From the book

Chapter One

Katie Marcelli knew that with the right staff, she could organize the world. But as good help was hard to find, she contented herself with smaller projects, such as organizing closets, parties, and seminars. She owned her own business, made a decent living, and had a five-year business plan that would make a Fortune 500 CEO weep with envy. She was tough, confident, in charge.

On the outside.

On the inside her nerves were currently playing baseball in her stomach, and someone had just hit a foul ball down the third base line. She pressed a hand to her midsection and knew that fourth cup of coffee she'd gulped in her car was about to turn to acid. She was tense, wired, and pacing in high heels that might make her ankles look as slender as a gazelle's but also threatened her future ability to walk without a limp.

Oh, please, oh, please let me say just the right thing, she thought as she paused in front of a large window overlooking Century City and Beverly Hills. Opportunities like this didn't come along every day. She'd wanted to take her company to the next level, and this job was going to make it happen. All she had to do was be...sparkling.

The word made her smile. Ah, yes. She was "the Sparkling One." Bright, bubbly, like fine champagne that had --

"Ms. Marcelli? Mr. Stryker will see you now."

Katie turned toward a well-dressed fifty-something woman who held open a thick door and motioned for her to enter.

Katie stepped from the nicely carpeted hallway into sink-to-your-ankles plushness in an office the size of Rhode Island. A corner office, with floor-to-ceiling windows, sleek yet traditional furniture, a massive pair of leather sofas on the walls opposite the windows, and an elegantly dressed man good-looking enough to grace one of the billboards that lined Sunset Boulevard.

Zach Stryker, one of only three senior partners in the largest family law firm in the Los Angeles metropolitan area, and the youngest partner. He had a reputation for being tough, unflinching, and a hell of a negotiator. Oh, and he wasn't just a winner in the courtroom. Rumor had it he broke at least two female hearts a week.

The nerves in her stomach instantly abandoned their baseball game and began flying in a "man-alert" formation which warned her that caffeine overload was not all that far away. Perfect, she thought, because staying calm in a meeting was so overrated.

"Ms. Marcelli?" the man said, his voice low and sultry enough to make him a fortune in radio. "I'm Zach Stryker."

"Mr. Stryker. A pleasure."

She managed to cross the carpet without twisting her ankle. As he came around his pool-size desk, she transferred her briefcase from her right hand to her left, then shook with him.

Oh, great, sparks, she thought as sexual heat arced from her fingers to her chest and beyond. Wildly attractive, tall, dark, and blue-eyed. How L.A. How her luck. Wasn't she only supposed to care about the job?

A good question, she thought as she took the seat he offered in front of his desk.

Instead of circling back to his "I'm the man" leather chair, he settled next to her, then angled toward her and gave her the kind of engaging smile that could send an angry, gray-haired nun into cardiac arrest. Katie told herself she was made of sterner stuff.

"I guess we're going to throw a party together," he said.

Right. A party. The reason she was here. "Absolutely."

She opened her briefcase and pulled out a light blue folder. "Your assistant filled me in on the basics. Your law firm...

From the book

Chapter 1

Francesca Marcelli had only been pregnant for twenty minutes and already her back hurt.

"Talk about realistic," she muttered, adjusting the straps that held her fake eight-months-pregnant belly in place. The size was daunting enough -- she couldn't see her feet or find a comfortable sitting position -- but the weight was the real killer. Someone with a twisted sense of humor had decided to simulate what felt like the pressure of a baby elephant. The small of her back screamed out in protest, while unexpected pressure on her bladder made her want to duck into the nearest ladies' room.

"All for a good cause," she reminded herself.

Francesca shifted to ease the throbbing in her back and leaned against the heavy cart she'd maneuvered into the service elevator of the six-story bank building. When the doors opened, she shoved her overloaded cart into the main hallway. Stacks of boxes wobbled precariously and threatened to tumble onto the carpeted floor.

It was just after five on a Friday afternoon. All around her dozens of businesspeople headed for the main elevators to start their weekend. Francesca pushed up her glasses and paused to smooth down the front of the ugliest maternity dress she'd been able to find. The oversize collar dwarfed her shoulders and made her head look too small. The pinks and roses of the busy floral print sucked all the color from her pale olive skin. She'd brushed powder into her hair to lighten it to a mousy brown. The little makeup she'd put on had been applied to make her look tired, drawn, and unattractive.

