Dare She Kiss & Tell?

“Yes, I did,” he said smoothly.

Her irritation rose. Damn it, his response was so deviously agreeable. His simple, matter-of-fact confirmation knocked her accusation to the ground, leaving it less effective. And he knew it. “My boyfriend was simply an insensitive coward. You, however,” Carly said, her voice low, hoping for a loss of his tight control when faced with the brutal truth, “are exploiting people’s callous treatment of others simply to make money.”

The worst of the worst. A bottom-feeder, as far as Carly was concerned.

There was no flicker of emotion in Hunter’s cool, hard gaze—just like Thomas after he’d dumped her to save himself. Hunter’s I’m-in-control smile was infuriating. And right now he was the poster boy for every unpleasant break-up she’d ever experienced.

“Unfortunately,” he said, “human nature is what it is.” He paused before going on, a single brow arching higher. “Perhaps the problem is you’re too naive.”

Resentment burned her belly, because she’d heard that before—from the two men who had mattered most. Hunter Philips was a member of the same heartless club as her father and Thomas—where ruthlessness ruled, money was king and success came before all else.

Her sizzling fuse grew shorter, the spark drawing closer to her heart, and words poured out unchecked. “That’s a rotten excuse for fueling man’s sprint toward the death of human decency.”

The words lingered in the stunned silence that followed, and Carly cringed.

Just perfect, Carly. A nice over-the-top histrionic retort, implying you’re a crazy lady.

She’d let her emotions get the best of her…again. Jeez, hadn’t she learned anything in the last three years?

Hunter’s relaxed posture remained in place. His eyes were communicating one thing: her wild words were exactly what the infuriating man had planned. “Are you saying I’m responsible for the downfall of human decency?” The lines in his brow grew deeper. “Because that’s a pretty heavy accusation for one frivolously insignificant app,” he said, and then he turned his small smile toward the audience, drawing them in. “If I’d known how important it was when I designed it, I would have paid more attention.”

A ripple of amusement moved through the crowd, and she knew her role in the show had just gone from lighthearted arts and entertainment reporter to bitter, jilted ex—with a generous dose of crazy.

Hunter returned his gaze to her, and frustration tightened its fist on her heart. There was such a feeling of…of…incompleteness about it. He’d swooped in, deciphered her like the easy read she was, and figured out just which buttons to push. He was more than an unusually cool, good-looking computer expert—his demeanor was a killer mix of cunning arctic fox and dangerous black panther. Obviously this was no simple network security consultant.

So why had Hunter designed such a personal app? The facts didn’t square with the self-controlled man she’d just engaged in a battle of wits. Carly coming in last, of course.

“Unfortunately we’re running out of time,” the host said, disappointment in his voice.

Hunter’s gaze remained locked with Carly’s—a gut-twisting, heart-pounding moment of communication from victor…to loser.

“Too bad we can’t come back again,” she said provocatively, and held Hunter’s gaze, hurling daggers meant to penetrate his steely armor, but sure they were being deflected with ease. “I’d love to hear what inspired the creation of The Ditchinator.”

For the first time a hard glint flickered in his eyes—a look so stony she had to force herself not to flinch.

The host saved the day. “I would too.” He turned to the audience. “Would you like to hear the story?” The audience went wild, and Brian O’Connor became Carly’s newest BFF. “You up for it, Carly?”

“Definitely.” She turned her attention back to Hunter, her tone silky, as it always was when she tried to control her anger. “But I’m sure Mr. Philips is too busy to participate.” Although he hadn’t moved, was as coolly collected as ever—God, she wished she had his control—he had to be mentally squirming as he searched for a way out. The thought was much more satisfying than near-miss daggers, but her fun ended when he shocked her with his answer.

“I’m game if you’re game,” Hunter said.

CHAPTER TWO

A SECOND show. Why had he agreed to a second show?

After a brief conversation with Brian O’Connor’s producer, Hunter strode toward the TV station exit, ignoring the corridor walls filled with photos of previous guests as he homed in on the glass door at the end. He’d set himself a task, achieved his goal and won. Carly Wolfe had fought the good fight, but her anger had gotten the better of her. So Hunter should be walking away in triumph. Done. The issue behind him.

