Domino Black's mission is simple--lure Luke Brasco into her bed, find out everything about him and if he's the man selling government secrets to enemy terrorists--kill him.  Little does she expect that the sexy Chicago club owner has more to hide than felonious intentions--he's the man who wants to steal her heart.

Excerpt

She’d kick ass on this mission.

She’d show the Committee what she was really capable of.

Hell, she’d show herself.

With wicked delight, she strode past the long line of people waiting behind the velvet rope to gain entrance to the club. Music pulsed from the thick, brick walls, blasting and then receding every time someone opened the double-wide red leather doors. She endured the jibes and venomous stares of the crowd, feeding off their anger as she cut through the system. If they only knew...

The bouncer crossed his bulky arms across and even thicker chest. “And you are?”

She smiled. “Now, you see, that’s the big secret. One your boss has been trying to figure out for over twenty-four hours.”

“Which boss?” the bruiser said, casting a glance over at Mikey Maldonado, Luke Brasco’s head of security and a former Army MP who’d only returned from tours in Afghanistan and Iraq less than two years ago.

Mikey straightened when he saw her, his gaze both suspicious and guarded. She curled a straight strand of hair behind her ear and quirked a saucy grin.

He opened the door. “Let her in.”

She voluptuously mouthed a thank-you, then crossed inside. Just over the threshold, Mikey grabbed her arm, his grip vice-like and hard. She might have drilled him if not for the fact that acting like the hired killer she was didn’t jibe with the persona she’d created to achieve her objective.

She glanced up at him coolly. “Something I can help you with?”

“The boss is a good guy,” Mikey said. “He doesn’t need some chick messing with his head.”

She stretched upward. “I’m not just some chick. And it’s not his head I intend to mess with. Well, not the one with the brain.”

With three fingers, she illustrated her point on his wrist. Nothing fancy, just a basic self-defense move any girl should know. Pain fired his eyes and he instantly released her. He was lucky she didn’t snap a bone.

“What the...?”

She smiled and patted him on the shoulder. “Manhandling is not cool, got it? Your boss is a big boy. I’m sure he can take care of himself.”

She swung around to find herself chest-to-chest with the man in question.

Luke Brasco. The man sin forgot.

He was wearing black. Black shirt. Black jeans. Black boots. He’d practically mimicked her look from the night before and she suddenly understood why the combination had been so effective. Against all the darkness, his light blue eyes sliced through her and simmered the blood coursing through her system.

“So you finally returned,” he said.

“Said I would, didn’t I?”

“Words are cheap.”

“Words won’t be so cheap when I use them to tell you who I am,” she countered.

He leaned forward, his chin brushing against her cheek. “You don’t need to tell me, sweetheart. I already know.”

Surprise flashed in her eyes and Luke grinned. She wasn’t the only one who could be mysterious. She was, however, the only one who knew her name. He’d asked around, showed a picture printed from the video to all the regulars in the club and while a few remembered seeing her the night before, no one had exchanged so much as a word with her--and no one knew her name. He’d even tried to contact Carson Mathers, but the old emergency number, work number and cell phone number his former tenant had left on his lease no longer worked--adding to the unknown quality that was this woman.

Adding to the desire.

“You may think you know,” she quipped. “But you don’t have a clue.”

On a brisk shot of air, she immediately chilled, marching past him and through the crowd. If anyone didn’t get out of her way fast enough, she moved them with a little shove. One woman who didn’t appreciate the push rounded on her to protest, but his new tenant had her would-be opponent backing down with little more than a steely glare.

By the time she reached the stairwell and took the first step, he had to lunge to catch her by the elbow.

“What’s your problem?” he asked.

The anger he’d caught a glimpse of moments before slid instantly out of her body. She eased up against him. She wasn’t a petite woman in terms of height, so one step up from him and they were eye-to-eye. Breasts to chest. Groin inches from groin.

“My problem is you’re taking all the fun out of my little game,” she replied.

He arched a brow. “What game is that? Pull the wool over the landlord’s eyes?”

She licked her lips and gyrated her hips so that her jean-encased sex brushed hotly against his. “You like blindfolds?”

He chuckled. “I’m not adverse to them.”

“Even with women you don’t know? You are the adventurer, aren’t you?”

“With the right woman.”

“Care to put your money where your mouth is?” she challenged.

“You’re assuming you’re the right woman.”

Laughter erupted from deep in her gut. “I never make assumptions. I’m simply stating a fact.”

She turned to dash up the stairs, but he hadn’t released her elbow, so he easily waylaid her escape and tugged her against him. She didn’t protest, but instead, speared her hands through his hair, grabbed his cheeks with her palms and pulled his lips against hers.