She glanced at her watch, then squared her shoulders as she prepared to begin work.

"Show time," she said softly, not that anyone was listening.

Three men from the insurance office at the end of the hall walked past her without even giving her a nod. Francesca continued to push her pile of packages slowly against the flow of foot traffic. Two women in suits gave her a quick, sympathetic smile. A man and a woman, both carrying expensive-looking briefcases, followed. The woman looked, the man didn't.

Another corridor branched to the left. Francesca shifted her cart to make the turn. Several boxes went tumbling. A single man walked by without breaking his stride. A college-age girl stopped long enough to help Francesca pick up the boxes, then hurried toward the elevator with a call to "Wait for me!"

Five minutes later Francesca reached her destination -- an office she'd scouted out the previous week, chosen because the company had recently shut down. There she was, pregnant, lost, overloaded with more than a dozen boxes to be delivered, and no one to accept them. Had she been any sort of an actress, she might have been able to force out a tear or two.

The rules stipulated she was not allowed to directly ask for help. It had to be offered. She would wait for the required thirty minutes, mentally tallying who ignored her, who smiled, and who, if anyone, stopped to actually offer assistance.

This was a high-powered crowd with expensive tastes and busy lives. She didn't hold out much hope for rescue. In her experience --

"You look lost."

Francesca whirled around to see a tall man standing beside her cart. A tall, good-looking man in a dark blue power suit.

"Hi," she said before preparing to launch into her canned speech about needing to deliver packages to a nonexistent firm. Except she couldn't remember anything she was supposed to say.

The man waited patiently. He had dark blond hair and sort of tawny-colored eyes. There was an intensity...

From the book

Chapter One

Borrowing a million dollars from the devil was one thing; picking a fight with him while doing it was something else.

Brenna Marcelli considered herself to be above average in intelligence. With her future on the line, there was absolutely no way she would be anything but perfectly pleasant during her conversation with Nicholas Giovanni. She would be confident, persuasive, even charming. She would not get crabby, beg, or think about sex. Especially not sex. No matter how good it had been.

But it had been great, she thought as she paced the length of the waiting area in the executive offices of Wild Sea Vineyards. Better than good. One time they'd done it on the beach, and that night on the news there'd been a report of an unexpectedly high tide. Brenna had always wondered if she and Nic were somehow to blame.

"History," she murmured as she clutched her portfolio more tightly to her chest. "Ancient history. This is a new decade -- a new century even. I am empowered. I am impervious. I am really annoyed that he's keeping me waiting."

She turned and glared at the closed door leading to Nic's private office. When his assistant had asked her to wait and promised the man in charge would be with her shortly, Brenna had believed her. Now, nearly ten minutes later, the assistant had disappeared and there was still no sign of Nic.

"Just a power play," she told herself, then took a calming breath. "I'm not going to buy into it. He can keep me waiting as long as he wants."

Except her stomach was in knots, she had serious regrets about that fifth cup of coffee, and she had a bad feeling that if she stopped moving for too long, she would find that her knees were shaking. Not exactly the picture of professional confidence she wanted to portray. She really needed to --

The office door opened and the devil himself walked into the room.

Okay, maybe calling Nic the devil was a bit strong, but he was dark, dangerous, and at this point she would sell him her soul to get what she wanted. A rose by any other name and all that.

"Brenna." Nic spoke her name with a smile. As if they met on a regular basis. "Good to see you."

If only, she thought. She hadn't set foot on Giovanni land in ten years. And with good reason.

"Hi, Nic."

He motioned toward his office and she stepped into the inner sanctum. The room hadn't changed a whole lot since she'd last seen it. Still massive, still dominated by a desk built in the eighteenth century. The computer was new, as was the owner. Ten years ago Nic's grandfather had occupied the space. From here he'd run all of Wild Sea Vineyards. Now the old man was gone and Nic was in charge.

In charge and going places, she thought as she crossed to the map on the wall opposite the opulent desk. She studied the shaded area that detailed the Giovanni holdings, noting how much expansion there'd been in the past seven years. Nic had always wanted to be the biggest and best. He'd achieved that in spades.

