After years of making every possible wrong choice, Danielle Stone is taking control of her life. And choosing a new lover is the perfect way to start-especially when that lover looks like gorgeous Nick Vaux. Tall, dark and oh-so-sexy, Nick has a way of seeing into her very soul. The connection between them is so strong, Danielle would swear they’ve been lovers before. And they have…

Nicholai Vaux has been waiting a century to have Danielle in his arms again. In another lifetime, he and Danielle were husband and wife, sharing a love beyond measure--and it seems, beyond time. Now, Nick is desperate to reunite with the woman he knows is his true soulmate. But first he has to convince Danielle-before the past catches up with both of them…

Excerpt

The hinges of the case resisted, but made no sounds of protest. Her breath caught as the light from the solitary lamp beside her slid over an antique perfume bottle, nestled in scarlet silk, unlike anything she’d ever seen.

Had Armand spoken? Had it been his voice she heard? So entranced by the glittering cut crystal and intricately woven silver in the obviously ancient glass, Danielle couldn’t be sure. And she didn’t care. Her hands gravitated toward the bottle, her palms aching to feel the beautiful artifact in her hands.

“Oh, my.”

She pressed the orange button on her handset, switching the phone to speaker mode, then set it on the couch beside her. She held her breath up until the moment she finally cradled the bottle in her palm. A sizzle of warmth snaked through her fingers, around her wrists and up her arms. But the sensation didn’t make her want to drop the bottle--just the opposite. She held it tighter, cupping it between both hands.

Danielle tried to come up with words to describe the beauty, but she was at a loss. “It’s not like anything I’ve ever seen. Ever touched.”

A sudden wave of dizziness struck her, likely because she kept forgetting to breathe. She turned toward the lamp, gasping when the crystal facets seized the light and threw a rainbow of colors over her skin.

“Describe it to me,” Armand requested.

Her former lover’s voice sounded so strange through the speakerphone, so she leaned closer, to make sure he could hear.

“It’s a perfume bottle, but it must be a hundred years old, maybe more.”

She turned the crystal, carefully examining it from all angles and sides, softly cradling the delicate beauty. Why had Nick given her a gift so precious, so obviously expensive? So clearly enhanced by a life all its own?

Want him.

The voice was clear, crisp, female, but the sound had come from someplace in her head. She knew her own voice, and this wasn’t it. Like the disembodied sound she’d heard at Nick’s workshop, the voice echoed with a command she didn’t dare obey.

Quickly, she put the bottle back in the box and scooted it to the center of the table. She climbed completely onto the couch, nearly scrambling into the corner furthest away from the strange gift.

“Danielle?”

Distance didn’t help. In one overwhelming wave, her body nearly drowned in a sudden current of desire. Moisture disappeared from her mouth as blood rushed to every separate zone of her body. Her fingers tingled. Her nipples chafed against the lace of her bra. Every sexual impulse, every blast of lust she’d contained since her return to the States assaulted her. Images and memories flew through her mind, but with such speed that she couldn’t identify a single one.

What was happening?

“Armand?” she said, pleading.

“Are you all right?”

“I don’t know.”

“Are you in pain?”

“No. Not exactly. It’s...”

She fought to find words to describe the feeling, but she couldn’t meld the sensations into anything solid. She inhaled, exhaled, the repeated the process. She’d learned the techniques in rehab, simple breathing exercises to help her when her cravings threatened to push her over the edge. But this wasn’t an insatiable desire for drugs. This was about sex. Hot, sweaty, lusty sex.

That in itself confused her. Danielle never craved sex, not even when involved with Armand. Yeah, she’d had sex plenty of times before she’d met him, back when she’d been drugged out. But the two activities, sex and drugs, had never truly competed for priority. To Danielle, the drugs always came first.

Even after she’d cleaned up her act and had taken up with Armand, he had always been the aggressor, the seducer. She responded, but never initiated. Though she no longer adhered to the negative associations between sex and control, desire never seemed to enter her brain until Armand coaxed her sensual instincts to the surface.

