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Losing Control
Robyn Grady


You'll be working for me.Taking charge comes naturally to workaholic media mogul Cole Hunter. That includes dealing with headstrong TV producer Taryn Quinn. Cole may not like her idea for a travel show, but Taryn intrigues him. Enough for Cole to join her on a location-scouting trip to an isolated Pacific island, despite the family drama at home.Soon the tantalizing Taryn makes Cole forget about everything…except making love to her in the moonlight. But once reality intrudes, will he risk losing all he's worked for to keep this woman in his life?












“Maybe we shouldn’t worry about words.”


He felt her quiver, almost heard her questioning her own resolve. But she didn’t bawl him out. Didn’t move away.

Rather, still looking ahead, she lifted her chin and said, “I think we should go back.”

“Anything you want.” His lips brushed a line up to her lobe. Anything at all.

Gently he turned her head until they were gazing into each other’s eyes, noses touching. She quivered, but not from the cold.

“Would it surprise you to know,” he said, “that I’ve always wanted to make love on a beach under a full moon with a batch of turtles ready to hatch?”

A smile touched her eyes. “What a coincidence.”

He twirled his nose around hers, stole a featherlight kiss from one side of her mouth.

“Cole, when I said something might happen, I didn’t mean this.”

His hand on her arm, he brought her closer.

“I did.”


Dear Reader,

When my editor asked if I’d like to submit for my very own series, I jumped at the chance! I love linked books and knew precisely what the stories should offer.

Foremost passion and unforgettable characters. Then a fast-paced plot along with a good dollop of drama—the kind of intensity that revolves around dark secrets, big family and glamorous settings.

Roll that all together and you have THE HUNTER PACT, a series based upon a billion dollar media conglomerate, Hunter Enterprises, and the warring siblings who run it. This first installment—Losing Control—is eldest brother Cole’s story.

The word leader was created for Cole Hunter, along with tags like loner, workaholic, defender and even misunderstood. When a sassy nothing-new-to-offer producer is employed without Cole’s knowledge, he chooses responsibility over instant attraction. There’s enough on his plate, including tracking down his father’s would-be assassin.

But Taryn Quinn knows what she wants and won’t quit till she gets it. Much depends on her success in launching her project with Hunter’s. She’s prepared to do anything to achieve her goal … and I do mean anything.

I hope you enjoy Losing Control!

Robyn

Stay up to date here: www.robyngrady.com

Follow Robyn on Twitter @robyngrady




About the Author


ROBYN GRADY was first published with Mills & Boon in 2007. Her books have since featured regularly on bestseller lists and at award ceremonies, including a National Readers’ Choice Award, a Booksellers’ Best Award, CataRomance Reviewers’ Choice Award and Australia’s prestigious Romantic Book of the Year Award.

Robyn lives on Queensland’s beautiful Sunshine Coast with her real-life hero husband and three daughters. When she can be dragged away from tapping out her next story, Robyn visits the theater, the beach and the mall (a lot!). To keep fit, she jogs (and shops) and dances with her youngest to Hannah Montana.

Robyn believes writing romance is the best job on the planet and she loves to hear from her readers. So drop by www.robyngrady.com and pass on your thoughts!




Losing Control


Robyn Grady






www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


This book is dedicated to the friends I made during my own days working in the media. Never a dull moment!

With thanks to my editor, Shana Smith, for her

support and work on this book and

THE HUNTER PACT series.




One


Eyes shot up and all conversation ceased as Cole Hunter burst in and let loose a growl. Cole wouldn’t apologize. He abhorred being kept in the dark, particularly when the deception concerned the man he respected most in the world.

Once, Cole’s father had been a corporate powerhouse, a leader to be admired and, frequently, feared. More recently, however, Guthrie Hunter had softened. The responsibility of running Hunter Enterprises had fallen largely upon Cole’s shoulders. The eldest of four, he was the person family leaned upon in a crisis, whether the drama unfolded here in Sydney or at one of the other Hunter offices located in Los Angeles and New York City.

Cole didn’t want to think about that ongoing drama in Seattle.

His father’s personal receptionist flew to her feet. With a look, Cole set her back in her seat then strode toward colossal doors that displayed the flourishing Hunter Enterprises emblem. How the hell could he keep things well oiled and on track if he wasn’t informed? Dammit, he couldn’t fix what he didn’t know.

Cole broke through the doors. Turning to close them again, his gaze brushed over the three openmouthed guests waiting in the reception area, one being a woman with wide summer-blue eyes and flaxen hair that fell like tumbles of silk on either side of her curious face. His raging pulse skipped several beats before thumping back to life. Work in television production meant beautiful ladies day in and day out, but true star quality was one in a million and this woman had it in spades. She must be auditioning for a show, Cole surmised. A special project if Guthrie Hunter planned to conduct the interview himself.

Something else he knew zip about.

His jaw tight, Cole slammed the doors shut. Swinging around, he faced the polished hardwood desk, which had prefaced that wall of glittering awards for as long as Cole could remember. Unperturbed, a silver-haired man sat in a high-backed leather chair, receiver pressed to an ear. Cole’s sources said three hours had passed since a second attempt had been made on his father’s life. Guthrie had probably wondered what had kept his firstborn so long.

Stopping dead center of the enormous office suite, Cole set his fists on his hips. Despite broiling frustration, he kept his tone low and clear.

“Whoever’s responsible won’t see light outside of a prison cell before both poles have melted.” When his throat uncharacteristically thickened, Cole’s hands fell to his sides. “For God’s sake, Dad, shots were fired. This guy’s not about to stop.”

Guthrie muttered a few parting words into the mouthpiece then set the receiver in its cradle. Surveying his son, he tipped his clean-shaven chin a notch higher.

“I have this under control.”

“Like you had it under control a month ago when your car was run off the road?”

“The authorities concluded that was an accident.”

Cole looked heavenward. God, give me strength. “The license plates belonged to a stolen vehicle.”

“Doesn’t mean the accident was an attempt on my life.”

“I’ll tell you what it does mean. Bodyguards until this is sorted. And I don’t want to hear any argument.”

When Cole went too far and shook his finger, Guthrie’s smooth expression fell. Sixty-two-year-old palms pressed upon the desk and Guthrie pushed to his feet with the agility and posture of a man thirty years younger. Cole’s jacketed shoulders rolled back. There wasn’t a man alive who could intimidate him, although, even now, with an ax to grind, his father came close.

“You’ll be happy to know I have organized a bodyguard,” Guthrie said. “He’s a private detective, as well.”

Absorbing his father’s words, Cole willed away the red haze rimming his vision. His temper dropped a degree and then two. Flexing his fingers at his sides, he blew out that pent-up breath.

“What were you thinking, keeping this from me?”

“Son, I’ve only just got in.” Rounding the desk, the older man crossed over and set a bracing hand high on Cole’s jacketed arm. “You have enough to worry about. Like I said … everything’s under control.”

Cole winced. Guthrie was kidding himself.

Four years ago, when his father was recovering from bypass surgery and Cole had turned thirty, the family empire had been sectioned up and each son designated an equal portion to manage. Here in Sydney, Cole manned the Australian television cable and free-air interests. When he wasn’t chasing skirt, Dex, the middle son, looked after the motion picture end of business in L.A. The overindulged, overachiever and youngest of the Hunter boys from Guthrie’s first marriage, Wynn took care of the print media slice of the company from New York. Cole’s remaining full-blood sibling Teagan was off doing her own thing in Washington State.

