Dare She Kiss & Tell? (15 page)

The only control she had was over her own behavior.

“Carly,” her father said, “when are you going to grow up and stop flitting from one guy to the next?”

Her heart wrenched, the pain stealing her breath. The time to come clean was now. Would he be happy to hear she’d finally fallen in love when he learned that in all probability her emotional development came at the cost of her job? Her boss had hired her despite her past, giving her the second chance that she’d just destroyed.

But the agony of losing Hunter put the threat in perspective.

“I’ve been asking my boss for approval to write a story on Hunter Philips.” The tone in her voice must have held the warning that bad news was ahead, because her father looked as if he was bracing for the impact, and a little part of her heart died again. “She finally gave me the go-ahead, but …” Her voice stalled. She was too afraid to go on, dreading the look of disappointment in his face. Apparently her expression said it all.

“You’ve slept with him,” he said, his face resigned.

Her heart clenched even as her stomach rolled. He eyed her steadily, and she wished she could read more beneath the weary acceptance.

“You can’t do the story now,” he said.

“I realize that.”

“You have to tell your boss why.”

“I realize that too.”

Neither one of them spoke of the obvious.

Her throat so tight it was painful, she said, “I’m in love with him.”

The expression on her face must have conveyed the massive ache in her heart, because her father didn’t look happy for her. He looked like he was sharing her pain but wasn’t sure what to do about it.

He took a hesitant step closer. “Carly …”

Letting the emotion wash through her, Carly crossed the last few feet, and he folded her awkwardly in his arms.

The hug was brief, but full of the familiar smell of the peppermints he loved, before he set her back. “I’m sorry he hurt you,” her father said gruffly.

Conscious of his discomfort—her father would never be the touchy-feely sort—she tried to smile. She couldn’t have her father thinking it was all Hunter’s fault. She cleared her throat, clogged with unshed tears. “He’s a good guy,” she said. “An honorable one.”

Too bad he couldn’t believe she had the ability to be honorable too.

Her father raised a bushy eyebrow. “What are you going to tell your boss?”

She lifted her chin. “The truth,” she said. And it was a good thing Hunter had pushed her to quit being stubborn about her dad, because she would need his support in the coming weeks. “I’m going to write the best damn profile piece I can on someone else and offer it as a replacement,” she said, steadily meeting her father’s gaze. “And then I’m going to go on Brian O’Connor’s show, meet Hunter face to face, and finish what I started.”

“Were you given a hard time when you backed out of tonight’s Brian O’Connor show?” Booker asked.

Jaw clenched, eyes on the three-foot-long punching bag hanging in the well-stocked gym of his home, Hunter swung with his right arm. His fist connected with a satisfying thwack. “Not really,” he said. He did his best to ignore the digital clock on the wall.

11:44 p.m
.

A sickening feeling rose, burning his chest and his gut, as Hunter went on. “There isn’t anything left to debate.” Except maybe his sanity, considering he’d had to learn the same lesson all over again.

He landed another solid punch, forcing back the urge to pummel the bag in frustration, knowing Booker was waiting for him to say more. But Hunter was washed out, too tired from his workout—and the current state of his life—to engage in much conversation.

The week since he’d arrived home from Las Vegas had been busy, consumed by a job that at one time had seemed perfect. Hunter had managed to carve out some time to explore the idea he’d formulated after Carly had questioned his career priorities. But after all that had happened, dealing with Carly on live TV again went beyond his abilities. Surviving this evening, knowing she’d be on the air without him, was proving to be tough.

It would take a miracle to get through the next quarter of an hour without losing his mind, or his resolve
not
to watch the show. Hunter glanced at the clock.

11:45
.

Hunter began to pummel the bag, the repeated thumps filling the silence until his friend spoke again.

“It’s on in fifteen minutes,” Booker said, as if every cell in Hunter’s body wasn’t acutely aware of that fact. “Are you gonna watch?”

