A Scent of Seduction. Colleen Collins

      KATHRYN ENTERED the conference room and looked around at the twenty or so people, most clustered in groups, chatting and laughing. She’d attended plenty of meetings in this room, but today it felt different. As though she could follow the threads of everyone’s conversations, even sense people’s varying moods.

      Such as Lester, the fiftysomething business editor and office curmudgeon, who sat off by himself with a when-will-this-be-over gloom on his face. Or the flirtatious heat generating from Coyote and one of the newsroom assistants, a twentysomething stuffed into tight clothes with long, blond-streaked hair—one of those women Kathryn called the Beyonce-Wannabe-Babes. The young woman laughed and coyly touched Coyote on his arm.

      Like I care, thought Kathryn, knowing full well she did. Well, not much.

      Yeah, sure, that’s why he’s heating up your dreams every night.

      “Treats, everyone!” trilled the food editor, Gail Rhodes, interrupting Kathryn’s mental dialogue. Gail sailed into the room carrying a tray of baked items, the trail of her jasmine perfume mixing with the scent of chocolate wafting off her tray.

      Not like me to be so sensitized to everything. Had to be the combination of people’s reactions to the review, the stress of the contest and now a dreaded team-building jail term. Normally at a function like this, Kathryn would sit up front, paying attention and taking copious notes. That now seemed downright silly. Notes at a team-building meeting? Gee, that seemed about as interesting as writing a review of an accounting book.

      Kathryn veered toward the back of the room, deciding the best way to survive the next two hours of rah-rah, go-team-ness would be to sit somewhere away from ground zero. Several times as she brushed past someone, she swore she got that look again. Titillated.

      “Are those tricks or treats, Gail?” barked Lester.

      “Chocolate cherry muffins made with no sugar or fat.”

      “Just what I thought,” he mumbled. “Tricks.”

      Kathryn had always liked Lester, one of those people who never gave a rat’s ass what people thought of him. An excellent neighbor for the next few hours.

      As she settled onto a seat next to him, she asked, “Not up for counting fat grams today?”

      He shot her a look. “My idea of a balanced diet is a cheeseburger in each hand, but don’t tell Gail. That woman would have me tarred and feathered.”

      “Or buttered and floured.” While setting down her tote, it caught between their chairs.

      “Let me help.” He grunted while lifting it. “What the hell do you carry in here?”

      “Girl stuff and books.”

      Grumbling something about lead-filled girl stuff, he leaned forward just as she did, and their heads lightly bumped. When their gazes met, he too was giving her that look.

      “It was only a review, Lester.”

      He gave his head a shake, his expression slowly returning to its usual disgruntled state. “What review?”

      Gail suddenly appeared, sans goodies, in a swirl of pink and glittering jewelry. She reminded Kathryn of one of those mothers in a fifties sitcom, overly pressed and poised as though reality never touched her.

      “Mind if I join y’all?” Not waiting for an answer, she sat primly on the other side of Lester, who shot a beleaguered look at Kathryn.

      “Should’ve taken a muffin,” she said under her breath.

      She heard a familiar, deep-throated laugh behind her, followed by a whiff of men’s cologne—spicy, earthy—as a husky male voice whispered into her ear, “Your book doesn’t match its cover.”

      Coyote.

      His breath puffed hot against her ear, sending small fires skittering along her skin. She flashed on something she’d once read about the coyote being heard before it’s seen.

      She turned slightly, her eyes locking with those warm brown ones. She’d never been so near to him, never fully noticed the thickness of his hair or its rich, inky-black color. His face was a marvel of flat, angular planes, indicative of his Native American heritage.

      Don’t stare at the man. Say something.

      She cleared her throat, frantically backpedaling to recall what they’d been talking about. Oh, right. The book. “Bound in Brasilia’s cover matches the book perfectly, I think.” As if, sitting this close to Coyote, she even remembered.

      “Not that book,” he said teasingly. “I mean our book editor’s cover—” his eyes slid down her knockoff designer pants suit, back up “—doesn’t match what’s inside.”

      A moment of sexual energy crackled between them, sharp and hot, and she had the heady sensation of that delicious age-old tug-of-war between the sexes.

      He moved imperceptibly closer, his eyes growing darker. “Didn’t mean to insult you.”

      “You didn’t insult me,” she whispered, her heartbeat accelerating.

      One corner of his mouth lifted. “Then tell me what I did do.”

      Or what I want you to do. She swore she felt the heat pumping off his body, caught the play of light in his eyes that was downright predatory. The man of her dreams was merging with the very real man staring at her as though he could consume her, head to toe, right here and now. And she suddenly knew no fantasy—no matter how hot, hedonistic, uninhibited—would be as amazing as experiencing the real thing with Coyote.

      “Attention, everyone!” chirped the woman at the front of the room, clapping her hands loudly. “Our team building is about to begin!”

      With great effort, and no small regret, Kathryn turned around and pretended to pay attention.