But when the talk-show host had mentioned returning, Hunter had looked at Carly’s amber-colored eyes that had sparkled with challenge, the high cheekbones flushed with irritation, and he’d hesitated. Her quick-fire responses laced with biting sarcasm were entertaining. And when she’d flashed him her delightfully unique blend of charm-and-slash smile, daring him to a second go around, he’d been driven completely off course. What man wouldn’t be captivated by the winningly wily Carly Wolfe—especially after her cheeky crossing-of-beautiful-bared-legs attempt to trip up his focus?

He wasn’t worried he’d lose their second round of verbal tag, or that he’d succumb to her allure, because touching her was out of the question. The sexy firebrand was a problem, but one he could comfortably control—because he’d lived with a pretty reporter once, and to say it hadn’t ended well was a gross understatement …

There was no better education than a negative outcome. Although with Carly around the view was admittedly five-star.

He heard Carly say his name, interrupting his thoughts, and looked to his left, appreciating her lovely face as she fell into step beside him.

Heels tapping on the wood floor, she struggled to keep up. “Interesting how you were too busy to give me five minutes of your time.” The smile on her face didn’t come anywhere near her eyes. For one insane moment he missed the genuine warmth she’d exuded early in the show. A warmth that had ended the moment he sat down beside her. “Yet here you are, going out of your way to come on this program, Mr. Philips.”

“Hunter,” he said, ignoring her enticing citrus scent.

She shot him a you-can’t-be-serious look and stretched those beautiful legs, clearly determined to match his stride. “Why do you keep insisting on the use of your first name? To pretend you have a heart?”

Biting back a smile, he trained his gaze on the exit door, feeling a touch of guilt for enjoying her reaction and her struggle to keep pace with him. “You’re just mad you lost.”

“All I wanted from you was a few minutes of your time, but for weeks you were too busy. Yet you turn up here and then agree to a second show.” Her tone was a mix of irritation, confusion and curiosity, as if she truly wanted an answer to the burning question. “Why?”

“Maybe you charmed me into it.”

“Aphrodite herself couldn’t charm you into going against your will,” she said as she continued walking beside him. “So why now?

“The time suited.”

She stopped in front of him, forcing him to come to a halt or plow her over. “Saturday at midnight?” Her tone radiated disbelief. “But you must be exhausted after spending the week protecting your big-name clients from sophisticated hackers and designing those heart-warming apps.” Apparently she couldn’t resist another dig. “I do hope you’re well compensated.”

Keeping a straight face was hard. “The money is excellent.”

He could tell his response ticked her off even more. The slight flattening of her full lips was a dead giveaway. But eight years ago he’d painstakingly begun the process of rebuilding his life. The main benefits of the business he’d started were financial, and he wasn’t about to apologize to anyone for that.

“The real question is …” She stepped closer and the crackling electricity was back, heating him up and breaking his train of thought in a disturbing way. “How much has your humiliating app made you?”

“Less than you’d think.”

“I’d settle for less than I’d hoped.”

He tipped his head. “And how much would that be?”

She planted a hand on a hip that displayed just the right amount of curve. “How far below zero can you count?”

This time he didn’t hold back the small smile as she tried to restrain her anger. “Depends on the incentive,” he said, feeling an irresistible need to bait her further. “You can try hiking your dress higher again and see how low I can go.”

At the mention of her previous maneuver she didn’t flinch or seem sorry—which for some reason pleased him.

“What would be the point?” she said, and her smile leaned more toward sarcasm than humor. “You aren’t the type to get distracted by a little leg, are you?”

He couldn’t afford to get distracted. Getting used by a woman twice in one decade would qualify him for a lifetime achievement award for stupidity. However, his body was taking notice of Carly in every way possible. Despite the years of practice, this time, with this particular woman, he struggled to seize the wayward responses and enclose them in steel even as he appreciated the sun-kissed skin, the silky brown hair and the slip-dress-covered figure built to inspire a man’s imagination.

She leaned closer, as if to get his full attention. Which was ironic, seeing as how he was struggling not to notice everything about her. “I’m still waiting on an answer,” she said.

