A Scent of Seduction

“Let’s? So it was you, Lester and Coyote group-hugging?”

“And Gail.” She paused, unsure how to explain what happened next.

“That’s it? The four of you group-hugged?”

Kathryn nodded.

“That’s the most boring story I’ve ever heard. You skipped the good part.”

“Yes, well, we moved together to hug,” she said carefully, still trying to piece together in her own mind what had happened, “and somebody lost their balance, causing Coyote to fall against me, or maybe I fell against him.” She paused, thinking. “No, no, he fell against me and next thing I knew his lips were brushing against a spot behind my ear. You know, that soft patch of skin right behind your ear that when touched or softly blown on makes your skin prickle all over?”

Zoe fanned herself with a cocktail napkin. “Oh, to be soft-patch kissed by a man like that.”

They each helped themselves to an appetizer and noshed for a long moment in silence. Over the speakers, a Jack Johnson tune played, its kick-back surfer beat underscored by the distant, crashing waves.

Zoe finally broke the silence. “So, was that the end of your confession?”

“No. After Coyote’s lips brushed that soft patch, we were still hugging, or maybe clinging to each other, or maybe I was clinging to Coyote, anyway, suddenly my world—” She raised her right hand as though taking an oath. “I swear, Zoe, my world rocked off its axis.” She picked up her glass and downed the rest of her drink.

Zoe peered at her over the top of her sunglasses. “Please don’t tell me you’ve been without so long that you took advantage of a group hug to cling to the hunk in the group.”

Kathryn’s jaw dropped. “That’s ridic—”

“I’m worried about you, Kath. You’re emerging from a long dry spell. I think we should hire you a booty call or something so you can vent some steam before you fall into another group hug.”

“Oh, I get it. Zoe’s being funny. Ha-ha.”

Zoe leveled her a look.

“You’re serious.” Kathryn crossed her arms. “You, Ms. Wild Thang, who by the way was totally with me on how a simple touch could rock a person’s world, don’t believe something out of this world happened during an off-kilter group hug?” After a moment of silence, she sighed heavily. “How much do you think a booty call would cost?”

“Why, there you are, darling!” From across the rooftop, Gail Rhodes, her cheeks as pink as her dress, called out to their table. “I’ve been looking all over for you!”

“Is she talking to us?” whispered Zoe.

Kathryn lowered her voice. “She’s been calling me every hour on the hour since that damn team meeting.”

“You clung to her, too?”

Kathryn gave Zoe a look.

“Sorry,” Zoe murmured just as Gail descended on their table in a cloud of jasmine-scented perfume.

“Imagine!” Gail said breathlessly, batting her eyes at Kathryn, “we see each other again.”

“Imagine,” Kathryn muttered.

“Is that seat taken?” Gail asked, pointing to the empty chair with Kathryn’s jacket tossed over its back.

“No,” said Zoe.

“Yes,” said Kathryn.

“Yes,” corrected Zoe quickly. She shrugged apologetically to Kathryn. “I forgot.”

Gail pouted her disappointment. “So, what’re you girls drinking?” Her bracelets jangled as she gestured toward their glasses.

“Cosmo,” said Zoe.

“Spritzer.”

“Yours looks empty,” Gail said, leaning closer to Kathryn. Through lowered, thick lashes, she murmured, “Let me get you a refill.”

Without waiting for an answer, she leaned over and plucked the glass, managing to lightly press the back of her hand against Kathryn’s arm in the process. Her face close to Kathryn’s, she whispered, “Anything else you’d like?”

Kathryn literally felt her jaw drop. Gathering her wits, she finally managed a barely audible “No.”

“Because I’d do anything—”

“No! I only want a spritzer. That’s all. Nothing else.”

With a sly wink, Gail left in a swirl of pink and jasmine.

“I see muffins in your future,” murmured Zoe as they watched Gail sashay away.

Kathryn helped herself to a sip of Zoe’s drink. Setting down the glass, she said, “I know what the problem is. Nothing happened in that group hug. This is all happening because of that book I reviewed. Everyone’s seeing me in a new light.”

“Yeah, a hot spotlight. Although Gail Rhodes…? I mean, I thought she was a die-hard hetero. Not that I’m prejudiced or anything, but that woman was flirting with you.”

“I think it’s time for me to leave,” Kathryn said, scooting back her chair.