Hunter’s abdomen clenched as if hit. His chest and arm muscles burned from his intense workout, but in a way the
pain was an improvement. Since his argument with Carly he’d moved through his days in a trancelike state. Numb. Anesthetized. Trying hard to forget the maddening sight of Carly talking with Terry.

And the devastated look on her face as the elevator doors had closed …

With a hard jab, Hunter’s fist met the bag, jarring his left arm. But the sensation did nothing to ease the conflicting images in his head.

“Because I think you should tune in to see what she says,” Booker went on.

“No.” Hunter punctuated the word with a mighty slug. “I’m not watching the show.”

Public curiosity had swelled since he’d backed out forty-eight hours ago. True to form, Carly hadn’t canceled her commitment to appear. Whether she’d stuck with it for the publicity, or for some other reason, he wasn’t sure. But he’d seen the advertisement announcing the replacement topic: the debut of Carly Wolfe’s new series. A column spotlighting a different Miami resident every week. She’d finally reached her goal.

The question was, who had she chosen as her first subject?

The clock on the wall read 11:47, and bile rose in the back of his throat. His stomach churned at the thought of watching her discuss everything he’d vomited out in a fit of anger. Muscles coiled tight, he felt the dark potential twine its way around his limbs. He refused to watch as the woman he loved traded in all they’d shared to achieve the career goal she’d chased for three years.

The familiar feeling of betrayal, the boil of resentment, left him battering the stuffed leather bag with a one-two punch that jarred him all the way to his soul.

“I find this situation very interesting,” Booker said. “I’m usually the one who sees a conspiracy at every turn.”

Hunter raised a wry eyebrow at Booker. “Are you saying I’m being paranoid, like you?”

His shaggy brown hair was in need of a trim, and Booker’s smile was wide as he brushed his bangs back. “Your suspicions don’t involve whole nations and large governmental agencies. So, compared to me, you’re small-time.” His voice changed to a more serious note. “But you
are
skeptical of everything that moves, Hunt.” He paused before going on. “And I think you’re wrong about Carly.”

Pushing aside the crushing doubt made worse by Booker’s chastising expression, Hunter shot his partner a doubtful look. “Of course you’d say that. You married her best friend,” Hunter said. He was still trying to adjust to
that
particular turn of events.

“Abby and I decided it would be better for our relationship if we didn’t discuss you two.”

“Smart move. Still, you might be biased.”

“Or I might be right.”

Hunter’s chest clamped hard, squeezing with a grip so tight it made breathing and circulating his blood a mammoth chore. His heart still managed to pump the lingering fear to the far reaches of his body. Fear that he’d learn he’d screwed up the one good thing to happen to him in so long that he hadn’t recognized it for what it was …

Real. Genuine. And built to last.

With a silent curse, Hunter closed his eyes. The last time he’d made love to Carly his heart had claimed it was legit. That she was on the up and up. But he’d taken one look at her talking to Terry and his heart had taken a sharp U-turn. All the old suspicions, the duplicities of the past, had come screaming back. The avalanche of anger, humiliation, the need for self-preservation had plowed into him with a force that had swept him up in its wake.

If Carly hadn’t run the story he’d accused her of going after, what then?

He opened his eyes and began punching the bag again, the lingering question feeding the massive knot growing in his chest.

Hunter was saved from dwelling on the unbearable thought when his friend spoke.

“Is it back to business as usual, then?” Booker said.

Hunter stopped punching and turned to face his friend and business partner. Regardless of the outcome tonight, the status quo had changed. He couldn’t continue to pretend his life was enjoyable. Actually, it wasn’t even tolerable. Making money hand over clenched fist wasn’t good enough anymore. It was time to come clean about his plans.

“I had a long talk with the special agent in charge of the Miami division of the FBI,” Hunter said. With a look of surprise, Booker crossed his arms and leaned against the wall, clearly settling in to hear more. “They’re very interested in help with their caseload,” Hunter said, steadily meeting Booker’s gaze as he went on. “I signed on to become a part-time consultant.”

