The Complete Red-Hot Collection. Kelly Hunter

too.’

      ‘How many women have confirmed it?’ She bit back a grin, curious as to the number of notches on his bedpost. Brodie had a bit of a reputation and, as much as she hated to admit it, Chantal could see why.

      It wasn’t just that he had a gorgeous face and a body that looked as if it belonged in a men’s underwear commercial. Hot guys were a dime a dozen at the resort. Brodie had something extra: a cheeky sense of humour coupled with the innate ability to make people feel comfortable around him. He had people eating out of the palm of his hand.

      ‘I don’t kiss and tell.’

      ‘Come on—I’ll even let you round up to the nearest hundred.’ She pulled back to look him in the eye while she traced a cross over her heart with one finger.

      He grabbed her wrist and pulled her hand behind his back, forcing her face close to his. ‘I’m not as bad as you think, Little Miss Perfect.’

      ‘I doubt that very much.’

      The music switched to a slow, dirty grind and Brodie nudged his thigh between hers. A gasp escaped her lips as her body fused to his. She should stop now. This was so wrong. But it felt better than anything else could have right at that moment. Better than chocolate martinis and Sunday sleep-ins… even better than dancing on a stage. A hum of pleasure reverberated in her throat.

      ‘I bet you’re even worse.’

      ‘Ha!’ His hand came up to cup the side of her jaw. ‘You want to know for sure, don’t you?’

      Her body cried out in agreement, her breath hitching as his face hovered close to hers. The sweet smell of rum on his lips mingled with earthy maleness, hitting her with a force powerful enough to make her knees buckle.

      Realisation slammed into her, her jaw dropping as she jerked backwards. His eyes reflected the same shock. Reality dawned on them both. This was more than a little harmless teasing—in fact it didn’t feel harmless at all.

      How could she possibly have fallen for Brodie? He was a slacker—an idle charmer who talked his way through life instead of working hard to get what he wanted. He was her opposite—a guy so totally wrong for her it was almost comical. Yet the feel of his hands on her face, the bump of his pelvis against hers, and the whisper of his breath at her cheek was the most intoxicating thing she’d ever experienced.

      Oh, no! This is not happening… This is not happening.

      ‘You feel it, don’t you?’ Worry streaked across his face and his hands released her as quickly as if he’d touched a boiling pot. ‘Don’t lie to me, Chantal.’

      ‘I—’

      Her response was cut short when something flashed at the corner of her eye. Scott.

      ‘What the hell is going on?’ he roared. His cheeks were flushed scarlet, his mouth set into a grim line.

      ‘It’s nothing, man.’ Brodie held up his hands in surrender and stepped back.

      He was bigger than Scott, but he wasn’t a fighter. The guilt in his eyes mirrored that in Chantal’s heart. How could she have done this? How could she have fallen for her boyfriend’s best friend?

      ‘Didn’t look like nothing to me. You had your hands all over her!’

      ‘It’s nothing, Scott,’ Chantal said, grabbing his arm. But he shook her off. ‘We were just dancing.’

      ‘Ha!’ The laugh was a sharp stab of a sound—a laugh without a hint of humour. ‘Tell me you don’t feel anything for Brodie. Because it sure as hell didn’t look like a platonic dance between friends.’

      She tried to find the words to explain how she felt, but she couldn’t. She closed her eyes and pressed her palm to her forehead. She opened them in time to see Scott’s fist flying at Brodie’s face.

       ‘No!’

       CHAPTER ONE

      REJECTION WAS HARD ENOUGH for the average person, and for a dancer it was constant. The half-hearted ‘Thanks, but no thanks’ after an unsuccessful audition? Yep, she’d had those. Bad write-up from the arts section of a local paper? Inevitable. An unenthusiastic audience? Unpleasant, but there’d be at least one in every dancer’s career.

      Chantal Turner had been told it got easier, but it didn’t feel easy now to keep her chin in the air and her lips from trembling. Standing in the middle of the stage, with spotlights glaring down at her, she shifted from one bare foot to the other. The faded velvet of the theatre seats looked like a sea of red in front of her, while the stage lights caused spots to dance in her vision.

      The stage was her favourite place in the whole world, but today it felt like a visual representation of her failure.

      ‘I’m afraid your style is not quite what we’re looking for,’ the director said, toying with his phone. ‘It’s very…’

      He looked at his partner and they both shook their heads.

      ‘Traditional,’ he offered with a gentle smile. ‘We’re looking for dancers with a more modern, gritty style for this show.’

      Chantal contemplated arguing—telling him that she could learn, she could adapt her style. But the thought of them saying no all over again was too much to deal with.

      ‘Thanks, anyway.’

      At least she’d been allocated the last solo spot for the day, so no one was left to witness her rejection. She stopped for a moment to scuff her feet into a pair of sneakers and throw a hoodie over her tank top and shorts.

      The last place had told her she was too abstract. Now she was too traditional. She bit down on her lower lip to keep the protest from spilling out. Some feedback was better than none, no matter how infuriatingly contradictory it was. Besides, it wasn’t professional to argue with directors—and she was, if nothing else, a professional. A professional who couldn’t seem to book any decent jobs of late…

      This was the fourth audition she’d flunked in a month. Not even a glimmer of interest. They’d watched her with poker faces, their feedback delivered with surgical efficiency. The reasons had varied, but the results were the same. She knew her dancing was better than that.

      At least it had used to be…

      Her sneakers crunched on the gravel of the theatre car park as she walked to her beat-up old car. She was lucky the damn thing still ran; it had rust spots, and the red paint had flaked all over the place. It was so old it had a cassette player, and the gearbox always stuck in second gear. But it was probably the most reliable thing in her life, since all the time she’d invested in her dance study didn’t seem to be paying off. Not to mention her bank accounts were looking frighteningly lean.

      No doubt her ex-husband, Derek, would be pleased to know that.

      Ugh—she was not going to think about that stuffy control freak, or the shambles that had been her marriage.

      Sliding into the driver’s seat, she checked her phone. A text from her mother wished her luck for her audition. She cringed; this was just another opportunity to prove she’d wasted all the sacrifices her mother had made for her dancing.

      Staring at herself in the rearview mirror, Chantal pursed her lips. She would not let this beat her. It was a setback, but only a minor one. She’d been told she was a gifted dancer on many occasions. Hell, she’d even been filmed for a documentary on contemporary dance a few years back. She would get into one of these companies, even if it took every last ounce of her resolve.

      Despite the positive affirmation, doubt crept through her, winding its way around her heart and lungs and stomach. Why was everything going so wrong now?

      Panic rose in