Instantly, her tongue slipped into his mouth. The flavor of clean, crisp mint invaded his senses, but the effect was anything but cool and refreshing. The kiss was brief, but so hot, he imagined smoke puffing out of his mouth when she pushed him away.

He cleared his throat.

“What was that?” he asked.

“Don’t you know?” She moistened her top lip with her tongue, then performed a little flick that invoked a million and a half wicked possibilities. Oh, to feel that tongue on him again. Wet. Skilled. Uninhibited.

“I know that any woman who kisses her landlord without sharing her name first is up to something.”

“Are you always so suspicious?”

He crossed his arms tightly over his chest. “Yes.”

She made a soft clucking noise that he only heard because she leaned forward to make sure he didn’t miss one sound. “Such a shame to be so young and so jaded.”

“I’m not so young.”

She grinned. “Neither am I.”

With a spin, she took the stairs two at a time, a mighty feat in those killer heels. She stopped at the top and with an impatient look over her shoulder, indicated she expected him to follow.

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Sultry Latina bounty hunter Marisela Morales is back, taking on the Boston elite--and her gorgeous ex--in a red-hot roller-coaster adventure that once again tests Marisela's skills and resolve to solve the case and keep her heart off limits.

Excerpt

“You have a half an hour until your shift,” Max informed her. “Finish your champagne. Mingle. Get a feel for the layout of the place. But stay out of trouble.”

She turned to blast him for his parental tone, but not surprisingly, Max had disappeared. She found some measure of comfort in the fact that she caught sight of the back of his head as he eased through the crowd.

He wasn’t a ghost, but he sure as hell acted like one sometimes.

Mingle, he said. Get a feel for the layout.

She’d rather get a feel for the dark-skinned, long-haired hombre on the other side of the dance floor, staring at her as if she were the only woman in the room.

He wore a sequined black mask, but with the slim line of a beard tracing the hard edge of his chin, he oozed machismo. His tuxedo emphasized his physique--not too muscled, but by no means slim. She arched a brow, intrigued. With a cool stride, he walked from the foyer and into the ballroom, stopping to raise his champagne toward her in invitation.

Moving in his direction, she downed the rest of her own champagne and deposited the empty flute on a passing waiter’s tray. She did look hot tonight. And she still had a good thirty minutes before Max would miraculously find her and escort her to her post. Might as well find someone...er, something...interesting to do until then.

As she moved, she enjoyed the soft friction of her silk gown against her skin. One perk of working for Titan was the wardrobe. She’d been hustled from the private airstrip where the Titan plane had landed from Mexico to an exclusive Newbury Street boutique, where she’d chosen the most expensive gown in the shop. Royal purple and spaghetti strapped, the dress curved deliciously over her body from the plunging neckline to the fitted bodice to the skirt that flared at the hips with just enough Latina swish to hide the LadySmith revolver she had strapped to her inner thigh.

But she doubted she’d need the piece tonight. Anyone who tried to rob this bunch would have to be certifiable. As she wove through the dance floor seeking out the sexy man in black, she noticed security guards posted near every exit. The Secret Service had blocked off access to large portions of the expansive grounds, and even Titan’s operatives had to check in through a special clearance procedure.

But none of that mattered to her when she caught sight of her mystery man talking to the bandleader. A few seconds later, the music segued into a Latin beat. A salsa. Not a boppy, cheerful salsa, but a sensual, sultry one. The music instantly pulsed deep in her belly. A crowd surged all around her. Even the gringos couldn’t resist such an undeniable rhythm.

She closed her eyes. Listened. Son of a bitch. He’d requested “Reina de Reinas.” Queen of queens. She moved the bangle bracelet she wore on her left wrist and glanced at her tattoo, the only physical evidence left of her gang days, except for the scar behind her ear, hidden by her thick, dark hair. The brand at the base of her hand was a small purple crown, tipped with red jewels--the color of rubies, the color of blood. The color las Reinas wore when they wanted their enemies to be very, very afraid.

Her eyes flashed to the man in black. He stood in front of the stage, his face hidden behind a mask she could now see was tied with a blood-red ribbon. He raised a hand toward her, beckoning, inviting, demanding.

With an intrigued smile, she stepped nearer, inviting the music into her blood. The bongos beat a sway into her hips and the horns blared the shimmy into her shoulders. The minute the flesh of her fingers finally slid into his warm palm, he tugged her forward against his chest, rock hard and flowing with pure, male power. She’d just danced herself into danger of the most carnal kind.

And after one glance into his hazel eyes--flecked with slivers of deep jade green--followed by the tandem swivel of his hips pressed close to hers--she knew.