Initially Cole had bristled at the idea of Daddy’s Girl shunning her responsibilities and refusing to step up to help run the business. Hunter Enterprises had provided well for them all, Teagan’s childhood operations and college designer gowns included … although, to be fair, with the top three jobs filled, her role would need to be a subordinate one. But given the time he spent watching and worrying over his brothers’ business and personal decisions, Cole had to be grateful that the Hunter wild child had opted out. God knows he had enough to deal with.

Of course Cole still loved his brothers and sister. Nothing could ever change that. They’d shared a wonderful mother, a talented Georgian beauty who had beamed whenever she’d told a new acquaintance that both he and Wynn had been born in Atlanta. With only two years separating each, the Hunter children had grown up tight. But, thanks to gossip magazines and the Net, all the world knew about the rifts, which made the running of such a vast enterprise under separate helms even more of a challenge. Through Dex’s overindulgence and Wynn’s overzealousness, Hunter’s reputation had taken some blows recently. For everyone’s sake, Cole was determined to assume genuine leadership over every quadrant of Hunter Enterprises, or die trying.

Guthrie wanted his children to mend their fences, get along and continue to build together. With their father married a second time to a calculating woman, playing happy families—keeping it all together—was nigh on impossible.

Winding away from his father, Cole moved to an early-spring view of commuter ferries crisscrossing Sydney Harbour’s vast blanket of blue.

“I’d be happier speaking to Brandon Powell about organizing full-time protection,” he said.

“I know you and Brandon have been friends for years, and his security firm is one of the best. It’s not that I didn’t consider it … But, frankly, I need someone who’s clear on who’s paying the bill.”

Cole pivoted around. “If you’re suggesting Brandon would ever act unprofessionally—”

“I’m saying you’d be at him to divulge every detail of my every move, including what transpires beneath the sanctity of my family’s roof, and that is not an option. I know you don’t approve of Eloise, but—” Guthrie’s furrowed brow eased and, weary of that particular fight, he exhaled. “Son, my wife makes me happy.”

“As happy as my mother used to make you?”

“As happy as one day I hope you will be with someone you truly care for.”

Cole refused to acknowledge the sheen in his father’s eyes or the uncomfortable restriction in his own chest. Instead, he headed back to those massive double doors. Lust and love were two different states. A man his father’s age should know better. His eldest son certainly did.

As if to highlight the point, the first thing to catch Cole’s eye as he strode back into his father’s reception lounge was that blonde and her star quality coaxing him into her long-legged, lush-lipped orbit. What red-blooded male would pass on the chance to bring those amazing curves close, to sample the soft press of that body and sweet scent of her skin? But that urge was sexual, only lust.

One day, Cole hoped to find the right woman. Someone he’d be proud to call the mother of his children. Someone he would respect and receive respect from in return. His stepmother didn’t know the meaning of that word. In fact, he wouldn’t be surprised if Eloise was behind those bullets for hire. Despite his father’s edict just now, he had no qualms about finding out if Brandon Powell thought the same.

When his father’s voice broke into his thoughts, Cole blinked his attention away from Ms. Summer-Blue Eyes. Standing to Cole’s left, Guthrie was studying him, salt-and-pepper brows hitched at a quizzical—or was that approving?—angle.

“I see you’ve met our new producer, Taryn Quinn.”

Cole did a double take. Producer? As in behind the cameras as opposed to in front of them?

Again he examined the woman whose glittering gaze was pinned directly on him. Feeling his blood swell, Cole cleared his throat. Producer, talent … either way, it made no difference. If his father hadn’t discussed this before now, anything other than a cursory introduction would have to wait. He had a meeting to attend, important documents to sort.

Cole muttered, “Good meeting you, Ms. Quinn,” then prepared to shove off. But she’d already eased to her stiletto-heeled feet, and as she extended a slender hand, the light in her eyes seemed to intensify tenfold. Dazzling. Inviting. Cole couldn’t deny he felt the warmth of that smile to his bones.

“You must be Cole,” she said as, reaching out, his fingers curled around and held hers. A current—subtle yet electric—sizzled up his arm and, despite his ill humor, Cole found a small smile of his own.

Well, guess he could spare a moment or two.

“So, you’re a producer, Ms. Quinn?” he asked.

“For a show I approved last week,” his father interjected as Ms. Quinn’s hand fell away. “Haven’t had a chance to speak with you about it yet.”

Cole asked, “What kind of show?”

“A holiday getaway program,” Taryn Quinn said.

Out of the corner of his eye, Cole caught Guthrie fiddling with his platinum watchband the way he did whenever he felt uncomfortable. And rightly so. The last holiday series Hunter Broadcasting had piloted died a quick and deserved death. In these tough economic times, if viewers were to swallow yet another “best destinations” show, the promise would need to deliver fresh sparks week after week.

And what about the exorbitant budgets? Sponsors could pull down costs but, since the global financial crisis, any collaboration was a squeeze. Despite her obvious allure, if the decision had been his, Cole would’ve given Ms. Quinn’s idea the thumbs-down before she’d cleared the gate.

Another mess he’d need to clean up.

From behind her desk, Guthrie’s receptionist interrupted.

“Mr. Hunter, you asked to know if Rod Walker from Hallowed Productions called.”

Thoughtful, Guthrie stroked his chin before heading back toward his office. He paused beneath the lintel of that massive doorway.

“Taryn, I’ll drop by and touch base soon. In the meantime …” His focus swung back to his son. “Cole, I’ve allocated Ms. Quinn the office next to Roman Lyons. Do me a favor.”

Cole thrust both fists into his trouser pockets. He guessed the favor. No way would he raise his hand.

“I have a meeting—”

“First, see that Taryn’s settled.” Guthrie’s light expression held while his voice lowered to a steely tone Cole knew well. “Your meeting will wait.”

Taryn nodded her thanks to Guthrie Hunter then turned to his Hollywood-attractive son. Her jaw tightened even as her heart beat a thousand miles a minute. How women must melt at Cole Hunter’s feet. How they must dream of his smile.

“Your father’s a considerate man,” she said as Guthrie’s towering doors clicked shut, “but if you’re busy, please don’t let me keep you.”

When she resumed her seat, crossed her legs and reached for a magazine, rather than run with the offer, Cole Hunter remained rooted to the spot, and for so long Taryn began to wonder whether he’d expected a curtsy before heading out.

Her gaze crept up from the fashion section.

In that rich graveled voice that made her stomach muscles flutter, he explained, “I can’t put this meeting back.”

“Oh, I understand.”

She sent a quick smile he didn’t return. Rather, the crease between the dark slashes of his brows deepened. “My father shouldn’t be long. Rod Walker’s a busy man, too.”

Taryn nodded affably, recrossed her legs, and the magazine took her attention again. But as she flipped to the gossip pages, she was aware of the younger Mr. Hunter checking his wristwatch then shaking his jacket sleeve back down.

“My guest’s flying back to Melbourne at midday,” he went on. “We don’t have much time.”

Glancing back up, she cocked her head and blinked. “Then you’d best hurry.”

Cole Hunter wasn’t hard to work out. Foremost, he was get-out-of-my-way ambitious, which she understood. Nothing compared with the buzz of landing on top, achieving a true sense of financial and personal security. She’d grown up with an aunt. One of Vi’s favorite sayings was, At every turn, in every way, invest in yourself, which meant achieving a good education, grabbing regular exercise, staying loyal to friends and, wherever possible, dodging “trouble.” Which brought Taryn to Cole Hunter’s second quality.

Clearly, he was an intensely sexual being and, for whatever reason, she had piqued his interest. The testosterone pumping through his veins, darkening those ocean-green eyes to a storm, was as tangible as the breadth of his chest or square set of his jaw. The man exuded a masculine energy that stroked Taryn’s skin and stirred a delicious aching heat low in her belly.