“To which question?” he said. “If I’m susceptible to a woman openly flirting to gain an advantage or whether I have a heart?”

“I’m certain you don’t have a heart,” she said, and he recognized the silky tone she adopted when anger sparkled in her eyes. “But you know what else I think?”

Hunter stared at Carly. The bold challenge in her face reminded him of how far she’d gone to hunt him down. He’d pulled his punches tonight, because anything more would have agitated a crowd that was already against him. But right now they were alone, so he wrapped his tone in his usual steel. “What do you think?”

Her lids widened slightly, as if she was having second thoughts. Her words proved otherwise. “I think you’re a soulless, cold-hearted bastard whose only concern is the bottom line,” she said. “The very sort of man I can’t stand.”

He dropped his voice to dangerous levels. “In that case you shouldn’t have dared me to come back.”

Her chin hiked a touch higher. “It was a last-minute decision.”

“Having trouble controlling your impulses?”

Her chest hitched faster, as if she were fighting to control her anger. “I have no regrets.”

“Not yet, anyway.”

“I suspect your reasons for appearing tonight were less about convenience and more about the free advertising for your heartless app.”

His pause was slight, but meaningful. “But I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for you.”

He was certain she was smart enough to decode his message.

A message that must have infuriated her more, as her eyes narrowed. “If you benefit financially because of tonight, you should send me flowers to show your gratitude.”

The thought brought his first genuine smile. “Perhaps I will.”

The muscles around her beautiful mouth tensed, as if she were biting her cheek to keep from spilling a retort. “Orchids, not roses,” she said. “I like a bouquet that’s original.”

She crossed her arms, framing her breasts and tripping up his thoughts. Hunter wasn’t sure if it was intentional or not.

“I’m easily bored,” she said.

As he stared at his lovely adversary, her face radiating a mix of amusing sass, honest exasperation and barely caged antagonism, he realized why he’d agreed to come back. It wasn’t just his inexplicable restlessness of late. Despite the threat she posed, he was enjoying their duel. In truth, he was in danger of liking her—and, with all his money, it was one of the few things in life he couldn’t afford to do.

He passed around her, heading for the exit. “I’ll keep your floral preferences in mind.”

Late Monday afternoon Hunter weaved his way through the crowded, opulent lobby of SunCare Bank. His cell phone rang and, recognizing the number, he answered without a hello. “I just finished delivering the SunCare proposal. I thought you were going to try and make it?”

“You have smooth negotiating skills,” his partner said. “I’m lousy with clients.”

“Perhaps because you expect everyone to speak fluent binary code.”

“It’s the language of the future, my friend,” Pete Booker said. “And I might have crummy people skills, but I’m brilliant at debugging our cross-platform encryption software. Which I finished in record time, so round of applause for me.”

Hunter suppressed the grin. His friend, a former whiz kid and quintessential technogeek—the stereotype Carly Wolfe had clearly been expecting—hated meetings of any kind. And while Hunter had a healthy ego, was comfortable with his skills as an expert at cyber security, “mathematical genius” didn’t even touch Booker’s capabilities. Unfortunately what Mother Nature had bestowed on Booker in brains she’d shortchanged him in the social graces, leaving Hunter the front man for their business. Still, theirs was a formidable team, and there was no one Hunter trusted more.

“But I didn’t call for applause,” Booker said. “I called to tell you we’ve got trouble.”

Familiar with his friend’s love for conspiracy plots, Hunter maintained his role as the straight man. “More trouble than those secret silent black helicopters?”

“Chuckle on, Hunt. Cuz when Big Brother comes to haul you away, you won’t be.”

“I promise I’ll stop laughing then,” Hunter said dryly.

“Do you want to hear my news or not?”

“Only if it’s about another sighting of Elvis.”

“Not even close,” Booker said. “It’s about Carly Wolfe.”

At the mention of the delightfully charming menace, Hunter frowned as he pushed through the revolving bank door and was dumped out onto the bustling, skyscraper-lined sidewalk. “Go on.”

“As per your suggestion I did a little research and found out her dad is William Wolfe, founder and owner of Wolfe Broadcasting. You know—the one that owns numerous media outlets throughout the country.” Booker paused as if to emphasize what came next. “Including WTDU TV station.”

