The Girl's Guide to (Man)Hunting (4 page)

“You like busywork,” Colt said. “You make more for yourself just so you have shit to do.”

Grant popped the cork on the champagne. “Time to celebrate.”

Colt looked at the champagne with distaste. “You shoulda brought beer.”

“Beer isn’t for celebrating,” Grant said, ignoring Colt’s sour mood. He poured a glass for Dane and handed it over.

Dane took it, but he only half paid attention until the other two men raised their drinks.

“To success,” Grant said.

“Success,” Colt echoed.

To a week of proving to his buddies that his dick didn’t run his life
. “To success,” Dane said, and then downed the champagne.

The two men emerged from the lodge and Dane squinted up at the sun. It was perfect weather for their first excursion—sixty-five
degrees with no rain. The rain could come later in the week, but today? Today was perfect. This was a good omen, Dane decided, his mood light. Piece of cake.

Brenna steered him toward one of two lines of waiting clients—men in camo clothes who had probably never been more “outdoors” than a corporate gym. He put on his camera-ready smile and began the meet and greet—okay, some things weren’t all that different from hockey. The first guy was a small business owner, the next a lawyer looking to send his team of attorneys through the training if they liked the class. Dane hadn’t believed Grant when he said that corporations would pay big bucks for this sort of thing, but sure enough, every single man he shook hands with was testing out the class for a corporate club or toastmasters or a professionals group.

No pressure.

Dane shook the hands of five men before coming to the end of the line and his sixth and final “student” for the week. To his surprise, the person that came out from behind the parked jeep was none other than Miranda Hill, the girl he’d left behind nine years ago. The one that had gotten away. The one he’d fantasized about for years.

He stared at her in surprise. “Miranda?”

She tilted her head, shiny brown hair sliding over her shoulder. “Don’t I get a handshake, too?”

“What are you doing here?” She looked exactly the same as she had nine years ago—same great hair, same dark doe eyes, same amazing figure with an even better rack. This had to be a test from Colt and Grant. “I’m, uh.” He glanced back at Colt, openly skeptical that his fantasy girl had somehow shown up on
the first day of the new business, but Colt was busy greeting his own students and wasn’t looking in his direction. “I’m a little busy right now.”

She pulled a baseball cap over her hair and smiled at him. Well…damn. Miranda wasn’t anything like his cousin Tara. If anything, she looked better than she had when he’d left nine years ago. Her slim figure was lush with curves, and she had a healthy tan. She wore a high-necked maroon top with a pair of scruffy jean shorts and beat-up sneakers. A bag was tossed over her shoulder and she was looking at him expectantly.

He didn’t know what to say.

“Dane,” Brenna said between gritted teeth. She poked him in the arm with her oversized pen. “Miranda has signed up for the survival training. You’ll be her instructor this week.”

Damn. He looked at the welcoming smile gracing her mouth, the casual hand on her hip, and a rush of memories flooded through him. Her soft mouth on his, the feel of her skin underneath his hands. The eager teenager had turned into an amazingly sexy woman. He looked into her smiling eyes and the curve of her mouth and felt his cock stir.

Hell. The week had just gotten a lot longer.

T

Miranda kept her nervousness hidden, though she shifted on her feet repeatedly as the survival class gathered and the two instructors talked in low voices in the distance. This had seemed like a great idea a few days ago. It hadn’t been easy to get into the class at the last minute, but she’d made up some sort of excuse that her new job wanted some team-building work on her resume, forked over the ridiculous amount of money for the weeklong training, and passed the preliminary physical with flying colors. Easy enough.

Her goal was simple. Find Dane Croft, flirt up a storm, and use her feminine wiles to hook him. If it were any other man, she’d have concerns about playing the seductress, but Casanova Croft was legendary for his exploits. The man was a poon hound, and she intended to use that against him. She’d get him dancing
to her tune, get him a little compromised, and then let the camera in her backpack do the damage.

This week, she was going to let her evil side rule things. Good Miranda was definitely going to be shoved to a back burner. Center stage? Evil Miranda.