Understanding these things about Cole Hunter was the reason for her reservation now. She didn’t care who he was, what he thought of himself, how many women he’d bedded, with how much skill or how little effort. Certainly she wouldn’t be rude, but Guthrie Hunter had hired her and no matter how knee-knockingly sexy, if the son was ambivalent, hell, she’d survive.

As she held her honest-you-can-leave look, Cole shifted his weight and those incredible eyes narrowed as if he were now seeing her in a somewhat different light.

“Actually,” he finally said, “that office next to Roman’s is on my way.” When she opened her mouth to decline, he overrode her. “I insist.”

He extended and continued to offer his hand until, knowing she was cornered, Taryn accepted. As expected, the same fiery trail that had flown up her arm the first time they’d touched sparked again—not that she let any hint of the rush dent her poise. She made certain her eyes didn’t widen, that her breath didn’t hitch. And yet the satisfied grin smoldering in Cole’s eyes said that he knew what she felt because he felt it, too.

As they moved toward the building’s main thoroughfare side by side, she imagined Aunt Vi holding up her hands in warning and shaking her head. Taryn agreed. Cole Hunter was one of those “trouble” spots. Hotheaded, superior, radiating sex appeal like a supernova gave off light and heat.

Thank God they wouldn’t be working together.




Two


“Guthrie would’ve mentioned we’ll be working together.”

When his statement received no reply, Cole wasn’t entirely surprised. Taryn Quinn was attractive and charming. She was also aloof. Mysterious. As they walked together down the eastern wing of the Hunter Broadcasting building, Cole admitted he was intrigued, as his father knew he would be.

Rod Walker’s call was an excuse Guthrie had pounced upon to bring his son and new producer together, despite the fact that Cole was, one, hard-pressed for time and, two, obviously opposed to investing in Ms. Quinn’s proposal. Money was too darn tight and Guthrie knew it. But when she’d seemed so indifferent toward him—sitting there demurely with those shapely legs crossed, engrossed in that glossy magazine—blast it, he’d been intrigued all the more. Against better judgment, he’d decided to escort Taryn to her office and see if he couldn’t prick that haughty shell.

So far, no good.

Passing an interested group of employees, and still awaiting a response, Cole risked a glance. Taryn was staring at him as if he’d announced science had proven that the moon was indeed made of green cheese. Perhaps she was hard of hearing.

He spoke louder. “I said as long as you’re with Hunter Broadcasting, you’ll be working under me.”

“I’m sorry.” Shrugging back slender shoulders draped in an elegant black jacket, she looked dead ahead. “But you’re wrong.”

Cole’s step faltered. Not deaf. Nor had she misunderstood. He threw a suspect glance around. Was there a hidden camera or was she purposely ruffling his feathers?

“You must be aware of my position here—CEO as well as Executive Producer—and that’s for every show that comes out of Hunters. I give the nod on budgets, sponsor deals—” his gaze sharpened on her perfect profile “—as well as the overall vision of any given project.”

The peaks of her dark blond brows arched as she met his gaze square on. “Guthrie and I have discussed all that. I’ll be working directly beneath him.”

Cole didn’t hide his smirk. He disliked cruelty in any form but he might enjoy setting sassy Ms. Quinn back, flat on her pretty behind. Whatever Guthrie had said, he hadn’t worked in that kind of hands-on capacity for years.

Or maybe he should look at this collusion from a different angle. What had Taryn Quinn said or done to get this close to his father? And exactly how close was that?

Suddenly a dozen other questions sprang to mind, like where did Taryn hail from? What was her personal background? Did she have a criminal record? Did she know anything about those murder attempts?

Up ahead, London-born Head of Comedy, Roman Lyons, was strolling out of his office, whistling that same Cockney tune that grated on Cole’s nerves like nails down a chalkboard. When Roman first joined Hunters, the two had a disagreement over the direction of a series. Cole had terminated his contract. Guthrie, however, had persuaded Cole to give Lyons another chance. After two years, Cole would concede that Roman did a good job. He’d even stepped in to oversee things a few times when Cole had been called away. But they’d never be best buds.

Now as he and Taryn approached, Lyons issued a casual salute to Cole, but his focus was fixed on Taryn. From the awareness sparkling in Lyons’s dark hooded gaze, anyone might think that he knew her.

“This must be the new girl. Taryn, is it?” Lyons offered a knowing wink as well as his hand. “Word gets around.”

Cole’s jaw jutted. Word hadn’t gotten around to him.

“Thanks for the welcome,” Taryn said as her hand dropped away. “And you are?”

“Name’s Roman Lyons.”

“Looks like we’ll be neighbors, Mr. Lyons. I drew the office next to yours.”

“I was about to grab a cuppa,” Lyons went on. “Can I tempt you?”

Taryn’s face lit. “I’d kill for coffee.”

“Let me guess,” Lyons said. “White, one sugar.”

Cole growled. Oh, give me a break.

“I’ll leave you two to get acquainted.” He started off. “I have work to do.”

“With Liam Finlay? I saw him headed toward your office a minute ago.” Roman straightened the knot of his tie as if he were loosening a noose. “He didn’t look happy, if you don’t mind me saying.”

Cole bit back a curse. Liam Finlay wasn’t a man to keep waiting, particularly today. Finlay was CEO for Australia’s most popular football league. Hunter Broadcasting had held the cable broadcast rights to the majority of that league’s games until five years ago, when Guthrie and Finlay had suffered a major falling-out. This year those coveted rights were back up for grabs. Cole had had a hard time getting Finlay to even talk. At this juncture, he couldn’t afford any perceived insults, like letting his guest sit around twiddling his thumbs.

In a near-sincere tone, Taryn said, “Thanks for taking the time, Mr. Hunter. I’m sure I’ll be fine from here.”

A pulse point in Cole’s temple began to throb. He had to get to that meeting. But, dammit, he wasn’t finished with Ms. Quinn just yet.

As Roman sauntered off, Taryn entered her new office, which was decked out with teak furniture and the latest tech equipment, including visual and audio state of the art. But she moved directly to the floor-to-ceiling windows. He imagined he heard her sigh as she drank in the billion-dollar harbor view, complete with iconic coat-hanger bridge and multistory-high Opera House shells.

Letting his gaze rake over the silken fall of her hair and the tantalizing curves concealed beneath that smart blue skirt, Cole leaned a shoulder against the doorjamb.

“You have qualifications other than in television production, Ms. Quinn?”

“I’ve worked in TV since attaining my Arts Business degree.”

“Then you’d have experience—held positions—in other areas within the industry, correct?”

“I started out as a junior production assistant and worked up through the ranks.”

“And my father was—” he scanned her skirt again “—suitably impressed by your credentials?”

When she angled around, her smile was lazy, assured. “As a matter of fact, Guthrie was more than impressed.”

“I make a point of having all my employees’ backgrounds screened, management particularly.”

“Heavens, you must have skeletons jumping out of closets all over the place.”

His mouth hooked up at one side. Cute.

He crossed his arms. “Any skeletons in your closet, Ms. Quinn?”

“We all have secrets, although they’re rarely of interest to anyone else.”

“I have a feeling I’d be interested in yours.”

Those big blue eyes narrowed then she strolled up to him, the deliberate sway in her walk meant to challenge. When she was close enough for the scent of her perfume to tease his nostrils, she stopped and set her hands on her hips. Cole exhaled. Poor Ms. Quinn. Didn’t she know he ate novices like her for breakfast?

“I’ve taken up enough of your time,” she told him. “Don’t keep your guest waiting. I’m sure your father will be along soon.”