With him, sex soothed and healed. Often, it simply passed the time--but always with delight and anticipation. Never with the overwhelming, maddening, physically paralyzing need she was experiencing now.

“Armand, talk to me,” she said, certain the rush would pass if she simply changed the subject.

“He wants you.”

“I don’t want to talk about that.”

“I don’t remember giving you a choice of topics. He gave you a gift that obviously has excited you, more than it should. What does it feel like?”

To no other man could she admit this. “Like a thousand hot fingertips running over my body. It’s not natural.”

“We’re talking about your body. Of course it’s natural. What is it doing to you, those thousand hot fingertips?”

“Making me insane.”

“Why? Are they touching you where you want them to?”

No! She realized then that the sensation was not centered on her breasts or between her legs and that when she tried to identify where she felt the invisible hands, the response faded. Was she crazy? She looked at her hands. Had he placed some psychedelic drug on the box, on the bottle itself?

She knew hallucinogens first hand. This wasn’t the same feeling. Despite the quick flash of memories, her brain was clear. Only her body seemed to have a mind and will of its own.

“Run your hand along your neck, behind your hair. Are you hot?”

She did as he requested. They’d done this before, exploring sexual fantasies over the phone lines, but never had the virtual lovemaking centered around the effects another man had on her. But Danielle didn’t second-guess the situation. She trusted Armand, and maybe working off some sexual energy would dull the odd effects she was experiencing.

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Code Red: Sniper Attorney Faith Lawton steps outside the courthouse. Shots ring out from a nearby rooftop. The concrete around Faith explodes with expended bullets as a pair of strong arms pulls her back against the building...

Faith Lawton welcomes the strong embrace of chief of detectives Adam Guthrie--for the moment. His fast actions saved her life. But it’s nothing personal. They’re adversaries in the courtroom and out--in spite of their often sexually charged exchanges. Now Adam’s convinced Faith was the target and that the shooter may strike again. Despite her protests, he’s out to find the gunman. And until he does, Adam isn’t about to let her go...

Excerpt

“What are you doing?” she asked frantically, when he reached up and flipped the handle. The door opened an inch. The interior light did not go on--probably damaged by the gunfire.

“What does it look like I’m doing? I’m getting you the hell out of here.”

“Don’t be a hero, Adam! The gun range is closed. Someone inside probably heard the shots. They’ve called 911 by now. We should just sit tight and wait for the police.”

“I am the police,” he growled.

“Let me be more specific, then. You’re one man with a .38 against some crazed loon with a scope and a rifle. You’re outgunned, Adam. Deal with it.”

He smirked, though the expression did nothing to soften her steely glare. She certainly got tough and bossy when she was in danger. Probably better than weepy and hysterical, but at least he knew from experience that she could be reasoned with even in the most tense situations. Although once he really thought about it, he’d rather not have any knowledge at all about how Faith reacted to life-threatening situations. Above all else, he wanted her safe. Never in his life had someone else been injured because he’d screwed up. He’d do whatever it took to get her out of the line of fire.

“Do you hear sirens?” he asked.

She cocked her head to listen, then answered, “No.”

“Where’s your cell phone?”

“In the car,” she answered. “Yours?”

Adam dug into his pocket and cursed. No service. The mountains must have blocked the signal.

“We’re on our own, here, Lawton. The longer we wait, the longer he can change positions and get a better shot. Look around. The mountains surround us on three sides. You want to wait around and let this guy pin us down like ducks frozen in a pond?”

“It doesn’t freeze in southern California,” she snapped, but with a frown that told him he’d made a point she simply didn’t want to concede.

Adam grinned. “Well, it’s going to have to be freezing somewhere even farther south before I give in to some kook, even if he does have a bigger gun and a better view. Get in the car, Faith. A moving target is always harder to hit.”

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Charlotte "Charlie" Cuesta and Sam Ryan are rival P.I.'s — and former lovers. But when she finds herself partnered with sexy Sam once more — traveling cross-country in a reality show — she can't help wondering if he'll get even before she falls for him again…or after?

Excerpt

She pounded on Sam’s door three times. “Housekeeping!”

