting he was sitting on top of a big fat scoop—one that might be as big and as fat as the exclusive he’d come here at Ravyn Black’s invitation to get.

Whether or not that was the case, one thing was certain.

Club Crimson lived up to its vivid name.

The Inn at Snow Falls’ nightclub was a kaleidoscope of reds, from the carpet splashed with sherry, claret and port-wine hues, to the padded bar and stools of scarlet, to the plush sofas and matching wing chairs in patterns of ruby and rose.

The decorative color scheme was not what Caleb found objectionable. After all, he’d yet to meet an Italian or Chinese restaurant he didn’t like. Hell, his favorite baseball team had red in its name and wore the color proudly when taking the field at Fenway.

But when the design of a club was calculated to evoke a romantic, sexy mood, and that evocation lacked even a hint of the subtle finesse that made sexy sexy, and the entire setup was set up in a town called Mistletoe, well…

Never let it be said that Caleb McGregor didn’t embrace his cynicism wholeheartedly.

And then, as if the ornamental bloodbath wasn’t enough, Club Crimson had gone so over the top in their efforts to promote romance as to hire a red-haired chanteuse and call her Candy Cane.

A textbook case of adding insult to injury. Or it would’ve been had she not manipulated the schmaltzy lyrics into telling a story with the skill of Scheherazade—and done so with a husky R & B style, and in a voice he swore he’d heard before but couldn’t for the drunken life of him place.

He was falling for it all—the words that seduced him, the costume that tempted him, the act as a whole that had him mentally panting like a randy teen. Or a full-grown man with more alcohol than reasoning skills at his disposal.

Considering the number of drinks he’d downed, the only part of this that came as a surprise was the fact that he was able to recognize the folly of his ways.

At least he’d had the good sense at the beginning of the evening to claim a back corner booth. He was out of the way, and in the perfect position to watch. And watch he did, closely, enjoying himself more than was wise.

She was a looker, Ms. Cane, though considering the pretense of the rest of this place, he doubted her assets were genuine. That didn’t stop him from having a good time ogling the plunging front of her cherry-colored gown.

He wasn’t sure how women did it—kept their tits from falling out of flesh-baring tops cut from their throats to their navels. Some, he knew, had little to fear, but not in this case. Whether Mother Nature or manufactured, she had a lot.

She was curvy, too, her cinched-in waist flaring into real hips instead of not flaring at all. He liked hips. He liked a woman with an ass. If he ran the world, women would be required by law to be more than a pair of breasts on an androgynous body.

He’d amend the Constitution if he had to, put a picture of Candy Cane next to one of Ravyn Black, the practically hermaphroditic singer for the emo band Evermore he’d come to Mistletoe to see, to illustrate the difference between ass and no ass.

Yeah, that would be the perfect way to make his point. His point being…did he have a point?

Had he ever had a point? Was that the point his crossed eyes were seeing at the end of his nose? Or had his point become all soft and squishy and not pointy at all when he’d upended his glass and swallowed the last of his drink?

O…kay.

It was quitting time, heading-to-bed time. Time to just say no.

Or it would be if he wasn’t stuck.

The pianist was playing the introductory notes to the singer’s final song, and the crowd that had quieted when she walked onstage, that had done no more than whisper as she sang Frank Sinatra and Ella Fitzgerald and Harry Connick, Jr., had grown deathly still, pin-droppingly silent.

If Caleb got up now, he was likely to be shot.

Candy pulled the microphone from the stand she’d made love to during her previous song, and began to croon the opening lines of her last. Her hips swaying, she crossed the small corner stage and descended the steps into the mesmerized crowd drunk on whiskey, wine and love.

Her hair that he was sure was a wig—long, wavy, strawberry-blond—picked up and reflected the flashes of red thrown by the spinning disco ball, as did the sequins in the dress molded to her curves. So molded, in fact, that if it weren’t for the peekaboo slit running up one thigh, he doubted she’d be able to walk.

He watched her wind her way through the gathered listeners, smiling, fingering one man’s tie, brushing another’s hair from his forehead, cupping a shoulder or stroking her finger along a forearm of their female companions. An equal-opportunity seductress, Caleb mused, finding his eyelids drifting lazily as he, too, fell prey to her spell.

A siren, she moved from table to table, the sultry sweep of her lashes, the alluring touch of her tongue to her lips, making men’s knees weak, their palms sweaty, their blood run hot, the front of their pants—once flat against their abdomens—rise like pitched tents. He knew that’s what was happening around the room because it was happening to him.

It didn’t matter that he was the only person in the room sitting by himself. His reaction would’ve been the same had he been in the company of his mother, a date or a priest. He wasn’t hard because he was alone, or because he was lonely. He was hard because Candy Cane had made him that way.

