A Scent of Seduction. Colleen Collins

      FIFTEEN MINUTES LATER, everyone stood in groups of three or four. In Kathryn’s were herself, Lester, Gail and—heaven help her—Coyote.

      She felt jittery, as though she’d consumed too much caffeine, although all she’d had this morning was herbal tea. Part of her recent getting-healthy diet, although suddenly the thought of no chocolate was tantamount to going a lifetime without sex.

      She’d much prefer to have her chocolate and her sex, hopefully at the same time.

      She slid Coyote a look, thinking how cruel the karma gods could be. She was this close to winning the Crest of the Wave, and the guy who made her want to break her diet and dip herself in Godiva was gaining, fast. She needed to keep her wits about her to compete with him, not get all gooey inside every time he was near.

      Inside. Insides.

      So that’s what he meant by her cover not matching her insides. Well, it was true. She just thought she’d been hiding it better. Or maybe she had been, except it seemed little got past Coyote and his sharpened instincts.

      “Okay, everyone!” said the moderator into the microphone, “we’re going to start things off with a little warmth and love.”

      “I need a drink,” muttered Lester.

      Gail blinked at him. “That would only give you a lot of empty calories—”

      “Oh, shut up.”

      “I’d like each group,” continued the moderator, “to give each other a hug.”

      There was a long moment of awkward silence in the room. Someone giggled.

      “I’m serious,” said the woman, smiling broadly. “I know you all work hard, sometimes even compete with each other—”

      Kathryn and Coyote exchanged a look.

      “—but let’s put all that aside and kick off this event with a big group welcoming hug.”

      After a pause, Coyote opened his arms wide. “Let’s go for it, gang,” he said lightheartedly, placing his arms around Gail’s and Kathryn’s shoulders. “Come on, Lester, it won’t kill you.”

      “Says who?” With a hefty sigh, he placed his beefy arms around the women.

      The four of them moved forward, closing the space.

      Coyote smelled Gail’s flowery perfume, heard Lester’s mutterings, felt a silky strand across his cheek…Kathryn’s hair.

      Someone stumbled, causing him to lean into her. His face pressed into soft hair scented with coconut shampoo. He turned his head, trying to right himself, and his mouth brushed against a patch of exquisitely soft skin behind her ear…

      The moment of contact was like a jolt, followed by a rush of hot, aching need that flooded his body. The need surged higher and deeper and hotter. He rode the strong tidal pulsing, caught in the churn of a desire unlike anything he’d ever experienced before—intensely carnal and at the same time revelatory as though it held an answer. And he almost held on to this answer, except a fog crept over his mind, and the answer faded and disappeared into nothingness.

      He stood there, fuzzy headed over exactly what had just transpired.

      With great effort, he pulled away and looked into Kathryn’s eyes, vaguely aware he’d never noticed their color before, blue like a languid summer sky. Or the light flush of her flawless skin. Or the ripe pink of her mouth.

      It was as though he’d never seen her before.

      And at the same time, he felt as though he’d known her forever. That she’d always been, and would always be, a part of his life.

      A haziness descended over him and he gave his head a small shake. For a man who’d always prided himself on knowing the stakes and playing to the edge, he felt damn clueless about what had just transpired.

      2

      “PUT THISQUESTION in your column, dog. Does Spencer ‘The Monster’ Maxson have what it takes to make a comeback? I can answer unequivi—unequi—Shit, what’s that word?”

      “Unequivocally.” Coyote signaled the bartender as he and Spencer took their seats. Late-afternoon sunlight sifted through the thatched roof over the bar, part of the tropical decor at San Diego’s trendy rooftop watering hole, Taboo.

      “Unquiv—what you said.” The neighboring stool creaked under Spencer’s two-hundred-sixty-plus-pound frame. “The answer is yessir, I got what it takes. That shoulder injury is a thing of the past. Shit, my shoulder’s not just mended, it’s evolved.”

      “Don’t push it, Spence. Remember that time your hamstring was acting up—”

      “Hey, I just wanna get on the field to show what I got. Check this out.” Spencer flexed his massive brown arm, decorated with a bright yellow lightning-bolt tattoo. Several women down the bar craned their necks for a better look.

      “Better than Popeye,” Coyote said.

      “Better? If that dude were still alive, he’d turn greener than his spinach lookin’ at The Monster’s bicep.”

      “I don’t think Popeye died.”

      “Huh?”

      “He’s a cartoon character.”

      Spencer snorted, dropped the pose. “I knew that. Anyway, all I’m sayin’ is I’m ready to come through in the red zone for the Stars.”

      The L.A. Stars, the new NFL team for Los Angeles. Everybody was eagerly watching the new team’s first season, and Coyote knew Spencer felt the pressure to perform not just well, but damn well.

      “Glad to have you back, Coyote,” greeted the bartender, her long blond hair pulled back in a ponytail. She wore a sea-green tank top decorated with palm trees, hula dancers and the word Taboo in silver sequins across her chest. “Your usual?”

      “Thanks, Eva.”

      While Spencer ordered, Coyote scanned the roof and its lagoonlike pool, scattered teakwood tables and plush couches nestled in private cabanas—all with a view of the distant bay. This was a great date spot—women loved curling up in those cabanas to watch the sun go down. Today, however, was business. A get-together for the Times employees and their friends hosted by none other than the publisher, Anthony Tallant, himself. Cash bar, but the treats—trays heaped with exotic-looking appetizers being circulated by waiters—were free for the taking. When a daily paper splurged on anything, it meant good news.

      In the center of the rooftop loomed a copper fountain nestled between swaying potted palms. The metal sparkled gold and orange under the gurgling cascade of water. Nearby stood the associate sports editor, Dean Rock, who flashed Coyote a baleful look. Poor Dean, cornered by Barbara Bitterman, the managing editor, who was undoubtedly spouting corporate tripe ad nauseam. Which was why Coyote made it a habit to be too busy to attend bullshit management meetings and send his associate sports editor instead.

      Tallant, impeccably dressed in his usual three-piece suit, strolled from table to table while glad-handing employees. Coyote respected Tallant for his energy and drive but didn’t entirely trust the man. But then, Coyote didn’t trust anyone who’d been “to the manor born,” which was a world apart from the subsidized