In Bed with the Wild One & In Bed with the Pirate Read online

  Dear Reader,

  Welcome to another fun-filled month of Duets!

  Duets #29

  Award-winning author Kristin Gabriel returns this month with Beauty and the Bachelor, the last book in the delightful CAFÉ ROMEO trilogy, about a coffee shop that doubles as a dating service. What better place to find both lattes and love! And talented Gwen Pemberton delivers Counterfeit Daddy, the tale of a sexy bachelor hero who poses as a family man in order to impress his gorgeous female boss!

  Duets #30

  Author Julie Kistler teams up this month with Colleen Collins to serve up BEDS & BACHELORS, two linked stories about a romantic but unusual B & B in San Francisco. Every bedroom has a movie theme! Julie’s tale, In Bed with the Wild One, is a romp about a mousy heroine who sets off to have an adventure with the bad-boy hero. Then B & B owner Kate encounters her very own fantasy man in In Bed with the Pirate.

  I hope you enjoy both Duets volumes this month!

  Birgit Davis-Todd

  Senior Editor, Harlequin Duets

  JULIE KISTLER

  In Bed with the Wild One

  COLLEEN COLLINS

  In Bed with the Pirate

  Contents

  In Bed with the Wild One

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  In Bed with the Pirate

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  JULIE KISTLER

  In Bed with the Wild One

  The innkeeper grinned at Tyler.

  “I’ve got the perfect themed bedroom for you. The Wild One. You get to sleep under Marlon Brando’s picture. Cool, huh?”

  “The Wild One?” Tyler looked bemused. “I can’t wait.”

  An eavesdropping Emily couldn’t wait, either. She knew that movie. Leather jackets, motorcycles. Bad attitude. She tried to contain her growing excitement. Wow.

  She continued to peek as he signed the register. He was so sexy. He had this hard-edged, smoky attitude that just screamed sex and lust and bad, bad things. Perfect for a good girl like her.

  The minute Tyler disappeared up the stairs, Emily moved to the desk. Maybe there would be a Mata Hari room with her name on it, she mused. Or Xena, Warrior Princess. “I’d like a room, please.”

  “Only one left, I’m afraid.” The innkeeper beamed. “But it’s just perfect for someone like you. Pollyanna…”

  “Pollyanna…?” Sheesh. Emily might have known. Tyler was The Wild One and she was Pollyanna. And never the twain would meet….

  Dear Reader,

  Welcome to the world of Beau’s B & B! When Colleen Collins and I put our heads together to come up with a concept for a linked Duets volume, even the conversation was hilarious. We had so much fun, I can hardly remember who came up with what. I’m pretty sure the matchmaker angle was Colleen’s and I think the cat was my idea. But the eccentric B & B with the goofy, movie-themed rooms…Well, that could have come from anywhere.

  But then I drove poor Colleen bananas when I kept changing the name of my hero’s bedroom. It only became “The Wild One” after we met with our editor, Malle Vallik, in Chicago. The three of us tripped out to dinner in 103 degree heat, ending up at a gorgeous restaurant where we laughed ourselves silly and probably embarrassed our waiter to death. Oh, well. We had fun! The best part is that this BEDS & BACHELORS concoction ended up exactly the way I’d hoped it would—funny, romantic, sexy and a little crazy. Many thanks to Colleen, Malle and Birgit Davis-Todd for making this such a pleasure to work on.

  Enjoy!

  Julie Kistler

  To Colleen and Malle, who were the most fun and entertaining collaborators anyone could wish for.

  1

  “EMILY, IS THAT YOU? Sneaking in late? Surprise, surprise!”

  Emily Chaplin stopped in her tracks. It just figured. This Friday morning in June was the first time in her entire goody-two-shoes life she’d ever been late for anything. And now she was caught red-handed, tiptoeing her way down the hall to her office, by Alissa Bergman of all people, the snoopiest, most competitive lawyer in the firm.

