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  Manhunting

  The Charmer

  Play with Me

  Her Sexy Valentine

  Take Me If You Dare

  Tempt Me Again

  Table of Contents

  Manhunting

  By Betina Krahn, Joanne Rock and Lori Borrill

  The Charmer

  By Kate Hoffmann

  Play with Me

  By Leslie Kelly

  Her Sexy Valentine

  By Stephanie Bond

  Take Me If You Dare

  By Candace Havens

  Tempt Me Again

  By Wendy Etherington

  Betina Krahn, Joanne Rock, Lori Borrill

  MANHUNTING

  CONTENTS

  THE CHASE

  Betina Krahn

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  THE TAKEDOWN

  Joanne Rock

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  THE SATISFACTION

  Lori Borrill

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Epilogue

  THE CHASE

  Betina Krahn

  Prologue

  “THREE HOT BABES ON Valentine’s Day!” Barry the bartender spread his arms and grinned. “Heaven got my order straight.”

  Samantha Drexel stopped in the middle of sliding onto a stool at the end of the convention hotel bar. Him again. Her gaze fell to the prominent slice of uber-hairy chest where his oversize Italian horn amulet rested. Mr. I’m-Too-Sexy-For-My-Shirt.

  “I’m afraid we’re not here to answer your prayers,” she said, turning to her two friends with a stay or go? look.

  “He’s harmless,” Tori Halsey said, tossing back her long blond hair.

  “Ouch.” Barry clapped a hand over his heart.

  “He’s good for a laugh.” Kitty Clayborn’s dark eyes twinkled.

  “Double ouch.” He crossed that hand with the other.

  “Tonight he’s also good for a drink,” said Manny, a fellow bartender, reaching over Barry’s shoulder to stuff a twenty into his shirt pocket. “He just won twenty bucks on you three.”

  Barry’s lounge lizard smile froze.

  “You bet on us?” Samantha looked from Barry to her friends with exaggerated outrage. “He bet on us.”

  “Well, I figured you’d be back. You’re always here on Valentine’s Day. What—like three years running?” Barry finally realized he was digging himself deeper. “I mean, you never have dates or anything.”

  A hand grenade dropped in their midst couldn’t have had any more effect than that simple declaration.

  “Hello. At a trade show here. Working.” Sam charged into the deepening silence. “Plus, we’re in the ‘greetings’ industry. Corporate—” she pointed to herself and then each of the others in turn “—freelance and retail. Valentine’s Day is our business.”

  The three had met four years ago at the Greeting Card Association’s Winter Trade Show in Dallas, perversely always held over the industry’s big Valentine’s holiday. Bonding over drinks and dinner on that first night, they had quickly gone from business contacts to fast friends.

  “Yeah, we always have to work,” Kitty declared.

  “Besides, we have standards,” Tori put in, with a glance at the dregs of the happy-hour crowd propped up along the hotel lobby bar.

  “So I think you do owe us a drink,” Sam said with a defiant edge.

  “And you can bring them to that table—” Tori pointed “—over there.”

  By the time they had ordered and settled around the nearby table, Sam’s mind was in overdrive, unable to let go of Barry’s words.

  “‘Never have dates,’” she quoted, scowling. “Do you believe that guy?” But how long had it been since she was out on an honest-to-goodness date? Dinner, a show or concert, and sweating up some sheets afterward?

  “I have dates. Plenty of dates,” Tori said, frowning. “Until lately. I guess I’ve been kind of caught up in my work.”

  “In a small town—” Kitty sighed “—there’s not much to choose from. It’s been a major dry spell for me. I could use a good ‘bump in the junk.’”

  Sam and Tori hooted laughs.

  “I think what you mean is ‘a bump in your trunk,’” Tori said.

  “Are you sure?” Kitty scowled. “Some girls were in the store the other day talking lyrics, and I’m pretty sure they said ‘bump in the junk.’”

  “Trust Tori on this,” Sam said. “She knows her trunk from her junk.”

  “Great,” Kitty muttered. “If I did actually ‘get me some’ I probably wouldn’t know where to put it.”

  There was shared pain in their laughter. In the three years they’d been meeting at the Dallas trade show, none of them had been in a real relationship. If Sam weren’t so rational, she’d wonder if working in the Valentine’s Day trade had somehow jinxed their love lives.

  “So if we did hook up with a Valentine’s date, how would we celebrate?” Sam cut a sideways look at the red foil hearts taped up here and there around the bar. “Living with mushy poems and romance-y visuals year-round pretty much spoils the prospect of the usual card and heart-shaped box of candy.”

  “Not with roses, that’s for sure.” Kitty brought up another Valentine’s Day staple. “Those big, woody red things they hijack people into paying a hundred dollars a dozen for—they’re mutants. The smell’s been bred completely out of them.”