Of course, focusing on the map allowed her not to think about that damn desk. Unfortunately, she was going to have to turn around and stare at it sometime. It wouldn't be so bad if she and Nic hadn't, well, done it on that desk.

It had been about three A.M. on a Saturday morning. The night had been still, cool, and incredibly romantic. Of course, when she'd been seventeen and in love, watching paint dry had been romantic.

"You're welcome to sit down," he said, a trace of amusement in his voice.

Sure, she thought as she squared...

High-Powered, Hot-Blooded

eBook romance by Susan Mallery

Excerpt

Annie McCoy could accept the flat tire. The car was old and the tires should have been replaced last spring. She could also understand that little Cody had eaten dirt on the playground, then thrown up on her favorite skirt. She wouldn't complain about the notice she'd gotten from the electric company pointing out, ever so politely, that she was overdue—again—and that they would be raising her rates. It was that all of it had happened on the same day. Couldn't the universe give her a sixteenth of a break?

She stood in front of her sagging front porch and flipped through the rest of the mail. No other bills, unless that official-looking letter from UCLA was actually a tuition bill. The good news was that her cousin Julie was in her first year at the prestigious college. The bad news was paying for it. Even living at home, the costs were enormous and Annie was doing her best to help.

"A problem for another time," she told herself as she walked to the front door and opened it.

Once inside, she put her purse on the small table by the door and dropped the mail into the macaroni-and-gold-spray-paint-covered in-box her kindergarten class had made for her last year. Then she went into the kitchen to check out the dry-erase bulletin board hanging from the wall.

It was Wednesday. Julie had a night class. Jenny, Julie's twin, was working her usual evening job at a restaurant in Westwood. Kami, the exchange student from Guam, had gone to the mall with friends. Annie had the house to herself… at least for the next couple of hours. Talk about heaven.

She walked to the refrigerator and got out the box of white wine. After pouring a glass, she kicked off her shoes and walked barefoot to the backyard.

The grass was cool under her feet. All around the fence, lush plants grew and flowered. It was L.A. Growing anything was pretty easy, as long as you didn't mind paying the water bill. Annie did mind, but she loved the plants more. They reminded her of her mom, who had always been an avid gardener.

She'd barely settled on the old, creaky wooden swing by the bougainvillea when she heard the doorbell ring. She thought about ignoring whoever was there, but couldn't bring herself to do it. She went back inside, opened the door and stared at the man standing on her porch.

He was tall and powerfully built. The well-tailored suit didn't disguise the muscles in his arms and chest. He looked like he could have picked up money on the side working as a bouncer. He had dark hair and the coldest gray eyes she'd ever seen. And he looked seriously annoyed.

"Who are you?" he demanded by way of greeting. "The girlfriend? Is Tim here?"

Annie started to hold up her hands in a shape of a T. Talk about needing a time-out. Fortunately she remembered she was holding a wineglass and managed to keep from spilling.

"Hi," she said, wishing she'd thought to actually take a sip before answering the door. "I'm sure that's how you meant to start."

"What?"

"By saying ‘hello.'"

The man's expression darkened. "I don't have time for small talk. Is Tim McCoy here?"

The tone wasn't friendly and the words didn't make her feel any better. She set her glass on the tiny table by the door and braced herself for the worst.

"Tim is my brother. Who are you?"

"His boss."

"Oh."

That couldn't be good, she thought, stepping back to invite the man in. Tim hadn't said much about his relatively new job and Annie had been afraid to ask.

Tim was…flaky. No, that wasn't right. He could be really sweet and caring but he had a streak of the devil in him.

The man entered and looked around the living room. It was small and a little shabby, but homey, she thought. At least that's what she told herself. There were a few paper turkeys on the wall, and a pair of pilgrim candlesticks on the coffee table. They would come down this weekend when she got serious about her Christmas decorating.

"I'm Annie McCoy," she said, holding out her hand. "Tim's sister."

"Duncan Patrick."

They shook hands. Annie tried not to wince as his large fingers engulfed hers. Fortunately the man didn't squeeze. From the looks of things, he could have crushed her bones to dust.

"Or ground them for bread," she murmured.

"What?"

"Oh, sorry. Nothing. Fairy-tale flashback. The witch in Hansel and Gretel. Doesn't she want to grind their bones to make her bread? No, that's the giants. I can't remember. Now I'll have to look that up."