Danger with a capital F. She smiled cryptically. The cabrón. Did he really think she wouldn’t recognize him?

He grinned, emphasizing the thin, sculpted line of facial hair that traced from his sideburns down his strong chin, then spiked up toward his full lips. The dark streak of a moustache dashed across his upper lip and the wicked triangle below his bottom lip made him look like el Diablo himself. To anyone else, his disguise might have been convincing.

But not to the girl who’d given him her virginity.

“So, where have you been all my life?” she asked him in Spanish.

Or more specifically, for the last two months. On their last mission together, Frankie Vega had taken a bullet that had nearly cost him his life. Before she’d left for Mexico, she’d stayed by his side, making sure that he lived long enough to turn her life upside down at least one more time.

He didn’t answer her question, but instead, spun her skillfully beneath his arm, then stepped into the dance with sure and certain fire. Marisela matched him twist for twist, turn for turn and kicked-up heel to kicked-up heel. Gazes locked, they danced the full breadth of the song until just before the final verse, when he slid his hand to the small of her back, yanked her flush against him, and then spun them off the dance floor into a corner behind the bandstand.

He pressed the wall and a door slid open. Marisela bet the cops out front didn’t know about this hiding place, though she wasn’t surprised Frankie had found it. He had a talent for finding places he wasn’t supposed to be. With a slight gesture, he invited her inside. Once they were through a narrow archway, a steep and winding stairwell emerged from the shadows. Marisela freed herself from his bone-melting embrace and placed her palm squarely on the center of his chest.

“Where do you think you’re taking me?” she whispered, her nose skimming the rough texture of his chin.

“A cielo, encantadora.”

She laughed. Frankie had called her many things over the years, but witch had always been one of his favorites.

“To heaven, huh?” She traced his slim beard, enjoying the textures beneath her fingertip--the smooth heat of his skin, the prickly pinch of his razor-thin beard which effectively covered the scar that she knew lingered beneath his bottom lip. “You look more like el Diablo than any angel I’ve ever known, señor. But then, that’s the idea, isn’t it?”

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Julie Leto pairs fire and ice in “Meltdown,” the sensual tale of a Cuban-American PR whiz whose job description includes thawing her CEO boss’s frosty image. Will their sparks torch into flames of passion?

Excerpt

Isabel slammed the file drawer shut. The sound vibrated through her before bursting through the deserted office like a sonic boom. Coming in to the office so late had been a lesson in frustration, but since the boat sailed into port this morning, she hadn’t been able to think of anything but Simon. Simon winking at her. Simon smiling at her. Simon speaking to her in soft, rich tones that made her insides pulsate with needs she dare not name. The worst part was that her obsession wasn’t stemming from the board’s directive. She’d hardly thought about them at all. She wanted Simon to loosen up for purely personal, particularly sexual reasons.

Since she’d made her wish at the sacred cenote, the ability to think about Simon in a purely professional manner had completely deserted her. Every time she stared at the mask Suezette had bought her--the one that looked exactly like the coin she’d tossed in the water though larger and in hand-painted colors rather than glimmering gold--her mind burgeoned with nothing but hot, erotic images of her and Simon. At the gym. In his car. On his desk.

“This is insane!” she screamed, slamming the file against the metal drawer.

“I agree. Pure insanity.”

She started, but the warmness in Simon’s deep baritone soothed away her fear instantaneously. Slowly, she turned to find him leaning against the doorjamb to her office, his tie abandoned, his arms crossed dashingly over his broad chest, his eyes glittering with something she’d never seen in them before.

Amusement? Casual comfort? Desire?

Man, she’d clearly gotten too much Mexican sun.

“What are you doing here?” she asked, inhaling deeply even as she tried to hide the calming move from his view.

“Trying to avoid you,” he replied.

“Excuse me?”

He pushed off from the door and before she could retreat, he’d invaded her personal space--not close enough to touch without reaching, but close enough so that the sandalwood and musk in his cologne teased her nostrils and heated her already balmy skin. She glanced around, hoping no one else was here to witness this...what? A breach in office etiquette? A sexually charged moment? More like a one hundred and eighty degree personality change.

“You’ve been gone all week,” he explained. “Six whole days, not counting the weekend. And yet, for some reason I either can’t figure out or don’t really want to, I haven’t been able to get you off of my mind.”

She stepped back. Isabel wasn’t one to retreat from any man, but she hadn’t come into the office to pick up a few things before tomorrow’s workday with any preparation of meeting the man that had somehow, in her absence, become the man of her dreams.