But the fact that this was a group erection cheapened what he felt—or so he tried to convince himself, since he didn’t want to feel anything.

And then something else happened. She turned just so, moved to the perfect spot, leaned against the back of a sofa at the ideal angle with the lights exactly right. The moment didn’t last longer than a blink before it was gone, and she’d bowed her body toward another sap in the crowd.

But it stuck with him, wouldn’t let him go, and he studied her instead of looking away, stared at her instead of chalking up what he thought he was seeing to too much Scotch on a stomach empty of anything else.

What he thought he was seeing was a familiar face. A familiar face to go with the voice he could’ve sworn he recognized at the beginning of her set. A recognition he’d then dismissed because of how many times the server had replaced the single malt in his snifter.

Now he really did need a drink, and he needed it to be hot, black and fully caffeinated so he could make sense of the psychedelic swirls and splatters of reds Club Crimson had painted in his mind.

His job depended on rumors. He listened, he verified, he discarded. He’d been doing it for ten years, writing a celebrity gossip column that had started out small and gone into national syndication twenty-four months after launch. It was so popular, it was featured during what one TV network called their “celebrity beat,” and had its own Web site to boot.

Caleb McGregor was Max Savage, the notorious “Snoop with the Scoop,” loved, lauded and feared far and wide by politicians, society players and celebrities alike for his sarcastic riffs on what his audience demanded and deemed newsworthy about those in the public eye.

Not that anyone at the inn knew who he was, or that he was here by invitation for an exclusive—the very private wedding of Ravyn Black and Teddy Eagleton. Over the next few days, he’d be covering the preparations leading up to the big event. But as always, he was posing as a member of Max Savage’s street team. Not even Ravyn knew he was Max.

The only people who knew his identity, who would ever know or have need to, were his agent, his attorney and his editor. When he’d set off down tabloid road ten years ago, he’d made sure his only connection was to the Max Savage machine, not to the alter ego itself.

It was a decision that had turned out to be a sanity-saver, keeping his personal business out of the limelight. And it was going to make it a whole lot easier to transition to life after Max—a retirement that would have him hanging up his gear as soon as he finished this gig.

Yes, he found the energy of chasing down nonstop leads more intoxicating than the boredom of waiting for a big story to break. But he’d never thought he’d end up stooping to the level he had, reporting on celebutantes flashing their bare crotches or finding fame through night-vision sex tapes.

Neither had he thought himself capable of betraying a confidence, so wrapped up in the thrill that he hadn’t realized he’d gone too far until it was too late. Until he’d ruined a career by telling the truth. Until he’d lost a lifelong friend because he’d been drunk on the rush of the scoop.

He’d give anything to take back the last month, to think before revealing what his best friend Del, a music star in his own right, had shared in confidence about his Christian pop star fiancée’s drug problem…but life didn’t work that way.

Caleb couldn’t change what he’d done, but he could damn well make sure it never happened again. Right now, however, it was vital that he get his act together. Candy had finished her tour of the rest of the club and was making her way toward him.

Drinking alone and slumped in his seat made him an easy target. Being male made him vulnerable—even knowing her act was a ruse. Last he’d checked, knowledge didn’t necessarily work as an inoculant. Especially with his susceptibility to her charms camped out in his pants.

Except for her spotlight, the bar light and the patterns of color thrown off by the disco ball’s spin, the club was dark. His corner was even darker, giving him the privacy he needed to adjust his crotch before she reached him.

And then she was there, singing to him, seducing him, the pull in her gaze mesmerizing as she perched her hip against the edge of his table and stretched, draping herself toward him strategically as if she’d done this hundreds of times for hundreds of other men.

Her neckline plunged to tease him. The slope of her shoulder as she leaned close, the movement of her neck, chin and mouth as she sang, teased him more. But what teased him most of all was knowing he should know her, being unable to place her, and sitting here too inebriated to do anything to find out.

He told himself to remember everything about her, to store the sound of her voice in the memory banks he could access most quickly when his wits returned. He didn’t hold out much hope for success. She had him stupid, bewitched.

Fluidly, the redheaded chanteuse rolled herself up and off the table, pivoting with an elegance that left him breathless—and therefore, thankfully, unable to groan and give himself away—as she slid to sit in his lap.

It wasn’t his lap as much as one leg, but the move put the swell of her bottom against the swell of his fly, and he could only hope the part of him making intimate contact with her wasn’t as apparent to her as he feared.

She seemed comfortable, in her element, looping her arm around his neck, looking into his eyes, drawing the song to a close with a breathy, bluesy, brush of words against his cheek as the pianist wrapped up his accompaniment, holding the final notes.

That was when the applause began.