Praise for Alison Kent!

“For me Alison Kent’s name on a book means that I am guaranteed to have a story that is realistic, entertaining, compelling and sexy as all get-out.”

—ARomanceReview.com

“Alison Kent has created in her giRL-gEAR series a believable, modern world where men and women behave just a little bit naughtier than they do in real life.”

—AllAboutRomance.com

“An outstanding tale of passion, sensuality and a dark fascination, Ms. Kent’s romance turns up the heat.”

—Romantic Times BOOKreviews on The Sweetest Taboo

“Alison Kent delivers a knockout read.”

—Romantic Times BOOKreviews on All Tied Up

“Alison Kent mesmerizes us with a compelling love story brimming with scorching sensuality and abiding love.”

—Romantic Times BOOKreviews on Call Me

Dear Reader,

I am a pop culture junkie. Not an addict, mind you. Or overly obsessive. I do love hearing who has landed plum movie roles, finding out what television series are canceled or renewed, seeing unexpected guest stars show up on network TV, etc. But I don’t wait for news on celebrity Starbucks sightings, or even care much about the love lives of the stars. Still, I know that’s not the case with everyone.

Funnily enough, I created the character of Caleb McGregor—aka Max Savage—long before stalkarazzi shows were as popular as they now are, but I’m glad I waited until the age of You Tube and TMZ to write his romance with Miranda Kelly, aka Candy Cane. Having one of them dreading the impending bombardment of the media and making the other one an expert at doing the bombarding made the story great fun to write.

I hope you get a kick out of Caleb and Miranda as they kiss and tell, kiss and don’t tell, then don’t kiss and tell some more! You can e-mail me at ak@alisonkent.com to let me know if you do. Stop by my blog at www.alisonkent.com/blog to visit with other readers and lovers of Harlequin Blaze, and to win all sorts of books and fun prizes. I’ll see you again in March 2009, when I’ll be hitting the track for Blaze’s 0—60 miniseries.

All my best,

Alison Kent

ALISON KENT
Kiss & Tell

TORONTO • NEW YORK • LONDON

AMSTERDAM • PARIS • SYDNEY • HAMBURG

STOCKHOLM • ATHENS • TOKYO • MILAN • MADRID

PRAGUE • WARSAW • BUDAPEST • AUCKLAND

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Alison Kent is the author of five sexy books for Harlequin Temptation, including Call Me, which she sold live on CBS 48 Hours, several steamy books for Harlequin Blaze, including The Sweetest Taboo and Kiss & Makeup, both Waldenbooks bestsellers, a number of sizzling books for Kensington Brava, including the Smithson Group series, as well as a handful of fun and sassy stories for other imprints. She is also the author of The Complete Idiot’s Guide to Writing Erotic Romance. Alison lives in a Houston, Texas, suburb with her own romance hero.

Books by Alison Kent

HARLEQUIN BLAZE

24—ALL TIED UP

32—NO STRINGS ATTACHED

40—BOUND TO HAPPEN

68—THE SWEETEST TABOO

99—STRIPTEASE

107—WICKED GAMES

120—INDISCREET

197—KISS & MAKEUP

213—RED LETTER NIGHTS

“Luv U Madly”

225—GOES DOWN EASY

287—INFATUATION

To Walt, for TMZ

To Brenda, for Dumbledore

To Helen Kay, for making sure I stayed sane

Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Prologue

April…

“AN APPELLATE RULING has paved the way for a retrial in the case of Baltimore businessman E. Marshall Gordon. The CEO of EMG Enterprises was the fifth member of the board of directors to face charges of conspiracy to commit fraud related to EMG’s off-the-book partnerships. More on that in our national news segment after the break.

“And coming up in our celebrity beat, we have the latest from Max Savage on Colorado congressman Teddy Eagleton’s recent divorce from his wife of twelve years, and his romantic connection to Ravyn Black, the lead singer of the chart-topping emo band Evermore—”

“Enough, already.” Corinne Sparks reached to flip off the small television set she kept in the back room at Under the Mistletoe, almost knocking over a glass vase of hyacinths and lilies as she did.

Miranda Kelly, Corinne’s employer and owner of the flower shop in the resort town of Mistletoe, Colorado, had been seconds from doing the same thing. Neither one of them enjoyed seeing pieces of their lives on the news, and to be mentioned that way, one on top of the other—first her ex-husband, then Corinne’s estranged daughter—was too much.

“Tell me about it.” Miranda had been intent on using the quiet spring day for bookkeeping, but the specter of her past impinging on her present allowed room for little else in her head. “I left Baltimore so I wouldn’t have to be bombarded by the media’s obsession with everything related to Marshall. I sure don’t want to think about him while I’m paying bills.”

Frowning, Corinne resituated two of the lilies that had slipped in the close call. “I thought you left because the SOB couldn’t keep his zipper zipped.”

Well, there was that, thought Miranda, swiveling on the bar stool she used at the short end of the long L-shaped worktable that served as a desk. “That’s why I divorced him. And seeing his face every time I turn on the news these days reminds me how stupid I was to marry him in the first place.”

“He wasn’t a cheater when you married him,” Corinne reminded her.

“Pfft. He obviously had it in him to be one.” Miranda paused and tapped her pencil on the table’s surface, feeling an unexpected pang of hurt at the memory of Marshall’s infidelity. Logical or not, that pained her more than his criminal acts. “But I can tell you for a fact that the gossip sheets got it wrong. He did not go looking for sex elsewhere because he wasn’t getting any at home.”

“You’re preaching to the gossip-loathing choir here,” Corinne said, setting the finished arrangement in the refrigerated storage case for a late-afternoon delivery. “I know firsthand how much garbage gets printed as truth. Then again, in Brenna’s case, a lot of the garbage is the truth.”

Corinne had been working at the flower shop for five years now, ever since Miranda had moved back to the small Rocky Mountain town where she’d grown up, and bought the business from its retiring owners.

She and Corinne had been good friends long enough for Miranda to know the extent of the conjecture printed about her employee’s daughter, as well as the grief Brenna Sparks—the very same Ravyn Black mentioned in the Max Savage news segment—had caused Corinne. It was enough grief to bring about mother and daughter’s current alienation.

But since the television mention gave Miranda the opening, she took advantage and voiced what had been on her mind. “I’d been wondering when the congressman’s divorce was going to be final.”

“Such a proud moment, too,” Corinne said with a snort, “having to face that your daughter lacks the decency to keep her hands off a married man.”

And now Teddy Eagleton wasn’t married. Miranda sighed. “Ravyn—Brenna’s an adult. She’s been on her own for a long time now. And she’s the one who’ll have to answer for the things she’s done.”

“Really? Because she hasn’t had to answer for much of anything yet.” Corinne returned to her end of the worktable and flipped through the rest of the sale tickets to make certain she’d completed the day’s most pressing orders. “And, unlike your ex, I wonder if she ever will.”

Miranda knew Corinne was talking about the money she’d sent her daughter for college expenses—four years’ worth of lab fees, textbooks, tuition for extra classes when Brenna had pretended to change her majors, as well as room and board. The money had been spent instead on funding her band.

Brenna had paid for equipment and instruments, a practice room, stage clothes and traveling, not even completing her first semester, and making Corinne feel like a fool—especially since Brenna had bribed her little sister Zoe to intercept mail sent by the university in Washington State in order to keep their mother from discovering the truth.

Miranda knew, too, that several times over the past six years—since Evermore’s first album had hit it big—Brenna had tried to pay back her mother the money she’d stolen, and that Corinne had refused it, wanting nothing to do with what she called her daughter’s ill-gotten gains.

It wasn’t hard for Miranda to understand Corinne’s feelings…except that it was. Brenna’s “unexpected needs” had depleted the girls’ college fund, and Corinne was now struggling to find what Zoe would require for the basics as a freshman next year. She was struggling, too, with trusting Zoe, who’d been just as culpable as Brenna.

“Will you have to testify at the retrial?”

