Praise for
Aimee Carson:

‘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

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.”

She longed to knock the coolly lethal, amused look from his face as he continued to bait her. “Trust me,” she said. “If I’d wanted vengeance against my ex, I would have taken it out on him—not you.”

“So why the need to lay your break-up at my feet?”

“It wasn’t getting ditched that bothered me.” Heart pounding under his scrutiny, she barely restrained the anger that begged to be unleashed. She held his gaze. “It was the method in which he chose to do it. And you created the app.”

“Yes, I did,” he said smoothly.

Her irritation rose. Damn it, his response was so deviously agreeable. His simple, matter-of-fact confirmation knocked her accusation to the ground, leaving it less effective. And he knew it. “My boyfriend was simply an insensitive coward. You, however,” Carly said, her voice low, hoping for a loss of his tight control when faced with the brutal truth, “are exploiting people’s callous treatment of others simply to make money.”

The worst of the worst. A bottom-feeder, as far as Carly was concerned.

There was no flicker of emotion in Hunter’s cool, hard gaze—just like Thomas after he’d dumped her to save himself. Hunter’s I’m-in-control smile was infuriating. And right now he was the poster boy for every unpleasant break-up she’d ever experienced.

“Unfortunately,” he said, “human nature is what it is.” He paused before going on, a single brow arching higher. “Perhaps the problem is you’re too naive.”

Resentment burned her belly, because she’d heard that before—from the two men who had mattered most. Hunter Philips was a member of the same heartless club as her father and Thomas—where ruthlessness ruled, money was king and success came before all else.

Her sizzling fuse grew shorter, the spark drawing closer to her heart, and words poured out unchecked. “That’s a rotten excuse for fueling man’s sprint toward the death of human decency.”

The words lingered in the stunned silence that followed, and Carly cringed.

Just perfect, Carly. A nice over-the-top histrionic retort, implying you’re a crazy lady.

She’d let her emotions get the best of her…again. Jeez, hadn’t she learned anything in the last three years?

Hunter’s relaxed posture remained in place. His eyes were communicating one thing: her wild words were exactly what the infuriating man had planned. “Are you saying I’m responsible for the downfall of human decency?” The lines in his brow grew deeper. “Because that’s a pretty heavy accusation for one frivolously insignificant app,” he said, and then he turned his small smile toward the audience, drawing them in. “If I’d known how important it was when I designed it, I would have paid more attention.”

A ripple of amusement moved through the crowd, and she knew her role in the show had just gone from lighthearted arts and entertainment reporter to bitter, jilted ex—with a generous dose of crazy.

Hunter returned his gaze to her, and frustration tightened its fist on her heart. There was such a feeling of…of…incompleteness about it. He’d swooped in, deciphered her like the easy read she was, and figured out just which buttons to push. He was more than an unusually cool, good-looking computer expert—his demeanor was a killer mix of cunning arctic fox and dangerous black panther. Obviously this was no simple network security consultant.

So why had Hunter designed such a personal app? The facts didn’t square with the self-controlled man she’d just engaged in a battle of wits. Carly coming in last, of course.

“Unfortunately we’re running out of time,” the host said, disappointment in his voice.

Hunter’s gaze remained locked with Carly’s—a gut-twisting, heart-pounding moment of communication from victor…to loser.

“Too bad we can’t come back again,” she said provocatively, and held Hunter’s gaze, hurling daggers meant to penetrate his steely armor, but sure they were being deflected with ease. “I’d love to hear what inspired the creation of The Ditchinator.”

For the first time a hard glint flickered in his eyes—a look so stony she had to force herself not to flinch.

The host saved the day. “I would too.” He turned to the audience. “Would you like to hear the story?” The audience went wild, and Brian O’Connor became Carly’s newest BFF. “You up for it, Carly?”

“Definitely.” She turned her attention back to Hunter, her tone silky, as it always was when she tried to control her anger. “But I’m sure Mr. Philips is too busy to participate.” Although he hadn’t moved, was as coolly collected as ever—God, she wished she had his control—he had to be mentally squirming as he searched for a way out. The thought was much more satisfying than near-miss daggers, but her fun ended when he shocked her with his answer.

“I’m game if you’re game,” Hunter said.

CHAPTER TWO

A SECOND show. Why had he agreed to a second show?

After a brief conversation with Brian O’Connor’s producer, Hunter strode toward the TV station exit, ignoring the corridor walls filled with photos of previous guests as he homed in on the glass door at the end. He’d set himself a task, achieved his goal and won. Carly Wolfe had fought the good fight, but her anger had gotten the better of her. So Hunter should be walking away in triumph. Done. The issue behind him.

But when the talk-show host had mentioned returning, Hunter had looked at Carly’s amber-colored eyes that had sparkled with challenge, the high cheekbones flushed with irritation, and he’d hesitated. Her quick-fire responses laced with biting sarcasm were entertaining. And when she’d flashed him her delightfully unique blend of charm-and-slash smile, daring him to a second go around, he’d been driven completely off course. What man wouldn’t be captivated by the winningly wily Carly Wolfe—especially after her cheeky crossing-of-beautiful-bared-legs attempt to trip up his focus?