No answer. She didn’t expect one. She’d spoken to Sam ten minutes ago and he’d told her he planned to shower. As loathe as Charlie was to confront Sam Ryan while he was naked and wet, she didn’t have much of a choice if she wanted privacy from the game show’s cameras. The only place where the contestants weren’t watched was in the bathroom.

She clutched the towels close to her chest. Come on, Charlie. It’s not like you haven’t seen the man naked before.

The memories made her quiver.

With a quick glance as soon as she entered, Charlie spotted the camera in Sam’s room, angled away from the mirror. Knowing the camera was accompanied by a microphone, she continued her jaunty whistling, but softly, as to not garner any unwanted attention.

She walked into the bathroom without hesitation. If anyone witnessed her entry, they’d surely think she had every right to be there.

The minute she caught sight of a naked Sam through the smoky glass shower doors, she froze. The towels nearly tumbled from her arms, but she caught them. Damn, he was gorgeous. Tanned and buff, he moved with casual grace as he soaped his skin and sang some tune that sounded mildly country-western. She rolled her eyes, allowing his fondness for annoying music to snap her out of her lusty reverie.

From the moment they’d met nine years ago, both rookies at the police academy in Tampa, Florida, they’d marveled at the differences between them. She preferred Latin Fusion to his country twang. He was a vegetarian and she was a devout carnivore. When out of uniform, he wore blazers with his blue jeans. She preferred slinky skirts and tottering heels. His ideal Friday night date had been popcorn and an action flick, followed by a beer at his neighborhood tavern. Though she didn’t mind an occasional bust-‘em-up movie, popcorn stuck in her teeth and her thirst wasn’t usually quenched by hops, malt and barley. No, she preferred dancing herself into a slick sweat, then cooling herself down with an icy mojito.

They were apples and oranges. Actually, more like apple pie and mangoes.

“See something you like?”

She jumped, startled as he swiped the glass with his hand, clearing his view. Even beyond the fogged shower door, his blue eyes sparkled above his signature smug smile.

She dropped the towels on top of the sink.

“We need to talk,” she answered.

“About your propensity for voyeurism?”

She smirked. “All those big words,” she quipped, thickening her accent and ignoring how boldly he stood there in all his naked glory. “Aren’t you afraid I won’t understand?”

He slid open the shower door, his grin not wavering. Dollops of hot water drizzled off his skin and the steam quotient in the tiny bathroom increased to dangerous conditions. Visibility, however, wasn’t hampered. Charlie had to concentrate hard to keep her eyes trained on his.

Not that looking into Sam Ryan’s eyes was any safer than taking a leisurely perusal of his body. Piercing blue with flecks of gold, his irises could bring a lesser woman to her knees, especially with the frames of thick, chocolately lashes that were two or three shades darker than his hair. When he was dry, that was. When wet, his hair spiked into dark, sharp tips that could only be tamed by a woman’s hand.

“Don’t play stereotypes with me, Charlotte. You know I don’t have anything but the utmost respect for your incredible...intellect.”

Even though she was dressed in the dowdiest, frumpiest unbelted housedress in the drabbest gray ever created by uniform manufacturers, his hungry expression made her feel like one hot mama in a halter-top and miniskirt. A leather miniskirt. With fishnet stockings and spiked heels. Moisture tickled between her breasts and her mouth seemed coated with cotton.

“Is that why you’re letting me win this game without you?” she asked.

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In Julie Elizabeth Leto’s Dare to Desire, a secret agent’s life-and-death mission hinges on the delicious blackmail scheme of her hot-blooded former lover. He’ll give her any information she needs...if she’ll surrender to him the one thing he still desires--her.

Three passionate novellas in a high stakes romantic suspense anthology featuring:

A sizzling trio of novellas from three national bestselling masters of seductive suspense-stories of women who takes chances, women who gamble everything on love, women who accept the dare.

Excerpt

IF HE’D HAD any sense at all, he would have worn his Kevlar this morning. As the luridness of his offer slowly seeped into Macy’s brain, the jab of the gun against his gut increased. If she was any other woman and he’d made the same sexual offer, he wouldn’t have entertained even an inkling of fear that he’d be turned down, much less that he’d be shot for his audacity. But he wasn’t dealing with any other woman. Macy Rush not only had motive and now, opportunity, to kill him, she had enough justification to warrant an immediate acquittal from any court in the land.