Corinne’s question snapped Miranda out of her reverie and dropped her back into the pit of worry she’d been doing a fairly good job of steering clear of. “I don’t know. My attorney says there’s a good chance I will, but he’s doing all he can to keep it from happening. Trust me, if I have to fly into Baltimore, I’m going to fly out as fast as I can.”

“You know, I’m surprised there haven’t been more reporters snooping around, seeing how this is your family’s home.”

“You and me both.” Not that they’d have an easy time finding her; when she’d returned to Mistletoe, she’d legally taken her mother’s maiden name for her own—a protective measure she’d felt necessary at the time.

Corinne went on. “I figured the ones hungry enough for a statement would at least make the effort. Especially considering the scope of your ex’s crimes.”

A scope that had cost thousands of EMG employees their pensions and almost as many investors everything they’d owned. “Marshall was always a big believer in the grand scale. The more money, the more power, the more covers on Forbes the better.”

“Or at least he was a big believer until he was sentenced to all those big years. I guess that was one grand scale he never saw coming.” Corinne tore her copy of the next ticket from the order book and turned to study the shelf of vases, choosing an elegantly flared one of cut crystal. “You think the outcome will be any different this time?”

Miranda turned back to her laptop. Like her employee, she had work to do. “As far as him being guilty or innocent? No. But it better be different in that this time it sticks. I don’t want to look up every five years to find a reporter sticking a microphone and camera in my face.”

1

November…

MISTLETOE, COLORADO’S

THE INN AT SNOW FALLS

PRESENTS

CANDY CANE

APPEARING NIGHTLY IN

CLUB CRIMSON

IT WASN’T IN Caleb McGregor’s bag of reporter’s tricks to go after a story by drinking himself under anyone’s table, but here he was, at the Inn at Snow Falls’ Club Crimson, in the lovers’ resort of Mistletoe, Colorado, looking for clarity in the bottom of a glass.

Several glasses actually.

He knew better. Of course he knew better. But knowing better hadn’t kept him from recently making the biggest mistake of his life. Neither did it negate the fact that he’d found many an answer to an intriguing question when his nose—or his blood alcohol level—was where it didn’t belong.

Even when he was sober, his intuition rivaled that of the female population of Baltimore—the city he called his base of operations rather than home, home being a word with too much emotional resonance and Caleb not being a feelings kind of guy.

And that sixth sense had shifted into high gear the minute the lounge singer had taken the stage.

Unfortunately, the Scotch he’d downed had left him with a slippery grip on the instincts insisting he was sitting on top of a big fat scoop—one that might be as big and as fat as the exclusive he’d come here at Ravyn Black’s invitation to get.

Whether or not that was the case, one thing was certain.

Club Crimson lived up to its vivid name.

The Inn at Snow Falls’ nightclub was a kaleidoscope of reds, from the carpet splashed with sherry, claret and port-wine hues, to the padded bar and stools of scarlet, to the plush sofas and matching wing chairs in patterns of ruby and rose.

The decorative color scheme was not what Caleb found objectionable. After all, he’d yet to meet an Italian or Chinese restaurant he didn’t like. Hell, his favorite baseball team had red in its name and wore the color proudly when taking the field at Fenway.

But when the design of a club was calculated to evoke a romantic, sexy mood, and that evocation lacked even a hint of the subtle finesse that made sexy sexy, and the entire setup was set up in a town called Mistletoe, well…

Never let it be said that Caleb McGregor didn’t embrace his cynicism wholeheartedly.

And then, as if the ornamental bloodbath wasn’t enough, Club Crimson had gone so over the top in their efforts to promote romance as to hire a red-haired chanteuse and call her Candy Cane.

A textbook case of adding insult to injury. Or it would’ve been had she not manipulated the schmaltzy lyrics into telling a story with the skill of Scheherazade—and done so with a husky R & B style, and in a voice he swore he’d heard before but couldn’t for the drunken life of him place.

He was falling for it all—the words that seduced him, the costume that tempted him, the act as a whole that had him mentally panting like a randy teen. Or a full-grown man with more alcohol than reasoning skills at his disposal.

Considering the number of drinks he’d downed, the only part of this that came as a surprise was the fact that he was able to recognize the folly of his ways.

At least he’d had the good sense at the beginning of the evening to claim a back corner booth. He was out of the way, and in the perfect position to watch. And watch he did, closely, enjoying himself more than was wise.

She was a looker, Ms. Cane, though considering the pretense of the rest of this place, he doubted her assets were genuine. That didn’t stop him from having a good time ogling the plunging front of her cherry-colored gown.

He wasn’t sure how women did it—kept their tits from falling out of flesh-baring tops cut from their throats to their navels. Some, he knew, had little to fear, but not in this case. Whether Mother Nature or manufactured, she had a lot.

She was curvy, too, her cinched-in waist flaring into real hips instead of not flaring at all. He liked hips. He liked a woman with an ass. If he ran the world, women would be required by law to be more than a pair of breasts on an androgynous body.

He’d amend the Constitution if he had to, put a picture of Candy Cane next to one of Ravyn Black, the practically hermaphroditic singer for the emo band Evermore he’d come to Mistletoe to see, to illustrate the difference between ass and no ass.

Yeah, that would be the perfect way to make his point. His point being…did he have a point?

Had he ever had a point? Was that the point his crossed eyes were seeing at the end of his nose? Or had his point become all soft and squishy and not pointy at all when he’d upended his glass and swallowed the last of his drink?

O…kay.

It was quitting time, heading-to-bed time. Time to just say no.

Or it would be if he wasn’t stuck.

The pianist was playing the introductory notes to the singer’s final song, and the crowd that had quieted when she walked onstage, that had done no more than whisper as she sang Frank Sinatra and Ella Fitzgerald and Harry Connick, Jr., had grown deathly still, pin-droppingly silent.

If Caleb got up now, he was likely to be shot.

Candy pulled the microphone from the stand she’d made love to during her previous song, and began to croon the opening lines of her last. Her hips swaying, she crossed the small corner stage and descended the steps into the mesmerized crowd drunk on whiskey, wine and love.

Her hair that he was sure was a wig—long, wavy, strawberry-blond—picked up and reflected the flashes of red thrown by the spinning disco ball, as did the sequins in the dress molded to her curves. So molded, in fact, that if it weren’t for the peekaboo slit running up one thigh, he doubted she’d be able to walk.

He watched her wind her way through the gathered listeners, smiling, fingering one man’s tie, brushing another’s hair from his forehead, cupping a shoulder or stroking her finger along a forearm of their female companions. An equal-opportunity seductress, Caleb mused, finding his eyelids drifting lazily as he, too, fell prey to her spell.

A siren, she moved from table to table, the sultry sweep of her lashes, the alluring touch of her tongue to her lips, making men’s knees weak, their palms sweaty, their blood run hot, the front of their pants—once flat against their abdomens—rise like pitched tents. He knew that’s what was happening around the room because it was happening to him.

It didn’t matter that he was the only person in the room sitting by himself. His reaction would’ve been the same had he been in the company of his mother, a date or a priest. He wasn’t hard because he was alone, or because he was lonely. He was hard because Candy Cane had made him that way.

But the fact that this was a group erection cheapened what he felt—or so he tried to convince himself, since he didn’t want to feel anything.

And then something else happened. She turned just so, moved to the perfect spot, leaned against the back of a sofa at the ideal angle with the lights exactly right. The moment didn’t last longer than a blink before it was gone, and she’d bowed her body toward another sap in the crowd.

But it stuck with him, wouldn’t let him go, and he studied her instead of looking away, stared at her instead of chalking up what he thought he was seeing to too much Scotch on a stomach empty of anything else.

What he thought he was seeing was a familiar face. A familiar face to go with the voice he could’ve sworn he recognized at the beginning of her set. A recognition he’d then dismissed because of how many times the server had replaced the single malt in his snifter.