Duncan frowned at her and stepped back.

She couldn't help chuckling. "Don't worry. It's not contagious. I think weird things from time to time. You won't catch it by being in the room." She stopped babbling and cleared her throat. "As to my brother, he doesn't live here."

Duncan frowned. "But this is his house."

Was it just her or was Duncan not the brightest bulb? "He doesn't live here," she repeated, speaking more slowly. Maybe it was all the muscles. Too much blood in the biceps and not enough in the brain.

"I got that, Ms. McCoy. Does he own the house? He told me he did."

Annie didn't like the sound of that. She crossed to the club chair by the door and grabbed hold of the back. "No. This is my house." She felt more than a little panicked and slightly sick to her stomach. "Why are you asking?"

"Do you know where your brother is?"

"Not at the moment."

This was bad, she thought frantically. She could tell it was really bad. Duncan Patrick didn't look like the kind of man who dropped by on a whim. Which meant Tim had done something especially stupid this time.

"Just tell me," she said quickly. "What did he do?"

"He embezzled from my company."

The room tilted slightly. Annie's stomach lurched and she wondered if she was going to join little Cody in throwing up on her skirt.

Tim had stolen from his employer. She wanted to ask how that was possible, but she already knew the answer. Tim had a problem. He loved to gamble. Loved it way too much. Living only a five-hour drive from Las Vegas made the problem even more complicated.

"How much?" she asked in a whisper.

"Two hundred and fifty thousand dollars."

Her breath caught. It might as well be a million. Or ten. That was too much money. An impossible amount to pay back. He was ruined forever.

"I can see by the look on your face, you didn't know about his activities."

She shook her head. "The last I heard, he loved his job."

"A little too much," Duncan said drily. "Is this the first time he's embezzled?"

She hesitated. "He's, um, had some problems before."

"With gambling?"

"You know?"

"He mentioned it when I spoke with him earlier today. He also told me that he owned a house and that the value exceeded the amount he'd stolen."

Her eyes widened. "No way. He didn't."

"I'm afraid he did, Ms. McCoy. Is this the house he meant?"

Now she really was going to be sick. Tim had offered the house? Her house? It was all she had.

When their mother had died, she'd left them the house and an insurance policy to split. Annie had used her half of the insurance money to buy Tim out of the house. He was supposed to use the money to pay off his college loans and put money down on a place of his own. Instead he'd gone to Vegas. That had been nearly five years ago.

"This is my house," she said firmly. "Mine is the only name on the deed."

Nothing about Duncan's cold expression changed. "Does your brother own other property?"

She shook her head.

"Thank you for your time." He turned to leave.

"Wait." She threw herself in front of the door. Tim might be a total screw-up but he was her brother. "What happens now?"

"Your brother goes to jail."

"He needs help, not prison. Doesn't your company have a medical plan? Can't you get him into a program of some kind?"

"I could have, before he took the money. If he can't pay me back, I'll turn him over to the police. Two hundred and fifty thousand dollars is a lot of money, Ms. McCoy."

"Annie," she said absently. It was more money than he knew. "Can't Tim pay you back over time?"

"No." He glanced around at her living room again. "But if you'd be willing to mortgage your house, I would consider dropping the charges."

Mortgage her… "Give up where I live? This is all I have in the world. I can't risk it."

"Not even for your brother?"

Talk about playing dirty.

"You wouldn't lose your house if you made regular payments to the bank," he said. "Or do you have a gambling problem, too?"

The contempt in his voice was really annoying, she thought as she glared at him. She took in the perfectly fitted suit, the shiny gold watch that probably cost more than she made in three months and had a feeling that if she looked out front, she would see a pretty, new, fancy, foreign car. With good tires.

It was too much. She was tired, hungry and this was the last problem she could deal with right now.

She grabbed the electric bill from the in-box and waved it in front of him.

"Do you know what this is?"

"No."

"It's a bill. One I'm late on. Do you know why?"

"Ms. McCoy…"

"Answer the question," she yelled. "Do you know why?"

He looked more amused than afraid, which really pissed her off. "No. Why?"

"Because I'm currently helping to support my two cousins. They're both in college and have partial scholarships, and their mom, my aunt, is a hairdresser and has her own issues to deal with. Have you seen what college-age girls eat? I don't know how they get it all down and stay skinny, but they do. Follow me."