  Sam’s thoughts went inescapably to the only bouquet of roses she had ever gotten on Valentine’s Day…her junior year of college…just before her boyfriend Rich Collier’s big fraternity dance…

  “Here you go!” At that moment Barry arrived at their table with a tray of drinks. When they looked up, there was a sagging red rose between his teeth. Plopping the limp flower—clearly plucked from a nearby hotel arrangement—on the table, he leaned in with a suggestive waggle of the eyebrows. “For my favorite sexy babes.”

  They glanced at each other and laughed guiltily.

  Thinking they were awed by his smooth line, Barry laid out their drinks and then swaggered off as if he assumed that—behind his back—they were admiring his butt every step of the way.

  “Well, he got one thing right,” Sam said, hoisting her gin and tonic with a wicked laugh. “We are sexy babes.”

  Kitty nearly snorted her white wine out her nose.

  “I’m serious. Look at you,” Sam said, gesturing to her friends. “Tori’s got that whole ‘bohemian chic’ thing going…the flowing blond hair and silk scarf shirts and exotic jewelry…not to mention the killer body. And Kitty’s a Ralph Lauren dream…all horse-country casual in boots and blazers…with the pouty lips Hollywood pays big money for.”

  “And you, Miss Corporate Cool—” Tori picked it up “—with the auburn hair and Lauren Bacall voice…and legs up to the forty-fifth floor. You’re not so bad yourself.”

  “My point exactly. W
e deserve some Valentine’s Day rapture,” Sam said, snapping the red plastic heart off the top of her swizzle stick.

  “So,” she continued, “what was your best Valentine’s Day ever?”

  After a moment, Tori laughed and launched into a story about sneaking downstairs to her older brother’s Valentine party and seeing his best friend making out with a girl on the stairs.

  As she listened, Sam’s thoughts went inescapably back to the day she’d received that first and only bouquet of roses. The Valentine’s Dance had been magical. She’d never forgotten the sight of Rich standing at the bottom of the staircase holding a single red rose to match the ones he had sent her, looking for all the world like Brad Pitt in Legends of the Fall.

  By the time Kitty related her story about making a Valentine dinner that ended with a sinful chocolate cake, sinfully consumed…Sam was also remembering the fight she and Rich had after the dance. It was supposed to be their first time, but Rich hadn’t brought condoms and she hadn’t yet started the pills she’d gotten from the Student Health Center…

  Strange how she still thought of him whenever she saw a bouquet of roses in a magazine, on television or on a coworker’s desk. Her first love. Nothing since had quite measured up to it for sheer thrill power.

  A moment later that thought horrified her.

  “Your turn,” Tori was saying as she came back to the present.

  “My best Valentine’s Day—is yet to come,” she said forcefully. “Not that I don’t love you guys, but next year I’ll have a date. I’m going to go out and track one down and have a fabulous hot Valentine’s night.”

  “Track one down? Like, you’re going hunting or something? For a man?” Tori said, trying to wrap her head around the concept.

  “Manhunting?” Kitty looked mildly alarmed. “Just how do you intend to go about that? I mean, lurking around gyms and football stadiums with a club in hand can get you arrested.”

  When they stopped laughing, Sam’s mind hit high gear.

  “It’s just like business…there are opportunities all around. You have to keep your eyes and mind open to find them. There are single men in fitness centers, bookstores, home improvement classes, volunteer jobs. Put the word out with friends at work, neighbors, old classmates. Sign up for an Internet ‘match’ service or one of those just-lunch things. Take charge. Decide what you want and go for it.”

  “Manhunting.” Tori caught her enthusiasm. “I like it. Sounds primal. Very woman power. I’m in.”

  Grinning, Sam put out her hand. Tori took a deep breath and put hers on top. They both turned to Kitty, who groaned but added her hand to the pile. “Three, two, one,” Sam counted down.

  “Manhunting!” they shouted in unison…just as Barry arrived with a tray of fresh drinks.

  Moments later he was back behind the bar, disappointed by their lack of response to his irresistible lines. His fellow bartender, Manny, met him at the central beer taps and nodded to the Valentine threesome.

  “What was all that about?”

  “Them?” Barry gave a huff and began clearing empties from the bar top. “They just made some girl pact. They’re going manhunting.”

  “Your Valentine hotties?” Manny chuckled. “Where do I sign up?”

  “They say they’re not spending another Valentine’s Day here, alone. They’re gonna go out and find true love.” He gave a snort of disbelief. “Fifty bucks says they’ll be back next year.”

  1

  “WHAT DO YOU MEAN, he didn’t show up?” Sam Drexel stopped dead in the middle of the polished executive hallway of the CrownCraft offices, causing two people behind her to have to scramble to avoid a collision.

  The renowned L.A. photographer on the other end of the call declared he had waited for three full hours before shutting down his equipment and letting his crew go. And, no, he was not available for a reschedule. But, yes, he would be sending her the full bill. The last thing Sam heard as he hung up was “damned rock stars.”

