One

      “Beautiful, isn’t she?”

      Wynn Hunter gave the older man standing beside him a wry grin. “Hate to tell you, but that bridesmaid’s a little young for you.”

      “I would hope so.” Brock Munroe’s proud shoulders shucked back. “She’s my daughter.”

      Wynn froze; his scalp tingled. Then he remembered to breathe. As his mind wheeled to fit all the pieces together, he swallowed and then pushed out the words. Brock had three daughters. Now it struck Wynn which one this was.

      “That’s Grace?”

      “All grown up.”

      Brock didn’t need to know just how grown up.

      Had Wynn suspected the connection three nights ago, he would never have taken her back to his Upper East Side apartment—not so much out of respect for Brock, who was a friend of his father, Australian media mogul and head of Hunter Enterprises Guthrie Hunter, but because Wynn had despised Grace Munroe when they were kids. She’d made his blood boil. His teeth grind.

      How could he have enjoyed the single best evening of sex in his life with that girl–er, woman?

      “Grace gets her looks from her mother, like the other two,” Brock went on as music and slow-spinning lights drifted around the Park Avenue ballroom, which was decked out for tonight’s wedding reception. “Remember the vacation we all spent together? That Colorado Christmas sure was a special one.”

      Brock had met Guthrie as a Sydney University graduate vacationing at the newly opened Vail Resort. Over the years, they’d kept in touch. When the Munroes and Hunters had got together two decades later, Wynn had turned eight. Whenever he and his older brothers had built a snowman outside of the chalet the two families had shared, Grace and Wynn’s younger sister Teagan had conspired to demolish it. Back then, Wynn’s angel of a mother had still been alive. She’d explained that the six-year-olds had simply wanted to join in. Be included.

      Now Wynn ran Hunter Publishing, the New York-based branch of Hunter Enterprises. Until recently, he had always prided himself on being an affable type. But that Christmas day, when Grace had tripped him up then doubled over with laughter as his forehead had smacked the snow—and the rock hidden underneath—he’d snapped. While she’d scurried inside, pigtails flying, Wynn’s brother Cole had struggled to hold him back.

      So many years had passed since then and yet, in all his life, Wynn doubted anyone had riled him more than that pug-nosed little brat.

      But since then, her mousey pigtails had transformed into a shimmering wheat-gold fall. And her lolly-legs in kiddies’ jeans had matured into smooth, endless limbs. He recalled that pest from long ago who had relentlessly poked and teased, and then remembered his mouth working over hers that amazing night they’d made love. When they’d struck up a conversation at that Upper East Side piano bar, Grace couldn’t possibly have known who he was.

      Could she?

      “How’s your father and that situation back in Australia?” Brock asked as Grace continued to dance with her partnered groomsman and other couples filled the floor. “We spoke a couple of months back. All that business about someone trying to kill him? Unbelievable.” Brock crossed his tuxedo-clad arms and shook his head. “Are the authorities any closer to tracking down the lowlife responsible?”

      With half an eye on Grace’s hypnotic behind as she swayed around in that sexy red cocktail number, Wynn relayed some details.

      “A couple of weeks after my father’s vehicle was run off the road, someone tried to shoot him. Thankfully the gunman missed. When Dad’s bodyguard chased him on foot, the guy ran out in front of a car. Didn’t survive.”

      “But wasn’t there another incident not long after that?”

      “My father was assaulted again, yes.” Remembering the phone call he’d received from a livid Cole, Wynn’s chest tightened. “The police are on the case but my brother also hired a P.I. friend to help.”

      Brandon Powell and Cole went back to navy-cadet days. Now Brandon spent his time cruising around Sydney on a Harley and running his private-investigation and security agency. He was instinctive, thorough and, everyone agreed, the right man for the job.

      As one song segued into another, the music tempo increased and the lights dimmed more. On the dance floor, Grace Munroe was limbering up. Her moves weren’t provocative in the strictest sense of the word. Still, the way she arranged her arms and bumped those hips... Well, hell, she stood out. And Wynn saw that he wasn’t alone in that impression; her first dance partner had been replaced by a guy who could barely keep his hands to himself.

      Wynn downed the rest of his drink.

      Wynn didn’t think Grace had noticed him yet among the three hundred guests. Now that he was aware of their shared background, there was less than no reason to hang around until she did. It was way too uncomfortable.

      Wynn gestured toward the exit and made his excuse to Brock “Better get going. Early meeting tomorrow.”

      The older man sucked his cheeks in. “On a Sunday? Then again, you must be run off your feet since Hunter Publishing acquired La Trobes two years ago. Huge distribution.”

      Brock was being kind. “We’ve also shut down four publications in as many years.” As well as reducing leases on foreign and national bureaus.

      “These are difficult times.” Brock grunted. “Adapt or die. God knows, advertising’s in the toilet, too.”

      Brock was the founding chairman of Munroe Select Advertising, a company with offices in Florida, California and New York. Whether members of the Munroe family helped run the firm, Wynn couldn’t say. The night he and Grace had got together, they hadn’t exchanged personal information...no phone numbers, employment details. Obviously no names. Now curiosity niggled and Wynn asked.

      “Does Grace work for your company?”

      “I’ll let her tell you. She’s on her way over.”

      Wynn’s attention shot back to the floor. When Grace recognized him, her smile vanished. But she didn’t turn tail and run. Instead, she carefully pressed back her bare shoulders and, tacking up a grin, continued over, weaving her way through the partying crowd.

      A moment later, she placed a dainty hand on Brock’s sleeve and craned to brush a kiss on his cheek. Then she turned her attention toward Wynn. With her head at an angle, her wheat-gold hair cascaded to one side. Wynn recalled the feel of that hair beneath his fingers. The firm slide of his skin over hers.

      “I see you’ve found a friend,” she said loud enough to be heard over the music.

      Brock gave a cryptic smile. “You’ve met before.”

      Her focus on Wynn now, Grace’s let’s-keep-a-secret mask held up. “Really?”

      “This is Wynn,” her father said. “Guthrie Hunter’s third boy.”

      Her entrancing eyes—a similar hue to her hair—blinked twice.

      “Wynn?” she croaked. “Wynn Hunter?”