Kate Hoffmann: All Through The Night

Then Nora rose up on her toes and pressed her mouth to his.

Pete’s reaction was instant and intense. With a low moan, he pressed her back against the door, covering her mouth with his and pinning her wrists above her head.

He wasn’t going to be sorry for this in the morning and neither would she—he’d make sure of that.

Slowly, deliciously, he seduced her with his tongue, moving from her mouth, to her neck, to the warm valley between her breasts. With insistent fingers, he tugged at her dress until the pink tip of her breast was revealed. He gazed at her with a hunger he’d never known, even as he told himself that she would probably soon put an end to this intimate adventure. Still…

Nora’s breath caught as he drew her nipple into his mouth, but rather than pull away, she melted into him, making him forget everything but the need to be deep inside her.

“How much further are you going to let this go?” he asked, his voice thick with desire. “Because if we continue, I can’t guarantee I’ll be able to stop.”

She looked up at him brazenly. “But what if I don’t want you to stop?”

Dear Reader,

It was a long time coming, but here it is—my first Blaze for Harlequin Temptation. Those of you who read my books regularly will be a little surprised, I’m sure. After all, I’m more known for writing humor than hot, steamy sex. But when my editor challenged me to try my hand at a Blaze, I couldn’t resist coming up with a story that was very sexy in both premise and execution. But nobody told me I couldn’t make it funny as well….

First thing, I needed a good recipe for this spicy treat. So I started with Nora Pierce, a very frustrated etiquette columnist who’s afraid she’s losing her sensuality to her alter ego, prissy Prudence Trueheart. Then I added sexy sports writer, Pete Beckett, a guy who has a way with women—and a way of showing up in every one of Nora’s private fantasies.

After I stirred in several other ingredients, such as secret identities and a one-night stand that turned into so many more, I came up with a story that I hope all of you will find sinfully delicious.

Enjoy,

Kate Hoffmann

P.S. I love to hear from my readers. Please write to me c/o Harlequin Books, 225 Duncan Mill Road, Don Mills, Ontario, Canada M3B 3K9.

HARLEQUIN TEMPTATION

697—A BODY TO DIE FOR

731—NOT IN MY BED!

758—ONCE A HERO

762—ALWAYS A HERO

All Through the Night

Kate Hoffmann

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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To my editor Brenda Chin, who believes in me even when I don’t. You’re the best.

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Epilogue

THERE WASN’T MUCH he liked about Prudence Trueheart. But he had to admit, he liked the way she moved.

Pete Beckett braced his arms along a low cubicle wall on the far side of the Bullpen, resting his chin on his hands. All around him, the employees of the Herald’s sports department rushed to make the noon deadline, frantically typing copy on computer terminals, the click of keys creating a familiar din. As a syndicated columnist, Pete met earlier deadlines, and his column was already out on the wire. And since he hadn’t decided on tomorrow’s subject, he found himself with nothing to do except ruminate on the physical attributes of the Herald’s uptight little etiquette columnist, Prudence Trueheart.

Though she always dressed in a tidy little suit and a prissy white blouse, starched board stiff, the body beneath the suit refused to comply with the outward image. To match the clothes, one might expect a ramrod-straight spine and a clipped gait, heels clicking on the floor, mouth pinched in a permanent expression of disapproval.

But the assumption would not be correct. Prudence possessed a fluid grace, her hips swaying ever so slightly with each step, her neck arched and her chin tipped up in subtle defiance. Her arms swung gracefully at her sides and her long fingers were delicately tipped in a conservative shade of cotton-candy pink.

And her mouth. Well, there was something about that mouth that made words of admonishment a waste of a pair of perfectly tempting lips. No matter how hard she tried to look like a Sunday School teacher, Pete couldn’t get past the urge to pull every last bobby pin from the knot of pale hair at her nape. Or maybe yank her into his arms and kiss her senseless. Or at least suck on a few of those pretty fingertips.

“Giving Prudence the evil eye will not get you that corner office.”

Pete turned to find Sam Kiley standing beside him, his gaze fixed on the same target. “Do you ever wonder what she’s like outside the office?” Pete asked. “I mean, does she wear those suits to bed? And is that little bun on the back of her head a permanent thing, or does she let her hair loose when she walks in the front door of her house?”

Prudence disappeared into her office, and Pete craned his neck to see inside the open door. He just couldn’t figure the contradiction. How could a woman with so much sensual presence, such an abundance of feminine appeal, be such a royal pain in the butt? This question had been bothering Pete for a long time, and though it begged an answer, he wasn’t about to get close enough to the prickly Prudence to find out what that answer was.

“If you’re really that curious, I suppose I could ask Ellie,” Sam offered.

Ellie, the former Ellen Wilson, happened to be Sam Kiley’s wife and the circulation manager for the Herald. She was also, coincidentally, Prudence Trueheart’s best friend. Ellie and Sam had met at the paper and married just a year ago.

“I’m not curious,” Pete lied, pushing back from the cubicle. He laughed dryly. “Why would I be curious about Prudence Trueheart?”

“She has a real name, you know,” Sam said.

“Pierce,” Pete murmured. “Laura—or is it Nora? Or maybe it’s Nola. We’ve had a few conversations over the years. Once when I took her parking space, and another time when she accused me of stealing her stapler. I even kissed her once at a Christmas party. And I think I’m the only one in the sports department who reads her little memos. At least, before I rip them off the refrigerator door.”

He couldn’t really blame Prudence. As the San Francisco Herald’s only other syndicated columnist, she really didn’t fit into any of the other departments at the paper. Prudence was an orphan of sorts and had been given the only available office commensurate with her salary and her value to the Herald. That office just happened to be in the sports department, though both she and Pete were coveting a huge corner office about to be vacated on the other end of the floor.

Hell, she might have had more luck with her memos in Lifestyles. Or even at the city desk. But trying to whip a bunch of rowdy sportswriters and footloose photographers into a polite group of co-workers was a near impossible task. Still, she never stopped trying. Every month, she posted a new memo about office etiquette in the lunchroom; from refrigerator hygiene to coffeepot protocol, there wasn’t a rule of polite society that Prudence Trueheart didn’t try to enforce.