He wasn’t worried he’d lose their second round of verbal tag, or that he’d succumb to her allure, because touching her was out of the question. The sexy firebrand was a problem, but one he could comfortably control—because he’d lived with a pretty reporter once, and to say it hadn’t ended well was a gross understatement …

There was no better education than a negative outcome. Although with Carly around the view was admittedly five-star.

He heard Carly say his name, interrupting his thoughts, and looked to his left, appreciating her lovely face as she fell into step beside him.

Heels tapping on the wood floor, she struggled to keep up. “Interesting how you were too busy to give me five minutes of your time.” The smile on her face didn’t come anywhere near her eyes. For one insane moment he missed the genuine warmth she’d exuded early in the show. A warmth that had ended the moment he sat down beside her. “Yet here you are, going out of your way to come on this program, Mr. Philips.”

“Hunter,” he said, ignoring her enticing citrus scent.

She shot him a you-can’t-be-serious look and stretched those beautiful legs, clearly determined to match his stride. “Why do you keep insisting on the use of your first name? To pretend you have a heart?”

Biting back a smile, he trained his gaze on the exit door, feeling a touch of guilt for enjoying her reaction and her struggle to keep pace with him. “You’re just mad you lost.”

“All I wanted from you was a few minutes of your time, but for weeks you were too busy. Yet you turn up here and then agree to a second show.” Her tone was a mix of irritation, confusion and curiosity, as if she truly wanted an answer to the burning question. “Why?”

“Maybe you charmed me into it.”

“Aphrodite herself couldn’t charm you into going against your will,” she said as she continued walking beside him. “So why now?

“The time suited.”

She stopped in front of him, forcing him to come to a halt or plow her over. “Saturday at midnight?” Her tone radiated disbelief. “But you must be exhausted after spending the week protecting your big-name clients from sophisticated hackers and designing those heart-warming apps.” Apparently she couldn’t resist another dig. “I do hope you’re well compensated.”

Keeping a straight face was hard. “The money is excellent.”

He could tell his response ticked her off even more. The slight flattening of her full lips was a dead giveaway. But eight years ago he’d painstakingly begun the process of rebuilding his life. The main benefits of the business he’d started were financial, and he wasn’t about to apologize to anyone for that.

“The real question is …” She stepped closer and the crackling electricity was back, heating him up and breaking his train of thought in a disturbing way. “How much has your humiliating app made you?”

“Less than you’d think.”

“I’d settle for less than I’d hoped.”

He tipped his head. “And how much would that be?”

She planted a hand on a hip that displayed just the right amount of curve. “How far below zero can you count?”

This time he didn’t hold back the small smile as she tried to restrain her anger. “Depends on the incentive,” he said, feeling an irresistible need to bait her further. “You can try hiking your dress higher again and see how low I can go.”

At the mention of her previous maneuver she didn’t flinch or seem sorry—which for some reason pleased him.

“What would be the point?” she said, and her smile leaned more toward sarcasm than humor. “You aren’t the type to get distracted by a little leg, are you?”

He couldn’t afford to get distracted. Getting used by a woman twice in one decade would qualify him for a lifetime achievement award for stupidity. However, his body was taking notice of Carly in every way possible. Despite the years of practice, this time, with this particular woman, he struggled to seize the wayward responses and enclose them in steel even as he appreciated the sun-kissed skin, the silky brown hair and the slip-dress-covered figure built to inspire a man’s imagination.

She leaned closer, as if to get his full attention. Which was ironic, seeing as how he was struggling not to notice everything about her. “I’m still waiting on an answer,” she said.

“To which question?” he said. “If I’m susceptible to a woman openly flirting to gain an advantage or whether I have a heart?”

“I’m certain you don’t have a heart,” she said, and he recognized the silky tone she adopted when anger sparkled in her eyes. “But you know what else I think?”

Hunter stared at Carly. The bold challenge in her face reminded him of how far she’d gone to hunt him down. He’d pulled his punches tonight, because anything more would have agitated a crowd that was already against him. But right now they were alone, so he wrapped his tone in his usual steel. “What do you think?”

Her lids widened slightly, as if she was having second thoughts. Her words proved otherwise. “I think you’re a soulless, cold-hearted bastard whose only concern is the bottom line,” she said. “The very sort of man I can’t stand.”

He dropped his voice to dangerous levels. “In that case you shouldn’t have dared me to come back.”

Her chin hiked a touch higher. “It was a last-minute decision.”

“Having trouble controlling your impulses?”

Her chest hitched faster, as if she were fighting to control her anger. “I have no regrets.”

“Not yet, anyway.”

“I suspect your reasons for appearing tonight were less about convenience and more about the free advertising for your heartless app.”

His pause was slight, but meaningful. “But I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for you.”

He was certain she was smart enough to decode his message.

A message that must have infuriated her more, as her eyes narrowed. “If you benefit financially because of tonight, you should send me flowers to show your gratitude.”

The thought brought his first genuine smile. “Perhaps I will.”

The muscles around her beautiful mouth tensed, as if she were biting her cheek to keep from spilling a retort. “Orchids, not roses,” she said. “I like a bouquet that’s original.”

She crossed her arms, framing her breasts and tripping up his thoughts. Hunter wasn’t sure if it was intentional or not.

“I’m easily bored,” she said.