“Offer denied,” she said, her words seething through her teeth. “Try again.”

He shifted his position, but Macy simply shoved the gun further into his stomach. He’d ordered his men to leave him and Macy alone and knew they wouldn’t disobey until shots were fired. Too late for him at that point, but at least the house wouldn’t fall into the hands of T45. Not that he was worried. Odds remained that the terrorists who’d made the threat would not have the manpower to bring their plan to fruition. Still, Dante had learned long ago that most international anarchists did not reveal their intentions to their enemies unless they were confident of their ultimate success.

And yet, time was on his side. With Macy looking for the code, he figured he’d have the crucial combination in a matter of days. He could afford to hitch the mission on his own personal agenda. He couldn’t change the past, but the future was ripe for the taking.

Just like Macy.

Boldly, he pressed closer so that her breasts crushed against his chest. The old fire they’d once shared instantly sparked. He could see the attraction in her crystal blue eyes. He could feel the lust in the stiffening of his sex.

“My offer stands, Macy. I want you back. Truth be told, I never wanted you to leave.”

“Then you shouldn’t have betrayed me.”

“I can explain that.”

He didn’t bother to try, though. Even before her eyes narrowed with keen disbelief, he knew Macy wasn’t ready to listen. Any explanation he offered now would fall on ears deafened by anger and righteous indignation--reactions he’d expected, anticipated, even planned for. If he had to choose from the full range of Macy’s fiery emotions, anger wouldn’t have been his first choice to deal with--but it sure as hell beat indifference.

“You’ve had ten years to create an elaborate explanation for your actions, Dante. I can only imagine what spin you’ve come up with. But I don’t want to hear excuses. Not now. Not ever. I’m only interested in finding the code.”

He leaned slightly forward, so that his breath teased her wispy red bangs. “I’m offering you the chance to find the code with virtually no interference from the Arm. All you have to do is let me make love to you.”

Without warning, Macy pocketed her gun and stepped away. She shrugged her jacket closed, but not before he noticed the tell-tale peak of her nipples through her smoky blue silk blouse. The sight evoked a surge through his blood that heightened his confidence and libido. Yes, he wanted her. That much he’d known. But she wanted him, too--whether she liked it or not.

Chemistry was a powerful thing.

“You’re becoming sloppy in your old age, Dante, allowing personal desires to interfere with a mission.”

Dante shrugged nonchalantly, but his eyes remained trained on Macy as she stalked around the room. She’d already begun her search.

He crossed his arms, bracing himself against the powerful affect she had over him. Yes, he wanted her, but he wasn’t about to tip his hand, not when the prize was so worth the danger of the game. “I’m merely attempting to accomplish two crucial goals at one time. In fact, the economy of my plan is quite impressive. It’s win-win.”

Macy speared him with a spiteful glare. “This is the best you can do to seduce me? Hinge the success of my mission on my having sex with you?”

He grinned. “Brilliant, isn’t it? Flowers and poetry don’t move you, my love. They never have. But dangle the carrot of another successful mission in front of you and you can’t resist.”

Macy pressed her lips tightly together and from inside the pockets of her jacket, he could see her fists straining against the leather. Like him, Macy was a professional liar. She could fool the best that the world’s intelligence agencies offered. But so could he. Even from the beginning, they’d learned that lying to each other was a complete waste of time. He’d managed to feed her a mistruth only once since he’d known her and that decision had cost him her love.

Love he was determined to get back.

“Macy, you must admit,” he continued. “I’ve taken good care of myself over the years. I’m not unattractive. I can’t imagine you’d consider sleeping with me such a huge sacrifice.”

She arched a dark red brow. “Are you so hard up?”

“No, just hard.”

He didn’t bother glancing at his crotch to drive his point home.

“That’s crass,” she sniped.

“No, that’s honest.”