He grinned. Damn, he could play with her all day, if only he had the time—which he didn’t. He pushed off the jamb.

“My father might have employed you, but I’m the one in charge of the books, and if your show doesn’t perform, production stops. That is, if I allow it to get off the ground in the first place.”

A shadow darkened her eyes. “My show will not only launch, it will be a new season smash. We’re bringing in A-list guests.”

“Been done.”

“Choosing destinations that are considered rough as well as luxurious.”

“Old.”

“The host I have in mind is the most popular in the country. Voted Australia’s most eligible with a string of hits under his belt.”

Cole’s gaze flicked to her naturally bee-stung lips. “That’s the best you can offer?”

He imagined her quiver, as if a bolt of red-tipped annoyance had zapped straight up her spine. “I have a signed copy of the approved proposal as well as a contract setting my salary.”

“A contract which will be paid out unless your pilot is fresher than tomorrow’s headline news.”

An emotion akin to hatred flashed in her eyes. “Perhaps I should put a call through to my lawyer.”

“Perhaps you should.”

Any space separating them seemed to shrink while the awareness simmering in that steamy void began to crackle and smoke. Taryn Quinn whipped up his baser instincts to a point where he could forget she was an employee. In fact, right now he was evaluating her through the crosshairs of a vastly different lens. She pretended to be cool, in control. Would she be so restrained in the bedroom? Instinct said she’d set the sheets on fire.

She was saying, “And if I were to come up with something you hadn’t seen before?”

He gifted her with a slow smile. “Then, Ms. Quinn, I’d be happy to visit it.”

He asked that she get the original and revised proposal to him as soon as she had something that would knock his socks off. But as Cole made his way down the corridor toward his office and Liam Finlay, he berated himself. Normally in these kinds of situations he wasn’t distracted by sex appeal; that was playboy Dex’s vice. But the challenging blue depths of Taryn Quinn’s eyes, the impudent tilt of her slightly upturned nose, the fact he knew in his gut she was hiding something …

Thinking of those flaming sheets, Cole admitted, he was looking forward to prying open her closets.

“What do you think of the Commander?”

Familiarizing herself with her office LCD TV, Taryn glanced up. Roman Lyons had returned with two steaming cups in tow. Remote control in one hand, she accepted the coffee he offered while she grinned at Roman’s nickname for Cole.

“Cole obviously likes to run a tight ship,” she conceded.

“As much as he likes introducing newcomers to his infamous plank.”

“Sounds as if you speak from experience.”

“Cole has his fans—” bringing the cup to his mouth, Roman arched a brow “—as well as his foes.”

“Which side do you fall on?”

“On the ‘keeping my job’ side. To survive in this industry, you need to roll with the punches. But you’ve been around. You’d know all that.” He nodded at the static on the screen and gestured at the control. “This office was vacant for a while. I’ll tweak the settings.”

She handed over the control and watched as he concentrated to tune in channels, including internal feeds. Roman Lyons was good-looking in a saucy Hugh Grant kind of way. Certainly friendly, helpful and with a sense of humor, too. No wonder he rubbed “Trouble” the wrong way.

“Tell me how you came to be at Hunters,” Roman said, as his thumb danced over the remote’s keys.

“I had a long stint at the last network I worked for.” She mentioned the name and recited a few of their shows. “Last year, one of the executive producers asked for ideas for new series. He was interested in a couple of mine but ultimately passed. In the meantime another network approached me.”

“The industry does like to poach.”

“I declined their offer of an interview. I was happy where I was. But management heard about the communication and when information about a new show was leaked, they questioned my loyalty.” Remembering the scene when that EP had dressed her down, she shuddered and blew out a breath. Her direct boss was livid at his protégée’s treatment, but he had a family to feed. She’d insisted he not get involved. “That afternoon, my desk was packed up and I was out on the curb.”

Roman collected a second control off the stand. “TV is not for the faint of heart.”

“I could have filed a suit for unfair dismissal. But I decided to rise above it, take the payout and move on.”

“What happened to the network that wanted to poach you?”

“That position was already filled. But I knew my ideas would fly somewhere else. After wallowing for a couple of weeks, I plucked up the nerve to call here and speak to Guthrie directly.”

As she took a sip from her cup, Roman handed back the first control. “Good for you.”

“Frankly, I almost fell off my chair when he asked me to come in for an interview. I was even more blown away when he gave my show the green light straightaway.” Thoughtful, she ran a thumb over the remote’s keys. “I was on such a high, so convinced I’d do a great job, but after meeting Cole, I have to wonder if that green light is fast turning red.” She set the remote down on the corner of her desk. “Roman, can you set me straight on something? Because I’m a little confused. Which Hunter is in charge here? I know control of the branches of the company was split a few years ago between the three sons, but I assumed Guthrie still pulled all the strings.”

Beneath a flop of dark sandy hair, Roman’s high brow creased. Then he held up a cautionary hand and, although they’d been speaking quietly, he crossed to close the door.

“Word is that after his wife’s death,” Roman said, moving back, “Guthrie lost all heart. No one knows for sure, but if you put it to a vote, most will say he gave up all control.”

“You mean Guthrie has no say? What’s he doing then, hiring me?”

“Guthrie was down for a while but when he married again, he got his wind back. Staff here were chuffed. It was as if he’d got another chance at life and he didn’t intend to waste a minute. The wedding was big, expensive—” he hiked a brow “—and fast.”

Of course Taryn remembered the publicity surrounding that big day, a huge celebrity bash with a bride who had looked thirty years the groom’s junior—which was nobody’s business but their own.

“At my interview, Guthrie seemed genuinely excited and behind my show,” she said.

“Then he must believe in it.”

“While his son’s hand is twitching on the guillotine rope. He told me unless I can come up with an extraordinary twist, I’m out.”

Roman thought for a long moment before giving a mischievous smile. He purposefully set down his empty cup. “Right-o. We need sketch pads. Markers. A plan.”

She blinked and then brightened. “As in you and me ‘we’?”

“Two heads, and all that. What say we come up with a twist that hits Cole right where he bloody well lives? He’ll either love it or …”

“Or he’ll love it.” He had to. Taryn moved to scoop her laptop out from its bag. “Let’s get started.”




Three


When Cole stabbed the loudspeaker key and realized who was on the phone, he flung down his pen and grabbed the hand piece. It was past six—closer to seven. He’d been hanging out for this call all day.

“Brandon, thanks for getting back to me.”

“Just got back into the country.” Brandon Powell’s familiar deep drawl echoed down the line. “What’s up?”

Cole gave his friend a summary of events—the attempt to run his father’s car off the road three weeks ago, the near miss with shots fired this morning, how Guthrie, to his mind, didn’t appreciate the seriousness of the situation.

“You want to fix your father up with protection,” Brandon surmised.

“He’s already hired someone.”

“Then I’m not sure what you want me to do.”

“For starters, put a trace on Eloise.”

“Your father’s wife?”

“Second wife.” Cole’s lip all but curled. “I have a hunch she might be behind it all.”

“You’re accusing Eloise of attempted murder—based on what?”

“Based on the fact she’s a—”

Cole let loose a few choice adjectives and nouns that had been building for years, starting when he’d first got wind that a much younger woman—a so-called family friend—was making a play on a man who’d recently lost a loving wife. None of the boys had thought Guthrie would be interested in her batting lashes and syrupy condolences. When it had become apparent the two were an item, their father was already hooked.

Brandon’s reply was wry. “I take it you haven’t warmed to your stepmother yet.”

“I still can’t believe he married her. My mother’s best friend’s gold-digging daughter.”

Shame on Eloise but more shame on his father.