  Emily wavered there, unsure whether to respond to or just ignore Alissa. She’d figured if she hid behind sunglasses and kept her head down, dodged the law firm’s main reception area and took the stairs, surely she could sneak into her office before anyone saw her.

  No such luck.

  Of course, when you were among the lowly associates at Chaplin, Chaplin & Chaplin, Attorneys-at-Law, all competing to make partner someday, your co-associates watched your every move, eager to rat you out to the senior partner. They all knew the big guy was a stickler for associates making their quota of billable hours each and every day. It didn’t help that the big guy also happened to be Emily’s father. And he rode his family members harder than anyone.

  “Emily, Emily,” Alissa murmured, making a little tsk-tsk sound. “I heard you were out with Kip Enfield from the eighth floor last night. Had a late night, did we? Did the Kipster get lucky?”

  Emily stiffened. “As if.”

  As a matter of fact, she did blame Kip for the fact that she’d overslept and missed her ride in to the city. But not because they’d had such a hot time. Au contraire!

  Kip was just the latest terrible fix-up in her never-ending series of them. Her father the senior partner, her mother the judge, her older brothers, all four of whom were lawyers—they all insisted on matching her up with eligible but insufferable young attorneys. It didn’t matter that the men bored her silly and sent her running back to the bathtub and a book about sexy spies and hard-boiled private eyes. Her well-meaning family members kept roping her into these horrible dates, no matter how much she protested.

  Was it her fault the lawyers they set her up with were as limp as old noodles, while the men in the books were exciting, dark, dangerous and very, very stimulating? They saved the free world, they uncovered conspiracies, they fought off bad guys in dark alleys. They grabbed life in both hands and didn’t let go.

  Whereas Kip Enfield…“Gag me,” she said out loud. He was the worst, the absolute worst. He wasn’t just stultifyingly dull—no, he was pompous, irritable, and el cheapo to boot. Dinner with Kip had stretched out endlessly while he droned on about the wine and the beef and his fine palate. After all that torture, he’d made a big point of tipping only two percent because he didn’t like the service. Exactly two percent—which took him about half an hour to figure out. Emily had to run back at the last minute on a pretext, unable to stand the idea of leaving such a pathetic tip.

  So by the time Kip pulled his Beemer up the circular driveway of the Chaplins’ suburban home, she was more than ready to dump him. Except that he insisted on coming into the house—dying to sip the senior partner’s brandy out of the senior partner’s snifter, no doubt—and she couldn’t get rid of him no matter how many hints she dropped. Hours later, after several attempts to kiss her, paw her and cajole her into a little horizontal bingo, Kip finally consented to leave. She’d practically wept with relief.

  After that fiasco, she could hardly help it if she’d slept for a full nine hours, just as a defense mechanism. At least her dreams were entertaining, unlike Kip Enfield.

  “I’m never dating another lawyer as long as I live,”
Emily declared. “In fact, I may never date anyone. I’ve got that last-straw feeling.”

  But first things first. Pulling off her sunglasses, she focused on a point over Alissa’s shoulder and lowered her voice. “Is that Daddy, rounding the corner to your office, Alissa? Uh-oh. And you’re here in the hall, chatting with me. That can’t look good.”

  It was a complete and total lie, but Alissa was out of there so fast she barely left a vapor trail.

  With a small smile of satisfaction, Emily turned on her heel and ducked inside her own office, safely closing the door behind her. Trying to work up some enthusiasm for the day ahead, she took off her jacket and neatly hung it up, parked herself behind the desk, and then stared at the mountain of paperwork for five minutes. Ugh.

  Finally she cracked open the Bentley file on the top of the stack. As the minutes dragged by, she fiddled with a pen, chewing on the end, staring into space, scribbling notes here and there about the tax implications of one small subsection of a client’s proposed reorganization plan. It was so dull she almost nodded off right there at Part B(11), subparagraph 3(a)(iv).

  “Okay, maybe I should listen to my voice mail,” she decided. Maybe someone fun might have called. But who did she know who was remotely fun?