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When Marisela Morales sets out to stop her ex-boyfriend, Francisco Vega, from skipping out on bail, she has a secret agenda: revenge. She hasn’t seen Frankie in ten years, and back then, he broke her heart by choosing his gang over his girl. So when she tracks him down to their old haunt, a hot dance club in Tampa, she sets about seducing him into her trap.

Frankie has a secret agenda, too, and Marisela soon faces a tough choice: continue drifting through her twenty-something life--hitting the same town with the same girlfriends every weekend while struggling to find a job and pay the rent--or dive headfirst into danger with her ex. Frankie operates in a treacherous underworld full of arms dealers, assassins and sinister agendas--a world overrun with people keeping dirty little secrets--and only Marisela has the cojones to fight her way to the truth.

Sexy, sultry and action-packed, Dirty Little Secrets is a thrilling adventure in manhunting of the most dangerous kind.

Excerpt

“I remember when you used to stroke me like that.”

Marisela Morales punctuated her pick-up line by blowing on the back of Francisco Vega’s neck. She watched her breath roll over the inky strands of hair and knew her luck had finally turned around.

Too clipped to be tamed by the strip of leather holding his ponytail, the soft downy blackness at his nape spiked. His fingers, visible as she glanced over his shoulder, drew streaks through the condensation on his beer bottle. Up and down. Slow and straight. Lazy, but precise. He toyed with his cerveza the same way he’d once made love to her, and for a split second, a trickle of moist heat curled intimately between Marisela’s thighs. For the moment, the part of her Frankie used to oh-so-easily manipulate was safe, encased beneath silky panties and skin-tight, hip-hugging jeans.

Tonight, she’d have him--but on her terms. The hunter had found her prey. Now, she just had to bring him in.

“I don’t remember taking time for slow strokes when you and me got busy, niña.”

Marisela sighed, teasing his neck with her hot breath one more time before she slid onto the barstool next to his. She’d been trying to track the man down for nearly a week. Who knew Frankie would turn up at an old haunt? Since they’d parted ways, Club Electric, a white box on the outside, hot joint on the inside, had changed names, hands and clientele a good dozen times. But a few things remained constant--the music, the raw atmosphere--and the availability of men like Frankie, who defined the word caliente.

Like the song said, Hot, hot, hot.

“We were young then,” Marisela admitted with a shrug, loosening the holster strap that cradled the cherished 9mm Taurus Millennium she wore beneath her slick leather jacket. “Now, I’m all grown up.”

Marisela wiggled her crimson fingernails at Theresa, the owner of the club. The way the older woman’s face lit up, Marisela figured she was going to get more than a drink. Damn. Marisela loved Theresa as if she were her aunt, but now wasn’t the time for...

“Oh, Marisela! Mija, how can I thank you for what you did?”

Yep. Exactly the greeting Marisela expected. The sentiment was as loud as it was sincere. So she’d done a nice thing for Theresa. The world didn’t have to know. Good deeds could ruin her reputation.

And a simple thank-you wasn’t enough for Theresa. She stepped up onto the shelf on the other side of the bar and practically launched herself into Marisela’s arms. Rolling her eyes at Frankie, Marisela gave the owner a genuine squeeze. She deserved as much. She was a good listener, kept great secrets and mixed the best Cuba Libre in town.

“De nada, Theresa,” Marisela said, gently disentangling herself. She appreciated the woman’s gratitude, but she had work to do. “Anything for you. Anytime. For you, drinks are on the house from now on, okay? You and...your friend.”

Even as she tried to be the courteous hostess, Theresa’s voice faltered when her eyes met Frankie’s. Marisela’s ex hadn’t been in the neighborhood for years. And in that time, he’d aged. His skin, naturally dark, now sported a rough texture, complete with a scar that traced just below his bottom lip. His jaw seemed sharper and his once perfect nose now shifted slightly to the right--likely the result of an untreated break. Even if he hadn’t matured from a devilish boy to a clearly dangerous man, he likely wouldn’t be recognized by anyone but Marisela and a few others who’d once known him well--the very “others” Marisela had made sure wouldn’t come into Club Electric again, on Theresa’s behalf.