“I hate to mention this,” Brandon said, “but Guthrie’s an adult. He makes his own decisions.”

“And I make mine. How soon can you organize a tail?”

“If you’re sure—”

“I’m sure.”

“Give me a few hours to track down the right guy and brief him. But I need to warn you. If your father has his own man on the job, there’s a chance he’ll find out you’ve done this behind his back. And if Eloise ultimately isn’t implicated …”

Cole knew what his friend had left unsaid. Guthrie took the well-being and loyalty of his entire family seriously. His father had a five-year-old son with Eloise and another on the way. If he discovered his eldest had gone behind his back like this, he’d view it as a betrayal. Guthrie wouldn’t disown a son, but he might kick Cole out of Hunter Enterprises for good.

Considering the options, Cole rapped his fingers on the desk before he drove down a breath and confirmed, “I’ll take that chance.”

He didn’t want a rift to develop between two more members of the Hunter clan but, dammit, his father’s safety came first.

After settling some details, he and Brandon caught up briefly. Brandon was still enjoying his bachelorhood and was looking forward to a Navy Cadets reunion; they’d served in a unit together for three years rising up through the ranks from “dolphins” to petty officers. Brandon said he hoped to see Cole there, but he’d be in touch before then.

They signed off and, feeling worn out, Cole set his bristled jaw in the cup of his hand at the same time his empty stomach growled. He hadn’t eaten since breakfast. There was still more he could do here tonight, but his brain needed fuel. Time to knock off.

While Cole shut down his laptop, a knickknack perched on his desk caught his eye. The winding steel-tube-and-rope puzzle had been a gift from Dex and was based on the Gordian Knot legend. Thousands of years ago, Alexander the Great had been asked to unravel that intricate knot, which everyone knew couldn’t be done. But Alexander had thought outside of the box and found a simple solution. He sliced through the rope with his sword and, hey presto! With this gift, Dex was telling Cole to lighten up … life’s problems didn’t need to be so intense and all-consuming.

Cole would rather ignore advice from a playboy producer who was overdue a Hollywood hit. There were no shortcuts to success. No easy paths to victory. Cole kept the toy on his desk not as a reminder to take the low road as Dex was wont to do, but as a prompt to stay on course, even when he might rather say to hell with it all.

After shrugging into his jacket, Cole locked up his office, spun around and near jumped out of his skin. In the muted light, he’d almost run into something. Or rather, someone.

Taryn Quinn stood not a foot away, her scent still fresh, her eyes still bright. With her blond mane gleaming and plump lips bare of gloss, she looked like a vision. A drop-dead sexy vision, at that.

She inspected his briefcase, peered around his frame to the closed door and her eyes widened in alarm.

“You’re leaving?”

He frowned. “Didn’t realize I had to sign out.”

“I thought that someone in your position would be here till all hours.”

When Taryn lifted the open laptop she held, the penny dropped. She’d worked out a plan to spice up her proposal already?

“I was serious,” he warned. “I don’t want a Band-Aid. You need a highly polished knock-’em-dead new angle that I can’t refuse.”

“I’ve been at it all day. Didn’t even stop to eat.”

That made two of them. She must be as hungry as he was, and he was starved. After a day alternating between meetings and being glued to his desk, he felt restless, too. Itchy. Hot. When his gaze dropped to her lips again, he ran a finger inside his steamy collar. He ought to go.

Cole eased around her. “Now isn’t a good time.”

“Now is a great time.”

“I’m late.”

“What for this time?”

He rotated back. “I’m sure I don’t have to answer that,” he said. But when he saw the disappointment shining in her eyes, his gut kicked and, against his better judgment, he found himself giving in to this infernal woman for a second time that day.

“But, if you’re that keen,” he muttered, heading back, “I’ll give you five minutes.”

“Five minutes isn’t nearly enough—”

“Five minutes.” He set his case on his personal assistant’s desk and flicked on the desk lamp. “Starting now.”

Taryn froze for three beats before setting her laptop down. When she thumbed a button, an impressive spread—complete with feature banner—flashed on to the screen. Setting his hands on his hips, Cole slanted his head. Nice effect. Although he wasn’t sold on the title.

“Hot Spots?”

“We thought it had more bite than the original name.”

“We?”

“Roman and me. I know it sounds kind of provocative—”

“If you want to tape an endless stream of topless bars and nudist beaches,” he cut in, “sorry, it ain’t gonna fly.”

The airwaves were clogged enough with that content.

“I was going to say that it’s more a hook than anything erotic. Let me show you a preliminary list of locations that have shown interest and, as of today, have offered to cover all associated costs.”

The screen page flipped over to reveal a slide show of a resort Cole knew—although not personally. Only a sheik could afford the prices. He could think of better ways to blow a million or two. Still, the cogs in his brain began to whir faster.

“That’s Dubai.”

When he named that country’s most exclusive resort, Taryn nodded with a grin in her eyes. “All expenses paid there. Everything.”

“That’s impressive. But that’s one location. I imagine you’ll do the grand tour of the resort and surrounds, which will make good footage, but what’s the twist?”

Where’s the something new?

Their shoulders all but touching, she angled in more and, in the soft shadows, those blue eyes were hypnotic. Then that natural warmth of hers reached out again. Sumptuous. Soothing. It was like being enveloped by the lure of a toasty fire after coming in from the cold. When his fingertips began to tingle where they lay splayed on the desk next to hers, he was struck by the urge to cover her hand, maybe tug her close and see if he couldn’t experience some of that warmth head-on.

Sucking down a breath, he straightened.

Definitely time to go.

“I’ll think it over.”

“Will you?”

He arched a brow. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You’ve already made up your mind.”

“If you believe that, why are you here?” Wasting my time.

“Because I also believe in this show.” Her chin lifted. “And that wasn’t five minutes.”

“It was long enough.” Especially considering the way he was feeling.

“But I have more to show you, Cole. Lots more.”

The tendons between his shoulders, up the length of his thighs, all hardened to steel and then locked. He should get this charade over with. Tell her now. Stay on course. But how was he supposed to deal with that dewy-eyed, indignant look without feeling like the world’s biggest heel?

An image of Dex’s puzzle flashed into his mind’s eye and something he’d thought unbending inside of him grudgingly moved. Before he could talk himself out of it, he took a mental sword and cut them both some slack. Taryn had more to show him?

“Then get your gear.” He grabbed his case and headed out. “You’re coming with me.”




Four


When Cole Hunter insisted she accompany him to dinner, Taryn’s entire body flashed hot. Time alone in that kind of setting was a bad idea. The way he sometimes looked at her—with curiosity and hunger simmering in his eyes—he might want to consume a big juicy steak but in a deeper place, whether he admitted it or not, Cole was also flipping a coin, deciding whether he could afford a side order of her.

Sorry, but she wasn’t on the menu.

Then again Guthrie Hunter’s son was prickly enough. The edge she rode where he and her position at Hunters was concerned was already razor thin. If she refused this “invitation,” Cole might close up completely and, like it or not, after listening to Roman’s stories regarding the “Commander” all day, she’d come to the conclusion that she needed Cole on her side.

Plus, her brain and body were running on empty.

Although every instinct warned against leaving this building alone with Cole, she guessed they could talk business while they ate. The golden rule, however, still applied. She had no intention of getting too close to trouble.

So, with nerves jumping in her stomach, Taryn accompanied him out, collecting her bag on the way. They passed late-shift news employees with their noses to the grindstone. Cole sent a good-night to the uniformed security man, who stood watch near the giant glass autosliders, and a moment later he was opening the passenger-side door of a low-slung Italian sports car. Taryn’s throat bobbed on an involuntary swallow. She had the weirdest feeling if she crawled inside that dark warm space, she might never come out.

