Maverick / The Playboy's Passionate Pursuit: Maverick / The Playboy's Passionate Pursuit

Maverickby Joan Hohl

Praise for Joan Hohl

“A compelling storyteller who weaves her tales

with verve, passion and style.”

—New York Times bestselling author Nora Roberts

“Joan Hohl is a top gun!”

—New York Times bestselling author Catherine Coulter

“Joan Hohl writes romance that goes

straight to the heart.”

—New York Times bestselling author Jayne Ann Krentz

“Writers come and writers go. Few have the

staying power, the enthusiastic following

of Joan Hohl. That’s talent!”

—USA TODAY bestselling author Kasey Michaels

The Playboy’s Passionate Pursuitby Emilie Rose

“I want my five minutes.”

Toby’s words stopped Amelia in her tracks. Adrenaline raced through her veins, flushing her skin and quickening her breath. She’d foolishly wagered with Toby because she’d believed winning was a sure thing. She’d been wrong.

He stopped behind her, close but not touching “What’s my penance?” she asked.

“Eager, sugar?”

He nuzzled her temple, pressing his face to hers. Soft lips teased the shell of her ear. The nip of his teeth on her earlobe startled a gasp from her. Toby’s breath teased the sensitive skin beneath her right ear and his chest moulded her back. Sparks scattered through her bloodstream.

“Toby, this is not a good idea.” She couldn’t give in to him. Not now.

“You agreed. Five minutes. Of whatever I want.”

by

Joan Hohl

JOAN HOHL

is a New York Times bestselling author of dozens of books. She has received numerous awards for her work, including the Romance Writers of America Golden Medallion Award. In addition to contemporary romance, this prolific author also writes historical and time travel romances. Joan lives in eastern Pennsylvania with her husband and family.

Dear Reader,

Hi once again, friends. Yes, yes, I know. It’s been a long time since my last book, some of you may think much too long. I hope! Well, as I am human and not a machine, parts wear out, I run low on fuel and at times need some TLC. Hey! Maybe I am a machine. A machine who needed a part removed recently. I’m recovering, but each passing year adds another to the score, and, sad as I am to admit it, my score is getting pretty high and I’m slowing down.

As you have likely noticed from the back cover, our hero in the story is, yet again, one of the Wolfe family, or Wolfe pack if you will! Any reader who has read any of my BIG, BAD WOLFE series knows the Wolfes are strong, honest men devoted to their profession – the law.

But Tanner is the maverick of the family. He follows his own rules. Tanner is a bounty hunter, and he does very well at it, thank you. Still, he has never broken the law, nor killed a man. And he always works alone.

Until the lovely Brianna knocks on his door…

Thanks for your loyalty all these years. I truly appreciate it.

Best,

Joan Hohl

For Melissa Jeglinski

For all the patience and understanding

she has shown me.

Thanks, Kid!

One

All things considered, she was a traffic stopper.

Tanner raised a questioning eyebrow at the breathtaking woman standing beyond the threshold of the apartment door he had just opened at the buzz of the doorbell.

“Mr. Wolfe?”

A tingle attacked the base of Tanner’s spine. Her voice had the effect of warm honey trickling down the length of his back. Her eyes were the color of brandy, her hair a rich, deep, glossy burgundy wine. Combined, they warmed him as if he’d imbibed the drinks themselves.

“Yes.” He was rather proud of the steady, almost bored sound of his voice, when bored was the last thing he was feeling. Hot, yes. Bored, no. He lifted one brow. She stood there, all five foot nine or so, slim and classically beautiful, dressed casually but expensively.

One deep, dark eyebrow arched, mirroring his action, as she asked, “May I come in?”

The tingle he felt grew into a sizzle. Damn, it had been a long time since a woman had had such a strong effect on him at first meeting. Come to think about it, no woman had ever had this strong an effect on him.

“Do you have a name?” He injected a droll note into his voice.

“Brianna Stewart,” she answered, extending a slim-fingered hand to him. “Now, may I come in?”

Curious—about the woman’s courage in entering the apartment of a stranger and about several other things—he took her hand, repressed a shiver, then nodded and stepped back, swinging the door wide as he did so.

“Thank you.” Head high, spine straight as an arrow, she walked past him into the neat-as-a-pin living room, her stride relaxed, easy. The late-morning sun’s rays slanting through the wide window struck fiery lights off her slightly-redder-than-auburn hair.

“What can I do for you, Ms. Stewart?” he asked. Other than sweep you up and carry you to my bedroom. Telling himself to grow up, he repressed the errant thought.

“May I sit down?” She made a graceful move of one hand to indicate his favorite plush leather recliner.

“Yeah, sure.” What else could he say? “Would you like a cup of coffee?” He wasn’t about to impart the information that it was the first pot he’d brewed since rolling out of the sack a half hour before she rang his chimes, so to speak. Hell, his hair was still damp from his shower.