A ting-ting-tinging sound drew everyone’s attention. Next to the fountain, Barry Huttner, the Times’s chief operating officer, tapped the side of a glass with a knife.

“Everyone, your attention, please!” he said. As the conversations quieted, he continued, “Our publisher, Mr. Tallant, would like to say a few words.”

“Wonderful.” Kathryn sat back down. “I’m stuck.”

Anthony Tallant walked up to the fountain, carrying himself with the confidence of a man who’d never known struggle. “Thank you, everyone, for joining us on this lovely afternoon at Taboo. I hope you’re enjoying the appetizers, courtesy of the Times.”

Somebody whooped, followed by a ripple of laughter.

“Well, one person is obviously enjoying them,” he quipped, then grew serious. “As all of you know, the Times turns one-hundred-thirty-five-years old this year, a milestone for not only the oldest paper in the state, but also San Diego County’s oldest business.”

More applause.

“One reason the paper has survived this long is its willingness to take risks and tackle new ideas. This year my vision has been for the paper to increase its readership, and toward that means we kicked off the Crest of the Wave, awarded by the most readers’votes for their favorite Times editor. I’m very pleased that since we announced this contest, our circulation has increased seven percent.” He waited for applause. “And although votes are still coming in, we can safely say the winner will be one of two people who’ve taken the lead. In fact, the reader response has been so fantastic, we’ve decided to put Kathryn and Coyote on the road.”

Someone yelled, “Road trip!”

Kathryn froze.

Coyote laughed out loud.

“Not literally on a road trip,” said Tallant. “But down the road to a PR event. Tomorrow, they’ll be at Ocean Beach to hand out prizes for a surfing competition, to be covered of course by the San Diego Times.”

Tallant talked for a few more minutes before wrapping up with his customary “thanks for the hard work” sign-off. As he exited, shaking hands, people started milling about again. Gail was at the bar, ordering.

“Tell Gail I had to go.” Kathryn stood, grabbed her jacket, still more than a little in shock she’d be giving out awards for a surfing contest. She reached into her purse. “Give her a ten for me, okay?”

Zoe waved her hand. “I’ll get it. Better leave while the leaving’s good.”

With a nod, Kathryn did. She headed quickly to the elevators.

At street level, she walked briskly down the street. Traffic hummed, palm trees swayed and the horizon glowed pink and orange with the setting sun.

What did people wear to surfing-award ceremonies? One thing she was certain of, a knockoff designer business suit was hardly surf-babe attire. Maybe she’d stop at a little dress shop tomorrow, purchase something new. A summer dress. Sandals. Maybe a cute sweater to go with it. Never knew about California beach weather—could be cold or hot, even in the dead of winter.

She thought of Coyote looking at her, the way his eyes had devoured her.

Maybe she’d also buy some very sexy underwear. White, sheer, lacy.

Security, security, security.

The old voice was back. Now that she was away from the party atmosphere, security again took a front-row seat in her mind. She needed to win the Crest of the Wave to buy her dream condo with the beachfront view, not lose her head—and future—over a teenage infatuation.

“That’s right, don’t blow it,” she lectured herself. So what if the man was a walking molten mojo, she had to keep her head on straight.

She pulled back her shoulders, picked up her pace and walked purposefully down the sidewalk. Going somewhere, having a purpose, rebuilding security, that’s what really mattered.

Which she kept reminding herself all the way home, because somehow it didn’t ring as true as it once had.

THE NEXT DAY, at 4:50 p.m. sharp, Coyote stood partway down Ocean Beach Pier looking east down the long walkway toward its entrance. Late-afternoon fog had rolled in, cutting visibility to fifteen or twenty feet. Everything else was cloaked in gray, giving the world a surreal effect.

He’d been standing here for ten minutes, watching for Kathryn.

He checked his watch again. Four fifty-one. He was never a clock watcher, except when it came to sports, but today he was on pins and needles waiting and watching for her. The award ceremony kicked off in nine minutes. At the end of the pier, several hundred or so feet behind him, surfers, family, fans and a ragtag assortment of the media—mostly from the Times—were gathered for the festivities. He’d already passed the word to his team that this story and photo were to be on page one of tomorrow’s sports section, and no way was Kathryn being late going to blow it for him. He’d be in the photo shoot solo, if need be.