A few moments passed, and then a smile slowly crept up Booker’s face. “Catching the criminals was always your specialty.”

Relieved Booker understood, Hunter delivered the rest of his news as matter-of-factly as he could. “Which means I’m going to need more help in the day-to-day running of the business.”

Booker didn’t hesitate. “Not a problem.”

Narrowing his eyes, he wondered if his friend understood exactly what he was asking. “I thought you hated dealing with the clients.”

The pause lasted long enough for his partner’s face to take
on a guarded look. His words were cautious. “You set some pretty high standards, Hunt,” Booker said.

Hunter stared at his friend, the implication of the statement washing over him as Booker swiped a hand through his shaggy hair again and went on.

“I hate feeling as if I’m not doing a good enough job.”

Stunned, Hunter stared at his friend. “Did I give you that impression?”

“Not directly. But you’re a hard act to follow,” he said. “And you’re fairly demanding when it comes to your expectations.”

The possibility that Booker had been avoiding clients for a reason outside his social discomfort had never occurred to Hunter. Booker’s voice dropped, and Hunter got a disturbing feeling the topic had widened to include more than just work.

“Sometimes you hold the people in your life to pretty impossible standards,” Booker said.

Hunter’s throat constricted so tight swallowing was impossible. He glanced at the clock on the wall.

11:55
.

Booker picked up the remote control to the flatscreen TV mounted on the wall, holding it out to Hunter. “Do yourself a favor, Hunt,” Booker said. “Watch the show.”

Heart thudding loudly in his chest, Hunter removed his gloves and took the remote. Without another word, his friend headed for the exit.

Hunter stared at the black TV screen for a full four minutes, the digital numbers on the clock marking the passage of time, minute by agonizing minute. Either way, he had to know. He just wasn’t sure which would be worse. Losing Carly as a result of her actions…or
his
.

Finally, unable to take the tension any longer, he pushed the “on” button and flipped to the right channel. His fifty-eight inch TV was filled with the image of Carly sitting on
Brian O’Connor’s couch. Beautiful, of course, in a gauzy top and skirt. But the sight of her lovely legs, glossy brunette hair, and warm, amber-colored eyes was nothing compared to the shock he got when the camera panned to the right. Sitting next to her were two young adults in typical urban street clothes. Thad and Marcus. The two graffiti artists she’d been interviewing that day in the alley. The first Miami residents to be featured in her new series. Not him, after all, then.

Hell
.

Nausea boiled, his chest burned, and Hunter gripped the leather punching bag to steady himself, his mind churning with memories. The vile words from his mouth. The stricken expression on Carly’s face. She’d said she needed a man who trusted her. A man who had faith in her. Who
believed
in her. He’d screwed up royally at the very moment he’d confessed he loved her.

So how could he ever convince her now?

D
ESPITE
the ebony-colored tablecloths with their centerpieces consisting of dried dead roses, the ambiance on the restaurant’s outdoor patio was festive. Carly was amazed that Pete and Abby had managed to find the perfect balance of Gothic and elegance to celebrate their recent marriage. Lit by candlelight that reflected off the blanket of fog covering the terrace floor, the evening was cast in an otherworldly glow. Waiters circulated, their platters laden with appetizers. Guests ordered drinks at two beautiful mahogany bars, crafted to resemble coffins. Or maybe they were real. If so, Carly hoped the caskets were new.

In jeans, sneakers and a black T-shirt, Pete Booker cast his wife of two weeks an adoring look, and Carly’s heart tripped over a mix of envy and happiness.

Standing beside her, her father muttered, “This is the strangest wedding reception I’ve ever been to.” He dubiously eyed a discreetly placed fog machine before turning his gaze to the bride’s outfit.

Abby’s black long-sleeved gloves were paired with a matching corset dress that flared into a full-length lace skirt, trailing to the floor with a Victorian flare and a Gothic attitude.