Now, looking at the people surrounding her, this didn’t seem like the brightest idea she’d ever had. The class was small—six people to an instructor. Five men lined up next to her, and all seemed ready to go and eager to spend the next week in the wild. Four of the five were dressed in camouflage, and one had even painted his face with black stripes under each eye, as if he were expecting to run a few downs of football after hiking. They’d also gone overboard on the gear. Since they’d been instructed to pack extremely light, she’d decided to wear comfortable clothing over her sexiest underwear. After all, she didn’t want to seem too obvious. Her hiking boots were just beat-up jogging shoes, for example. But the others seemed like they had cleaned out the local sporting goods store, and their shoes were clean and crisp and had probably been taken out of the box minutes before they arrived here.

All of the men in her group—in both groups, really—were relatively fit and lean and likely in their late thirties or forties. In addition to being the youngest one here, Miranda was also the only female other than the assistant, who took everyone’s waivers and wrote up their information on a clipboard.

It was an acute, disturbing feeling. A week alone in the wilderness with six guys and just her? It had all the makings of a bad porno.

Out of the corner of her eye, Miranda saw the second instructor
approach the group of waiting clients. He was wearing a black T-shirt that had the survival school’s logo on the back. When he turned at someone’s question, Miranda recognized him, and not just from the photo. Colt Waggoner hadn’t changed much since high school. He’d gotten taller, but he was still lean and muscled. Instead of wearing the sloppy, oversized T-shirts she remembered him in, he was dressed sharply, his T-shirt tucked into camouflage pants and shiny boots on his feet. As the client addressed him, Colt stood with his hands clasped behind his back.

“No, sir,” Colt replied in a crisp voice to the man’s low question. “No outside electronics.”

The man looked at everyone else nervously. “Oh, well. I just thought I’d ask.”

Colt gave him a crisp nod and then began to walk past the group. He stopped and paused in front of Miranda, recognition dawning on his face. “Miranda. What are you doing here?”

She pulled out a crumpled brochure and waved it in front of her, feeling like an idiot under Colt’s piercing stare. “Thought I’d take the class. How are you doing, Colt? It’s good to see you.”

“Fine,” he said stiffly, then tilted his head. “You’re still in Bluebonnet?”

“Haven’t left,” she said awkwardly. Ever. Oh God.
Please don’t ask me why I stayed. Please don’t ask me why I stayed.

“I’m sorry,” he said in a short, clipped voice. His hands clasped behind his back, and his “relaxed” pose was still stiffer than most. Military, maybe?

“Sorry?”

“Sorry that you haven’t left. This town is a joke.”

A surprised laugh erupted from her throat. “So it is. What brings you back, then?”

“Business,” he said. “Grant’s here, too. We—”

“Colt,” Dane yelled from behind him. “Hey, Colt. C’mere.”

Colt tilted his head again, a little, and he didn’t turn to look at Dane. “If you’ll excuse me, Miranda. Nice to see you again.”

“You, too,” she said faintly. “Welcome back.”

Colt turned and trotted off to Dane’s side up the hill. Dane leaned in close, saying something in a rapid-fire, angry tone. Miranda couldn’t make it out, though. Dane said something, and both men turned and looked back at her. Then they spoke again. To her surprise, Colt patted the front of Dane’s pants and said something. Dane swung a punch, but Colt ducked out of the way, smirking. Dane didn’t look amused—he looked pissed. When Dane gestured sharply in her direction, a bit of a smile curved Miranda’s mouth. Well, at least that was something. Anger was better than nothing. When she’d first extended her hand for Dane to shake, there had been a blank look on his face, as if he didn’t quite know what to make of seeing her here.

She had to admit, she didn’t know what to make of him either. A smirk she’d have expected. A lecherous grin she’d have expected. The baffled look he’d given her? Not so much.

Brenna paused in front of Miranda, peering down at her clipboard. “Do you have your registration packet with you?”

She handed the paperwork to Brenna and was given a red bandana in return.

“You’re going to be on the red team,” Brenna announced. “The red instructor will be your leader for the next week. Wear
your bandana at all times, as we’re going to have a few team-versus-team challenges later in the week.”

“Got it,” Miranda said in a meek voice. “And my instructor is Dane?”

The assistant glanced up and gave her a searching look, a hint of a frown on her face.

“I’m a hockey fan,” Miranda hastily explained, lying through her teeth. “Plus, he and I go way back. High school and all that.”