Now he really did need a drink, and he needed it to be hot, black and fully caffeinated so he could make sense of the psychedelic swirls and splatters of reds Club Crimson had painted in his mind.

His job depended on rumors. He listened, he verified, he discarded. He’d been doing it for ten years, writing a celebrity gossip column that had started out small and gone into national syndication twenty-four months after launch. It was so popular, it was featured during what one TV network called their “celebrity beat,” and had its own Web site to boot.

Caleb McGregor was Max Savage, the notorious “Snoop with the Scoop,” loved, lauded and feared far and wide by politicians, society players and celebrities alike for his sarcastic riffs on what his audience demanded and deemed newsworthy about those in the public eye.

Not that anyone at the inn knew who he was, or that he was here by invitation for an exclusive—the very private wedding of Ravyn Black and Teddy Eagleton. Over the next few days, he’d be covering the preparations leading up to the big event. But as always, he was posing as a member of Max Savage’s street team. Not even Ravyn knew he was Max.

The only people who knew his identity, who would ever know or have need to, were his agent, his attorney and his editor. When he’d set off down tabloid road ten years ago, he’d made sure his only connection was to the Max Savage machine, not to the alter ego itself.

It was a decision that had turned out to be a sanity-saver, keeping his personal business out of the limelight. And it was going to make it a whole lot easier to transition to life after Max—a retirement that would have him hanging up his gear as soon as he finished this gig.

Yes, he found the energy of chasing down nonstop leads more intoxicating than the boredom of waiting for a big story to break. But he’d never thought he’d end up stooping to the level he had, reporting on celebutantes flashing their bare crotches or finding fame through night-vision sex tapes.

Neither had he thought himself capable of betraying a confidence, so wrapped up in the thrill that he hadn’t realized he’d gone too far until it was too late. Until he’d ruined a career by telling the truth. Until he’d lost a lifelong friend because he’d been drunk on the rush of the scoop.

He’d give anything to take back the last month, to think before revealing what his best friend Del, a music star in his own right, had shared in confidence about his Christian pop star fiancée’s drug problem…but life didn’t work that way.

Caleb couldn’t change what he’d done, but he could damn well make sure it never happened again. Right now, however, it was vital that he get his act together. Candy had finished her tour of the rest of the club and was making her way toward him.

Drinking alone and slumped in his seat made him an easy target. Being male made him vulnerable—even knowing her act was a ruse. Last he’d checked, knowledge didn’t necessarily work as an inoculant. Especially with his susceptibility to her charms camped out in his pants.

Except for her spotlight, the bar light and the patterns of color thrown off by the disco ball’s spin, the club was dark. His corner was even darker, giving him the privacy he needed to adjust his crotch before she reached him.

And then she was there, singing to him, seducing him, the pull in her gaze mesmerizing as she perched her hip against the edge of his table and stretched, draping herself toward him strategically as if she’d done this hundreds of times for hundreds of other men.

Her neckline plunged to tease him. The slope of her shoulder as she leaned close, the movement of her neck, chin and mouth as she sang, teased him more. But what teased him most of all was knowing he should know her, being unable to place her, and sitting here too inebriated to do anything to find out.

He told himself to remember everything about her, to store the sound of her voice in the memory banks he could access most quickly when his wits returned. He didn’t hold out much hope for success. She had him stupid, bewitched.

Fluidly, the redheaded chanteuse rolled herself up and off the table, pivoting with an elegance that left him breathless—and therefore, thankfully, unable to groan and give himself away—as she slid to sit in his lap.

It wasn’t his lap as much as one leg, but the move put the swell of her bottom against the swell of his fly, and he could only hope the part of him making intimate contact with her wasn’t as apparent to her as he feared.

She seemed comfortable, in her element, looping her arm around his neck, looking into his eyes, drawing the song to a close with a breathy, bluesy, brush of words against his cheek as the pianist wrapped up his accompaniment, holding the final notes.

That was when the applause began.

And that was when she kissed him.

He hadn’t seen it coming.

He knew the soft teasing press of her mouth to his was part of the act, but he hadn’t expected it, and he wasn’t thinking straight, and he was running way low on resistance, so he did what any healthy red-blooded male would do with a healthy red-blooded female wanting to lock lips.

He kissed her back.

He caught her off guard. She was bargaining on compliance, thinking he would accept her doing her thing without interfering, interrupting or doing his back. But Caleb wasn’t cut from a compliant cloth. And kissing Candy Cane was fun. Or it was until he realized he was the one who was stirred.

Lips on lips was one thing, but this was more. Way more, and his blood heated and rushed. He opened his mouth to taste her. She gave in, letting his tongue inside to flirt and slick over hers.

He had a vague sense of people around them clapping and whistling, cheering them on, of the pianist’s fingers lingering over his instrument’s keys, drawing out the moment that had already gone on too long.

But mostly he was aware of Candy’s scent like a field of sweet flowers around him, and the touch of her fingers against his nape, the tiny massaging circles she made there too personal for a public display.

He had to let her go before things got any further out of hand, he realized, realizing, too, that he had sobered. He pulled his mouth away and tilted his head back to get the best look that he could into her eyes.

He saw her surprise, then her fear. The first he’d anticipated; he’d felt it himself. The second emotion set the pump on his snoop-and-scoop machine to maximum. Fear? What the hell did she have to be afraid of?

“Who are you?” he asked as she got to her feet, the smile she gave him reaching no farther than her mouth and as much for the crowd as for him.

“I’m the woman you’ll never forget,” she told him, blowing him a parting kiss before returning to the stage.

Once there, she took her final bow with a flourish, gave props to the pianist then vanished behind the curtain that came down to swallow the stage.

She had it right. He wouldn’t forget. But what she had no way of knowing was that, impending retirement or not, big-time screwup or not, he planned to dig up a whole lot more stuff to remember. Stuff he was pretty damn sure Ms. Candy Cane didn’t want anyone to find out.

2

WELL. That had been interesting, Miranda Kelly mused ruefully, standing in her dressing room, staring at her reflection and finding Candy Cane staring back.

She had yet to remove her costume—a costume that was more than the dress or the shoes or the colored contacts or the wig. The whole persona of Candy was everything she wasn’t.

As Miranda, she wore glasses, though she did accessorize with fashionable frames to emphasize the green of her eyes. Her own hair was auburn in contrast to Candy’s strawberry-blond, and cropped close in a wispy elfin cut.

Her skin was nowhere as smooth as Candy’s, plus it was ridiculously freckled—a fact that she’d hidden from Baltimore society when she’d lived there behind a cool façade of flawlessly made-up skin, French twists and perfect posture, the veneer of a high-profile life.

She was nothing if not a chameleon.

But, wow. Kissing an audience member? Had she really been so stupidly careless? She’d told Corinne several months ago that her biggest fear about testifying at Marshall’s retrial was suffering a repeat of the media madness and losing her sanctuary in Mistletoe as a result. It was imperative that she draw no attention to herself to keep that from happening.

Oh, sure, she flirted and toyed with and played with and teased members of the crowd every night, but she did so as Candy; Miranda was off-limits to the visitors at the inn. That personal touch was part of Candy’s act and the only outlet Miranda had to keep her feminine wiles from rusting.

She hadn’t dated at all in the five years she’d been here, and hadn’t enjoyed more than conversation with the male company she regularly kept. Mistletoe, Colorado, was not a hotbed of sexy, intelligent, available men.

It was a lovers’ resort, a place where the people listening to her sing would not be focused on her but on their partners. And that was exactly as it should be. Her rumination was not at all a complaint. Her complaint was that she had behaved so rashly, so…thoughtlessly. With Marshall once again in the news, she couldn’t afford to stand out, to be noticed.

So who was he, the man she had kissed, the man who had let her, who had kissed her back with a mouth that tasted like aged Scotch and heat? And what was he doing alone in a town that catered to lovers—most of whom had sought out the hideaway specifically because of the privacy it afforded?

She sank onto her vanity bench, still shocked. She could not believe how impressively she had screwed up.