Hunter stopped short, instantly alert, and people on the sidewalk continued to stream around him. He hadn’t completely recovered from his mental tango with the lovely Carly Wolfe. But the little troublemaker suddenly had the potential of being a much bigger troublemaker than he’d originally thought. “The station that airs Brian O’Connor’s show,” he said slowly.

“One and the same,” his partner said.

Hunter forced the breath from his body in a slow, smooth motion, fighting the odd feeling of disappointment. So far he’d thought Carly Wolfe had been blatantly frank about all that she’d pulled. Her moves had been amusing because she was so upfront in her attempts to get what she wanted from him. Unlike his ex, whose manipulations had all been done behind his back. And while there were clearly no rules to the game he and Carly were engaged in, there was a sort of unwritten gentleman’s agreement—if she’d been a man, that was, which she most clearly wasn’t.

In Hunter’s mind Carly had crossed the line into unfair play. Because she hadn’t had to charm her way onto the show—a thought Hunter had found intensely amusing. No, she’d just picked up the phone and called her father. Making her more of a user than a wily charmer. The disappointment dug deeper.

“The second show is the least of our problems,” Booker said seriously. “With that kind of connection she could maintain this public fight forever. Enough to eventually hurt the business.”

Hunter’s cheek twitched with tension. Firewell, Inc. wasn’t just about money and success. It was about redefining himself after his old life had been stolen from him. The pause was long as Hunter grappled with the news.

“I hope you have a plan,” Booker went on. “Cuz I’ll be damned if I know what to do next.”

As usual, the weight of responsibility sat hard on Hunter’s shoulders, and his fingers gripped the phone. But eight years ago Booker had stuck by Hunter when no one else had, believing in him when most had doubted his honor. On that truth alone Hunter’s business, his success—even the contentment he’d eventually found in his new life—none of it would have been possible without the loyalty of his friend.

Hunter forced his fingers to loosen their grip on his phone. “I’ll take care of it.”

He didn’t know how, but it was going to start with a discussion with Ms. Carly Wolfe.

After an unsuccessful attempt to find Carly Wolfe at her office—followed by a successful discussion with a Gothically dressed coworker of hers—two hours after Booker’s call Hunter drove through a rundown neighborhood lined with derelict warehouses. What was Carly thinking of, doing an interview here? It was far from the upscale, trendy end of Miami, and the moment he’d turned into the questionable section of town his senses had gone on alert.

Hunter pulled in front of the metal building that corresponded with the address he’d been given, parking behind a blue Mini Cooper that looked pretty new, and completely out of place. He turned off his car and spied Carly coming up the alley bisecting a pair of ramshackle warehouses. Her attention was on her cell phone conversation.

His moment of triumph was replaced by an uneasy wariness as two twenty-something males exited a warehouse door behind her, following Carly. Both looked big enough to play defensive end for a professional football team. With sweatshirt hoods covering their heads, shoulders hunched, and hands shoved into their pockets, their posture was either in defense against the unusually chilly air…or because they were hiding something.

Their steps cocky and full of purpose, the menacing-looking duo called after her, their intent clearly on Carly, and Hunter’s senses rocketed from his usual tensely cautious state straight to Defcon One: battle is imminent.

Sonofabitch.

Pushing all thoughts of confrontation with Carly aside, heart pumping with the old familiar adrenaline of a pending threat, Hunter reached for his glove compartment.

“Abby,” Carly said into her cellular, plugging her other ear as she tried to hear over the garbled reception and the city noises echoing along the graffiti-covered alley. “Slow down. I can’t understand a word you’re saying.”

“He came by the office, asking where you were.” Abby’s voice was low and ominous. “Things are about to get ugly.”

Carly grinned at the doomsday prediction. Abby, Carly’s beloved Gothic friend, colleague—and perpetual pessimist—never failed to disappoint. Despite Abby’s predictions that it would end with Carly being bound, gagged and stuffed in the trunk of a car, the interview Carly had just finished with the two graffiti artists had gone better than expected. Outwardly they might resemble your basic gangsters, but their raw artistic talent had blown her away.