Carly’s lips twitched in amusement. “Thanks for coming with me, Dad.” She clutched the strap of her silver beaded
evening purse, running a hand down her halter-top dress of midnight satin. It wasn’t her usual choice, but all the guests had been requested to wear black. At least the color suited her mood. “I hated the thought of showing up alone.”

“Yeah …” Her dad let out an awkward harrumph and shifted on his feet. “Well …” he went on uneasily, and Carly’s mouth twitched harder.

“Don’t worry,” she said. “I won’t start crying again.”

Her dad sent her a look loaded with fear. “Please don’t.”

Carly almost laughed. She had rallied and poured on the charm for the final show, but when it was done she’d fallen apart—and her father had barely survived the onslaught of tears. She’d finally come to realize her dad did not handle a crying woman well—something she hadn’t fully understood until now. He would never be the perfect parent, ready with an understanding hug, a reassuring smile and gentle words of wisdom. Then again, she was hardly the perfect daughter, either. But he was here tonight, supporting her in his own way. And for that she was inordinately grateful.

Because eventually Hunter would make an appearance.

Anxiety settled deep. If she ever decided to date again—like maybe a million years from now—she was going to give her choice more serious thought. Both for her sake and the man’s. Hunter might have been protecting himself by throwing up walls, but outside of Carly at least he hadn’t hurt anyone in the process. She, on the other hand, had left a trail of unhappy boyfriends in her wake.

All of them had deserved better than her pathetic attempts to stick with men who had no hope of capturing her heart.

When she spied Hunter heading in her direction, said heart sputtered to a stop, and she reached out to grasp the back of a nearby chair. After a few earth-shaking seconds she pushed away the budding, soul-sucking vortex of gloom.

Her father glanced at Hunter and then shot her a worried
look. “Do you want me to stay?” he asked, almost as if he hoped she’d say no. “Or do you want me to fetch you a drink?”

She was tempted to keep him around as a shield. But she’d made a pact with herself today that there would be no more wallowing.

She tried for a reassuring smile. “Drink, please,” she said to her father. With a deep breath, she straightened her shoulders and met Hunter’s gaze as he strode through the crowd in her direction. “I’m going to need it,” she muttered.

Her dad headed for a casket lined with bottles, shooting Hunter a glare infused with a good bit of concern.

Hunter came to a stop a few feet from her. In an impeccably cut black suit, he looked as handsome and intimidating as ever—every muscle poised, prepared for battle. His cool slate-blue eyes were trained on her face. But this time his hair was spiked in front, as if he’d run an impatient hand through it multiple times. A brief flicker of uncertainty came and went, replaced with his usual determined gaze.

It took several moments and more than a few blinks of her eyelids to jumpstart her heart again. His presence had robbed her of her earlier confidence, so she’d just have to fake it until her mojo returned for real.

“I came to tell you I spoke with Booker and we’re all square,” he said carefully, his eyes probing, as if testing her response. “We’ve worked out a plan for me to put in some time doing consulting work for the FBI.”

She refused to be swayed by the news. “Glad to hear it.”

Neither mentioned their parting words at the elevator, but the ghost of their painful falling-out hung in the air, as if lurking in the fog-blanketed shadows. His eyes held hers, and the determined focus, the sense of purpose radiating from his face, made her heart work harder.

After a tension-filled pause, he said, “Congratulations on
your new series too. How did you get your boss to agree to your plans for your column?”

“I didn’t sleep with her, if that’s what you’re suggesting.”

A small smile appeared, more sad than amused. “It’s not.”

“I confessed everything, and then handed her a story on Thad and Marcus that blew her socks off.”

His tone broadcast just how pleased he was. “Good for you.”