As he stared at his lovely adversary, her face radiating a mix of amusing sass, honest exasperation and barely caged antagonism, he realized why he’d agreed to come back. It wasn’t just his inexplicable restlessness of late. Despite the threat she posed, he was enjoying their duel. In truth, he was in danger of liking her—and, with all his money, it was one of the few things in life he couldn’t afford to do.

He passed around her, heading for the exit. “I’ll keep your floral preferences in mind.”

Late Monday afternoon Hunter weaved his way through the crowded, opulent lobby of SunCare Bank. His cell phone rang and, recognizing the number, he answered without a hello. “I just finished delivering the SunCare proposal. I thought you were going to try and make it?”

“You have smooth negotiating skills,” his partner said. “I’m lousy with clients.”

“Perhaps because you expect everyone to speak fluent binary code.”

“It’s the language of the future, my friend,” Pete Booker said. “And I might have crummy people skills, but I’m brilliant at debugging our cross-platform encryption software. Which I finished in record time, so round of applause for me.”

Hunter suppressed the grin. His friend, a former whiz kid and quintessential technogeek—the stereotype Carly Wolfe had clearly been expecting—hated meetings of any kind. And while Hunter had a healthy ego, was comfortable with his skills as an expert at cyber security, “mathematical genius” didn’t even touch Booker’s capabilities. Unfortunately what Mother Nature had bestowed on Booker in brains she’d shortchanged him in the social graces, leaving Hunter the front man for their business. Still, theirs was a formidable team, and there was no one Hunter trusted more.

“But I didn’t call for applause,” Booker said. “I called to tell you we’ve got trouble.”

Familiar with his friend’s love for conspiracy plots, Hunter maintained his role as the straight man. “More trouble than those secret silent black helicopters?”

“Chuckle on, Hunt. Cuz when Big Brother comes to haul you away, you won’t be.”

“I promise I’ll stop laughing then,” Hunter said dryly.

“Do you want to hear my news or not?”

“Only if it’s about another sighting of Elvis.”

“Not even close,” Booker said. “It’s about Carly Wolfe.”

At the mention of the delightfully charming menace, Hunter frowned as he pushed through the revolving bank door and was dumped out onto the bustling, skyscraper-lined sidewalk. “Go on.”

“As per your suggestion I did a little research and found out her dad is William Wolfe, founder and owner of Wolfe Broadcasting. You know—the one that owns numerous media outlets throughout the country.” Booker paused as if to emphasize what came next. “Including WTDU TV station.”

Hunter stopped short, instantly alert, and people on the sidewalk continued to stream around him. He hadn’t completely recovered from his mental tango with the lovely Carly Wolfe. But the little troublemaker suddenly had the potential of being a much bigger troublemaker than he’d originally thought. “The station that airs Brian O’Connor’s show,” he said slowly.

“One and the same,” his partner said.

Hunter forced the breath from his body in a slow, smooth motion, fighting the odd feeling of disappointment. So far he’d thought Carly Wolfe had been blatantly frank about all that she’d pulled. Her moves had been amusing because she was so upfront in her attempts to get what she wanted from him. Unlike his ex, whose manipulations had all been done behind his back. And while there were clearly no rules to the game he and Carly were engaged in, there was a sort of unwritten gentleman’s agreement—if she’d been a man, that was, which she most clearly wasn’t.

In Hunter’s mind Carly had crossed the line into unfair play. Because she hadn’t had to charm her way onto the show—a thought Hunter had found intensely amusing. No, she’d just picked up the phone and called her father. Making her more of a user than a wily charmer. The disappointment dug deeper.

“The second show is the least of our problems,” Booker said seriously. “With that kind of connection she could maintain this public fight forever. Enough to eventually hurt the business.”

Hunter’s cheek twitched with tension. Firewell, Inc. wasn’t just about money and success. It was about redefining himself after his old life had been stolen from him. The pause was long as Hunter grappled with the news.

“I hope you have a plan,” Booker went on. “Cuz I’ll be damned if I know what to do next.”

As usual, the weight of responsibility sat hard on Hunter’s shoulders, and his fingers gripped the phone. But eight years ago Booker had stuck by Hunter when no one else had, believing in him when most had doubted his honor. On that truth alone Hunter’s business, his success—even the contentment he’d eventually found in his new life—none of it would have been possible without the loyalty of his friend.

Hunter forced his fingers to loosen their grip on his phone. “I’ll take care of it.”

He didn’t know how, but it was going to start with a discussion with Ms. Carly Wolfe.

After an unsuccessful attempt to find Carly Wolfe at her office—followed by a successful discussion with a Gothically dressed coworker of hers—two hours after Booker’s call Hunter drove through a rundown neighborhood lined with derelict warehouses. What was Carly thinking of, doing an interview here? It was far from the upscale, trendy end of Miami, and the moment he’d turned into the questionable section of town his senses had gone on alert.

Hunter pulled in front of the metal building that corresponded with the address he’d been given, parking behind a blue Mini Cooper that looked pretty new, and completely out of place. He turned off his car and spied Carly coming up the alley bisecting a pair of ramshackle warehouses. Her attention was on her cell phone conversation.

His moment of triumph was replaced by an uneasy wariness as two twenty-something males exited a warehouse door behind her, following Carly. Both looked big enough to play defensive end for a professional football team. With sweatshirt hoods covering their heads, shoulders hunched, and hands shoved into their pockets, their posture was either in defense against the unusually chilly air…or because they were hiding something.