She walked into the kitchen. Surprisingly Duncan came after her. She pointed at the dry-erase board. "You see that? Our family schedule. Kami is an exchange student. Well, not really. She was in high school. She's from Guam. Now she goes to college here. She's friends with my cousins and can't afford her own place. So she lives here, too. And while they all help as much as they can, it isn't much."

She drew in a breath. "I'm feeding three college-age girls, paying about half their tuition, for most of their books and keeping a roof over their heads. I also have an aging car, a house in constant need of repair and plenty of student loans from my own education. I do all of this on a kindergarten teacher's salary. So no. Taking out a loan on my house, the only asset I have in the world, is not an option."

She stared at the tall, muscled man in her kitchen and prayed she'd gotten through to him.

She hadn't.

"While this is all interesting," he said, "it doesn't get me my two hundred and fifty thousand dollars. If you know where your brother is, I suggest you tell him to turn himself in. It will go better for him that way than if he's found and arrested."

The weight of the world seemed to press down on her shoulders. "No. You can't. I'll make payments. A hundred dollars a month. Two hundred. I can do that, I swear." Maybe she could get a second job. "It's less than four weeks until Christmas. You can't throw Tim in jail now. He needs help. He needs to get this fixed. Sending him to prison won't change anything. It's not like you need the money."

The ice returned to his cool, gray eyes. "And that makes it all right to steal?"

She winced. "Of course not. It's just, please. I'll work with you. This is my family you're talking about."

"Then mortgage your house, Ms. McCoy."

There was a finality to his tone. A promise that he meant what he said about throwing Tim in jail.

How was she supposed to decide? The house or Tim's freedom. The problem was she didn't trust her brother to do any better if she mortgaged the house, but how could she let him be locked away?

"It's impossible," she said.

"Actually, it's very easy."

"For you," she snapped. "What are you? The meanest man on the planet? Give me a second here."

He stiffened slightly. If she hadn't been staring at him, she wouldn't have noticed the sudden tension in his shoulders or the narrowing of his eyes.

"What did you say?" he asked, his voice low and controlled.

"I said give me a minute. Maybe there's another choice. A compromise. I'm good at negotiating." What she really wanted to say was she was good at negotiating with unreasonable children, but doubted Duncan would appreciate the comparison.

"Are you married, Ms. McCoy?"

"What?" She glanced around warily. "No. But my neighbors all know me and if I yell, they'll come running."

The amusement returned. "I'm not here to threaten you."

"Lucky me. You're here to threaten my brother. Practically the same thing."

"You teach kindergarten you said. For how long?"

"This is my fifth year." She named the school. "Why?"

"You like children?"

"Well, duh."

"Any drug use? Alcohol problems? Other addictions?"

From the book

Chapter 1

If Darcy Jensen had known she was going to be kidnapped, she would have worn better shoes. Or at least more sensible shoes. As it was she'd dressed in black strappy sandals that weren't all that comfortable for walking, let alone being dragged across a parking lot and thrown into the back of a van.

She did her best to resist. Screaming was out of the question because they'd already gagged her. And the resisting part went badly, what with her hands tied behind her back, although she did nail one guy with a decent head butt.

Even as she landed hard on the metal floor of the van, she wondered how it all had happened. She'd been in Ann Taylor checking out the new clothes for fall. She'd told Drew she needed to use the restroom.

Traveling with two Secret Service agents meant rarely using a public restroom. Drew had consulted with the manager of the store, who was all too happy to have the president of the United States' daughter peeing in her private bathroom. Darcy had done her business, washed her hands -- not only because she always did, but also because people checked on things like that when one was in the public eye -- and had started back through the stockroom toward the dressing rooms, where she had a pile of clothes waiting for her.

That's when the men attacked. Four guys in Halloween-type demon masks grabbed her. Before she knew what was happening, they'd slapped tape on her mouth. The hand tying came next, then the dragging.

One of them even remembered to pick up her purse, she thought grimly as she stared at her now-scratched Maxx bag bought on QVC lying next to her on the floor of the van.

The rear doors slammed shut, and the vehicle sped out of the parking lot.