“Yeah,” she said. Just for good measure, she hiked her chin higher. “Go, me.” Smart words, in retrospect. Because right about now leaving sounded like a wise plan. She’d missed him, had ached for him, but he also brought a host of sharp emotions along with the longing. Ultimately, it was the confusion and pain that drove her away. “Well …” She cleared her throat, the sound awkward. “I should find my dad.” She turned on her heel.

He put his hand on her arm to stop her, his touch setting off all kinds of alarms. “I shouldn’t haven’t insulted you,” he said, the regret in his eyes profound. “I’m sorry.”

Ignoring the feel of his fingers on her skin, she took a deep breath, glad the initial icy tension was broken. His apology didn’t make up for not believing in her, but it helped ease the ending. “I shouldn’t have slapped you,” she said with a tiny sheepish shrug. “It was an impulse reaction.”

“I deserved it.”

Oh, dear God, it was the agreeable Hunter from the first show. The one who was so hard to argue with. The one who knew how to work her to get just what he wanted, whether it be irritation, confessing her deepest doubts…or a sensual surrender.

The question was, what did he want now?

“Hunter,” she said with a sigh, pulling her arm away. “I think we’ve said everything there is to say.” Like he might
love her, but didn’t really know how. Not in the way she needed. The sharp ache resurfaced.

“I’m not finished,” he said. “I wanted to tell you I spent the last week trying to perfect my new app.”

She frowned, confused. “I don’t care about—”

“Marry me,” he said bluntly.

She sucked in a breath, feeling the hit, and her stomach clamped into a knot.

She shot him a look, trying to hide her weakening resolve. “You show up, after all this time, and just expect me to accept your proposal? It’s been
seven days
since you left me high and dry on the TV show, and—”

“I had some work to do before I could face you.”

She lifted an incredulous brow. “You confronted two men in a dangerous Miami alley, yet you couldn’t deal with me face to face?”

“Not after the mistake that I’d made.”

They’d both made several, and it was more than a few rapid heartbeats that passed before she was able to respond. When she did, the word came out soft. “Coward.”

His lips twisted grimly. “In some things, yes.”

Put an innocent in harm’s way and he would bravely confront the most fearsome of opponents. But when faced with an emotional risk he cut and ran. It was a truth she needed to remember, despite the fact he was here now…looking wonderful…and her body was remembering the advantage of making love to a man with a fighter’s muscles…her heart was remembering how the action-hero defender made her feel.

Protected.
Loved
.

Gathering her wits, she shifted her gaze away, blinking hard to maintain her composure. The guests were lining up at the unusual wedding cake: a six-tiered confection of white icing thick with a thorny trimming done in black. Carly tried
to imagine taking the marital leap with Hunter, waiting for him to walk out …

“I can’t marry you,” she said. And with as much grace as she could muster, she headed for the bar and her father.

Halfway there her cellphone chirped, and she pulled it from her purse and opened the message. The soulful sounds of the song “Share My Life” crooned from her phone, and the screen filled with the words “Marry Me.”

She gripped her cellular, her stomach settling on top of her toes. She hadn’t recovered from the first proposal, and now he was sending a second. Another proposal that left her confused, doubting her resolve to be strong. Fingers shaky, she selected “No” and scrolled through the list of rejection songs to accompany her response. There were only ten. With feeling, she firmly jabbed the button next to “Love Stinks.”

From behind her, the reedy sound of the song filled the air.

Carly whirled around to face Hunter, and his gaze held hers as he crossed closer, coming to a stop in front of her.

Now that she knew his plan, her whole body was filled with caution. “You
have
been busy.”

“Designing the app is the easy part. Finding the right songs is hard.” He eyed her levelly as he said, “I also discontinued The Ditchinator.”

She gave him no leeway with her expression and she forced herself to maintain eye contact, desperately trying to calm her nerves. But she tipped her head, her voice reflecting her curiosity. “Why?”

His eyes held hers with conviction. “Because you wanted me to.”

Feeling raw, Carly fought the urge to get misty-eyed. He’d done it to make her happy.