No one passed through Mistletoe by chance, or planned a night out at Club Crimson unless they were staying at the Inn at Snow Falls. The town was off the beaten path, the inn stuck in its own time warp. Visitors were here for a reason.

That meant the likelihood she would see him again was spectacular. And with this combustible thing between them having flared in such a sparkling display, her odds of screwing up again were even higher. She couldn’t let that happen—not with the publicity from Marshall’s trial looming.

Before the career move a decade ago that had taken her from Denver to Baltimore, and before meeting Marshall and marrying him in the same church where she sang in the choir, she’d spent all but her college years in Mistletoe, growing up an only child of parents who worked in the school district here.

When her life as Mrs. Gordon had soured—not a surprising development considering her husband’s indictment for fraud and the dredging up of his affairs during his trial, she’d found herself thinking back to the simple, uncluttered magic of this place she still thought of as home.

In Mistletoe, discretion was paramount. It was even more so at the Inn at Snow Falls. The resort’s staff was merciless in vetting credentials, checking IDs and keeping out media riffraff.

She’d seen them in action, and knew that facet of the hideaway’s reputation was what brought celebrities and public figures here for intimate trysts, photos of which they didn’t want splashed across tabloid covers.

That was the atmosphere she, too, had needed, and with the help of trusted friends, she had escaped the East Coast, leaving the gossips floundering.

For months after, newsmen who followed society scandals had hunted her, wanting the exclusive of her exile. She’d watched from the safety of her snowy cocoon and experienced a flurry of emotions, her feelings ultimately boiling down to one.

She hated the press. H-a-t-e-d reporters and their supposed journalistic integrity. They were vultures. They’d treated her like carrion during Marshall’s trial and the divorce. They were as responsible as her ex for making her life hell. But no more.

She refused to spend another moment feeling bared and naked, flayed, exposed to her bones like an instructional cadaver or a plasticized body in a museum display. That’s how it had seemed, having the population of the northern Atlantic states knowing minute details of her life….

Her propensity for speeding through traffic lights. How she spent more time on her own charity work than socializing with Marshall or at home. The way an hour of Ashtanga yoga left her smelling as though she hadn’t bathed in days. Whether her salon’s beauty technician gave her a bikini wax or a Brazilian. And if any of those things sent Marshall into the arms—and beds—of all those other women.

Despite her very public night job she now held, no one had found her, partly because of the disguise she wore onstage—and that was one of the reasons she wore it, to limit any obvious connection between her two selves—and partly because of how well the residents of Mistletoe protected their own.

But the main reason her cover hadn’t been blown—besides her legal change of name—was that the only outsiders she mixed with were the customers who came in to order plants and floral arrangements from Under the Mistletoe.

Or such had been the case until she’d fallen all over the gorgeous stranger who’d kissed her until she felt as though she was going to die.

Smart. Real smart. A veritable genius of a cookie.

She dropped her forehead to the vanity’s surface and groaned—which only made things worse because it brought to mind all the things he’d made her feel. She’d forgotten how sweet it could be to slide her tongue against a man’s seeking to enter her mouth.

Such an exquisite pleasure, that first sweet connection, its wetness, its promise, its warmth. She’d enjoyed a comfortable sex life with Marshall—until he’d begun finding his comfort elsewhere—but she never had seen stars.

She could get used to stars, she told herself, sitting up to study her reflection. She didn’t know what she was looking for, something different or new, a visible indication that something within her had changed because of a starry kiss.

She knew that nothing had, that nothing could have. She’d been on her stranger’s table and in his lap no more than seconds, and her mouth had been pressed to his, seeking, searching, aching, almost no time at all.

The only thing to change had been her perfect record at staying smart. Five years sober, and she’d fallen off the wagon because of a man. Stupid, stupid, stupid. If her actions became a time bomb and blew up in her face, she would have no one to blame but herself.

“Argh,” she roared, surging up off the bench. She needed someone to talk to. Reassurance that she hadn’t screwed herself. A reinforcing slap to the head telling her that everything she wanted was not in a stranger’s kiss—no matter that it had felt as if that was exactly where she would find it.

3

“DO YOU BELIEVE in love at first sight?”

Alan Price, Club Crimson’s manager and overflow bartender, stared at Miranda as if she’d grown two heads, which she supposed was about the size of it. She had her Miranda head, and her Candy head, and Alan was one of the few people who knew both well, working with her here at the club, and having lived next door to her when they were kids.

“Was it love at first sight with me and Patrice?” he asked, clipboard in hand while he did his nightly inventory, a shock of his sun-bleached hair falling forward to hide his frown. “Is that what you’re asking?”

Miranda settled more comfortably onto the bar stool in the now-empty lounge, leaning an elbow on the bar and propping her chin in her hand. “Tell me about meeting Patrice. I’m in the mood for a good love story.”

Alan had calmed her down with a couple of drinks when she’d blasted into the club after her dressing-room panic attack, promising her the crowd had thought nothing of the spice she’d added to her show.

He’d calmed her enough, in fact, that she was almost ready to call it a night, to head back to her dressing room, to strip off Candy…and then hope her ancient import started when she went out in the cold to go home. One of these days, she really did need to spring for a new car.

A reformed ski bum, having shed the bum part for respectability, Alan shook his head as if too busy cleaning up to humor her. “You know how I met Patrice. I’ve heard her tell you the story more than once.”

Feeling all fluid and relaxed, Miranda sighed. “She’s told me, yes. I want to hear it from you.”

He took away her wineglass, added it to the crate of dirties destined for the kitchen before he left for the night. After that, he pointed at the clock on the wall at the end of the bar. The hands, shaped like corkscrews, were edging toward 1:00 a.m., the club having closed at midnight.

He yawned for emphasis. “She’s waiting for me to get home. If she calls, I’m handing the phone to you.”

“And I’ll tell her it’s your fault, not mine,” Miranda said before sticking out her tongue, the back and forth a familiar pattern from their years as friends.

“How the hell in any universe is it my fault?”

“You could be halfway through the story by now, for all that you’re dawdling.” Men. Why was it so hard for them to talk about their emotional investments? They certainly had no trouble talking about their portfolios. It wasn’t like she’d asked him to open a vein and bleed out his feelings for Patrice all over the bar.

Then again, maybe it wasn’t copping to love at first sight he was dodging. Maybe it was the embarrassment of not having been on his game when they met, she mused, smiling to herself as she recalled the story Patrice had shared.

“I was skiing,” he told her, obviously taking note of the look on her face and scowling as he wiped a rag over the bar, his motions so furious that she thought he’d rub away the finish. “I crashed, broke my leg. Patrice was on the patrol team that rescued me.”

The short, to-the-point, testosterone version. She wanted more. She wanted all the heat and the want and the feelings. “What about the eye contact? The jolt to your heart? The tingle you felt when she pulled off her gloves and laid the backs of her fingers against your cheek?”

“That was frostbite.”

Miranda laughed, the sound echoing loudly in the quiet room. “You, Alan Price, are so full of crap. You felt it all just like Patrice did, and you know it.”

He stopped scrubbing the already clean bar, and gave her a look, color high on his sharp cheekbones. “Then you didn’t need to hear it from me, did you?”

“Sure I did. You’ve restored my faith that men will be men, and nothing there will ever change.” He’d also reminded her that she wasn’t missing out by being alone, no matter how magic a man’s kiss. “Just the facts. No embellishments. No personalization. No deeper meaning.”

His expression was very male and almost angry. “We feel things, Miranda. We may not talk about them, but they’re there.”

Well. That shut her up. She reached for his hand. “I’m sorry. I’m tired, and tonight threw me off-kilter. I guess I’m the one looking for deeper meaning, though I’m not sure why. Maybe I just need an explanation for what I did.”

“And I told you. Candy hit a hell of a groove, that’s all. The audience enjoyed it. There isn’t any deeper meaning, so stop wasting time trying to find it.”

