A Scent of Seduction
Kathryn Walters may once have been a career-obsessed book editor with a libido that fell asleep in the time-out corner, but no more. Ever since she and Coyote Sullivan—sports editor and Native American hottie—shared a sniff of a supposed lust potion, things have really heated up. So much so that she's abandoned her nightly fantasies in favor of a much steamier reality.But are the fireworks the real deal? Or is this fling the result of the potion? And if the stuff isn't fake, what do they do when the bottle runs dry?
Читать A Scent of Seduction онлайн беплатно
A SCENT OF SEDUCTION
Colleen Collins
To Carrie Alexander and Jamie Sobrato
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Coming Next Month
1
STRIDING DOWN a line of cubicles, Kathryn Walters checked her wristwatch, the Tag Heuer she’d treated herself to after her promotion to San Diego Times book editor a year ago. Eight forty-five. She huffed a breath, mentally cursing the nonstop phone calls she’d juggled this morning, more than she typically received in an entire day, all in response to her book review in yesterday’s Sunday edition. The way people were reacting—most titillated, a few outraged—you’d think she’d marched naked through the streets twirling a flaming baton, not merely reviewed a murder mystery.
An erotic murder mystery.
Kathryn loved experimenting with the book section, introducing little-known authors and cutting-edge stories. She’d purposefully chosen Bound in Brasilia for its darkly erotic tone and kick-ass murder mystery, both of which lured the reader into its world of sex, crime and suspense. Especially the sex.
She couldn’t help but smile to herself. It had been a calculated risk reviewing something certain people might view as porn, but she’d figured the word of mouth could garner her more reader votes for the coveted Crest of the Wave award for best Times editor. The fifteen-grand prize meant she could finally make the down payment on the beach condo of her dreams. Her own home. Security.
It’d been three long years since she’d lost both, along with her career, reputation, friends—the list felt endless. Funny how naive she’d been back then, thinking that speaking up about a corporate scam was the right thing to do. She knew better now. Much smarter to keep your mouth shut, mind your own business, keep your nose to the proverbial grindstone.
Win that prize and own her home again.
An intern stumbled to a stop in front of her. “Gr-great review, Ms. Walters.”
She halted. “Thank you.”
“Are those, uh, books the kind…” A shy smile exposed braces.
She glanced around, her five-eleven stature giving her a bird’s-eye view into the cubicles. Interesting how many people had stopped working, looking up at her with titillation written all over their faces. Nice to know so many people had read Sunday’s book section.
“The kind?” she prompted, looking back at him.
He shuffled in place. “Are those books the kind you’ll be reviewing again?”
“If you mean, will I be reviewing more…thought-provoking books, the answer is yes.”
She eased past the intern, biting back a smile. Thought-provoking? More like body-provoking.
A few weeks ago, when she’d selected Bound in Brasilia for her next review, she anticipated it would shake up readers. What she hadn’t expected was how deeply it would shake up her. The protagonist’s journey into the steamy South American jungle while she tracked a shaman who ignited buried dreams had nudged Kathryn into thinking about her own long-ignored personal needs. She couldn’t even remember when she’d last taken a vacation or treated herself to a manicure, or just been lazy for an entire day. It was as though she was terrified that if she let up on herself for even a minute, she’d lose the opportunity to earn back what she’d lost.
While reading that book, she’d especially yearned to rekindle one specific long-lost need. Sex. In her zeal these past few years to rebuild her life, she’d managed to shove her libido into some deep freezer and lock the door. Thanks to Bound in Brasilia, however, that door had blasted open. Oh, she stayed focused on work, still put in more overtime than anyone else at the Times, but her overstimulated brain cells were tickling and teasing her at every opportunity, fabricating all kinds of scorching, experimental fantasies.
And all of them with a certain man.
Coyote Sullivan.
Of course, what woman didn’t want Coyote, the Times’s cocky and impossibly sexy sports editor? The man had the dark, sultry looks of a Johnny Depp, the gambling instincts of a Donald Trump, the sexual aura of a Bono. She’d sometimes wondered if his parents had actually named him Coyote, or if he’d adopted it as he became more like the mythical animal—part trickster, part outlaw, with a gleam in his eye that said he had an appetite for all things. No wonder he invaded her daytime—and especially nighttime—fantasies. Oh, to be wicked with a man like that.
But her attraction was more than just superficial hots. At odd moments, she’d caught glimpses of her former self in him, those parts she’d once enjoyed and had worked hard to bury. Sometimes it was the sound of his boisterous, carefree laughter that made her recall a time when she didn’t worry so much. Other times it was the gleeful way he went after something—a story, a bet—that made her miss how she’d once lived life greedily, eager for the next experience.