Come to think of it, that wasn’t such a bad idea.

His picture, his name, his do-gooding for handing out awards. There was a whole new, younger audience who’d see that photo and cast their votes for him.

A cold wind whipped past, and he buttoned his jacket. Time to split, get back to the ceremony. If Kathryn didn’t make it on time, tough. To the Coyote would go the spoils.

He started walking to the end of the pier.

Soft running steps behind him.

He turned back and saw the form of a woman, her hair flying as she ran in his direction.

Kathryn.

As she grew closer, the mist cleared and he saw her more clearly. Her hair flying, the hem of her long polka-dot dress—make that red polka dots—fluttering behind her, a smile on her face when she recognized him.

She reached him, heaving breaths.

“Hi,” she said, sweeping a ringlet of hair off her cheek. She wore a bright red sweater that nearly matched the flush in her cheeks.

“I was worried you’d be late,” he mumbled, trying to sound worried.

“Me, too.” She laughed lightly. “Me, late! Can you imagine?”

Believe me, I tried. “No, it’s difficult to imagine.”

He wrapped her arm through his—it felt so natural, as though they’d done this a hundred times—and began walking with her. A little boy tossed a piece of bread into the air. A flutter of white broke through the mist as seagulls descended on the food, their calls greedy and shrill.

To the victor go the spoils, although it wasn’t such a pretty sight.

“If this gets any worse, nobody’s going to be able to see their awards,” Kathryn joked.

They walked in silence for a few moments, their footsteps sounding almost hollow in the mist. Yesterday, he’d barely been able to contain himself around her, but today he was more in control. She was, too, it seemed. Which made sense, considering this PR event could mean the difference between winning and losing.

Nevertheless, he missed how he’d felt yesterday after that group hug. Crazy, teetering on a thin edge of control. He’d never felt that intensely over a woman before.

He glanced at her dress, realizing those weren’t red polka dots, but cherries. Bright red cherries, all over her. A zing of attraction zigzagged through him.

“You look nice.”

“Thank you. I thought I’d wear something appropriate for a surfing ceremony.” She gestured at her dress. “Well, I guess cherries don’t exactly evoke surfing, but it’s better than one of my stuffy business suits.”

He was surprised she described her work image as stuffy. Although that word pretty much nailed it. He’d long ago learned that few people took off their rose-colored glasses when analyzing themselves—everyone seemed to think they knew the best, did the best, were the best. Or maybe that came with the territory when you made a career interviewing sports stars.

Another gust of wind whipped past, and she shivered.

“You should’ve worn something warmer than that sweater.” He knew better than to insult a woman’s choice of clothes. “I mean, it’s pretty, but you’d have been better off wearing a down jacket in this weather.”

“I picked up the outfit at lunchtime when the temperatures were pushing eighty. Never crossed my mind it might get this cold by five.”

So she’d bought the dress especially for today’s event?

Or for him?

“That’s the California coast for you,” he said. “Hot one minute, a fog layer rolling in the next.” The parallel with himself didn’t escape him. He had a reputation for running hot and cold, playing artist one moment, con the next. Juggling people and events in his quest to get ahead, the way he’d been willing a few minutes ago to snatch the photo-op glory for himself only. In his defense, he’d never acted with malice, although that justification suddenly felt thin.

He stopped and shrugged out of his jacket. “Here,” he said, wrapping it around her shoulders. “This will keep you a little warmer.”

“Oh, I can’t. You’ll get cold.”

“Let me take care of you.”

He looped her arm through his again and they continued walking down the pier. And for a moment, he felt like a better man.

FORTY MINUTES LATER, at the end of the pier, the festivities were breaking up. Some people were gathering their belongings, others stood chatting in small groups. Off to the side, several teenage boys and a girl stood with their trophies while Lacey, a Times staff photographer, peered at them through the camera viewfinder.

“Say cheese,” Lacey said.

A wave crashed against the pier. Spray rained on them. “Say shred, dudes!” one of the guys yelled, causing the others to laugh.

Lacey snapped some photos. “Great!”

Straightening, she motioned to Coyote and Kathryn. “You’re next. Stand a few feet in front of the railing over there.”

Kathryn looked past the railing into the mist. Twenty or so feet out, a wave suddenly rose, dark and ghostlike, before crashing against the end of the pier. Some people squealed as its thundering impact exploded in a rain of foam and spray.