“I never say no to free booze,” Marisela answered. “Gracias, Theresa.”

Theresa blew Marisela a kiss, patted her cheek, then moved aside to work on her drink. To most people, a Cuba Libre was just rum and coke with lime. To Marisela, it was a taste of heaven.

“What did you do for her?” Frankie asked, his voice even, as if he wasn’t really curious.

Marisela knew better. She slid her arms on the bar, arching her back, working out the kinks in her spine while giving Frankie an unhampered view of her breasts. She didn’t want him to waste his curiosity on what she’d done for Theresa; she wanted to pique his interest another way.

“Last week, las Reiñas chose this bar as their new hang-out. Not quite the clientele Theresa has in mind. Gangs aren’t exactly good for business. I politely asked them to pick someplace else.”

“Politely?” Frankie asked, his dark eyebrows bowed over his hypnotic eyes. “Last I remember, las Reiñas didn’t respond well to polite.”

Marisela shrugged. She’d earned a great deal of respect from her former gang by choosing to bleed out. Every fighting skill she’d ever learned, every survival instinct she’d ever experienced, had gotten her out alive. Barely.

“They’ve learned some manners while you’ve been gone. Lots of things have changed. Like,” she said, snagging his beer around the neck and taking a sip, “I don’t settle for fast and furious no more.”

Frankie didn’t move a muscle. “Is that so?”

She smoothed her tongue over her teeth, then licked the lip of his bottle, careful not to smudge her ruby red lipstick. He snagged his drink back and chugged, his gaze locked on her mouth. Frankie always had a thing for her lips. Marisela thought they resembled something between Julia Roberts and a grouper, but Frankie considered her thick, pouty flesh mighty fine. A detail she intended to use to her advantage, now that she’d found the man.

Theresa delivered her rum and coke, tall and icy with a wedge of lime. After another wary glance at Frankie, she left them alone.

“So you come here a lot?” he asked.

“Where else am I gonna go? This is West Tampa, not Miami. We’ve got one club and this is it.”

“There’s always Ybor City.”

“If you don’t mind drunks who can’t dance and ridiculous cover charges. This is still the neighborhood hot spot. You’d know that if you came around more.”

“I’ve been busy,” he answered, draining the rest of his beer.

She sipped her spiked cola. “And how was prison?”

He chuckled, slid his beer bottle away. “Big party,” he quipped. “I got out two years ago.”

“Really? I hadn’t heard.”

He snorted. He likely knew as well as she did that the precise location and activities of all the neighborhood kids--young, old and in between--were reported, catalogued and reported again from the shiny vinyl chairs of Viola’s Beauty Parlor, two blocks south of Columbus Drive. Their mothers both had standing appointments every weekend. And thanks to her mother’s devotion to the Saturday morning religion of gossip and speculation, Marisela knew precisely what Frankie had been up to over the last decade as if she’d been there herself. Gang. Prison. Dock work in Miami. Nothing too complicated.

Then a week ago, he’d shown up in Tampa uninvited and unexpected. After less than an hour in town, he’d been arrested for possession. Thanks to his parents, he’d made bail--and then he’d promptly disappeared.

Which was why she was here.

“So what have you been up to, Marisela?”

Her turn to snort. “Nothing too exciting. I did nails for a while. Worked at Wal-Mart. Graduated to Saks. Did some phone work and filing for Alberto Garcia, on the side. Now, I’m looking again.”

She conveniently left out the parts his mother couldn’t possibly have told him. Hardly anyone knew that her work for Alberto went beyond answering calls and shoveling papers. The owner of AAA-Able Bail Bonds had helped her out when her gang activity landed her in juvie. Instead of processing the teen and sending her on her way, he’d promise her a job. A real job. One where she’d put her fighting skills and gun experience to good use. She’d run little errands for him and trained her ass off until she turned twenty-one. Then, he’d put her in enforcement. For seven years, she’d tracked down bail-jumping bozos all across the state.

But Alberto had been careful not to send her into her own neighborhood to pick up strays. Called it a conflict of interest. So her secret life was safe. A good thing, too, since Frankie might not be so anxious to relive a little heat from their past if he knew she still carried a gun.