Easy for him to say. He wasn’t the one whose lips still felt the kiss, whose pulse had yet to quit racing. She toyed with the seam in the bar’s padded edge, picking at threads that weren’t there. “Let’s hope it was a one-time thing. With Marshall’s retrial coming up, Miranda can’t afford for Candy to start getting careless.”

“Does that mean you haven’t changed your mind about singing at the Christmas dance?”

“No. I haven’t.” She wouldn’t take Candy Cane out of Club Crimson, even as a favor to Patrice. She’d reiterated to Alan and his wife all the reasons why when first asked to perform at the Mistletoe County High dance.

“The kids would love it,” Alan said, wooing her by wiggling both brows. “All they know is the legend of the sexy redhead who sings at the inn.”

And if Miranda had her way, that was all the students would ever know about her. “The kids would not love it. I’m an old fart who sings old-fart songs. If anyone needs to perform for them, it’s Zoe.”

Corinne’s younger daughter was seventeen and as brilliant a singer as her sister. Her voice was a deep, throaty alto, incredibly rich and mature for a girl so young.

Zoe was the reason Miranda had used a chunk of her obscenely large divorce settlement to establish the Candy Cane Scholarship for the Arts, and why she continued to funnel into it all the money she made at the club.

Even if Corinne had her reasons for not accepting Brenna’s offer to repay the misappropriated funds plus interest, Zoe was too good to be hidden away. A legitimate study of voice and music seemed to Miranda the perfect compromise. The scholarship was her way of putting her money where her mouth was.

Miranda looked back at Alan. “I wish Patrice would add her to the program. Zoe could use the exposure.”

“She’s going to,” Alan said, thrilling Miranda to bits. “But the kids know Zoe. Patrice was hoping for a big-name headliner.”

“I heard her sister’s in town,” Miranda said, thinking about Corinne and her relationships with her girls. Sooner or later mother needed to meet older daughter halfway—even if only for the sake of the younger. “Patrice should try to snag Ravyn.”

“That might work if Patrice were willing to forget everything Mistletoe stands for and invade Ravyn’s privacy, which she’s not going to do. And if Brenna and Corinne weren’t on the outs. There’s no way Patrice is going behind Corinne’s back just to make points with the kids.”

Miranda knew he was right. As cool a coup as it would be for the senior class to have Evermore’s lead singer at their Christmas dance, there were a whole lot of circumstances in the way of it happening.

Besides, with Ravyn—Brenna—estranged from her family, her visit to Mistletoe sans the band pretty much confirmed the rumors of her romantic liaison with right-wing and conveniently newly single congressman Teddy Eagleton, who Miranda had seen in the lobby earlier in the day.

Whatever the two were doing here, mentioning it to Corinne was nothing Miranda wanted to do. Especially since the other woman might soon be dealing with the reporters turned away by security from the inn. Having experienced the same, Miranda had great sympathy for what Corinne had ahead of her.

“You finished with that?” Alan asked, looking over Miranda’s head.

She started to tell him that he’d already done his conscientious-bartender-and-childhood-friend duty and taken her wineglass away. Then he realized she wasn’t the one to whom he was speaking.

She glanced over her shoulder and peered into the dark. A man was walking toward them from the club’s far corner, a coffee cup and saucer in hand.

He was tall, and he rolled with a swagger, his legs long, his hips and waist narrow, his shoulders wide beneath the dark jacket he wore with his jeans…his jeans…

She’d sat in the lap of a man wearing jeans, a man who’d watched her show from the club’s far corner. Crap and double crap. She turned back quickly, hissing at her ex-friend to get his attention.

“He’s been here all this time and you didn’t tell me?” Dear God, had she given herself away? Had he overheard Alan call her Miranda? Had she confessed that she was still reeling from the contact of their lips and their tongues? “What the hell is wrong with you?”

Alan smirked his ex-friend enjoyment of her distress. “Patrice said you’ve been extra moody lately. I figured you might need to get laid.”

“I hate you, you know.”

“I know. I hate you, too.”

Thank God she hadn’t taken off her wig. That was the only thought that crossed her mind before the stranger who kissed like a god climbed onto the stool beside her, filling the space as if it had been waiting a lifetime for him to find it. Uh, yeah. This couldn’t be good.

“Thanks for the coffee,” he told Alan, giving Miranda his profile to study as he handed the cup and saucer across the bar. “I wasn’t sure I’d be able to make it to my room, or even remember where I put it.”

As hard as she tried not to, Miranda couldn’t help a soft laugh; the sound had him swiveling slowly toward her, cocking his head, drinking her in until she forgot to breathe and changed her mind about this being good.

“Laugh at me, laugh with me. I’ll take either one.”

Oh, he was sharp. And gorgeous. Somehow she’d missed the full extent of his gorgeousness when she’d been in his lap, but there was still nothing she wouldn’t give right now for a big fat hole in the ground.

A hole swallowing her would keep her from looking at his mouth. His mouth, his lips, his tongue, his teeth. She remembered them all. She wanted them all. She wanted more.

She wanted him. She’d been right the first time. This was not good.

“Caleb McGregor,” he said, offering her his hand.

After a moment, she took it. “Candy Cane.”

“According to the marquee,” he said, before letting her go.

Touché, she thought, refusing to confirm his assumption with body language or voice. “I’m not sure if I should thank you or beg your forgiveness.”

The mouth that had been all over hers and made her into a marshmallow smiled. “There’s nothing to forgive, and I’m pretty sure I’m the one who should be thanking you.”

He was smart. Smooth. Cutely self-deprecating rather than smarmy. Or maybe that was the kiss talking, and she should be listening to her survival instincts instead. “You were a good sport, and I’m sorry if I embarrassed you. I don’t usually get that…personal with the audience.”

He paused a moment, taking her in. “Then I’m glad I was there when you decided to change things up.”

Spice, Alan had called it. Adding spice to Candy’s routine. If only it were that simple, adding, changing, but the truth rarely was. And this particular truth wasn’t easy to admit.

There had been no conscious decision in what she’d done. Her brain had had nothing to do with her sliding into his lap. Hormones and lust were responsible for her pressing her mouth to his and giving him her tongue. She’d seen him. She’d wanted him. She’d taken him.

And now here he was, sitting beside her, close, his knee brushing her thigh when he swiveled on the stool, a whiff of Scotch and coffee reaching her nose along with the scent of something earthy and warm.

She needed to excuse herself. To go. She was in so much trouble here. So, of course, she went ahead and made it worse. “What brings you to Mistletoe, Caleb? You’re not here alone, are you?”

“Actually, I am,” he said, bursting that insulating bubble.

Kiss or no kiss, his having a companion would’ve put him off-limits. Now he wasn’t, which was going to make it hard to say no—to him, to herself…especially with Alan’s comment about her needing to get laid echoing with more veracity than she liked.

She pushed aside the noise of that echo, focusing on Caleb’s hand that rested flat on the bar. His fingers were long, thick, the backs broad and dusted with golden hair. She closed her eyes, opened them slowly, hoped he couldn’t read her mind because, oh, there were so many places she wanted his touch.

“Alone? Really?” She cleared her throat. “I’m surprised.”

He glanced over, arching a brow, questioning, curious. “Surely you get the occasional single up here.”

She stared at him, studied him, liked too much what she was seeing…his stylishly mussed hair, a warm brown toasted with highlights…his eyes that were a gorgeous blend of gold and bronze…his mouth that she was certain did more things than kiss well.

Good. Not good. She didn’t know the difference anymore. “I don’t mingle enough with the guests to be sure, but I can’t say I’ve seen anyone not part of a couple.”

“Well, now you have,” he told her, teased her. “Seen someone who’s not, and mingled.”

She looked down, went back to picking at the bar. “I’m just breaking all sorts of rules tonight.”

“Must be the company you’re keeping.”

“I can’t think of any other reason.” It was hard to think of anything with her heart in her throat, choking her, cutting off her ability to breathe.