“Who came by?” Carly said.

“Hunter Philips.”

Carly stumbled slightly, and her heart sputtered to a stop before resuming at twice its normal rate. Gripping her phone, she tried to focus beyond the noisy traffic and a distant call from someone, somewhere. “What did you say to him?”

“Sorry, Carly,” Abby said with a moan. “I told him where you were. It’s just, well…he caught me by surprise. And he’s so…so …”

“I know,” Carly said as she puffed out a breath, sparing her friend the impossible task.

“Exactly,” Abby said, leaving Carly relieved his beyond-description effect wasn’t just on her.

He was too edgy and guarded to be a charming playboy. Too chillingly in control to play the bad boy. Beyond the iced stare he was criminally beautiful, with a dangerous appeal that was so flippin’ fascinating Carly had had a hard time focusing on her morning’s dull assignment about a new nightclub. Another earth-shattering story to add to a gripping portfolio filled with articles on the latest club, gallery or silliest hottest trend. But who could concentrate when there was someone like the enigmatic Hunter Philips filling her thoughts?

Tonight, hopefully she could keep her mind off Hunter by slaving away on her piece about the graffiti artists. Another in-depth profile article her boss probably wouldn’t publish.

With a sigh, Carly said, “Thanks for the warning, Abby.”

“Be careful, okay?” Abby said.

Carly reassured her she would and signed off, still so caught up in her attempt not to think about Hunter Philips that she didn’t notice the man who stepped in front of her, failing to adjust her stride. She smacked into a solid chest, triggering an adrenaline surge that shot her nervous system straight to nuclear meltdown…until she looked up at Hunter Philips’s face and the whole hot mess got a gazillion times worse.

While her heart added additional force to its already impressive velocity, Hunter put an arm about her waist, pulled her around, and plastered her to his side. Carly’s senses were immediately barraged with several competing sensations at once.

Hunter’s frosty slate-blue eyes were trained on the two men she’d interviewed. There was an utterly steely look in Hunter’s face. His lean, well-muscled—and protective—body was pressed against hers. And beneath his sophisticated hip-length leather jacket a hard object at his waist dug into her flank.

Alarms clanged in Carly’s head. She was aware she should recognize the article biting into her, but she couldn’t place it.

Hunter’s words reeked with cool authority as he addressed the men. “I think you two should take off,” he said, looking ready, able and more than willing to fight if need be.

Thad, one of her interviewees, took a step closer, his bad attitude reflected in his tone as he spoke to Hunter. “Who asked for your opinion?”

Wary readiness oozed from Hunter’s every pore. The two beefy young men looked as if they’d been in a brawl or two, or maybe fifty, but Hunter’s low voice remained smooth, without the tiniest hint of fear. In truth, Carly got the impression he was almost enjoying himself.

“No one asked,” Hunter said, with an undeniably dangerous edge to his tone. “But I’m giving my opinion anyway.”

Thad bristled, but Marcus, his graffiti-painting partner in crime, glanced at Hunter uneasily, as if sensing the new arrival wasn’t someone to mess with.

“Ease up, man. We’re good,” Marcus said to Hunter as he grabbed his friend by the sweatshirt and pulled him back a step. “We just wanted to tell Carly she left her recorder.”

“Yeah,” the other replied with an even worse attitude. “And we ain’t asking for your help.”

Carly’s stomach tipped under the tension of this testosterone-fest run amok, but the vicious surge of flight-or-fight response had finally ebbed, leaving communication possible.

“Hunter, back off. This is Thad and Marcus,” she said, nodding at each in turn. “I just finished interviewing them.”

Hunter looked down at her, his expression confirming that he thought she’d just crawled out of the deep end of crazy.

She held out her hand toward Thad, waiting for her digital recorder. Clearly she was more distracted than she’d thought.

Thad, still glaring at Hunter, began to remove his hand from his pocket, and Hunter’s body instantly, reflexively, coiled protectively tighter. Damn, did the man ever ease up? The hard object at his left hip bit deeper into her flank, reminding her of its presence.

What the hell was that?

But focusing wasn’t easy with the feel of his body pressed against her, the smell of his woodsy cologne, and his hand curved around her hip.