The Complete Red-Hot Collection. Kelly Hunter

you going to take me to see your yacht?’

      ‘It’s not a yacht—it’s a Jeanneau 36. If you’re going to be a sailor you need to know these things.’

      ‘Does it have a name? Like…you know…a real name?’

      ‘It does,’ Scott said, and started laughing.

      ‘Which is?’

      ‘Which is…drumroll…Scottsdale.’

      Kate started laughing again and it reminded Scott of that night—the awards dinner—when they’d laughed about Knightley and he’d wanted her more than he’d wanted to breathe. He should have known right then that she was meant to be his. That she would be his.

      ‘Wait until Hugo hears I’ve copied him for once,’ Scott said, and then he stopped. Cleared his throat. ‘Kate, just one thing… About my family…’

      ‘That would be me,’ she said softly. ‘Just me.’

      ‘Oh, God, Kate, I love you,’ he said, and pulled her down to lie with him on the sand again. ‘But you have to know that I have a bit of a conservative streak, like all the Knights.’

      ‘You don’t say?’

      ‘So…divorce parties, break-ups, custody battles… They don’t apply to us.’

      ‘Don’t they?’

      ‘Because Knights don’t divorce. And I will not let you go.’ He stopped to kiss her. ‘If you try to end it I’ll make your life hell. I will fight tooth and nail—move heaven and hell and everything, everything, in between—to keep you. Exactly the way you fight. To the death. So better not to go there. You get all freaked out when marriages end badly. We don’t want you stressing.’

      ‘No more stress. Got it. But… Scott? Was that a proposal? Because we’re not exactly marriage-minded in my family.’

      ‘But I am. And, sorry to break it to you, but I have to be married to the mother of my children—conservative, I’m telling you, I hope your mother is going to cope. And one more thing. You’re not getting any younger, so we’ll have to get cracking on the kid thing.’

      With that, Kate pushed him away, got to her feet, ripped her T-shirt over her head. ‘My age? Are you seriously going there? Because if you are we’re going another round of From Here to Eternity.’

      Scott didn’t argue. He simply stood up and took off his clothes. And then he turned to Kate and held out his hand. ‘Or, as we like to say in legal circles, ad infinitum,’ he said. ‘Which means—’

      ‘Forever.’

      And then Scott grinned. ‘Okay, let’s put on a show for the surfer dude, and see how much more sand we can pack into our nooks and crannies.’

       The Tycoon’s Stowaway

      Stefanie London

      To my wonderful husband for supporting me from the very first time I wrote ‘Chapter One’. Thank you for always understanding my need to write, for keeping me sane through the ups and downs, and for holding my hand when I took the biggest leap of my life.

      I love you.

      Always.

       PROLOGUE

      HOT. LOUD. CRUSHING.

      The dance floor at the Weeping Reef resort bar was the perfect way to shake off the work day, and for Chantal Turner it was the perfect place to practise her moves. She swung her hips to the pulsating beat of the music, her hands raking through her hair and pushing damp strands from her forehead. A drop of perspiration ran in a rivulet down her back but she wouldn’t stop. At midnight, the night was still in its infancy, and she would dance until her feet gave out.

      She was enjoying a brief interlude away from her life plan in order to soak up the rays while earning a little money in the glorious Whitsundays. But the second she was done she’d be back on the mainland, working her butt off to secure a place at a contemporary dance company. She smiled to herself. The life in front of her was bright and brimming with opportunity.

      Tonight the majority of her crew hadn’t come out. Since Chantal’s boyfriend wasn’t much of a dancer he stood at the bar, sipping a drink and chatting to another resort employee. No matter—the music’s beat flowing through her body was the only companion she needed. Her black dress clung to damp skin. The holiday crowd had peaked for the season, which meant the dance floor was even more densely packed than usual.

      ‘Pretty girls shouldn’t have to dance on their own.’

      A low, masculine voice rumbled close to her ear and the scent of ocean spray and coconut surfboard wax hit her nostrils, sending a shot of heat down to her belly.

      She would know that smell anywhere. A hand rested lightly on her hip, but she didn’t cease the gentle rolling of her pelvis until the beat slowed down.

      ‘Don’t waste your pick-up lines on me, Brodie.’ She turned and stepped out of his grip. ‘There are plenty of other ladies in holiday mode who would appreciate your cheesy come-ons.’

      ‘Cheesy?’ He pressed a hand against his well-muscled chest. ‘You’re a harsh woman, Chantal.’

      The tanned expanse of his shoulders stretched out from under a loose-fitting black tank top, a tattoo peeking out at the neckline. Another tattoo of an anchor stretched down his inner forearm. He stared at her, shaggy sun-bleached hair falling around his lady-killer face and light green eyes.

      He’s off-limits, Chantal. Super off-limits. Don’t touch him… don’t even think about it.

      Brodie Mitchell stepped forward to avoid the flailing arms of another dancer, who’d apparently indulged in a few too many of the resort’s signature cocktails. He bumped his hip against hers, and their arms brushed as Chantal continued to dance. She wasn’t going to let Brodie and his amazing body prevent her from having a good time.

      The song changed and she thrust her hands into the air, swinging her hips again, bumping Brodie gently. His fingertips gripped her hips like a magnet had forced them together. Every touch caused awareness to surge through her veins.

      ‘You can’t dance like that and expect me not to join in.’

      His breath was hot against her ear. Her whole body tingled as the effects of the cocktails she’d downed before hitting the dance floor descended. The alcohol warmed her, giving her limbs a languid fluidity. Head spinning, she tried to step out of his grip, but stumbled when another dancer knocked into her. She landed hard up against Brodie, her hands flat against his rock-hard chest. He smelled good. So. Damn. Good.

      Against her better judgment she ran her palms up and down his chest, swinging her hips and rolling her head back. The music flowed through her, its heavy bass thundering in her chest. She probably shouldn’t have had so many Blue Hawaiians—all that rum and blue curaçao had made her head fuzzy.

      ‘I can dance however I like,’ she said, tilting her chin up at him defiantly. ‘Mr Cheese.’

      ‘You’re going to pay for that.’ He grinned, snaking his arm around her waist and drawing her even closer. ‘There’s a difference between charming and cheesy, you know.’

      ‘You think you’re charming?’ she teased, ignoring the building tension that caused her centre to throb mercilessly. It was the alcohol—it always made her horny. It was absolutely nothing to do with Brodie.

      ‘I do happen to think I’m charming.’

      His