Their steps cocky and full of purpose, the menacing-looking duo called after her, their intent clearly on Carly, and Hunter’s senses rocketed from his usual tensely cautious state straight to Defcon One: battle is imminent.

Sonofabitch.

Pushing all thoughts of confrontation with Carly aside, heart pumping with the old familiar adrenaline of a pending threat, Hunter reached for his glove compartment.

“Abby,” Carly said into her cellular, plugging her other ear as she tried to hear over the garbled reception and the city noises echoing along the graffiti-covered alley. “Slow down. I can’t understand a word you’re saying.”

“He came by the office, asking where you were.” Abby’s voice was low and ominous. “Things are about to get ugly.”

Carly grinned at the doomsday prediction. Abby, Carly’s beloved Gothic friend, colleague—and perpetual pessimist—never failed to disappoint. Despite Abby’s predictions that it would end with Carly being bound, gagged and stuffed in the trunk of a car, the interview Carly had just finished with the two graffiti artists had gone better than expected. Outwardly they might resemble your basic gangsters, but their raw artistic talent had blown her away.

“Who came by?” Carly said.

“Hunter Philips.”

Carly stumbled slightly, and her heart sputtered to a stop before resuming at twice its normal rate. Gripping her phone, she tried to focus beyond the noisy traffic and a distant call from someone, somewhere. “What did you say to him?”

“Sorry, Carly,” Abby said with a moan. “I told him where you were. It’s just, well…he caught me by surprise. And he’s so…so …”

“I know,” Carly said as she puffed out a breath, sparing her friend the impossible task.

“Exactly,” Abby said, leaving Carly relieved his beyond-description effect wasn’t just on her.

He was too edgy and guarded to be a charming playboy. Too chillingly in control to play the bad boy. Beyond the iced stare he was criminally beautiful, with a dangerous appeal that was so flippin’ fascinating Carly had had a hard time focusing on her morning’s dull assignment about a new nightclub. Another earth-shattering story to add to a gripping portfolio filled with articles on the latest club, gallery or silliest hottest trend. But who could concentrate when there was someone like the enigmatic Hunter Philips filling her thoughts?

Tonight, hopefully she could keep her mind off Hunter by slaving away on her piece about the graffiti artists. Another in-depth profile article her boss probably wouldn’t publish.

With a sigh, Carly said, “Thanks for the warning, Abby.”

“Be careful, okay?” Abby said.

Carly reassured her she would and signed off, still so caught up in her attempt not to think about Hunter Philips that she didn’t notice the man who stepped in front of her, failing to adjust her stride. She smacked into a solid chest, triggering an adrenaline surge that shot her nervous system straight to nuclear meltdown…until she looked up at Hunter Philips’s face and the whole hot mess got a gazillion times worse.

While her heart added additional force to its already impressive velocity, Hunter put an arm about her waist, pulled her around, and plastered her to his side. Carly’s senses were immediately barraged with several competing sensations at once.

Hunter’s frosty slate-blue eyes were trained on the two men she’d interviewed. There was an utterly steely look in Hunter’s face. His lean, well-muscled—and protective—body was pressed against hers. And beneath his sophisticated hip-length leather jacket a hard object at his waist dug into her flank.

Alarms clanged in Carly’s head. She was aware she should recognize the article biting into her, but she couldn’t place it.

Hunter’s words reeked with cool authority as he addressed the men. “I think you two should take off,” he said, looking ready, able and more than willing to fight if need be.

Thad, one of her interviewees, took a step closer, his bad attitude reflected in his tone as he spoke to Hunter. “Who asked for your opinion?”

Wary readiness oozed from Hunter’s every pore. The two beefy young men looked as if they’d been in a brawl or two, or maybe fifty, but Hunter’s low voice remained smooth, without the tiniest hint of fear. In truth, Carly got the impression he was almost enjoying himself.

“No one asked,” Hunter said, with an undeniably dangerous edge to his tone. “But I’m giving my opinion anyway.”

Thad bristled, but Marcus, his graffiti-painting partner in crime, glanced at Hunter uneasily, as if sensing the new arrival wasn’t someone to mess with.

“Ease up, man. We’re good,” Marcus said to Hunter as he grabbed his friend by the sweatshirt and pulled him back a step. “We just wanted to tell Carly she left her recorder.”

“Yeah,” the other replied with an even worse attitude. “And we ain’t asking for your help.”

Carly’s stomach tipped under the tension of this testosterone-fest run amok, but the vicious surge of flight-or-fight response had finally ebbed, leaving communication possible.

“Hunter, back off. This is Thad and Marcus,” she said, nodding at each in turn. “I just finished interviewing them.”

Hunter looked down at her, his expression confirming that he thought she’d just crawled out of the deep end of crazy.

She held out her hand toward Thad, waiting for her digital recorder. Clearly she was more distracted than she’d thought.

Thad, still glaring at Hunter, began to remove his hand from his pocket, and Hunter’s body instantly, reflexively, coiled protectively tighter. Damn, did the man ever ease up? The hard object at his left hip bit deeper into her flank, reminding her of its presence.

What the hell was that?

But focusing wasn’t easy with the feel of his body pressed against her, the smell of his woodsy cologne, and his hand curved around her hip.