He watched her hands, then looked up, his eyes saying more than his words, saying that he knew what she was feeling, the extreme pull she was fighting. That he was fighting the same. “Can you think of one that would keep us from getting a drink?”

She nodded. “The bar’s closed.”

“That’s a hard one to get around,” he said, adding, “though I can think of one solution.”

“No,” she told him. Absolutely not. “I won’t come up to your room for a nightcap.”

“Rules?”

“Rules,” she said, and nodded again.

“Too bad about the rules,” he said, and she laughed. And then she stopped because he leaned close to say, “You’re a hell of a kisser.”

Well. She’d been hoping to hear him tell her goodbye. Or hear that he wasn’t much for obeying the rules. He seemed the sort, a bit brash, a bit dangerous. He’d obviously convinced Alan to let him hang out long after closing.

“It was all part of the act,” was what she finally said, ignoring the flutter of her pulse as he breathed her in and sighed, and the tongue of flame in her belly when he came back with, “The hell it was,” a response that begged the question, Where do we go from here?

Alan clearing his throat pushed her to answer. “If you can stomach the mess, I have a bottle of Drambuie in my dressing room.”

He didn’t respond right away, looking her over, staring into her eyes. His were hard to read in this light, but that didn’t lessen the impact of his gaze, or the heat simmering in the air around them.

She wasn’t sure if she should take back the offer, if she’d been too forward in making it. If he had wanted nothing from her. Or had just wanted an acknowledgment that the kiss had been way out of line.

That wasn’t how she’d read him, but she was so out of practice with men—

“A man in your dressing room. That’s not against the rules?”

“I don’t know,” she said, sliding from her stool, unable to stop herself from giving in to this very big wrong that had her nape tingling, other places doing the same. “You’re the first one I’ve ever invited to join me.”

4

CALEB COULDN’T BELIEVE his good fortune. First, that the bartender had told him to take his time with the coffee. Second, that Candy Cane had so easily fallen prey to his charms.

Especially when he had so few.

If what he did have qualified as charming at all.

Not many people thought so.

As she’d gestured in the direction of her dressing room and turned for him to follow, he’d watched the subtle exchange that had passed between the redheaded siren and the bartender.

The man who’d served Caleb the coffee he’d so desperately needed hadn’t seemed insulted or injured that she’d invited him back for a drink. Neither had he gone into protective, big-brother, hurt-her-and-I’ll-kick-your-ass mode.

So far, so good.

Having witnessed the conversation the two had shared earlier, Caleb assumed the bartender and Candy were good friends. Not that he’d heard any of what they’d said, but he had noticed the casual nature of their exchange and the comfortable intimacy between them.

All that was to say…either the man behind the bar with the ski-bum look knew Candy could take care of herself, or knew Caleb was the one heading into trouble. Judging by the sway of her hips as she walked through the club and his body’s primal reaction, Caleb heading into trouble was true either way.

He told himself to look up, to look away, over her shoulders, above her head, down at the floor. But her hips had been in his lap at the same time her tongue had been in his mouth, and that was all he could think about. That, and wanting more.

Or so it was until he reminded himself of why he was here, why he’d wanted the coffee in the first place. The recognition he’d needed to be sober enough to place. Yes, he was getting out of the biz, but he couldn’t give up his curiosity any more than he could cut off a leg. If he figured her out and found her story worth telling, well…he’d cross the bridge of what to do when he got to it.

She led him through the bar, across the stage and to a door down the hallway behind the wings.

There was no name, no star, nothing to indicate where they were. It could just as easily have been a broom closet for the lack of signage. But she opened the door, and like a beast in rut, he followed her in.

“Like I said,” she reminded him as she flipped on the lights. “A mess.”

It didn’t look any worse than his place, he mused, walking inside as she shut the door behind him. The floor was covered with the same red carpeting as the rest of the club. The walls were painted off-white with a pink tinge—or else the semigloss was reflecting the floor.

A closet with a six-foot rod took up the wall opposite one with six feet worth of mirrors. The accordion doors were open, showing red tops and bottoms on and off hangers, dresses draped over the pole, other items of clothing puddled on the floor and covering dozens of shoes flung here and there.

He turned toward the mirror, and she pushed in behind him, closing the doors as if to hide her shame. He wondered if her house was in the same disarray, and how she could look so put together when she dressed in a danger zone.

“I promise, I’m much neater than this in the rest of my life. For some reason when I’m here, I tend to let down my hair—as it were,” she tacked on, nodding to a shelf of wigs he hadn’t yet noticed.

“You didn’t fool me for a minute,” he told her, reaching for the strawberry strands where they caressed her bare shoulder. He allowed his fingers to linger on her skin, her soft skin that in this light was obviously freckled, leaving them there, tempting himself. Testing himself.

She was warm, smooth, and he couldn’t help but think about the rest of her that was still covered, wondering how soft she’d be elsewhere, thinking, too, about her mouth and the touch of her tongue to his, wanting that again, wanting her taste, wanting another jolt of that unexpected heat.

It took her several seconds to move, and his gut tightened while he waited. He watched her face as it broadcast the push-pull conflict driving her, push winning out in the end and demanding distance and space between them—though pull sizzled in the air that had grown sharp with expectation.

She opened one of the lockerlike cabinets stacked next to the closet doors. “I have a bottle,” she said, showing him the Drambuie and the single glass tumbler she had. “But I only have one glass.”

He took it from her hand, took the bottle, too, uncapped it and poured. He drank, then offered the glass to her. “So we share.”

She took it and sipped without hesitation. He closed up the bottle and set it on the vanity next to a pair of narrow-framed eyeglasses. A contact-lens case and a bottle of solution sat nearby, as did a brush with several strands of short dark hair caught in the bristles.

Caleb smiled, and turned back to the mysterious faux-redhead, thinking how much he’d like to see her in nothing but her freckles and her real hair. He swallowed hard, fighting the rush of blood through his veins, and asked, “What do singles do around here for fun?”

“Leave?” she suggested, and laughed softly, looking into the tumbler and avoiding looking at him. “The only place to get a drink besides Club Crimson is Manny’s, but it’s more a local watering hole. There’s Fish and Cow Chips—”

“Seafood and steak?” he asked, cutting her off with a grimace at that mental image.

She held the glass close to her chest as she finally met his gaze. “Yes, it’s very poorly named. Though the food is amazing.”

“No theater with dinner?”

“Nope,” she said, handing him their shared drink. “And if you want a movie, well, you drive down the mountain into Golden, or you get a satellite dish and be happy that you’re only six months behind the pop-culture curve.”

He wondered what she’d think if she knew he swung the bell for that curve. He leaned back against the edge of the vanity, swirled the herb-flavored liqueur in the glass, enjoyed the waft of aroma. Enjoyed even more being in close quarters with this woman he very much wanted to figure out.

“What do you do when you’re not Candy?”

She gave him a teasing smile. “I’m always Candy.”

“Then what does Candy do when she’s not onstage?” he asked taking a step closer, feeling the crackle of electricity burning fiercely between them, a live-wire connection he swore he could reach out and touch.

This time she gave him a shake of her finger, a school-teacher scolding a pupil for his impertinence, with a wickedly sexy gleam in her eye. “Ah, that’s something I only share with friends and family.”

“Hmm. In a town this size, that must cover everyone.” And then because he needed to know…“Including the man in your life?” Or the men who once were.

She shook her head, sat on one end of the vanity bench, took the glass when he offered it and allowed his fingers to linger against hers. “No lovers, current or ex. Not for a very long time.”

“That’s a shame.” He joined her on the bench. The seat was only so long, and their thighs brushed. She stayed where she was. Even when he shifted to touch her hip, her arm, she didn’t move. “You’re a beautiful woman.”

At the base of her throat, her pulse jumped, but that was her only response. She sat still, the glass of honeyed Scotch liqueur held between both of her hands in her lap. The walking slit in her skirt had parted to reveal the length of her stocking-covered thigh. The deep V-neck in her top highlighted the inner swells of her breasts.