“She’s got to be kidding,” Kathryn muttered.

“It’ll make a great picture,” said Coyote, next to her. He slicked his hand through his hair.

“We’ll look ridiculous.”

“No way,” Lacey said, adjusting her equipment for the shot. “It’s a perfect shot for the Crest of the Wave. Readers will eat it up. And maybe more important, Tallant will, too.”

Kathryn grimaced as another wave thundered against the pier, the pilings shuddering from its force.

“I could always do the shot alone,” Coyote said casually.

Women would swoon over a testosterone-and-spray-drenched photo of Coyote Sullivan in the Times. She could just hear the overloaded switchboard as women callers chipped their manicures frantically phoning in their votes.

“Over my dead body,” murmured Kathryn, accepting the challenge.

They stood exactly where Lacey told them to, side by side, taking direction—“Don’t cringe…stand straight…Kathryn, stop frowning…great laugh, Coyote!”—while waves crashed and cold ocean water spewed.

Twenty minutes later, Coyote and Kathryn hurried back down Ocean Beach Pier. Along the way fishermen lined the railing, diehards who cast their luck rain or shine, scents of French fries and hamburgers wafted from vendors’ stands, and the ever-present seagulls circled and squawked.

When they were almost at the end, a kid sporting a pink Mohawk clattered toward them on a skateboard. Kathryn jumped out of the way and dropped her purse, the contents spilling on the deck.

“Sorry, dude!” the boy called out as he rattled on down the pier.

Kathryn muttered a few choice words.

“You’re full of surprises,” teased Coyote, bending to pick up some of the spilled items.

“Shocked that I cuss?”

“Pleasantly so.” He held up a large jackknife. “Maybe more shocked at this.”

“That was a gift from my dad.” She took it, dropped it into her purse. “He thought it’d be good protection.”

Coyote did a double take. “Have you? I mean, used it for protection?”

Picking up a tube of lipstick, Kathryn laughed. “No. I mostly use it to cut up food. Before he died, he gave me other things I’ve never used—a wrench set, a power drill. What can I say—he always wanted a boy.”

Coyote moved closer. “I’m sorry.”

She nodded, not really wanting to discuss the family she’d lost. So many things in her past she wanted to keep that way. Locked-up memories in a box, best left unopened.

“For the record,” he murmured, “I’m glad you’re not a boy.”

For a still moment, they looked at each other, neither pretending that what was happening between them wasn’t.

Coyote broke the spell when he looked away and picked up a small bottle. “What’s this?”

Kathryn shrugged. “Nothing. I should toss it, but I keep forgetting to.”

“Nothing?” He held it up and examined the liquid. “Perfume?”

“No.”

It was clear, and yet on closer inspection he caught within it a hint of luminescence—a ray of moonlight captured within. And yet, when turned another way, it was clear again.

“Interesting,” he murmured.

“What?”

“Here, look for yourself.” While handing it to her, the bottle slipped and toppled down a hole in one of the wooden planks.

They both stared down the hole, watching it sift through the air before landing on a patch of sand.

Kathryn made a dismissive gesture. “Like I said, I’ve been meaning to throw it away—”

“I’ll go get it.” Coyote stood. “Tide’s low. It’ll be easy to find.”

“No, really—”

But he was already jogging toward the wooden stairs that led to the beach.

She gathered the rest of the spilled contents, thinking how she’d once pegged Coyote as unapologetically self-centered—most good-looking, charming men were—yet he’d been anything but that today. Loaning her his jacket, doing his best to make her comfortable during that drenched shoot, helping her when her purse took a tumble. And now digging around in the sand for that bogus lust potion.

The guy really did seem to want to take care of her.

Her last relationship, back in Chicago before her life took a nosedive, had been with a good-looking, charming guy who always watched out for number one, himself, with Kathryn a distant second. Or fourth or fifth if she factored in his dog, buddies, career and favorite bar. She wished she could say Steve had been the only guy who behaved that way, but he wasn’t. In hindsight—which was always twenty-twenty, right?—she chalked it up to women’s stereotypical attraction to bad boys, a habit she swore she’d never repeat.

She headed for the stairs, mentally cursing the new, too-tight sandals that were about as practical for shoes as thongs were for undies. At the bottom of the stairs, she stepped onto the sand. Her feet sank like cement.