"Is that the same mind that you’ve so obviously lost?” she quipped, hoping to offset this suddenly uncomfortable interaction.

The corner of his mouth quirked into a roguish grin.

Roguish grin?

“Okay,” she said, pounding her fists onto her hips. “Who are you and what have you done with my boss?”

The grin spread to the other corner of his mouth and even reached his eyes, which sparkled sapphire in the dim office lights.

“Let me introduce myself,” he said, reaching down to capture her hand, which she was sure shook as if she’d never touched a man before. “Simon Brennan, CEO of the Making Moms Foundation.” He lifted her hand to his lips and brushed a kiss over her knuckles. The contact ignited a flash fire that instantly blazed across her skin. “And you are?”

Melting into a puddle on the floor?

“Confused,” she whispered. He was so close, any higher volume would have been a waste of energy.

He cleared his throat and dropped her hand. Damn him.

“I was trying a new tactic.”

He backed away, giving her the reprieve she needed to cross her arms protectively. “And this new tactic would be?”

He frowned. “I was going for charming. How’d I do?”

Man, oh, man, couldn’t he tell? The crossed arms weren’t just for comfort. She was quite certain her nipples were poking straight through her bra and blouse. His instant off-switch, on the other hand, made her frown deeply.

“Not half bad, if you were the CEO of a brothel or chain of strip clubs. I’m not sure wicked playboy is the personality type the board of directors of a charitable foundation would appreciate running their show.”

He nodded, though his smile returned briefly, just after she’d said, wicked playboy. “Yeah, I was concerned about that. I guess we’re going to have to keep working on the new, improved me.”

How could she possibly improve on perfection? Okay, granted, the Simon Brennan she’d just experienced wasn’t going to save her job or his, but she was certain that charmer could do amazing things in her bedroom.

She cleared her throat and marched back to her desk, trying to come up with something halfway professional or intelligent to say. Unfortunately, with her knuckles still trembling from the contact with his lips, she couldn’t form even the simplest coherent thought.

“How was your trip?”

His words signaled a return to their normally cool and casual tenor, but his tone remained deep and bone-melting.

“Nothing to write home about.”

“Not much reason to write home when your entire family was with you, right?”

Isabel smiled. Yeah, he had a point.

“My family actually isn’t so bad. Don’t tell anyone. We’re very dysfunctional. We actually like each other.”

He feigned shock. “How politically incorrect!”

She couldn’t deny the opening. “What about your family? I’m assuming you have one?”

“I wasn’t spawned in the icy waters in some mysterious polar region, if that’s what you’re asking.”

The hint of humor in his voice, unexpected, but welcome, kept her from feeling guilty about how her question sounded. “That’s not what I’m asking. You simply don’t talk about parents or siblings. You don’t have pictures in your office.”

He nodded and surprisingly, slipped into one of the pair of chairs in front of her desk. Isabel sat beside him on the matching chair, allowing herself only a split second to notice how close their knees were to touching. “The pictures I have, and admittedly, there aren’t many, are at my condo, placed there by my mother. I also have a brother who lives in Los Angeles. In fact, I had dinner with my mother tonight. You might have heard of her? Jennifer Brennan Davis?”

“Her husband is one of our biggest donors.” Isabel knew her eyes had widened to the size of saucers. “She’s not old enough to be your mother!”

“That’s what her parents said when she came home at fourteen, pregnant and in love with a loser.”

Isabel gripped the arm rests of her chair. “You’re just full of surprises tonight.”

“Didn’t expect that I was the child of a teenage mother just like the ones we help?”

“Even if I did--which I didn’t--I never expected you to freely admit something so personal. Not that there’s anything wrong with admitting your connection to the foundation’s goals, but I’m just surprised at your candor.”

He leaned forward, balancing his elbows on his knees so that mere inches existed between them. His fingers dangled perilously close to where the hem of her skirt flared over her lap. What would it feel like, she wondered, if he reached forward and explored the sensitive flesh of her thighs?

After a moment’s hesitation, he looked up at her with hooded eyes. “I’ve had a lot of time to think about what you said to me before you left. And I think that opening up about my past, maybe just to you, might make it easier for me to relate to the women we work with here.”

Isabel’s chest tightened. He wanted her to be his confidant? Oh, this was a mistake of monumental proportions--for reasons too numerous to number and too personal to admit. How was she supposed to keep her hands and dirty thoughts to herself when he was about to unburden his soul to her?

And yet, she managed to clamp her mouth shut. He’d refused to open up to her when she’d made the suggestion to him last week, but he’d obviously had a change of heart. In fact, he was so warm, she was sure that one glance from him could turn any one of the cruise ship’s famous ice sculptures into a dripping mess in ten seconds flat.

