Colleen Collins - A Scent of Seduction

More applause.

“One reason the paper has survived this long is its willingness to take risks and tackle new ideas. This year my vision has been for the paper to increase its readership, and toward that means we kicked off the Crest of the Wave, awarded by the most readers’votes for their favorite Times editor. I’m very pleased that since we announced this contest, our circulation has increased seven percent.” He waited for applause. “And although votes are still coming in, we can safely say the winner will be one of two people who’ve taken the lead. In fact, the reader response has been so fantastic, we’ve decided to put Kathryn and Coyote on the road.”

Someone yelled, “Road trip!”

Kathryn froze.

Coyote laughed out loud.

“Not literally on a road trip,” said Tallant. “But down the road to a PR event. Tomorrow, they’ll be at Ocean Beach to hand out prizes for a surfing competition, to be covered of course by the San Diego Times.”

Tallant talked for a few more minutes before wrapping up with his customary “thanks for the hard work” sign-off. As he exited, shaking hands, people started milling about again. Gail was at the bar, ordering.

“Tell Gail I had to go.” Kathryn stood, grabbed her jacket, still more than a little in shock she’d be giving out awards for a surfing contest. She reached into her purse. “Give her a ten for me, okay?”

Zoe waved her hand. “I’ll get it. Better leave while the leaving’s good.”

With a nod, Kathryn did. She headed quickly to the elevators.

At street level, she walked briskly down the street. Traffic hummed, palm trees swayed and the horizon glowed pink and orange with the setting sun.

What did people wear to surfing-award ceremonies? One thing she was certain of, a knockoff designer business suit was hardly surf-babe attire. Maybe she’d stop at a little dress shop tomorrow, purchase something new. A summer dress. Sandals. Maybe a cute sweater to go with it. Never knew about California beach weather—could be cold or hot, even in the dead of winter.

She thought of Coyote looking at her, the way his eyes had devoured her.

Maybe she’d also buy some very sexy underwear. White, sheer, lacy.

Security, security, security.

The old voice was back. Now that she was away from the party atmosphere, security again took a front-row seat in her mind. She needed to win the Crest of the Wave to buy her dream condo with the beachfront view, not lose her head—and future—over a teenage infatuation.

“That’s right, don’t blow it,” she lectured herself. So what if the man was a walking molten mojo, she had to keep her head on straight.

She pulled back her shoulders, picked up her pace and walked purposefully down the sidewalk. Going somewhere, having a purpose, rebuilding security, that’s what really mattered.

Which she kept reminding herself all the way home, because somehow it didn’t ring as true as it once had.

THE NEXT DAY, at 4:50 p.m. sharp, Coyote stood partway down Ocean Beach Pier looking east down the long walkway toward its entrance. Late-afternoon fog had rolled in, cutting visibility to fifteen or twenty feet. Everything else was cloaked in gray, giving the world a surreal effect.

He’d been standing here for ten minutes, watching for Kathryn.

He checked his watch again. Four fifty-one. He was never a clock watcher, except when it came to sports, but today he was on pins and needles waiting and watching for her. The award ceremony kicked off in nine minutes. At the end of the pier, several hundred or so feet behind him, surfers, family, fans and a ragtag assortment of the media—mostly from the Times—were gathered for the festivities. He’d already passed the word to his team that this story and photo were to be on page one of tomorrow’s sports section, and no way was Kathryn being late going to blow it for him. He’d be in the photo shoot solo, if need be.

Come to think of it, that wasn’t such a bad idea.

His picture, his name, his do-gooding for handing out awards. There was a whole new, younger audience who’d see that photo and cast their votes for him.

A cold wind whipped past, and he buttoned his jacket. Time to split, get back to the ceremony. If Kathryn didn’t make it on time, tough. To the Coyote would go the spoils.

He started walking to the end of the pier.

Soft running steps behind him.

He turned back and saw the form of a woman, her hair flying as she ran in his direction.

Kathryn.

As she grew closer, the mist cleared and he saw her more clearly. Her hair flying, the hem of her long polka-dot dress—make that red polka dots—fluttering behind her, a smile on her face when she recognized him.

She reached him, heaving breaths.

“Hi,” she said, sweeping a ringlet of hair off her cheek. She wore a bright red sweater that nearly matched the flush in her cheeks.

“I was worried you’d be late,” he mumbled, trying to sound worried.

“Me, too.” She laughed lightly. “Me, late! Can you imagine?”

Believe me, I tried. “No, it’s difficult to imagine.”

He wrapped her arm through his—it felt so natural, as though they’d done this a hundred times—and began walking with her. A little boy tossed a piece of bread into the air. A flutter of white broke through the mist as seagulls descended on the food, their calls greedy and shrill.

To the victor go the spoils, although it wasn’t such a pretty sight.

“If this gets any worse, nobody’s going to be able to see their awards,” Kathryn joked.

They walked in silence for a few moments, their footsteps sounding almost hollow in the mist. Yesterday, he’d barely been able to contain himself around her, but today he was more in control. She was, too, it seemed. Which made sense, considering this PR event could mean the difference between winning and losing.

Nevertheless, he missed how he’d felt yesterday after that group hug. Crazy, teetering on a thin edge of control. He’d never felt that intensely over a woman before.

He glanced at her dress, realizing those weren’t red polka dots, but cherries. Bright red cherries, all over her. A zing of attraction zigzagged through him.

“You look nice.”

“Thank you. I thought I’d wear something appropriate for a surfing ceremony.” She gestured at her dress. “Well, I guess cherries don’t exactly evoke surfing, but it’s better than one of my stuffy business suits.”

He was surprised she described her work image as stuffy. Although that word pretty much nailed it. He’d long ago learned that few people took off their rose-colored glasses when analyzing themselves—everyone seemed to think they knew the best, did the best, were the best. Or maybe that came with the territory when you made a career interviewing sports stars.

Another gust of wind whipped past, and she shivered.

“You should’ve worn something warmer than that sweater.” He knew better than to insult a woman’s choice of clothes. “I mean, it’s pretty, but you’d have been better off wearing a down jacket in this weather.”

“I picked up the outfit at lunchtime when the temperatures were pushing eighty. Never crossed my mind it might get this cold by five.”

So she’d bought the dress especially for today’s event?

Or for him?

“That’s the California coast for you,” he said. “Hot one minute, a fog layer rolling in the next.” The parallel with himself didn’t escape him. He had a reputation for running hot and cold, playing artist one moment, con the next. Juggling people and events in his quest to get ahead, the way he’d been willing a few minutes ago to snatch the photo-op glory for himself only. In his defense, he’d never acted with malice, although that justification suddenly felt thin.