“I also decided you’d prefer something more positive,” he said. “So I replaced The Ditchinator with The Hitchinator.”

At the name, humor briefly overrode the angst, and her
mouth worked, biting back a smile. “Your new app needs a lot of work,” she said, as lightly as she could, but all her doubts made it a tough sell. “The Hitchinator is a bit of a retreaded name, and the selection of music to accompany a refusal is pretty limited.”

He tipped his head meaningfully. “But there are thirty ways to say yes.”

“Do you think it will sell well?”

“I’m only worried about winning over one customer.” His voice dropped a notch. “You.”

Her heart pounded out its approval even as she struggled to remain strong.

“I didn’t expect you to say yes…the first time,” he said, taking a half-step closer.

She ignored the chaotic pumping in her chest, the surge of heat in her veins. The longing that went beyond the physical and traveled all the way to her soul. She forced herself to maintain his gaze, though her heart and her heated blood screamed
retreat
. To end the torture of continuing to tell him no.

“I should go find my father,” she said, and turned and headed in the direction of her dad at the bar.

Ten feet from her intended destination, her safe haven, another chirp came from her cellphone. She stopped mid-step and glanced at her cellular with a powerful blend of dread…and hope. She pressed the button and the words “Marry Me” reappeared. The phone vibrated to the tune of Billy Idol’s “White Wedding.” Carly couldn’t restrain the small bark of laughter. When the humor passed, again she pushed “No” and scrolled through the rejection choices, choosing one. But this time her fingers hovered hesitantly for several seconds. Biting her lip, she pushed “send.”

Her selection of “Bad Romance” filled the air, coming from
directly
behind her, and Carly closed her eyes.

Don’t let him charm you, Carly
.

But her heart felt more vulnerable when she turned to face Hunter, standing just three feet from her. She gripped the strap of her purse. How could she survive this encounter when he was so close, looking and smelling wonderful and depriving her of her ability to breathe?

“Did you think Billy Idol’s ‘White Wedding’ would endear me to your cause?” she said, knowing he knew it had.

“The first song was too obvious. And I know how much you love the unexpected,” he said. “Besides …” He looked at a nearby table topped with an ornate haunted-house style candelabra, flickering in the night. “I’ve seen the video. ‘White Wedding’ seemed appropriate, given our current setting.”

“Hunter—”

“I’m sorry I didn’t believe you,” he interrupted firmly, his eyes intense.

Her heart knocked faster, begging to be set free from its self-imposed cage, and panic squeezed Carly’s chest. “Too little, too late,” she said. “Before the last show I was hoping you’d turn up and say you’d changed your mind. That you trusted me and didn’t need any proof beyond your belief in me.” She stared at him, dwelling on those painful days. “An apology would have meant something
before
you had evidence I was telling the truth.”

A host of emotions filtered across his face before landing on regret. “I know.”

With a single finger he touched her hand, and her heart rattled the bars of its pen. But she fought the weakness and her growing doubts as he went on.

“I’m hoping you’ll accept my apology anyway,” he said. “And I’d be even more pleased if you’d agree to marry me.”

Her throat ached as she fought back the tears and the overwhelming need to say
yes
. Good God, she was tired of crying. “Why should I?”

“Because I’d like a second chance.” Her throat closed over completely, and when she didn’t respond he continued. “I made a mistake,” he said, his voice harsh with emotion. “But it doesn’t mean I don’t love you.”

“I know you do,” she said. “But Hunter—”

He opened his mouth to cut her off again, but Carly placed her fingers on his lips, stopping his words.

Shifting her gaze between two beautiful slate-blue eyes, she said in a low voice, “I can’t live my life walking on eggshells, worrying that I might do or say something that shakes your trust in me again.” She ignored the intense heat in his gaze and the feel of his lips, the unyielding softness that was oh, so uniquely Hunter. Her chest caught, and breathing became difficult. She dropped her arm, gathering the courage to continue. “All because you can’t move on.”