She prayed her voice wouldn’t betray her once she opened her mouth to speak. “That sounds like a very enlightened idea.”

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Lilith St. John is a witch—really. And she hasn't been too good lately. It seems using her powers to make Detective Mac Mancusi totally infatuated with her was a big no-no. Who knew? After all, what woman could resist having a sexy guy like Mac aching for her every minute they were apart? But the council isn't pleased—in fact, they're stripping Lilith of her powers. What's a witch to do?

Especially now—when Mac's suddenly back in her life, looking to rekindle the magic…"

Excerpt

Mac drummed his fingers on the kitchen counter, trying not to turn around and stare at the altar in Lilith’s living room. He kept himself occupied by downing another shot of the bourbon he’d found in her liquor cabinet. Had she really had an altar before? Had he really taken so little stock of the living area (as opposed to the sleeping area) of Lilith’s apartment that he couldn’t remember that she had a waist-high chest covered with a blue cloth and dotted by a hand-molded ceramic bowl of sea salt, matching white and black candles, incense, a blossoming stalk of celery, a pentagram and a knife he was very relieved to find had a dull blade, and because he couldn’t help but check, no obvious blood residue? Clearly, there was more to this woman than he anticipated. Other than the sex and their partnerships in the precinct, what did he really know about her?

He remembered precisely where she had her little star tattoo--a symbol he now realized meant more to her than he’d ever imagined. He remembered the exact location of her erogenous zones, all for entirely selfish reasons. Everything else he’d thought he knew about her--from her preference for thin, New York style pizza even though they lived in the land of the deep dish to her insane knowledge of seventies rock bands and science fiction cinema--had all become suspect when he’d realized she could read his thoughts. They’d had so much in common then. Before he knew the complete truth...that her knowledge was mostly his, gleaned from his mind by a power he’d never truly understand.

“Hey.”

He started, sloshing the bottle of bourbon he held tight in his hand.

“Sorry,” he said. “Didn’t hear you coming.”

“Welcome to my world,” she quipped, grabbing the shot glass and bourbon from in front of him.

He took a deep breath, inhaling the fresh, crisp scents of toothpaste and body spritz emanating from her body. She’d loosened the buttons on her blouse and the way her hips made tiny figure eights while she poured bourbon into the glass testified to pent-up sexual energy. She’d made no secret that she wanted to seduce him or that she wanted to be seduced. Had his discovery of her altar and Josie’s theory on psychic control changed that?

Who was he kidding?

“Want to talk about your world?” he asked, hoping she’d say no. She’d run a brush through her hair, softening the spiky ends she’d worn this afternoon. His fingers itched to weave into the dark strands. She shifted as she set the bourbon on the counter, allowing him a more enticing view of the low-cut, tight tank she wore beneath her blouse.

She downed a gulp of booze in one quick swallow, arching her back as the liquor slid down her throat. “No.”

He smiled and refilled her glass. She made short work of the second shot as he poured his third. And he thought she only drank girlie wine coolers.

“Okay, yeah,” she contradicted, smacking her lips like the veteran drinker he’d thought she wasn’t. “But we’re still going to have sex, right?”

Mac’s laughter belief his true intentions. Despite the alcohol, his muscles tightened. Across his chest. Around his neck. Down his back. Below the belt.

He cleared his throat to keep from choking. “That’s the plan.”

“Good,” Lilith said decisively. “I like your plans.”

“Today’s plan didn’t go so well.”

She waved her hand dismissively. “It was off the cuff. As much as you think you’re all ‘go with the gut’ now, you’re really more of a step-by-step kind of guy--and there’s totally nothing wrong with that. We just need more time to...strategize.”

“We?”

She glanced at him seductively and staring into her emerald green eyes, he almost forgot what they were talking about. When she slipped the filmy blouse off her shoulders, allowing the gauzy material to flutter to the floor, he nearly forgot his name.

“Yes, we. You dragged me into this. Besides, without my powers, I have nothing else to do but work for the greater good of all Chicago. Pogo Goins knows something and Boothe Thompson is a snake. And frankly, I wouldn’t mind getting a piece of taking them down.”

God, he loved how her mind worked. He loved how she talked, the way her voice dropped to sexy, dulcet tones when she simmered with anger. Despite her protestations earlier, Mac knew Lilith would make a great cop. Sure, she’d spend a good deal of her time getting to know the guys at Internal Affairs or on suspension for breaking one rule or another, but when on duty, she’d make even the pettiest crime interesting.

“We may have lost our chance,” Mac decided. “Maybe I should just take a break and let the guys who still have badges handle this one. It’s not like I’ve got a secret weapon or anything.”