She didn’t point out that she’d gone to high school with Colt Waggoner, too.

“You’re not here for hockey or class reunions. You’re here for survival training,” Brenna said. “If that’s going to be a problem, I can switch instructors—”

“No!” Miranda squeaked, hiding the red bandana behind her back. “Not a problem at all. I just happened to notice it.”

“Well, unnotice it if you can. Mr. Croft doesn’t care to discuss hockey,” Brenna said, and peeked around, then leaned in to whisper. “You cause any trouble, and I’ll move you to the other team.” She gave Miranda a wide smile. “Okeydoke?”

Jeez. Miranda nodded. “No hockey. Got it.”

“I’m glad we had this little talk.” Brenna beamed at her and then moved down the line to the first person on the blue team. “Got your paperwork?”

“She’s a bit much, don’t you think?” The man next to Miranda chuckled. “Glad she’s not going to be our instructor, or this would really be a long week.”

Miranda gave a sheepish smile to the man. He was a tall, bordering-on-skinny guy who wore black-framed square glasses that hid his pale face. He seemed nice enough—strong jaw, thick
sandy blond hair, and a friendly smile. Kind of cute, if you were into nerds.

Shame she’d always had a thing for jocks.

“I’m Pete. And you are…” He switched his bandana to his left hand and extended his right for a handshake.

“Miranda,” she said, shaking his hand and trying to do her best not to peer around him. He was blocking her view of Dane.

“So what do you do, Miranda?” Pete asked with an easy smile. “Public relations? Pharmaceutical sales?”

She gave him an odd look. “I’m a librarian.”

He laughed at that, as if anything she said was hysterically funny. “Really? Pretty young woman like you moldering in a library? I wouldn’t have figured it.”

Okay, that was definitely flirting. Miranda stared at Pete for a moment, unsure how to answer. Flirt back? Ignore the flirting? She settled for polite small talk. “I take it back—I used to be a librarian. I’m taking a new job down in Houston in a few weeks as Chief Information Officer at a start-up electronics company. What is it you do, Pete?”

“I own Hazardous Waste Games in Austin,” he said, his smile widening with pride.

“Oh, wow,” she said, her attention drawn back to him. “You own a company?”

“A billion-dollar company,” he agreed proudly. “We make the biggest first-person shooter MMO in PC gaming.”

Like she knew what that was. Miranda gave him a hesitant smile. “Wow. Biggest first, uh, shooter. That’s great.”

He nodded, glancing around the clearing in front of the lodge. “Our next project involves survival skills. I thought I’d
check out the scene and see what it’s like. Get a little first-person experience of my own.”

“Good idea,” she enthused, but her interest was rapidly waning despite his friendliness. Dane was marching back toward the group, a resigned look on his face and a red bandana wrapped around his hand. Her breath expelled from her chest in a whoosh of relief—she hadn’t realized how tense she’d been.

If she’d been moved to the blue team…she’d have been screwed. And not in a pleasant way.

Now that Dane was approaching, she could look her fill at him again. Her memories of him from high school had been vague and steamy—she’d recalled a tall, lanky boy with dark, messy hair, shoulders that seemed too wide for his lean body, and an easy smile. The man who paused in front of the team seemed to be the same, but different. The Dane she’d had her hands on nine years ago had been lean—this man was nothing but solid muscle. His biceps bulged from underneath the sleeves of his black T-shirt and were tanned a delicious shade of bronze. Back in high school, Dane had almost been too pretty—with a beautiful mouth, perfect nose, lean face, and piercing green eyes.

The Dane before her still had the beautiful mouth and piercing green eyes, but his face had filled out, and his nose had been broken several times and had a large ridge in the middle proclaiming that he’d been in fights while on the ice. He had a scar just above it, and another one on his chin. She’d have thought the scars would make him less attractive, but for some reason they broke up the delicacy of his face and made him dangerous. There was even a third whisper-thin white scar running through his left eyebrow that gave him a rakish look. The rumpled black
hair she remembered had been cut short and clung to his head in a thick cap that made her fingers itch to stroke it. And as he stood in front of them, she admired his shoulders. Still broad and blatant with muscles, but the rest of his body seemed to have caught up, and the entire picture was mouthwatering indeed.