Darcy braced herself as best she could on the ribbed floor as the van bounced, swerved, then turned onto what felt like a main road. Two of her abductors had taken the front seats -- she could see them through the small grille -- while the other two must have had their own transportation. She was alone in the back of the van.

Alone with her purse.

There were no windows, no way to get anyone's attention. And no one to watch her retrieve the panic button that would signal the Secret Service and send them rushing to rescue her.

She inched her way toward the purse, only to have the van take another corner, causing the bag to go sliding out of reach. Two more slip-slides across the dirty metal floor and she was within reaching distance of her purse . . . except for the small problem of her hands tied behind her back. Could she open the zipper with her teeth? Probably not with the gag in place.

Darcy had done her best to stay focused in the moment. If she anchored herself in the now, the terror wasn't so bad. She could function. But if she allowed herself to think about what they could do to her, how it was national policy to never negotiate with terrorists, then fear would explode inside of her, making her want to scream and beg, despite the tape across her mouth.

No! She wouldn't go there. She wouldn't give in. She was strong and determined, and by God, she would get her panic button and push it until dozens of armed agents came storming through the walls of the van.

She didn't have much choice. Drew had been assigned to her long enough to know that the "trying on" part of a shopping trip could take at least an hour, which meant he wouldn't notice she was missing until the van had enough time to cross a couple of state lines.

If only it wasn't so hot, she thought as she went to work on...

From the book

Mia Marcelli was used to sleeping alone so it came as something of a shock to wake up with a strange man in her bed. She did what any other self-actualized, self-defense-trained woman would do -- she screamed and jumped to her feet.

"Big mistake," she yelled as she backed toward the door. "You shouldn't have broken in here. I have access to weapons, and grandmothers who don't like this sort of thing. My brother's a former Navy SEAL."

The man sat up and smiled at her. "I see you still talk too much, Mia. When an unknown man appears in your bed, you should run."

He knew her name. That startled her nearly as much as the fact that he was giving her advice. It didn't seem like normal behavior for a guy intent on raping and pillaging. Assuming anyone really pillaged these days.

She paused by the door and pushed her bangs out of her face. There was something familiar about the man. The hair and eye color were all wrong, but the shape of his face reminded her of someone. And that mouth -- she would remember it until she died.

"Diego?" she breathed, knowing this stranger couldn't be him. Diego was dead. She'd seen the bullets hit his body, had watched him fall to the ground. There'd been so much blood.

"Am I that different?" the man asked as he stood and smiled at her. "Has so much changed?"

It was him, she thought, too stunned to do much more than gasp. "H-how is this possible? Why aren't you dead? I saw you die. Dead people don't have conversations."

"It is a long story. Perhaps one I could tell you over breakfast."

That voice. She would know it anywhere. It had haunted her dreams for the past five years.

Dead people also don't eat. "Get back," she said, feeling both shocked and angry. When in doubt, get pissed off.

It was a philosophy she'd learned worked for her. "I don't know what this game is, but I'm not playing it."

"Mia, it is I. You must recognize me."

"Must I?"

Right now she didn't have to do anything but keep from having a heart attack from the shock, and wish she kept a weapon in her room. Something big and scary.

The bedroom door flew open and her two grandmothers burst inside. Grandma Tessa had a fire poker in one hand, and Grammy M threatened Diego with a rolling pin.

"Call Joe," Tessa ordered Mia. "He'll take care of this scumbag."

Scumbag? Someone had been watching just a little too many police dramas.

"I'm not sure he's a scumbag," Mia said, still finding it difficult to believe her own eyes. "I might know this guy."

"You do know me," he said, his voice washing over her like a familiar and welcome memory. "Mia, it is I."

Diego? Was it possible? Conflicting emotions raced through her. She wanted to run into his arms and have him hold her forever. At the same time she wanted to grab the poker and beat him over the head with it.

"You're supposed to be dead," she said, still confused and angry, and maybe just a little scared. Because if this guy really was Diego, she was going to have a lot of explaining to do.

"So you keep saying," he told her, sounding more amused than anything else. "Would you be more happy if I were?"

"It would make more sense. I don't believe in ghosts...or vampires."

He actually smiled. "Good, because I am neither. Mia," -- he took a step toward her -- "trust your eyes and your heart. I am the man you knew as Diego."

"We don't trust people who pretend to be someone else," Grandma Tessa said with surprising force despite her small stature and...