  Maybe a distant relative, or even better, an old boyfriend, who desperately needed her to fly to Istanbul or Zanzibar tonight. Yeah, right. All the Chaplins, even the distant ones, were so boring they made the Bentley file seem exciting by comparison. As for old boyfriends…well, she had one or two, but the only thing they’d be calling for was help on their taxes.

  Okay, so maybe Sukie Sommersby, her goofy sorority sister from college, might call out of the blue. Sukie was always getting into trouble. The last time Emily had heard from her, Sukie had just woken up with a new husband in a Vegas hotel and needed info on quickie divorces.

  “Why don’t I ever wake up with new husbands in Las Vegas?” Emily asked out loud. Hoping to hear something, anything exciting or different, she pressed the button for her voice mail.

  Bad idea. There were three messages from Kip to tell her again how much he’d enjoyed last night, two from her oldest brother Rick—the doofus who’d set her up with Kip—wanting to know how it went, and one from her mother, the bankruptcy court judge, who had a new clerk she thought might be a good match for her daughter—not to mention at least one annoying message from each of her three other brothers, all of whom offered unwanted advice on her career, her car or her love life.

  She felt like screaming. And that was before she heard the voice mail from her father, who had apparently called every ten minutes between eight-thirty and ten, demanding to know when the hell she was going to put in an appearance and reminding her that being a Chaplin did not bring her any special privileges at Chaplin, Chaplin & Chaplin.

  “Sukie Sommersby would never stand for this!”

  Without pausing to think about it, Emily stood up and grabbed her purse and briefcase, heading for the door in a blur. She called to the secretary, “I’m taking my laptop and one of the Bentley files out of the office, and I won’t be back for a while. I’ve got my cell phone in case anyone needs me.”

  As if anyone would need her for anything truly important. She was a tax lawyer, for goodness’ sake. Her life was occupied with subparagraphs of footnotes to the tax code. It was as boring as boring could be.

  As she hit the street, turning her face into the bright light of the Chicago summer, Emily’s mood only grew gloomier. What was the problem? Sure, the stale routine of her normal life was getting her down, but she was out of the office, wasn’t she? And the good thing about getting to work so late was that it was almost time for lunch.

  “Café Allegro,” she murmured. Maybe that would make her feel better. After all, didn’t she eat lunch at Café Allegro every day? And didn’t she order the same tall glass of iced tea with a sprig of mint and the same low-fat grilled-chicken salad? Day in, day out.

  It was calming, familiar and serene. Just what she needed. Right?

  But her feet seemed to get sticky and slow as she wound her way down Ontario Street. She made it right up to the cool brass door of Café Allegro. But when it was time to walk in, Emily found herself paralyzed, stuck, unable to take even one more step forward. It was as if the weight of her same old routine had suddenly settled on her shoulders like a five-hundred-pound gorilla.

  She pulled her hand away from the door. She wheeled. And she took off down Ontario Street as if the odious Kip Enfield himself were stalking her. She didn’t stop until she hit a dark, vaguely grimy coffee shop, a place that smelled of fried onions and greasy hamburgers. The Rainbow Rest-O-Rant.

  Not what anyone would expect from Emily Chaplin—which was exactly why she was going in.

  Clutching her briefcase, Emily veered into the dingy restaurant. It was mostly empty, so she had no trouble finding a booth. Scooting in, she decided this place was definitely nothing like Café Allegro. The two eating establishments were less than a block, but a whole world, apart.

  She grabbed some paper napkins out of the dispenser on the table, wiping them quickly over the bench seat and the top of the table. It wasn’t the grime that bothered her, though. For some reason, she found herself pondering who had carved all those initials and messages into the wood, wondering how much Marco really loved Missy, and whether Tootie and BoBo were really Friends 4-Ever.

  Her reverie was broken abruptly when a rather hard looking waitress wearing a name tag that said “Jozette” slapped down a plastic menu in front of her. The woman didn’t bother to smile, just raised a painted-on eyebrow as she poured coffee into one of the cups on the table. “You know whatcha want?”