It was hard to keep his gaze on her face with all that bounty to feast on, but her face along with her voice would help him figure out if he knew her—though he had to admit he was quickly forgetting he’d ever had such a hunch. He was much more interested in exploring the rest of her, and doing so for very selfish reasons.

“You never did tell me why you were here,” she finally said. A hitch in her chest when she breathed in revealed the state of her composure.

He liked that she reacted to him, that he wasn’t the only one here caught up by anticipation and need. “I’m attending a wedding.”

She gave a nod, a smile. “Another celebrity off the market?”

“It’s a private gig, but, yeah. It’ll be a pretty big deal when it makes the news.” He raised a brow, raised the drink. “I’m sure you could snoop into what’s going on, if you really wanted to know. A perk of working here and all.”

That caused her chin to come up, a frown to crease her brow—a response he hadn’t expected, and one he filed away. “I don’t think so,” she said. “People come here because they don’t have to worry about being stalked or hounded by the media, or by the staff.”

He made a mental note not to reveal the hounding he had done, the stalking, definitely not the betrayal. Reaching for their shared glass, he set it on the floor beneath the bench, then shifted to better face her before cupping his hand to her cheek. “I’m sorry. Offending you is the last thing I’d ever want to do.”

“What’s the first?” she asked, her lashes drifting down in a soft sexy sweep before she raised her gaze in invitation.

The heat he’d been feeling grew to engulf him, and the surface of his skin fairly burned. “Are you sure you want to know?”

She nodded, the look in her eyes one of hunger, of craving, one that caused him to ache. When he leaned toward her, he wasn’t a journalist. He was only a man. A man who hadn’t been able to stop thinking about her since melting into her kiss.

And so he kissed her again. This time he didn’t have to be still or discreet. He was able to close his eyes and give in to the desire that rolled through him the moment their lips made contact.

He continued to hold her face as he slanted his mouth over hers and coaxed her to open. She turned toward him, leaned into him, allowed him the access he wanted, and met him with her tongue.

The kiss was tentative, a gentle exploration. He didn’t want to rush her or push her or frighten her away. She didn’t want to give in too quickly or show him too much of her need. He felt it, though, in the tense way she held her jaw, in the tautness of her neck as she kept her head straight.

She’d admitted to having no lover. He had a feeling it had also been a while since she’d had something as simple as a kiss. Not that this kiss was any simpler than the one in the club, any less arousing or potent.

The difference was in being alone and able to complicate things as thoroughly as they wanted, with no one to interrupt, with nothing to keep the kiss from becoming more.

She pushed forward, exhaled tiny moans into his mouth, used her teeth to nip, her tongue to bathe the damage, her lips to play catch and release with his.

Then she shifted her position, turning her body toward him instead of the vanity, and looped her arms around his neck, raking the fingers of one hand up his nape and into his hair. Her hunger was a match lit to his.

The hand with which he’d been cupping her face moved to cup her slender neck. His other hand found its way to the slit in her dress, and to her thigh. He slipped his fingers between her legs, and she parted them in invitation, whimpering as she did.

He stroked down to her knee, up to the seam where the sequined fabric split, but no farther. As much as he wanted to go there, he needed a sign that she was ready to take things that far.

She gave it to him with a softly whispered, “Please,” and with a hand that guided his higher between her legs. Before he’d even cupped the mound of her sex, he felt her moisture and her heat.

He used the edge of his index finger to play her, pressing it against her, rubbing it back and forth over her clit. She jumped, shuddered, blew short, sweet panting breaths against the edge of his open mouth.

“Good?” he asked.

“So good,” she answered, the words more moaned than spoken. “Can you—”

“Make you come?”

“Yes. Oh, yes.” This time the words rolled up from the back of her throat, a growled order as much as a plea.

He smiled, covered her mouth, bruised her with his kiss until his erection strained against his fly. When he pulled away, she urged him back.

But first…“Your hose—”

“Get rid of them.”

He loved a woman who knew what she wanted. One brave enough not to let propriety get in the way. He found the seam between her legs, dug his fingers against it and tore the fabric free, finding a scrap of a thong covering her sex, and scooping it aside.

She was smooth and damp, and she gasped when he touched her. He moved his lips to the base of her neck and parted her folds with his finger. Her throat vibrated with the sounds she made as he toyed with her, sliding a finger inside her, flicking his thumb over her clit.

She tucked her chin to her chest, closing her eyes, gouging her fingers into his shoulders hard enough to leave marks, and rode his hand, pumping her hips where she sat, sliding on and off his finger.

He ran the flat of his tongue along her collarbone, kissed his way back to her throat, moved to the swell of her breast and pushed her dress aside. He found her nipple and sucked, penetrating her sex with a second finger, rolling the tip of her breast with his lips. She was close now.

He’d hit the right rhythm, found the right combination of pressure and motion, and he kept it up, stroking, rubbing, in and out and around. She tensed, grew wetter. Her breathing quickened, becoming labored and shallow and damp.

And then she cried out, tossing back her head as her orgasm consumed her. He watched the fierce sweep of emotions cross her face, felt her sex contract around him, found himself awash on an amazing high at being able to give this to her, share this with her. At pleasing her so completely.

She came down quickly, shaking, her hands sliding from his shoulders to his biceps, color rising to her cheeks as she dipped her head. “I can’t believe—”

“Believe.” He didn’t want her to feel self-conscious, or awkward at what she’d allowed him to see. He wanted her to bask in the lingering sensation, not embarrassment.

“But you didn’t. It’s not right—”

He smiled, leaned forward to nuzzle the skin beneath her ear. “If you want to do something about that, I won’t say no.”

5

TEN MINUTES LATER Miranda and Caleb were sneaking into the Inn at Snow Falls’ kitchen, ready to feed their hunger with leftovers since the lack of a condom had kept them from feeding it in more intimate ways.

Miranda was still smiling at Caleb’s lack of preparedness. Her own lack was just as sad, but then she never expected to cross paths with eligible men. She’d resigned herself to a life of having sex with herself and her vibrators, and poured out her sensuality onstage.

But a sexy, gorgeous and extremely persuasive man like Caleb—for him not to have a condom at the ready for the women he must meet…She glanced back at him, her smile widening and taking over her face.

“Are you laughing at me or with me this time?” he asked from behind her as she waved at the dishwasher, Earnesto, who winked back a promise not to tattle to the boss about her bringing company along on her kitchen raid.

“I’m not laughing at all.” At least not outwardly. Inside she was like a kid on an amusement park Tilt-a-Whirl. “I’m giddy because I can’t wait to dig into the chipotle tomato cheese spread I heard Chef made up today. He always keeps snacks around for us late-nighters.”

In the smaller of the kitchen’s three refrigerators, she found the cheese spread and a bottle of wine; the latter she handed to Caleb. After grabbing two saucers, she pointed him to the rack of wineglasses and a bag of seasoned bagel crisps. Then she led him toward the corner of the kitchen where a folding table with four matching chairs was tucked away in a small alcove for the inn’s staff to use.

She sat facing the kitchen, which was probably a mistake since it left him to sit facing her and the wall, and left her to deal with his scrutiny. It wouldn’t have been awkward had he not just fingered her to orgasm. But he had, and she could hardly ignore how close they’d come to taking things all the way.

Caleb went back to the utensil cabinet for a corkscrew while Miranda removed the cover from the cheese spread and opened the bag of bagel crisps. By the time he had the wine opened and poured, she had used one of the sturdiest chips to scoop cheese onto their plates.

“Do you do this a lot?” he asked. “Midnight snack in the hotel kitchen?”

“Of course.” She laughed, dipped a chip half into her cheese. The light in the alcove wasn’t as bright as in the main part of the kitchen, making it hard to read his face. “A perk of the job. And a good one since the town is short on all-night convenience stores.”

He watched as she popped the bite of food into her mouth. “That’s one of my favorite things about New York. The bodegas. Need a sandwich or a roll of toilet paper or batteries at 4:00 a.m.? It’s a one-stop shopping trip.”