She crinkled her nose. “Is that a swipe?”

He winced, remember what she’d said about losing her powers. And more than that, how she’d said it. As if her heart had been ripped out, too.

“Sorry. That was rude.”

“Yes,” she agreed, pouring herself another shot of bourbon, but this time disposing of the alcohol in several relatively dainty sips.

“So who...stripped...your powers?”

Lilith glanced over at her living room. Mac had been staring in that direction long enough to know she was looking at her altar. Maybe he shouldn’t have asked.

“Let’s just say that powers like mine don’t go unchecked. If that were the case, you’d have a lot of psychics running the world, wouldn’t you?”

He’d never really considered that possibility. Before Lilith, he’d never even believed true psychics existed. Wasn’t easy to wrap his mind around the idea that she had to deal with psychic police. Question was, how much of her weird world spilled into his on a daily basis? Not many criminals were psychic or they wouldn’t get caught. Not many cops, either, or the whole force would be sitting pretty with bulging jails and little to do except play poker across the squad room table.

“Clairvoyants running the word would be bad.” He decided to agree with her, not knowing what else to say or what was safe to ask. Not because she wouldn’t answer, but because he knew she would.

“Well, that depends entirely on your point of view,” she said with a laugh that quickly dispersed when she got back to the subject. “Anyway, the people who regulate this sort of thing decided I needed a break from my abilities. I wasn’t exactly holding hard and fast to all the rules.”

“You?” he asked, exaggerating shock.

She sneered, though she managed to make the ugly expression adorable. “Yeah, yeah. Big shocker. I turned my talent into a business and that didn’t sit well with the...powers that be. That’s why the only help I can give you on this case is the normal, back-up, supportive, you-go-get-‘em Mac kind.

Mac licked his lips, enjoying the flavor of the bourbon on his skin and wanting more than anything to taste it on hers. “That’s not exactly true.”

Clearly, she noticed the sensual intentions buried beneath his words. And happily, she didn’t seem to mind the innuendo.

“Okay,” she agreed, biting her bottom lip. “But first, you have to accept that no matter what Josie said downstairs, I can’t control you. Even if I had my powers, which I don’t, I could never make you feel something you didn’t want to feel or do something you didn’t want to do.”

He slid the bottle away. “You’re lying.”

She stood up straight, her shoulders squared and her hands ready to wrap into tight fists. “Excuse me?”

“I just meant,” he said, taking her hands in his and working out the tension with his fingers, “that whether you mean to or not, you’re continually making me feel things I don’t want to feel. Every minute we’re together, you make me do things I don’t want to do. We’re so different, Lilith. I’m only realizing now how far apart our worlds are. And yet, here I am, wanting you, not for just an hour or a night, but for--”

Her gasp silenced him.

His kiss squelched the sounds that followed.

As he’d fantasized, her mouth tasted like peppermint and smooth, Kentucky whiskey, served in a warm glass. Her skin, so soft beneath his touch at first, prickled as a shiver danced through her body. He pressed her close, her body flush against his. He longed to strip her bare, expose her, raw and willing, to his hungry eyes.

Before he could tear off her tank top, she pressed her hands flush against his chest and backed away.

“What?” he asked, the word tearing from his throat as if formed with jagged glass.

Her eyes glittered with what he suspected were wicked intentions. Very wicked intentions.

She reached out and ran her finger across his lips, slipping the tip inside for a split second to tease his tongue. “I made big mistakes with you before, Mac.”

He shook his head to clear the lusty fog clouding his ability to process her words.

“Yeah, you kept shit from me. I reacted badly. Apologized. It’s over.”

He reached out for her, but she dodged his grab.

“That’s not what I meant.” Her voice was husky, deep and hot. She sashayed a few steps away from him, her hips undulating in a dance he couldn’t help but follow. “I wanted you so desperately the first time we met, I changed who I was to please you, at least in the bedroom. I broke into your thoughts and stole your sexual fantasies, then made them reality.”

His mouth dried as the memories swamped him. He swallowed, attempting to replenish the moisture. When it didn’t work, he grabbed the bourbon and took a swig without the glass. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “And the bad part of that was?”

She quirked an eyebrow, then slowly turned and strolled into the living room. His ears thrummed with the deep bass sounds of his heartbeat, suddenly in time with music about witchy women and their magical hold over their men.

Only she wasn’t in possession of her powers anymore, was she? This was all her. Real and unafraid to tempt him with the rock and roll of her sweetly curved backside and coy glances over her shoulder to see if he followed.

He marched into the room just as she draped herself across the couch.