  “Uh, no. Not exactly. I think I need a minute.” Emily peered down at the menu, unwilling to actually touch it. She might be taking a walk on the wild side, but she wasn’t insane. She noted that someone seemed to have spilled ketchup on all the important parts of the lunch section, making it impossible to read. “Do you have any specials?” she asked hopefully.

  “No, I don’t got any specials. What do I look like, freakin’ Café Allegro?” snapped Jozette. “I also don’t got all day. My chili is growing legs back there.” When Emily still didn’t come up with anything she wanted to eat, the woman stalked off. “Lemme know when you decide,” she snapped over her shoulder.

  Sheesh. Life got tough when you ventured outside your comfort zone.

  Using another napkin for protection, Emily flipped her menu over, looking for inspiration. Idly she tried a sip of the coffee. Whoa. The stuff was so strong she rubbed a finger across her front teeth to make sure they were still there. She opened four sugar packets and five little creamer cups and sloshed them in. Better. Not really drinkable, but better. Meanwhile, she distinctly made out the words “banana split” behind a smear of something brown—syrup?—on the back of the menu.

  Well, why not? I’ve never had a banana split for lunch.

  She scanned the premises, prepared to signal Jozette that she was ready to order, but the surly waitress was nowhere to be found. After a moment, Emily gave up looking for her, content to wait until Jozette wandered back on her own. Emily was in no hurry.

  Closing her sticky menu, she set it aside and pulled out the newest Trick McCall novel, which she just happened to have in her briefcase. She’d bookmarked the spot where she’d had to stop last night. It had really been annoying to leave her book and her bubble bath to go out with that stupid Kip Enfield, just when Trick had been beaten to a pulp by a couple of hoods who’d double-crossed him. But Trick McCall didn’t go down without a fight.

  Emily scanned the page eagerly. Trick tried to sit up, but the pain in his gut was like a bucket of hot lead.

  A few people drifted in, a few people drifted out, dishes clattered, coffee was poured, and life went on in the outlying areas of the Rest-O-Rant. Nobody passed near her, and Emily stayed intent on what she was reading.

  “Damn,” Trick swore under his breath. He couldn’t pa
ss out. Not yet. Not before he knew where Rico and the Ice Man had stashed the loot…

  “You have to come up with the money,” a low, heated voice said fiercely. “Listen to what I say, Slab. We’re past desperate here. We’re right over the brink into disaster.”

  Wait a minute. Slab? There was no one named Slab in this book. And that hadn’t been a voice inside her head. That was real. Out loud.

  Confused, Emily looked up from the page, toward the source of the intriguing voice. Her gaze slid right through the gap between her booth and the next, snagging when it caught the face of the man who’d spoken. And what a face…

  She swallowed. She felt her cheeks suffuse with heat.

  Whoever he was—this man who was teetering on the brink of disaster—he looked amazing.

  She didn’t know who or what he was, his name, what he was doing there, any of those important details. It didn’t matter. All she needed was one glance at that gorgeous, dangerous face, all hard angles and stormy shadows, the hint of stubble, the carelessly cut dark hair that brushed the collar of his battered leather jacket. And she knew him down to her bones.

  She had an overwhelming desire to toss aside the adventures of Trick McCall, private eye, and toss herself over the divider into his booth.

  “You pay up now, Slab,” he muttered, “or we’ll both be in too deep to shovel out.”

  Pay up? In too deep to shovel out? This sounded an awful lot like the book she’d just been reading. How very exciting! Easing herself up and around to one side, trying not to make any noise, she craned her neck enough to get a glimpse of this Slab person through the shabby fronds of a plastic plant attached to the top of the divider. Holy smokes. She could see where Slab got his name. The man had shoulders the size of a minivan and a face like a hunk of concrete.

  “But, Tyler, I ain’t got the dough,” Slab responded, sounding higher and whinier than she would have expected from someone that large. She couldn’t completely make out his next words, but it was clear he was offering excuses.