As Thad placed the recorder in her hand, Carly said, “I’ll call next week to set up a time to finish.”

After a nod at Carly, Thad tossed Hunter a venomous look, and the two friends headed back down the alley toward the side door to the warehouse.

After a few seconds of watching them go, Hunter said, “You can’t be serious?”

“About what?”

“Interviewing them.”

“Why not?” Carly looked up at him, not sure if she wanted to kick his butt for insulting her tetchy interviewees or kiss him for taking them on while thinking they were a threat to her. Even with the touchy situation resolved, not a single one of his tensed muscles had relaxed—as if he didn’t quite trust it wouldn’t turn ugly. Of course, her senses were still very much in tune with every inch of his body.

And there were a lot of inches. All of them hard.

Her shoulder was jammed against a solid chest. The arm wrapped around her waist held his lean hip to hers, and his long, powerfully built thigh pressed against her leg. This was no laid-back, artsy type—her usual preference. There wasn’t a single soft spot on him. Every part was honed to perfection. And if his demeanor during a perceived threat was any indication, in a pinch his body could be used as a weapon …

With a clarity that smacked her system into heretofore unknown heart-rates, the identity of the object digging into her side suddenly became known. Ignoring the mutinous thrill, she whispered fiercely, “Is that a gun at your hip?”

It was a rhetorical question, because she knew the answer. How was she supposed to stop obsessing about the man when he showed up going all action-hero on her? And just which side of the law was he on?

Without blinking, he stared at her for a long moment, as if searching for the right way to respond. And then his lips twitched. “Perhaps I’m just happy to see you.”

After a split second of stunned adjustment, she rolled her eyes at the ridiculously old joke. “Only if there’s something seriously wrong with your anatomy.” A spark of amusement briefly lit his eyes, and she knew a comeback was forthcoming. “And forget trying to weasel your way out of my question by assuring me that there is nothing wrong with your anatomy.”

His amused tone was intentionally bland. “There’s nothing wrong with my anatomy.”

She knew that all too well, but she was also perfectly capable of admiring masculine beauty without succumbing to the appreciation. And she hoped to heaven Hunter wouldn’t wind up being the exception, because his ultra-cool aura wrapped in hard-edged alertness provided a kind of excitement no man had before. Ever.

Just remember what happened the last time you found a man intriguing and fell victim to your emotions, Carly.

She wouldn’t let her fascination sway her again. She couldn’t let her fascination sway her again. Her career was only just now recovering.

“Who are you?” She pulled herself from his grasp and turned to face him, ignoring her crushing disappointment at the loss of his touch. “And don’t tell me you’re a simple network security consultant because by the end of that show I knew you were more. And today proves my instincts right.”

He looked down at her with the intense focus that always set her on guard. “What else do your instincts tell you?” he said.

That she’d never met anyone like the enigmatic Hunter Philips. That no man had ever intrigued her so thoroughly. But mostly that he was a force to be reckoned with.

“That you could have taken those two guys down with your bare hands,” she said, staring up at him, knowing in her heart it was true.

After a long pause with no response from Hunter she debated her next move. She was dying for a visual confirmation of the object that adorned his hip, and there was only one ploy she could think of to accomplish her goal. He was decidedly more dangerous than she’d originally believed, which meant she should pass on the plan. Her palms were growing damp at the thought.

Don’t do it, Carly. Don’t do it.

Oh…what the hell.

Tamping down her nerves, she stepped even closer, his nearness providing her with a forbidden adrenaline rush. “I think you could have taken them on bare-handed without so much as wrinkling your clothes.” She began circling him slowly, not having to work hard at the sensual tone. “Not a mark on your pressed white shirt …” As she rounded his side his alert gaze followed her with a keen interest that prickled her skin. Sweat pricked between her breasts. “Not a crease in your dark pants …” She ignored his probing, assessing eyes, afraid she’d lose her nerve. “Or the classy black leather jacket …”

Heart thumping harder, she stopped in front of him and began to run her fingers down the edge of his sleek coat, as if to feel the material. What would he do when she tried to take a look?

“Am I right?” Fingers on his lapel, she risked a glance at those oh-so observant eyes, now lit with awareness, and an exhilarating rush skittered up her spine. “Would you have delivered two right hooks and emerged victorious and wrinkle-free?” Tense with anticipation, she began to lift the edge of his coat to get a peek at his hip.

Brow creased in subdued humor, Hunter pulled his jacket back in place, blocking her view. “Maybe.”

Good God, he was a tease.

She dropped her hand to her side, the disappointment intense. Damn. The more she learned, the more captivating he became—and the more she wanted to uncover.

In light of everything, an interesting possibility suddenly dawned bright. She narrowed her eyes. “Are you a former crook?” Her answer came in the form of a quizzical eyebrow. “You know …” She tipped her head curiously. “One of those high-tech, illegal hacker guys who gets caught, serves his time, and then starts a security firm helping businesses protect themselves from people like them.”

Hunter leaned back against the graffiti-plastered alley wall, crossing his arms. He seemed entertained by the question. Truthfully, he seemed entertained by the entire situation. And he appeared intent on driving her crazy by not answering, along with goading her every chance he got.

“What does your gut say?” he said.

“My gut says there is more to you than meets the eye.” Carly crossed the pavement and turned to lean a shoulder against the metal wall beside him, close enough to get his attention. Hopefully his full attention, without compromising her own.