Illegally, but that was a fact she continued to ignore. She’d lost her license to carry and immediately thereafter, her position with AAA-Able. But she hadn’t given up her piece. What the cops didn’t know wouldn’t hurt them, but ditching her weapon could get her killed.

“So, you’re short on cash,” Frankie said with a nod, his lips slightly pursed, hinting that maybe he knew more than she’d hoped.

“Who isn’t?”

“Chasing deadbeats doesn’t appeal anymore?”

Damn. Frankie might have been away for a while, but he obviously still had contacts. Still, she wiggled her newly polished nails, the index fingers tipped with tiny fake diamonds and hoped to play down his knowledge of her enforcement activities. “Too hard on the manicure.”

He chuckled and downed the last of his beer. “Were you good?”

She sipped her Cuba Libre, enjoying the burst of the sweet carbonation against the smooth tang of the rum. “I’m good at lots of things.”

“I remember.”

Man, Frankie had some incredible eyes. Technically, they were hazel, but the flecks of green glittered as deep and vivid as fine oriental jade. Offset by his swarthy skin, his irises simmered with hot intentions--every one of which Marisela could have guessed in great detail.

“Wanna dance?” she asked, flicking a glance at the dance floor. At Club Electric, the music pulsed as hard and bright as the neon lights. Salsa queen Celia Cruz covered Gloria Gaynor’s infamous “I Will Survive” in Spanish, singing, “Yo Viviré” in her distinctive soulful voice. The minute Marisela allowed herself to acknowledge the sounds, the rhythm seeped into her veins. Her shoulders and hips rocked and her feet itched to hit the dance floor and work off some of the fiery vibe slashing between her and Frankie.

“No,” he answered.

She didn’t hide her disappointment, pushing her lips into a thick pout. “Why not?”

“Not in the mood.”

She leaned forward, her lips inches from his ear as the crowd around them whooped and sang a chorus with Celia. “I can always put you in the mood, Frankie.” She shimmied her shoulders ever so slightly. “Like no other woman ever could.”

“We were young, Marisela. Didn’t take much to put either of us in the mood.”

She laughed, punched him in the shoulder then downed a few more gulps of her drink. A flush of warm heat surrounded her skin and she didn’t know if the reaction stemmed from their proximity to the masses on the dance floor or from being so close, and yet so far, from her first love.

Back in high school, she and Frankie had melted more than one dance floor--not to mention the damage they’d done to various back seats. He’d loved her wild ways, her innate curiosity. She’d wanted to explore the world, find her place outside the tight community she loved, but still resented. To date, she hadn’t gone anywhere too exotic, but her ambitions hadn’t died, even if they were harder to pursue with bills hitting the mailbox like baseball-sized hail.

Even after he’d chosen his gang over her, he’d kept her secrets. He’d never popped off to his hombres about her sexual appetites. The worst thing he’d ever done was break her teenage heart.

Now she was about to screw him in the worst possible way. Or maybe, the best way? Didn’t matter. Bottom line--she was going to royally piss him off, although for a good cause.

A very, noble cause. The noblest. Marisela may have skirted the law from time to time--well, she’d actually flashed and mooned the law on one or two occasions--but give her a benevolent purpose and she could be downright patriotic. And ruthless. Not that she needed a good reason to spend a little quality time with sexy, dangerous, Frankie Vega. But lucky for her, she had a good reason all the same. He was about to jump bail and she was going to stop him.

She finished her drink, slipped her fingers into her jacket pocket, threw a ten onto the bar and nodded toward the door.

“If you don’t want to dance, let’s go.”

She twisted off the barstool, but Frankie moved only to tilt his head toward hers so she’d hear him over the music and the crowd.

“How do you know I’m not waiting for someone?”

Surrendering to her instincts, Marisela drew one of her long fingernails over Frankie’s angular jawline. The rough rasp of his stubble ignited the nerves on her fingertips, sparking jolts of electric need in the tips of her breasts. “I don’t. But you just got a better offer.”

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