A Scent of Seduction. Colleen Collins

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      A SCENT OF SEDUCTION

      Colleen Collins

       TORONTO • NEW YORK • LONDON AMSTERDAM • PARIS • SYDNEY • HAMBURG STOCKHOLM • ATHENS • TOKYO • MILAN • MADRID PRAGUE • WARSAW • BUDAPEST • AUCKLAND

      MILLS & BOON

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      To Carrie Alexander and Jamie Sobrato

      Contents

      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

      Coming Next Month

      1

      STRIDING DOWN a line of cubicles, Kathryn Walters checked her wristwatch, the Tag Heuer she’d treated herself to after her promotion to San Diego Times book editor a year ago. Eight forty-five. She huffed a breath, mentally cursing the nonstop phone calls she’d juggled this morning, more than she typically received in an entire day, all in response to her book review in yesterday’s Sunday edition. The way people were reacting—most titillated, a few outraged—you’d think she’d marched naked through the streets twirling a flaming baton, not merely reviewed a murder mystery.

      An erotic murder mystery.

      Kathryn loved experimenting with the book section, introducing little-known authors and cutting-edge stories. She’d purposefully chosen Bound in Brasilia for its darkly erotic tone and kick-ass murder mystery, both of which lured the reader into its world of sex, crime and suspense. Especially the sex.

      She couldn’t help but smile to herself. It had been a calculated risk reviewing something certain people might view as porn, but she’d figured the word of mouth could garner her more reader votes for the coveted Crest of the Wave award for best Times editor. The fifteen-grand prize meant she could finally make the down payment on the beach condo of her dreams. Her own home. Security.

      It’d been three long years since she’d lost both, along with her career, reputation, friends—the list felt endless. Funny how naive she’d been back then, thinking that speaking up about a corporate scam was the right thing to do. She knew better now. Much smarter to keep your mouth shut, mind your own business, keep your nose to the proverbial grindstone.

      Win that prize and own her home again.

      An intern stumbled to a stop in front of her. “Gr-great review, Ms. Walters.”

      She halted. “Thank you.”

      “Are those, uh, books the kind…” A shy smile exposed braces.

      She glanced around, her five-eleven stature giving her a bird’s-eye view into the cubicles. Interesting how many people had stopped working, looking up at her with titillation written all over their faces. Nice to know so many people had read Sunday’s book section.

      “The kind?” she prompted, looking back at him.

      He shuffled in place. “Are those books the kind you’ll be reviewing again?”

      “If you mean, will I be reviewing more…thought-provoking books, the answer is yes.”

      She eased past the intern, biting back a smile. Thought-provoking? More like body-provoking.

      A few weeks ago, when she’d selected Bound in Brasilia for her next review, she anticipated it would shake up readers. What she hadn’t expected was how deeply it would shake up her. The protagonist’s journey into the steamy South American jungle while she tracked a shaman who ignited buried dreams had nudged Kathryn into thinking about her own long-ignored personal needs. She couldn’t even remember when she’d last taken a vacation or treated herself to a manicure, or just been lazy for an entire day. It was as though she was terrified that if she let up on herself for even a minute, she’d lose the opportunity to earn back what she’d lost.

      While reading that book, she’d especially yearned to rekindle one specific long-lost need. Sex. In her zeal these past few years to rebuild her life, she’d managed to shove her libido into some deep freezer and lock the door. Thanks to Bound in Brasilia, however, that door had blasted open. Oh, she stayed focused on work, still put in more overtime than anyone else at the Times, but her overstimulated brain cells were tickling and teasing her at every opportunity, fabricating all kinds of scorching, experimental fantasies.

      And all of them with a certain man.

      Coyote Sullivan.

      Of course, what woman didn’t want Coyote, the Times’s cocky and impossibly sexy sports editor? The man had the dark, sultry looks of a Johnny Depp, the gambling instincts of a Donald Trump, the sexual aura of a Bono. She’d sometimes wondered if his parents had actually named him Coyote, or if he’d adopted it as he became more like the mythical animal—part trickster, part outlaw, with a gleam in his eye that said he had an appetite for all things. No wonder he invaded her daytime—and especially nighttime—fantasies. Oh, to be wicked with a man like that.

      But her attraction was more than just superficial hots. At odd moments, she’d caught glimpses of her former self in him, those parts she’d once enjoyed and had worked hard to bury. Sometimes it was the sound of his boisterous, carefree laughter that made her recall a time when she didn’t worry so much. Other times it was the gleeful way he went after something—a story, a bet—that made her miss how she’d once lived life greedily, eager for the next experience.

      Occasionally she even had the crazy thought that experiencing Coyote would transform her. Not into the woman she once was—that woman was long gone—but into someone new, someone unafraid to live fully again, who celebrated her self instead of denying it.

      Brushing back her shoulder-length hair, Kathryn strode into the kitchen, smiling at the crossed-out S in the Watch Out for Spillage sign over the sink. Being early November, people were revving up for the holidays, getting in a more playful mood. A cork bulletin board on the far wall was covered with everything from a calendar of upcoming events to worker’s comp regulations. Doughnuts were piled on a plate on one of the nearby tables. The room smelled of coffee, cinnamon, and a telltale hint of Forbidden, her best pal Zoe’s—the Times gossip columnist—favorite perfume.

      “Kath, baby,” murmured Zoe, peering at her through her ever-present prescription sunglasses while pouring coffee into a mug. Zoe, born to wear a miniskirt, came across as all flash and spark but Kathryn knew differently. That slight New England accent gave away her friend’s privileged roots.

      “I knew you were reviewing a hot new book, but you didn’t tell me how hot.” Zoe touched a finger to her tongue and