“The bad part was,” she said, kicking off her sparkly sandals, “I never got any of my fantasies fulfilled.”

Her mouth quirked into a half grin, erasing any chastisement from her tone. The past was the past. They’d both made mistakes. If Mac had thought for one minute about wanting to fulfill Lilith’s fantasies, she would have read that in his mind and made sure it came to pass. Instead, he’d been having too much fun indulging his own preferences. He’d ignored hers.

Bastard.

He whipped his shirt over his head. “That’s criminal.”

She grinned, then curved her lips into an enticing pout. “That’s what I thought. What exactly do you think is justified punishment?”

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Welcome to the Sedona Rehab Center for the Magically Challenged...

We Make Magic Happen!

C A S E F I L E # 1 :
Regina St. Lyon’s powers have been waning. Maybe she did betray love, but what else could a duped girl do? At the time, banishing hotter-than-thou Brock Aegis to the Middle Realm seemed like a good idea. But now Brock is back…and so is his former boss. To defeat the powerful witch hunter, Brock and Regina have to join forces—and risk their hearts for another shot at a real and lasting love.

Excerpt

Filling her lungs with the smoldering night air, Regina St. Lyon closed her eyes tightly and chanted. After one verse, she tripped over the words. She cursed, struggling to remember the phrases in the right order, to speak the forbidden language of her Wiccan ancestors with the right inflections. She took another deep breath and nearly choked on the mixed scents of charred herbs, burnt grass, singed skin and blood. The blood of her beloved.

“Regina, don’t do this,” Brock demanded. He’d dropped to his knees, pain evident in each syllable he uttered. His face, once so devastatingly handsome, now was simply devastated.

Regina’s palm still simmered from the magical burst of energy she’d used to defend herself. He’d betrayed her. And if she didn’t recite the forbidden curse now to banish him to the middle realm, he’d destroy her entire race.

She squeezed her eyelids tighter, blocking out the sight of the man she’d once loved, holding back the rush of tears threatening to burst through. She hadn’t asked to be chosen as Guardian of Witches, but the responsibilities had been bred into her from birth. She hadn’t asked for her mother to die, forcing the Council to coronate Regina as Guardian when she was only sixteen. She certainly hadn’t asked for Brock Aegis to sneak into her life ten years later, posing as a male witch seeking help from the Registry of Witches so he could seduce her and then to turn on her like the Hunter he was. She hadn’t asked for this heartbreak, but now, as always, she had to stand strong.

She had to destroy him before he destroyed her.

She chanted again and again until the intonations spilled off her lips like the rush of a swift river. She opened her eyes, calm as she surrounded herself with the power of her ancestors. Her mother. Her grandmother. Her great-grandmother and great-great aunt--all women of the St. Lyon line charged with the protection of the witching world, from the non-magical mundanes who followed the tenets of Wicca to the magical sacreds who, like her, possessed powers at odds with the laws of physics and nature.

As the magic stirred, Brock tried to stand. The ground around him shook. Cracked. Still, he straightened and balanced his body, squared his shoulders and locked his eyes on her, his mouth dropping open when he realized what she had done.

She’d opened the portal to the Middle Realm.

“Regina,” he said, his voice dropping in volume, but not in intensity. She didn’t want to stare into his wide, black eyes, but she could not look away. Until he was gone, she’d forever be under his spell--trapped by the grand illusion of love and devotion that had nearly cost her life.

“You gave me no choice, Brock. You hunted me. You caught me. But now your prey has broken free.”

He opened his mouth to speak again, but the vibration of the ground around him cut him short. The crust of the Earth split in a spider web of cracks around him. The Hunter had become the quarry about to be swallowed by the source of all witching power.

Brock gave her a nod. Had he accepted his fate? Around him, rocks burst into the air and columns of red-hot steam spiraled into the sky.

Regina locked her knees, bracing herself for his descent, but her legs shook so violently, she had to grab onto the nearest tree. When a root shot out of the ground and like a snake and slithered toward Brock, she swallowed a scream.

She wanted to stop this. She wanted to save him from a fate that rivaled death in cruelty. But despite the tears clouding her vision, Regina knew she’d acted as Guardian in the fullest sense--sacrificing her own heart in the process. The heart he’d tricked, lied-to, and broken.

The dirt-encrusted roots slid across the ground from four directions. With his eyes trained on her, Brock held out his arms to the monstrous vines. They twined around him, binding his wrists, ankles, midsection and neck. He didn’t protest, didn’t curse, didn’t speak a single word even when the roots yanked him down through the broken ground and into the tempest below.