Soon they were buckled up and weaving through Sydney’s upper-end streets. In the near distance, arcing lights from the bridge spread shimmering silver ribbons over the harbor while beside her Cole changed gears with the intuitive grace of a professional. She couldn’t ignore that subtle yet intoxicating masculine scent, the ease with which his large tanned hands gripped the leather of the wheel. In such close proximity, his legs seemed somehow too long, those shoulders almost too broad. Every available inch of this car seemed filled with the smoldering energy that was Cole Hunter.

Taryn pressed back into the molded bucket seat and clenched her hands in her lap. She’d never felt more unsettled. Never more female.

As they flew over a main arterial and the busy world whirred by, he said, “I’d kill for a good thick steak.”

“I thought you’d be a steak man.”

“You’re not a steak woman?”

“Vegetarian.”

“I’m sure my regular place caters for that.”

“You mean caters for those of us who choose to live on the fringes.”

In the rapid-fire shadows, his crooked grin flashed white. “No disrespect intended. I grew up in a male-dominated household. Tofu and soy weren’t in our vocabulary.”

Taryn peered out the window. She didn’t care about Cole’s eating habits. She cared only about getting this proposal through and at last moving forward with this show.

“Guess we’re all products of our childhood,” she offered absently.

“What about you?”

“What about me?”

“Lots of brothers and sisters?”

“I’m an only child.”

His deep rich chuckle resonated around the car cabin, burrowing into her skin, seeping into her bones.

“You must have had a peaceful time growing up,” he said.

Peaceful? “I guess you could call it that.”

“What would you call it?”

That was easy.

“Lonely.”

His hand on the gearshift, he hesitated changing down before he double-clutched then wove into the lit circular drive of an establishment that smacked of class and exorbitant prices. A uniformed man strode over to see to her door before a valet parked the car. They entered through open, white-paneled doors into an area decorated in swirls of bronze and planes of muted cherry-red. The large room’s lighting was soft. Inviting.

Way too intimate.

While Taryn tried to concentrate on the weight of her laptop in her carryall over her shoulder rather than Cole’s strong chiseled profile, from behind the front desk, the maître d’ tipped his head.

“I’m afraid we weren’t expecting you this evening, Mr. Hunter. Your regular table isn’t available.” The older man’s attention slid to her and his helpful smile deepened. “We do, however, have a private balcony setting with a magnificent view of the harbor.”

“Sounds good.” Cole rapped his fingertips on the leather-bound menu lying on the counter. “And, er, Marco, you have vegetarian dishes here, right?”

Marco didn’t blink. “We have a wide selection. Our chef will also be happy to accommodate any particular requests.”

As Marco escorted them to that private balcony, Taryn swore she felt heat radiating from Cole’s hand where she imagined it rested inches from the small of her back. Then, when they slipped through into a curtained-off area, her breath hitched in her throat. The mixture of lilting music and silver moonlight, along with her striking company for the evening … she felt as if she’d stepped into a dream. She’d been out to dinner with attractive men at fine restaurants before, but this scene—this surreal heady feeling—was something else.

Retracting an upholstered bergère chair for her, Marco asked, “A wine menu this evening, Mr. Hunter?”

Cole rattled off the name of a vintage that Marco’s widening eyes hinted was exceptional. A moment later, the curtain was drawn and they were once again completely alone.

Enjoying the atmosphere despite herself, Taryn shifted in the chair, which was more comfortable than her sofa. “I wasn’t expecting this.”

“You’d prefer an all-you-can-eat salad bar?”

With delicious aromas filling the air, her taste buds had already decided. She opened the menu. “Here will do nicely.”

And every one of those dishes listed without prices sounded divine. Still, she would keep in the forefront of her mind that this was not an occasion to forget herself. In fact, she might as well put this idle time to good use.

Having chosen her meal, she set her menu aside and extracted her laptop from her carryall. With a grunt of disapproval, Cole sat back.

“We won’t do that now.”

“I’d rather get to it before you have a drink or two.”

“I can assure you a couple of glasses of wine won’t affect my judgment.” His lips twitched. “You, of course, may be a different matter.”

“I’m not a giggler, Mr. Hunter.”

His frown returned. “And ditch the Mr. this and manners that. My name’s Cole. You call my father Guthrie, don’t you?”

“That’s different. We’re on friendly terms.”

“Really? Did he take you out to dinner?”

She almost gasped. She knew what he was implying. “Of course not.”

“Maybe you took him.”

She slanted her head. “You won’t put me off—Cole. If you want me gone from Hunters, you’ll have to drag me out, kicking and screaming.”

“Is that what happened at your last job?”

On the tabletop her fists curled. What would she bet he already knew?

At that moment, Marco arrived to serve wine and take orders, giving Taryn time enough to sort out her answer—and her temper. With Marco having left through the curtains again, she admitted, “I was let go from my last position.”

Wineglass midway to his mouth, Cole stopped. “Didn’t get along with your boss?”

“We got along great.”

“Ah.” He sipped, swallowed. “I see.”

She burned to set him straight, and in the bluntest of terms, but she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.

“Upper management made the decision,” she said. “My direct boss was always good to me. Very much a father figure.”

“Seems you’re partial to them. Don’t you have one of your own?”

“A father?” Taking a long cool sip of water, she swallowed past the pit in her throat. “As a matter of fact, I don’t.”

Cole’s shoulders seemed to lock before he set down his wineglass and said in a lower tone, “We were talking about your previous employ.”

She explained about ending up the scapegoat for leaked information regarding those series ideas. Her plan had been to keep her story brief but Cole had a question for everything. He was quite the interrogator. Thorough and emotionless, as Roman had warned. Finally satisfied on that particular subject, he nodded.

“But you’ve landed on your feet,” he offered, finger-combing back a dark lock blown over his brow by a harbor breeze.

“Seems that will depend on you.”

“Or, rather, what you’ve got for me.”

At that moment, their meals arrived and Cole took the liberty of refilling her wineglass. She hadn’t realized she’d almost drained it.

“But I’m too damn hungry to focus,” he said, setting the wine back down. “Let’s eat.”

While they enjoyed their meals, small talk was difficult to avoid—general topics at first … the state of the industry, current affairs. When he asked, she let him know that Guthrie’s personal assistant had rung to apologize that regrettably he wouldn’t have time to welcome her into their fold properly that day. Then conversation swerved toward lighter subject matter about schools and interests growing up. Cole had served in the Navy Cadets with a friend who owned his own security firm now. He said that once he’d even wanted to become a high-seas officer. She’d grinned at that. Who would have guessed?

Cole changed the tone and the subject back to family. Almost finished with their meals, he spoke about his mother—just a few words, but they were said with such sincerity and affection, Taryn felt moved. More than instinct said that this was a side of Cole others would rarely see. His next question was obvious, and yet she’d been so caught up in ingesting this small taste of “human Cole” that she hadn’t seen it coming.

“Most daughters are close to their mothers,” he said. “Does yours live nearby? In town?”

Taryn’s stomach jumped but she forced the emotion down. She’d lived with the reality all her life. Woke up to it every morning. And still that empty sick feeling rose in a surge whenever she needed to say the words aloud.

She set down her fork. “My mother’s dead.”

His brows nudged together and he took a moment before responding.

“I’m sorry.”

Yeah. Where her mother was concerned, she was sorry about a lot of things.

But this wasn’t a first date. They weren’t here to analyze the past—how some were born to rule while others were left to build on crumbs. Still, the evening hadn’t been the disaster she’d half expected, although now was the time to gently but firmly reset some boundaries.

“I’d rather not discuss my personal life.”