“Is that where you live? New York?”

He shook his head, reached for his wine. “Not anymore.”

She noticed he didn’t volunteer where he was from. “Do you miss it?”

“Not much to miss.” He held her gaze while he drank, and returned his glass to the table. “I’m there a lot. And I’m in L.A. a lot.”

“Is all that travel for work or pleasure?” she asked, doing her best not to look away. His attention was so focused on her, his expression so intense.

“A little of both. I work in…the arts,” he said, and she picked up on his hesitation.

The arts could mean books or movies…or music. He’d said he was here for a wedding, one that would be a big deal. She’d gathered from the staff’s whispers while they scurried to do Ravyn’s bidding that the singer was home. As far as Miranda knew, Brenna had not been in contact with her mother. But with the congressman here as well…

Could Brenna and Teddy be tying the knot? Could Caleb be here because he knew Brenna as an industry insider, or was a friend? She wanted to press for Corinne’s sake, but if Brenna didn’t want her mother to know what was happening, well, it wasn’t Miranda’s business anyway.

In fact, she could be totally off the mark. And she was not going to ask questions that could start hurtful rumors. “An interesting line of work, I’ll bet.”

“It is. It can be. It can also be a pain in the ass.”

Now that she could relate to. “Show me a career that doesn’t have those moments, and I’ll show you someone who’s not working very hard.”

His eyes flashed with a teasing heat. “I know you work hard. I’ve seen you.”

He’d seen things she didn’t want to think about right now. She was trying to get beyond the frustration of their aborted encounter, and she never would if every look he gave her reminded her of what they’d done as well as made her regret what she’d missed.

She needed a drink, and took one. “And you want to know what there is about being Candy Cane that could possibly be a pain in the ass.”

He popped a bagel chip into his mouth and nodded.

“The wigs make me sweat.”

“So why wear them?”

“Because I don’t have long red hair, and red is a theme here, in case that’s slipped your notice. And, yes, the wigs are well-made and breathable, but that doesn’t help much when I’m onstage. Those lights are brutal.”

“Then spend more time offstage with the audience.”

Funny man. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

“Me and the rest of the men watching you. Some of the women, too.”

And again the suggestive innuendo, the heat in his eyes, the want. It was hard to look away. “That’s what I’m afraid of. And why I don’t mingle more than I do. This is a lovers’ resort. I don’t want to come between the lovers.”

“Why did you mingle tonight?”

She’d been trying to figure that out for herself ever since draping herself across his table. Using a broken chip, she toyed with the cheese on her plate.

Instead of eating it, she told him, “You looked lonely.”

He paused with his wineglass halfway to his mouth. “A pity kiss?”

“Not hardly,” she said, the gruff accusation causing her chest to tighten. “More like a sense of familiarity. Not to sound totally pathetic, but I know that feeling well.”

Without drinking, he returned his glass to the table. “And you thought you’d cheer me up.”

“To be honest, you weren’t the one I was hoping to cheer. My motives were much more selfish.” She felt the heat of a blush on her face and fiddled with her food to try to hide it.

“It was my pleasure.”

“No,” she said, laughing quietly. “I’m pretty sure it was mine. You were the one left hanging.”

“Being left hanging never killed a guy.” He gave her a look that left her unable to breathe.

Oh, this was going so many places she wouldn’t have expected when singing for him tonight, places she wasn’t sure she was ready for. “Not according to the stories I’ve heard.”

“Old wives’ tales. Trust me. But just to be on the safe side…” He shifted forward, leaning toward her with an intent that wasn’t threatening, but unnerved her because of what she sensed he was going to say. “I’ll come prepared to tomorrow night’s show.”

“Thanks. Now I’ll never be able to perform,” she said, sighing as she popped the chip and cheese into her mouth. It kept her from having to say anything more, and gave her a chance to catch the breath she still hadn’t found.

He didn’t press, gave her the time, finally asking, “Were you a performer before coming here?”

Reaching for her drink, she cut her gaze sharply toward him. “Is this the man who works in the arts asking?”

He shook his head. “Just the man who kissed you.”

And thank goodness he left his comment at the kiss. “Then, no. Not a performer. Unless you count singing in the shower and the church choir.”

“A soloist?”

“From time to time. Always at Christmas.”

“Do you do anything special for Christmas here?”

“Besides my regular shows? No. Though I do change up the set. Christmas isn’t Christmas without Bing Crosby. Alan’s wife is trying to get me to sing at the high school’s holiday dance, but I just can’t.”

“Why not?” he asked, refilling both of their glasses. “Afraid some of the boys might be lonely?”

“Oh, that is so not funny,” she said, though she couldn’t stifle a laugh. “But, no. I don’t take Candy out of Club Crimson. Except to raid the fridge.”

He studied his plate, picked up a bagel crisp. “I would think a local celebrity would be in demand.”

“In demand for what?” she asked, curious as to how he saw her alter ego. “Mistletoe doesn’t have political fund-raisers or charity events. It’s too small a community—one of those places where everybody knows your name. Besides,” she went on, “I like my privacy. And Candy’s not real. She’s a fixture here at the inn just like the huge stone fireplace in the lobby and all the knotty-pine tables.”

“I disagree. You’re not huge or knotty.”

“Very funny,” she said, tossing a wedge of bagel at his chest, wondering whether to put an end to their evening, or forget sleep and talk to him until morning. She was exhilarated, exhausted….

When he lifted the bottle to pour her more wine, she found her hand coming up to cover her glass. And there she had her answer. “It’s late. Beyond late. And unfortunately, I’m not a woman of leisure.”

“Meaning your real self needs to get home so tomorrow you won’t fall asleep during brain surgery, or while coming in for an emergency landing, or plowing the back forty, or whatever it is you do when you’re not a redhead.”

“And that depends on the day of the week,” she replied teasingly, wondering what he’d think if he knew about her pedestrian life as a florist. “But, yes, I need to go. This has been the best evening I’ve had in ages. Thank you.”

He followed suit as she got to her feet. “Will I see you tomorrow?”

“If you’re in Club Crimson at showtime you will.” You and your condom. She closed up the bagel crisps, covered the cheese spread, stacked their plates and reached for the wine. “Take this with you.”

“Consolation prize?”

She held on to the bottle. “If you’re going to be like that, then I’ll take it with me and celebrate.”

He tossed back his head and laughed. “You, Candy Cane, or whoever you are, are some piece of work.”

Good. She was glad he wasn’t taking her for granted. “I wouldn’t want you to think you could have me without putting in some effort.”

He hooked a possessive arm around her neck. “C’mon, mystery woman. Let me walk you back to your dressing room.”

She stopped first at the refrigerator, then at the baker’s rack, then at the sink where Earnesto took the plates and glasses before waving her and Caleb on their way.

Wearing her sequined gown, her long wavy wig, a warm pair of sheepskin Uggs on her feet and Caleb’s jacket over her shoulders, Miranda walked beside him down the hallway from the kitchen to the club. Neither one of them hurried, neither one of them spoke.

It was as if Caleb didn’t want to let go of her any more than she wanted to tell him goodnight. They fitted so well as they walked, fitted, too, as they talked. She was certain it would be no different when they made love.

When. She was assuming it would happen, rather than accepting they might have nothing but tonight. Counting on more, looking forward to more wasn’t smart. Doing so was tantamount to throwing away the past five years she’d spent making a new life. She couldn’t do that to herself. She wouldn’t do it for a man about whom she knew nothing.

Then they were at her dressing room, the trip over too soon, the silence lingering as she reached out to punch the code into the keypad lock. Caleb stopped her, covering her hand, turning her and pulling her arms above her head as he backed her into the door.

He spread his legs, captured her hips between them, leaned his lower body into hers and rested there. His eyes were fierce, bright, and she was almost unable to draw a breath for thinking about all the things he might want. She scared herself with all the things she wanted.

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