Regina fell to the ground at the same second he disappeared. As the clearing reformed, erasing all evidence of the battle, Regina allowed herself to weep for her humiliation and for her loss. By the time she’d calmed, the clearing where she’d led Brock had returned to normal. Crickets and frogs sang in the distance. Wind rustled softly through the verdant leaves.

Except for the sound of her ragged breathing, no one who stumbled into this park on the grounds of the Registry would ever know the violence that had erupted here--all at her hand.

“Regina.”

She shot to her feet, her muscles protesting, searching for the source of the sound.

“Regina.”

“Brock?” she responded.

She glanced at the ground at the center of the clearing where she’d formed the ancient circle and banished her lover to the underworld. Not even a blade of grass looked out of place.

“Regina, wake up.”

His voice sounded hollow, as if far away. Stumbling, she made her way to the core of the clearing and pawed at the ground. It was solid. He was trapped. She’d used the forbidden curse. No magic, not even the powerful spells handed down from her ancestors, could undo his doom.

“Regina, please. You have to remember. There isn’t much time.”

Suddenly, a choking sensation gripped her. She clawed at her throat, trying to relieve the invisible pressure strangling the breath out of her. Her hands made contact with the platinum chain she wore around her neck and the metal burned.

And then, broke away.

She gasped for air. Her eyes snapped open, jolting her out of her nightmare and into the cold reality of her room. The full moon just outside her uncovered window threw blue streaks across her bed. Drenched with sweat, her sheets coiled around her body, tangling with the silk boxers and t-shirt she’d worn to sleep. Beside her, incense smoldered, injecting the air with the lingering perfume of lavender and sandalwood, meant to calm her. The herbs had failed miserably. Her heart was still trying to pound its way through her ribs. Her lungs, fed by ragged breaths, ached inside her chest.

She dragged her hand to her neck and this time, registered the absence of her talisman.

“Looking for this?”

He emerged from the shadows boots first, the leather dirty and torn. His jeans, ripped at the seams, hung loosely, as if his muscles had atrophied or body weight had simply melted off his normally powerful frame. His shirt still held the stains of his injuries from their battle. Dried blood mingled with the smoky streaks of scorch marks.

She remembered.

All of it. Every detail. Every emotion.

With a thought, she sparked the lamp beside her bed. The glow instantly reflected off the amulet he dangled between his grimy fingers. The alexandrite, nearly the size of her palm, shined purplish red in the incandescent light. Brock had not only returned from the Middle Realm where she’d banished him three months ago, he’d stolen the talisman she’d enchanted to block the memories of him from her mind--memories wrenched from the darkest recesses of her soul. Memories that kept her from performing as Guardian.

“Give it back,” she demanded.

“So you can forget about me again? Forget what you did to me?”

“I had no choice.” She wrestled to remove the tangled sheets from her body. When she succeeded, she slid off the bed and faced him. She jutted her chin forward even as her betrayed heart screamed for her to crumble into a mottled mess on the floor. “You came to Sedona to kill me. Or did you expect I’d let you murder me simply because you’d tricked your way into my bed?”

He dropped his hand, the talisman dangling at his side. The spell she’d cast over the ancient stone of her ancestors would no longer keep the memories at bay. She had no idea how, but Brock had returned. Now, she would need her painful memories to protect the Registry. To protect her people. To protect her heart.

“No. I mean, yes, I intended to destroy you,” he explained, his voice raspy. “But I never meant to...I never meant to love you.”

“Spare me, Brock! How can I accept the word of a Hunter? You were born and raised with one motive, just as I was. But while I was trained to protect my people, you were trained to destroy us. I cannot change who I am any more than you.”

“I have changed.”

Regina’s bitter laugh rent the suddenly stifling aromatic air. “You are a Hunter. How many witches did you kill before you found me, Brock? How many?”

He took a step forward, but Regina stopped him by raising her palm. As the Guardian, she possessed a rare and terrible power--the ability to harness energy and concentrate it into a ball of electric pain that she could hurl at will. The energy bursts had given her the upper hand in her battle with Brock three months ago. Why did she hesitate now?

“Regina, there isn’t time for me to explain, but I’ve come back to save you.”

“Save me from what? I survived you. What could possibly be worse?”

Brock threw Regina’s talisman on the bed, his shoulders taut and his eyes dark. A shiver rippled from the hairs on the surface of her skin to deep inside her belly.

“Old Movert,” he replied.

Regina’s chest tightened under the weight of this enemy’s name.

“Old Movert is a myth. He doesn’t exist.”

Brock chuckled, but his laugh contained not a hint of mirth or happiness. “You’re wrong. Old Movert is very, very real. You’ll know that for yourself soon, when he comes here to kill you.”

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