“Sure.” He nodded. “I understand. I was only making conversation—”

“I know, Cole. That’s fine.” She pushed down those rising levels again and pasted on a reasonable face. “But we’re here because you wanted to eat. Let’s get that out of the way so we can get back to work.”

While Taryn set about consuming the remainder of her salad, Cole warred with himself. He understood this occasion was in no way a catch-up between friends or, God forbid, a night out for lovers. He had indeed been making polite conversation—and he’d ended up sticking his foot in his mouth once again. He knew about the pain of losing a parent, but how was he to know that Taryn had lost both a father and a mother?

Yes, best they keep any subsequent talk firmly centered on business, he decided, draining his glass. Definitely best they conduct future meetings in a work environment—if Taryn and her proposal made it past this evening.

One glass of wine, half a steak and no conversation later, Cole set his napkin firmly down on the table beside his plate.

“Okay. We’re done. Let’s talk.” And get back to our own lives.

Finished, too, Taryn slid her plate aside, collected her laptop and scooted her chair slightly toward his, purely to offer a better view of the screen. Before the hard drive had finished booting up, she’d outlined logistics on travel points and was expounding on visions for the future. But he was done with being chatty. Now he wanted the heart of her revised idea, and he wanted it fast.

“What’s the hook?” he asked. “The draw card that’ll have everyone and their great-grandma tuning back in week after week and advertisers cuing up?”

A manicured fingertip brushed a key and an image flashed up on the screen … a rather uninspiring shot of a group of people standing in an ordinary suburban front yard. The way Taryn was beaming, you’d think she was about to Skype with the person at the top of her “must meet” list.

Cole loosened his tie. God, why had he bothered? Why was he bothering still?

“Rather than trained reporters,” she said, moving to the next image—a handful of kids playing basketball in some rundown hall, “we’ll use real-life couples or families or groups to check out each holiday hot spot. We’ll ask viewers to email or text in reasons why they, or someone they know, ought to be the next to enjoy an all-expenses-paid trip to some amazing place, courtesy of Hunters.”

He barely contained a groan. “This is another reality show idea, isn’t it?”

“Reality shows are still extremely popular,” she insisted, rolling through more similarly uninspiring images, “and with this formula—coupling luxury with underprivileged—we can truly tug at the heartstrings of our viewers.” When he groaned aloud, she tipped toward him. “Open up your mind to the possibilities and all the people you could help make happy.”

“I’m not here to organize charities. I’m here to make good television.” Make money.

She blinked then returned her attention to the screen and went on.

“At the end of the season, the viewers get to vote on the number-one holiday couple, family, friends or whatever, and the main sponsor donates a potful of cash toward helping an associated community cause. The next season kicks off with a lucky draw winner from a list of all the voters.”

She looked so animated—her big eyes twinkling and hands dancing—he practically saw sparks fly. But …

“It’s not new enough,” he said. When she looked at him, puzzled, he elaborated. “I need more. Maybe if you include some sort of elimination strategy—”

“No. I want everyone associated with my show to feel like winners.”

He pinched the bridge of his nose. Great. He was dealing with an I-can-save-the-world type. Not that philanthropy wasn’t admirable. In this instance, however, it simply wasn’t feasible. He’d grown up living and breathing the culture of broadcasting. He’d learned from the best, and now, he delivered the same. Or wanted to. He didn’t know why Guthrie had let this stunt get as far as it had, but in the morning he’d tell his father he should consider a vacation. In fact, a lengthy holiday away from business—and would-be assassins—sounded like a damn fine idea.

“This will be a feel-good program,” she was saying. “Sure, along the way there’ll be all sorts of trials and fears faced, but no one will be left feeling like a loser. This show could start a whole new genre.”

“Taryn,” he said gently but clearly, “there is no show unless I say so.”

She tacked up her slipping smile. “Think of the sponsors.”

“You can talk all you want about sponsor dollars, but in the end time is money. My time. The company’s time. I won’t put valuable people on a project I’m not convinced will succeed.”

“Not convinced yet,” she corrected.

Blast it all. She wasn’t listening.

“You shouldn’t have rushed this. You should have given yourself at least a couple of days to really think through every possible angle.”

“My idea was good to begin with.”

He sucked down a breath. Okay. Blunt ax time. “There’s no room at Hunters for good. I’m after brilliant—or nothing.”

“Brilliant?”

“That’s right.”

Her gaze hardened. Then it turned to stone. “Because you’re so brilliant?”

“Because, I’m the boss and—” dammit “—no one gets to play in my sandbox unless I say so.”

Her eyes filled with an emotion that glistened at the same time as it burned. Then her hands fisted an instant before she pushed out of her chair. On her way up, she bumped the table and her glass toppled toward him. Wine hurled through the air, ending up with a splash on his lap. His arms flew out; at the same time his temper spiked and he slid his chair back. Was that an accident or was she deliberately making matters worse?

Still in his seat, Cole gripped his napkin and pressed at the cool alcohol seeping into his trousers. Somehow he managed to keep his voice even.

“I’ll assume that was an accident.”

“It was.” She leaned across the table and flung the wine from his glass, too. “That one, I did mean.”




Five


She shouldn’t have done it.

God knows, she ought to have kept her head and tried to contain the smoke rather than flinging more fuel on the fire. But as Taryn stormed out through the five-star restaurant, half-aware of curious patrons’ heads turning, that more volatile side of her nature was glad she’d let Cole Hunter know precisely what she’d thought. Sandbox, indeed!

He was lucky a glass of wine was all she’d thrown.

Outside, the fresh air hit. Stopping at the bottom of the restaurant’s half-dozen stone steps, she glanced around with stinging eyes before the realization struck. Cole had driven her here. To collect her sedan, she’d need to grab a cab back to Hunters.

And tomorrow? Cole had as good as said her idea sucked and she was through. Hopefully Guthrie would have something to say about that. But if she went to the senior Hunter about this situation, she’d feel like a tattletale whining to daddy about her bullying big brother. How she longed to circle her hands around Cole’s big tanned neck and squeeze until he turned blue. Lord how she wished she’d never met the man.

She noticed a concerned-looking doorman crossing over at the same time a low, smooth voice wrapped around to startle and disarm her from behind.

“Would you kindly tell me what that was about?”

She swung around and glared into Cole Hunter’s flashing green eyes. She hated that her voice was shaky.

“Kindly leave me alone.”

“You came with me—”

“And I’ll leave without you.” She directed her next words to the fidgety doorman. “Can you organize a cab, please?”

Waving a hand, Cole sent the poor doorman back to his corner. “I’ll drive you to the station, or home, if you like.”

“I’d prefer you didn’t.”

“I’d prefer that I did.”

“So you can goad me into doing something else I might regret?”

He stepped closer until his shadow consumed her and his lidded gaze dropped to her lips. “And just what is it you’re afraid you’ll do?”

When his eyes met hers again, she felt the stakes between them change and swell. Was it her imagination or had he just propositioned her?

She ought to be outraged. She should want to slap his face. But the heat racing over her skin, snatching her breath and warming her insides, suddenly felt less like anger and a whole lot more like anticipation.

She croaked out, “I never asked to come here tonight.”

“No. You were only jumping around like a Christmas puppy, wanting me to see your idea right away.”

“You said you wanted to see it.”

“When it was good and cooked.”

She hitched her carryall strap higher on her shoulder. “Admit it. You never had any intention of giving me a chance.”

“Whoa. Don’t put this back on me.”

“No. I should be overjoyed with needing to jump through your hoops after I’ve already landed the job.”

He blinked at that then absently readjusted the platinum watchband on his wrist. “I’m yet to speak to my father about signing you without consulting me first.”