Screw the shoes.

She slipped them off and left them, along with her purse, on a stair. She hadn’t walked barefoot on the beach in years. Embarrassing, really, to think how close she was to the Pacific, yet the last time she’d been to the ocean had been aeons ago in Jersey.

Underneath the pier, the hazy daylight shifted into layered grays. Wisps of fog hovered in the air and clung to the pilings. More sensed than seen were the shadowy figures of surfers and boogie-boarders bobbing on the distant, swelling waves.

“Found it!” called out Coyote, his tall, dark form emerging through the mist.

Her breath caught at the sight of him. Even in this surreal world, his skin still had that warm, brown glow. He’d rolled up the sleeves of his beige chambray shirt, the color almost stark against his muscled, suntanned forearms. Strands of black hair fell rakishly across his forehead. She’d once heard him say he was half Kumeyaay, the band of Native Americans who’d thrived in the San Diego area centuries ago. The Times had recently run a series of articles on local tribes, and she recalled how, in the late eighteenth century, the invading Spaniards had described the Kumeyaay as fine in stature and affable, but rebellious. They’d refused to be forced laborers and had openly revolted. Eventually, they were punished with expulsion from their ancestral homes.

She understood how it felt to leave one’s home and forced to adapt to a new lifestyle, a new community. For all their differences, she and Coyote shared something profound and fundamental.

The loss of roots.

He walked toward her, sniffing the open bottle. “Smells like…nothing.”

“Told you.”

He gave her a teasing smile. “Not like a woman to carry a bottle of something that’s nothing.”

“It’s a long story.”

“If it’s anything like your taste in books, I bet it’s a very interesting story.”

Heat flooded her cheeks. “You read it?”

“Bound in Brasilia? Yes. Well, the first four or so chapters. I bought it on the way home last night and read it after I went to bed.”

A hot wave swept over her as she imagined Coyote lying in bed doing anything.

He touched his finger to the vial opening and tipped the bottle slightly. “Is it a breath freshener?”

“It’s bogus.”

“Bogus?”

No way she was going to tell Coyote about the smarmy little man and his fabricated story of a lust potion and jaguars and sex and sex and…

She curled her toes in the sand as though that helped ground her. “Bogus, nothing, nada. All the same meaning.”

“And you’re carrying around nada because—?”

Oh, sure, she could just hear herself explaining this one. Well, it appears this weird little man dropped a vial of lust potion into Zoe’s purse, which she later discovered and handed over to Ethan who has connections to the police crime lab. It’s rumored unsuspecting tourists in dire need of a sex fix have been plunking down good money for this tap water, so it seemed wise to have the evidence analyzed. How did I end up with some? Oh, I got a wild hair and filched it.

“You’re right, it’s breath freshener,” she lied. “I’ve had it so long, it’s probably lost its minty taste.”

He righted the bottle, a drop of the liquid on his forefinger. “Let’s see. Stick out your tongue.”

She shook her head. “This is ridic—”

“You say that too much. You need to trust more.” He gave her a look. “And play more.”

The way he said play caused a flame of hot, ripe need to sputter to life within her.

She stuck out her tongue.

“Adventurous, I like that,” he teased, touching her tongue, lightly, with his finger.

She paused, tasting it. “Like I said, nothing—”

Her words halted as a subtle tingling started on the very tip of her tongue. Warm, as though she’d tasted a potent spice, or a chili, yet the heat wasn’t painful. On the contrary, it was pleasurable. Intensely so.

The sensation filled her mouth, raced down her throat, flooded her chest. She sucked in a breath, surprised how the chilly air instantly warmed upon entering her body. The tingling spread from her chest to her fingers, down her legs to her toes, until her entire body felt consumed with heat. A cascade of smells followed, crowding her senses—the ocean, fried foods from the pier café, Coyote’s masculine scent.

Oh, yes, his scent.

That was the most powerful. Soap from his morning shower, the natural musk of his skin, a splash of his earthy cologne. The sum total basic, shameless and teasing. Just like the man.

“Kathryn?”

She hadn’t realized she’d closed her eyes. She had some difficulty opening them, as though awakening from a trance. When she finally did, she stared into his eyes, mesmerized. Had she ever noticed how black, fathomless, shiny they were? Like polished obsidian.