She had to hike her chin to meet his gaze. Flirting with a man your own height was so much easier. Flirting with a guy when you weren’t sure which side of the law he fell on …?

She lifted a brow. “Are you going to answer my question?” Not one of those beautifully wrought muscles moved. His ready-for-anything aura was undeniably fascinating. “For all I know you’re a threat I should run screaming in the other direction to avoid.”

Her statement finally triggered his response. “I’m not a threat,” he said.

“Then why are you packing a—?”

“I used to work for the FBI.”

She bunched her brow, disturbed that her interest hadn’t been quelled. And neither had his electrifying effect on her. She’d hoped that learning the truth would put the kibosh on it. Help her focus again. She should have known better.

“And why is an ex-FBI agent chasing me down?” she said.

He shifted to face her, his imposing presence no less intimidating after the truth. Just like love and hate, lawmen and criminals were just the flipside of the same dangerous coin. He said, “To ask how long you plan to use your family connections to harass me.”

Stunned, she tried not to gape as a flush washed through her body. Use her family connections? Apparently he was under the mistaken impression her father was an asset to her. And any discussions regarding her dad were bound to get intensely uncomfortable.

She hiked her chin, glad her excuse was real. “Unfortunately I don’t have time for a discussion. I have another interview to get to.”

His previously amused expression had crossed into decidedly un-amused territory, making him more intimidating than before. Apparently he had no intention of letting her go so easily, and her heart sank as her attempt at escape was nixed.

“In that case,” he said, “I’ll tag along.”

CHAPTER THREE

HUNTER sat in the back row of the old theater, empty save Carly, sitting beside him, the crew, and the three naked men on stage, dancing and singing Shakespeare to an electric guitar. “Hamlet, The Musical!” was unique enough, and he supposed nudity added that extra edge needed in a town as jaded as Miami. But if there was a god, and s/he was benevolent, this would end soon and he could get back to his regularly scheduled confrontation.

He shifted in his seat uncomfortably and whispered, “When are you supposed to interview Hamlet?”

Carly whispered back, “As soon as the dress rehearsal is over.”

He stared at the three actors, bereft of clothing. “They still call it that?”

“They have to do a run-through in costume. Or, in this case, in the nude.”

Hunter flinched as one of the male actors twirled across the stage, his male parts a victim to centrifugal forces. “This goes beyond nudity,” he muttered.

Her voice held more than a hint of humor. “Wednesday I’m interviewing a participant in the Pink Flamingo’s annual drag queen pageant, if you want to accompany me there as well.”

He shot her a skeptical look. “What kind of reporter are you, anyway?”

“A lifestyle journalist. I do arts and entertainment pieces.”

On stage, the actors formed a brief chorus line, and the image of the three naked gentlemen doing a cancan almost caused Hunter to throw in the towel and leave. “You’re a little liberal with your definition of entertainment,” he said dryly.

Carly leaned closer, her fresh scent teasing him, her amused voice almost…hopeful. “Are you feeling uncomfortable with the play?”

He stared down at her, not knowing which was worse: the intentionally flirty vibe emanating from her beautiful face or the monstrous scene on stage. One sight scorched his vision, and the other could leave him scarred for life.

She was a manipulator who used her charms at will, yet a part of him was impressed with her courage. A person had to be either stupid or brave to enter that alley in such a dangerous section of town. Initially he’d thought she was the first, but it was evident now that it was the second. And that hint of seduction beneath her pretense of assessing his clothes—all to get a look at his gun—had both tickled him and turned him on when it should have ticked him off. He was dismayed to realize he’d crossed the line. He liked her.

An unfortunate complication.

“No. I’m not uncomfortable with the play,” he lied, convinced she was hoping the outlandish musical would get him to bolt. But he had no intention of leaving without finishing their discussion. Like her or not, he would protect his interests. He turned his focus to the stage, hoping he had the fortitude to stick it out. “I will, however, admit I’m more comfortable in the back alley of a crime-infested neighborhood.”

“Two artistic gangsters are preferable to three actors?”

“They are when they wear clothes.”

“I suppose it makes it easier to hide their weapons if they’re hostile,” she said, obviously amused he’d misinterpreted the men’s intent.

“At least I have a concealed weapons permit. I doubt those two did. And I’m ninety-nine percent positive they were carrying,” he said. Then he nodded in the direction of the stage. “That’s a pretty hostile sight right there.”

“Just promise me you won’t shoot the actors.”

“My Glock is back in the glove compartment.” He risked a glance at the stage, wincing at an eyeful of a bouncing Hamlet dancing a Scottish jig. “Though I am tempted to retrieve it.”

“I never knew network security consulting was so dangerous it required a weapon,” she said.

Though her words were laced with her usual dry sarcasm, genuine curiosity radiated from her face, giving her amber eyes a warm glow, and the thrum of attraction settled deeper in his gut. Up until he’d pulled her against him in the alley she’d been just another beautiful woman he could ignore. After experiencing the dip at her waist and the soft curves firsthand, he was less confident. Since Mandy, and with the demands at Firewell, Inc., his relationships had been few and far between. Brief, superficial and uncomplicated worked best.

And it didn’t get any more complicated than Carly Wolfe.