“Perhaps you should have done that before putting me through that charade.”

“Sorry for doing you a favor.”

“Forgive me if I don’t shower you with thanks.”

A cab rolled up the lantern-lit drive while a valet brought Cole’s car around at the same time. Shaking with rage—with hurt and frustration—she made a beeline for the cab with Cole hot on her tail.

That doorman came forward to open the passenger door. With one sharp look, Cole sent him packing again. Then, refocusing, he crossed his arms over that stained damp shirt.

“I’m sorry you can’t handle the truth about the premise of your show.”

“Your version of the truth,” she pointed out.

“Like it or not, mine’s the only version that counts.”

She crossed her arms, too. “Has anyone ever suggested that your ego might be a trifle oversize?”

“My temper, too—particularly, but not excluding, when I’m soaked through and smelling like a barroom floor.”

Her conscience pricked. She looked him up and down. Then, although it pained, she offered up what her aunt might consider polite and fair.

“I’ll pay for dry cleaning.”

“Shirt, trousers and tie.” He pretended to wring the strip of royal-blue silk. “You didn’t miss much.”

“There’s nothing wrong with my pitching arm. I was captain of my school softball team five years running.”

“Remind me to stay out of your way if you try to swing a bat.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll make sure none of my home runs land in your sandbox.”

Cole looked at her harder, his gaze penetrating—judgmental—and yet she got the impression that a different, less hostile emotion churned just below his surface. Maybe a miniscule touch of grudging respect? She crossed her arms tighter. Too little, too late.

Finally he shrugged back both shoulders and tucked in his chin. “Maybe I was a little over-the-top with the sandbox line.”

She pretended to tug her ear. “Was that Cole Hunter apologizing?”

“Merely an observation.”

His brows lifted as if he were waiting for her to return the sentiment. No way would she give another inch.

Except …

She didn’t need for Cole to walk away from this confrontation thinking he was the better man. She might be right, but she wasn’t stupid.

With the cabbie and doorman hanging back, waiting, she eased out that pent-up breath and let her arms unravel.

“Well, maybe,” she ground out, “I didn’t need to toss that second drink over your lap.”

The intensity of his gaze gradually lifted and, after another deliberative moment, he tilted his head at his car. “So you up for a lift back to the station?”

“Only if I choose the topic of conversation.”

He clutched at his chest. “You’ll even talk to me?”

“Not about anything personal. And I’d prefer not to discuss my project with you any more at this time.”

“I’m sure that’s wise.” He started off then stopped, waiting for her to join him, which—after making him stand there wondering for another five full beats—she did.

“Maybe we could discuss vegetarian cuisine,” she said as they reached his car.

He grunted. “What about sports?”

“I’m in charge, remember?”

After she’d slid in, but before he shut the door, she heard him mutter, “Enjoy it while it lasts.”

Cole drove back to the station listening to Taryn share her secrets on the abundance of ways one could combine pumpkin with pine nuts. Fascinating.

But now, as he made his third stop for the evening—at his father’s Pott’s Point mansion—he could admit he’d almost enjoyed the final stint of his evening with this persistent producer. Even as the wine dried on his clothes, he surrendered a smile remembering the poised timbre of her voice and glorious lines of her legs as she’d chatted on.

One moment spitting fire, the next a consummate ice queen. He didn’t know which intrigued him more. From the moment he’d laid eyes on her, sitting demurely in his father’s reception lounge, he’d been struck by those lips, her hair, that barely subdued sexuality. After her spectacular meltdown at the restaurant tonight, perverse though it might sound, his attraction for her had only grown.

By the time he pulled up beneath his father’s extravagant granite forecourt, Cole was trying to shake the image of Taryn twining her arms around his neck and searching out his kiss—not because he felt guilty necessarily, but because he didn’t need any added aggravation when he visited this place. Guthrie he could handle. His father’s wife, Cole didn’t want to touch.

He’d fortified himself and was about to slip out of the car when his cell sounded. Two callers—Dex and Wynn combined. Cole connected and Wynn spoke first.

“How’s Dad holding up?”

Then Dex. “Do the authorities have any clue who’s behind it all?”

“We’ll get the guy,” Cole told them. “Don’t worry.”

Cole hadn’t been able to get a hold of either brother this morning, or Teagan, for that matter. They had their differences but, beyond and above all else, they were a family. Cole wasn’t certain which brother had organized this conference call, but he was grateful to have the opportunity to fill them in. Dex and Wynn had a right, an obligation, to know about this second attempt on their father’s life, and Guthrie would never tell them. He wouldn’t want any of his children to worry.

When Cole finished passing on the incident’s details, Wynn cursed under his breath.

“Cole, what’s the plan? You’ll put some safety measures in place, right? Get a P.I. on board?”

Dex’s deep laugh rumbled down the line. “As if Cole could stop himself from taking charge.”

Cole huffed. “I don’t hear either of you offering to fly back and help man the fort.”

“As a matter of fact—” Wynn started at the same time Dex said, “I’ll be right out—”

But Cole cut them both off. “Stay where you are.” Wynn couldn’t spare time away from his seat in New York and Dex’s smugness would only drive his older brother nuts. “I can handle whatever has to be done.”

Dex said, “Well, if you need anything …”

Flicking a glance toward the house, Cole thought of his stepmother. “Maybe a leash,” he muttered.

Wynn asked, “What was that?”

“Nothing.” Cole opened the car door. “I’ll keep you guys in the loop.” He hung up, and a moment later rang the bell. A woman he’d never seen before fanned open the tall timber door. His expression must have looked as confused as hers. Drab, overweight. Was that a mustache? Shrinking back, he thrust his hands into his pockets.

“Who the devil are you?”

“I work for the Hunters.”

Cole examined the woman’s garb: a dreary gray old-fashioned uniform. “What happened to Silvia?” And her vibrant colors and big friendly smile.

The woman shrugged a pair of round shoulders. “Think the madam said she’d been here too long.”

He grunted. Obviously Silvia had become an annoyance for dear Eloise. He’d seen the calculating look in the younger woman’s eye whenever the Hunters’ much-loved housekeeper had entered a room or dared to have a laugh with Guthrie. Silvia knew this house, the history and its characters inside and out. And like the Hunter boys, Silvia hadn’t approved of the master’s new bride one scrap. Seemed it’d taken Eloise five years to weed their old friend out. So, who was next on the ambitious second Mrs. Hunter’s hit list?

The new help wiped a worn hand down her starched apron and asked, “Who shall I say is calling?”

“Name’s Cole.”

Dull hazel eyes rounded. “Mr. Hunter’s eldest?”

As she studied the wine drying on his shirt, he wove around her. “Where can I find him?”

In the cavernous double-story foyer, another voice joined in. One Cole recognized—and loathed.

“Cole, honey, come on through.”

Decked out in a full-length silk robe the color of ripe strawberries, Eloise beckoned him from beneath the decorative arch that led into the front sitting room. He wondered if she were vain enough to wear all that makeup to bed. So different from his naturally beautiful mother. He wouldn’t start on the difference between poise and class.

Dismissing the stirring in the pit of his gut, Cole strode forward. “I wanted to check in and see how he was doing.”

“After that terrible business this morning, you mean.”

Cole was already inside and glancing around that sitting room. An empty room. He ran a hand through his hair. He really didn’t have time for hide-and-seek.

“Where is he?”

He spun around. Eloise was standing so close behind, he almost knocked her over. Theatrical, as usual, she emitted a small cry of surprise and swayed, no doubt hoping he’d physically prevent her fall.

Cole only stepped well back then asked, “Is he in the study?”




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