  Damned rock stars. The words drummed in her head as she punched her phone off, did an about-face and made straight for the elevator. Part of her was reeling, but part of her was already calculating how much damage this would do to her strained project budget. What kind of jerk blew off a photo shoot costing tens of thousands of dollars? Who the hell did he think he was?

  But the minute she stepped out of the elevator on the thirty-eighth floor—home of CrownCraft’s marketing department—the sounds of Nick Stack’s music throbbing through the corridors reminded her exactly who the hell he was. The king of the driving-hot beat and libido-ramping lyrics. The master of sexy signature sounds. The pied piper of rock, who led impressionable young college girls into a labyrinth of desire and sexual discovery. At least, he used to.

  She told herself that her heart was racing because she was angry—justifiably so. But her footsteps synchronized with the music, and by the time she reached the marketing department workroom she had to stop and lean against the wall to collect herself. The bass-heavy rush of Nicholas Stack’s biggest hit invaded her skin, loosened her bones and threatened to take over her heartbeat.

  Damned music. She was determined not to let her potent visceral reaction to it undercut her anger.

  He hadn’t even shown up.

  Taking a deep breath, she rolled around the door frame and charged into the workroom, coming to a stop with her hands on her hips.

  “Will somebody turn off that howling before I throw the damned speakers out the window?”

  Her assistant and the two designers on the floor in the midst of a sea of greeting card layouts looked up in surprise. Parts of the sexy groove thumping away on the stereo would soon fill a number of the musical valentines spread in a mock-up stage all around them. And the whole project, especially the music, had been her idea.

  As they shook their heads in disbelief, her face reddened. She couldn’t blame them for being confused. Two months ago she couldn’t get enough of Nick Stack’s steamy ballads and sexed-up dance numbers, and had even broken into a few exotic dance moves during his vocal riffs.

  She lunged for the off button in the middle of one of Stack’s patented, knee-weakening “bay-beeee’s,” and the silence that followed was so deep it seemed as if the room had just been dropped down a well.

  “Whoa.” Dale Emerson pushed away from the worktable. The project’s head designer wore a gray-streaked ponytail and was talented enough to get by with saying whatever he thought. “What set you off?”

  “He didn’t show,” she said, her face now glowing hot. “Stack didn’t bother to put in an appearance at the photo shoot this afternoon. So, as of now, we have no poster, no ads and no CD cover.”

  “But we’ve got to have photos,” graphic artist Sarah Casey moaned.

  “The jerk didn’t even call to make excuses,” Sam said, surveying the line of cards at her feet and feeling the pride she’d taken in the concept being eroded by an all-too-personal feeling of betrayal.

  “Why would he miss a chance for such publicity?” her assistant, Renee Morgan, asked.

  “Besides the obvious? That he thinks the whole world revolves around him? Who knows?” Sam squeezed her eyes shut for a moment, then expelled a huge breath. “I hate Valentine’s Day.”

  “We’ve noticed.” Dale tried to lighten the mood. “And why is that? Not enough valentines in your shoe box in the third grade?”

  “I got plenty of valentines, Dr. Freud.” She crossed her arms and focused an incendiary gaze on one particularly romantic-looking layout. “I just get sick of seeing sappy red hearts wherever I look and hearing songs that rhyme ‘baby’ with ‘lay me.’”

  She realized they were giving each other speaking looks and struggled to give her reaction a more businesslike slant. “Besides, the Valentine’s campaign is a pink collar ghetto. Have you noticed that they always give it to a woman? Me, specifically? Three years running?”

  “Maybe they give it to you because you do such a good job with it.” Sarah held up
a pair of layout boards in evidence. “I mean, these are damned good designs and the music you chose fits so perfectly—”

  “Face it, kiddo,” Dale said with a hint of mischief. “There just aren’t many Wharton MBAs around with a great eye for ‘romantic.’”

  Sam flinched. Stiffening, she turned on her heel and strode out, but not before she heard a chuckle and Dale’s irreverent conclusion.

  “Somebody needs a date.”

  So much for keeping it strictly professional.

  This whole project had become a cautionary tale on the hazards of mixing her professional life with her personal one. If she hadn’t been floating around in a romantic fog, she would never have gotten the bright idea to build a line of musical valentines around Nick Stack’s signature sounds and phrases.

  By the time she got to her office and slammed the door, she was trembling. Renee, Dale, Sarah…everybody knew her love life had gone to hell. How could they not? She was riding a romantic skyrocket one week and barely dragging her butt into work the next. She caught her reflection in the window as she headed for her chair.

  She was on edge. Overworked. Exhausted.

  Embarrassed.

  The memory she’d been trying to suppress boiled up to threaten her composure. Rich Collier—bouquet-of-roses Rich—had been in Chicago on business and given her a call out of the blue.

  She winced. Okay, not exactly “out of the blue.” She had let an old classmate know she was interested in finding out what had happened to her ex-boyfriend, and a month later—voilà—he called. Apparently he thought they had unfinished business, too. She’d taken it as proof that her manhunting strategy of “mining the list of old boyfriends” was a winner.