Awareness burned through him, reaffirming that his vow not to touch her again was vital.

He pushed it all aside, and said, “My day is typically weapon-free. The Glock is only in my car because I visited the firing range before work.”

She shot him a look that went beyond mere curiosity. “Keeping up those skills, huh?”

Hunter’s stomach lurched and he turned to stare at the stage, grateful the increase in volume of the music gave him a reprieve from responding. His weekly trips to the firing range were unnecessary, but he couldn’t seem to let go of the last routine he’d maintained since he’d been forced to leave the FBI, leaving a massive hole in his life.

The sharp ache resurfaced and his jaw clenched. He enjoyed what he did now, but lately he’d been chafing at the monotony …

Carly must have decided he refused to respond to her indirect question. “Why did you leave the FBI?” she asked.

He turned to study her face. Though she was clearly digging for information, the genuine warmth he’d seen on the TV monitor that first day was back. What would she say if he told her part of the truth? There were bad parts he could share, and there were worse parts he could never divulge. In an effort to protect sensitive information the FBI had kept their investigation of him private. Outside of Mandy’s newspaper article about the case he’d been working on, no other information had been made available to the public.

“Off the record?” he said.

She hesitated longer than he would have liked. “Off the record.”

“I was stripped of my security clearance and put on administrative leave without pay.”

A shocked silence followed, filled with awful music, until she said, “Why?”

“I was working on a case that involved a group of hackers that specialized in acquiring credit card numbers. A branch of Russian organized crime was laundering their money.” He took a moment to steel himself for the words that followed. “I was accused of leaking information to the mob.”

The pause was painful as she stared at him, wide-eyed. “And did you?”

The words punched hard, his stomach drawing tight with anger. He’d seen the doubt in his colleagues’ expressions. The questions in their eyes. Outside of his parents and Pete Booker, no one had believed the truth—not a hundred percent, anyway. Not even after he’d been cleared. So why should she? But somehow her doubt took a larger chunk from his already ragged pride, and left him dangerously close to the edge. He leaned closer, and a flicker of desire swept through her eyes. For some reason the thought of a payback appealed. And there was no greater payback than refusing to answer a nosy woman’s question.

“What do you think?” he said.

Carly hardly knew him, and had no reason to believe in his honor. But for one terrible moment he realized he was holding his breath, hoping she would.

“I don’t know,” she said softly, the tone doing little to ease the doubt in her eyes. “Why don’t you tell me?”

The seconds that ticked by felt like minutes to Carly, and she held her breath as she waited for Hunter’s response. The news about his past had dumped a truckload of fuel on an already burning fire of curiosity, but the impassive look on Hunter’s face—so close to hers it was difficult to concentrate—revealed nothing.

And then his eyes flickered with an emotion that came and went too quickly to identify. Finally Hunter leaned back in his seat, but there was a coiled energy simmering beneath the falsely relaxed air. “I think I’ll let you draw your own conclusions.”

Carly stared at Hunter, quietly sucking in a breath. Damn, the man was determined to drive her down crazy lane. “What eventually happened?”

“The matter was investigated and dropped for lack of evidence,” he said evenly. “After that I left the force voluntarily.”

From the tone in his voice it was obvious he was done with the discussion. But his response didn’t make it clear if the charges against him were accurate, but couldn’t be proved, or if they were false. The truth lay buried beneath the impossible-to-ruffle gaze, and her mind kept drifting back to the hard, lethally cool look on his face in the alley.

She cleared her throat, trying to ease the tension. “Being ex-FBI must have helped your business.”

He shot her a pointed look. “As much as having William Wolfe for a father has helped your career.”

The statement was like an elbow-jab to the gut, and Carly’s stomach folded protectively into a knot. Her dad was her least favorite subject, and she wished the Shakespeare-singing and dancing men in the buff had driven Hunter away. Clearly he didn’t scare easily. The next few minutes were going to be rough.

Remember the mantra, Carly. Cool. Easy-breezy.

“It didn’t help as much as you’d think,” she said lightly. “My dad always insisted I make it on my own.” Which she had confidently set out to do, back when she’d believed hard work alone was enough. “When I landed my first job at one of his California papers no one learned who my father was until a year later.”

He studied her face, as if surprised. “That must have caused a few ripples.”

“My boss was certainly nicer after he found out.”

Or he had been nice up until she’d made an iffy decision and scandal had rocked her world—both personally and professionally. And, true to his word, her father had never intervened on her behalf…not even when she’d needed his help the most.

The pain sliced like a freshly whetted knife, and Carly clutched her armrest and stared at the stage, grateful the music was loud as Hamlet belted out his monologue, bare-assed and lifting Yorick’s skull further skyward with every high note. Her father’s approval had always felt unattainable. But if she earned her current boss’s confidence, and a little leeway to choose her stories again, she’d regain a bit of the dignity she’d lost after her mistake.

“California is a long way away,” Hunter said when the music died down. “Your dad must have been happy you were hired on at the Miami Insider and moved back to town.”

Carly bit back a bark of humorless laughter, staring at the stage. “You would think so,” she said. “But you’d be wrong. My father thinks a weekly online paper will fail. He’s convinced I made a disastrous career move.”

Or, more accurately, a second disastrous career move. As always, his lack of confidence in her rankled. But after his prediction she wouldn’t leave even if the Miami Insider did take a nosedive at perilous speeds. She was hell-bent on proving her dad wrong.

“As a matter of fact—” Carly sent Hunter a wry smile “—he’s probably eagerly waiting for the paper to fold just so he can be proved right.”

Hunter narrowed his eyes skeptically. “You’re saying your father had nothing to do with you winding up on Brian O’Connor’s show?”

This time there was no holding back the harsh laugh. The suggestion was so absurd it hurt. “My father would never show me that kind of favoritism.”

“Seems a big coincidence we ended up at the very station your father owns.”

“He had nothing to do with it. I contacted the producer of the show—”

“Who wouldn’t have given you the time of day if not for the family name.”

She wasn’t so foolish as to deny it. “Okay, so that part is true.” Having the last name Wolfe had to be good for something, because the parental aspect wasn’t so hot. “But Brian O’Connor is a fan of my column and was on board with the idea from the start.”

“On board for what?” he asked dryly. “Ganging up on me?”

She blew out an exasperated breath. “You handled us as easily as you handled Thad and Marcus. And you know,” she said, fed up with the entire conversation as she twisted in her seat to face him, “I asked to come on Brian’s show simply to state my beef with your app. You weren’t even supposed to be there.”

His brow creased with suppressed amusement even as his eyes remained unyielding. “Too bad for you I showed up.”

Carly’s lips pressed flat as she remembered how he’d goaded her into losing her temper. Was that his intention now?

His intense gaze was relentless as he went on. “I want you to end this public dispute.”

“Well, I want you to admit The Ditchinator sucks.”

“Fine. I admit it.”

She shook her head. “Not good enough. Which is why I’m so pleased you agreed to a second show.” She sent him her best winning smile—the one that flirted at the possibility for more. “You can go on air to admit it sucks and share the inspiration behind your app.”

He leaned close again, a spark of awareness in his gaze that sabotaged her smooth-talking abilities. “I won’t do either,” he murmured silkily.

Desire constricted her throat, making breathing difficult. She knew he was attracted to her, and God knew he thrilled her like no one had before. She could never mix business with pleasure again, but a part of her longed to know if she could ever get him to act on his attraction. “Well, then, you’d best be on your guard, Mr. Philips.”

His gaze dropped to her lips. “Hunter.”

Awareness pricking her skin and scrambling her brain, she repeated obediently, “Hunter.”

“With you around, I’m always on my guard.” His lips curled at one end. “On guard against your sharp sarcasm. The cutting words. The arsenal of charm. And …” his gaze dropped to her legs this time, kicking up her body’s response, and then lifted to meet her eyes “…the intentional flash of a little more thigh.”

“Come this second show I’m going to pull out all the stops to use that charm and get the history behind your app.”

The hard light in his gaze set her body on fire, and his secretive smile sent a shiver up her spine as he said, “There isn’t a dress short enough to pull that off.”

She bit back the genuine smile that threatened. “Is that a challenge?”

“There is no challenge.” The light in his eyes grew brighter. “I will, however, take the opportunity to beat you again at your own game.”

Despite herself, she let out a quiet laugh. The man might be tightly controlled, but she sensed a playful side in him. One he kept carefully in check, only allowing it to surface occasionally to tease and provoke her. “I’ll accept that as the dare that it is. So how about this?” she said. “If I manage to get the answer out of you, I win. And if you can resist me …” She sent him her most charming smile—the one that had always worked up until she’d met him. “You win.”

“What’s the prize?” he said softly.

Danger and desire intertwined again, leaving her body with a now familiar unsettling attraction that was uniquely his. She was traversing a very narrow line—one so thin it could double as the edge of a knife. And it was hard to focus over her heart’s incessant thumping. “I haven’t decided on the prize yet.”

“Okay, but I expect you to keep the contest fair.”

“What does that entail?”

“Leveling the playing field,” he said. “No more capitalizing on your father’s name as a resource. Which means outside our second show any and all Wolfe Broadcasting media outlets are off-limits in your effort to publically harass me into cooperation.” The man gazed at her, his eyes no less intense in the dim light, the hint of humor dwarfed by the thread of steel in his tone. “And no more below-the-belt punches.”

Intrigued, she hiked her eyebrow a little higher. “What are you going to do if I break the rules? Fit me with a pair of concrete shoes?” She leaned closer, trying to be heard over the music and desperately ignoring the sensual lips mere inches from hers. “Send me an ankle bracelet attached to an anchor and take me for a boat ride out on the Atlantic?”

His gaze was dangerously daring, lit with humor, and infused with an undeniable heat. The combination provided an edgy thrill and a sense of the unknown that shouldn’t have had her so captivated.

Jeez, Carly. You really are your own worst enemy.

His smile morphed from mysterious to killer. “I’ll think of something.”

“Carly, you know you’re heading straight for disaster, right?” Abby—doubting Thomasina friend that she was—shot Carly a worried frown as she clomped across the parking lot towards the Pink Flamingo bar. The heels of Abby’s hip-length leather boots were more clunk than spike, and her black leather dress with its flipped-up collar screamed undead. “After your blog today, Hunter Philips is gonna be seriously annoyed.”

“Why?” Irritation welled for the umpteenth time that day, and Carly frowned. “The Ditchinator just hit the top ten list for app sales.”

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