KICK ASS: A Boxed Set (3 Powerful Heroines, 2 Complete Novels + Bonus Novella)

by Julie Leto

  He looked askance. “Nothing, of course. Why don’t you escort her into the adjoining suite. She can freshen up before we return her to her father.”

  Marisela seethed, but she did as Ian asked, then told Jessica to stay put until she came to fetch her. Which she would do, once she cleared up a few things with her so-called boss.

  Ian was pouring himself a brandy when Marisela slipped back into the room.

  “You drink too much.”

  Ian sniffed the fine liqueur, then took a worshipful sip. “Care to join me?”

  “I don’t drink with double-crossing pendejos.

  “You use that word quite a bit. It must be incredibly insulting.”

  “Try Berlitz. You have a lot to learn.”

  He crossed the room, slowing momentarily as he broke into her personal space. She was angry enough, finally, to have erected a wall against the powerful pull of attraction that had plagued her until now. He was still undeniably the most suave, sophisticated, and seductive man she’d ever met—but she said no with her eyes in a way that caused him to back away.

  “You’re angry.”

  “You bargained with Frankie’s life. You think I’m just going to forget?”

  He shrugged. “I did what I had to do after one of my agents allowed her emotions to interfere in a mission. You can’t blame me for using those same emotions to achieve my objective.”

  “You think I can’t? Watch me. I warned you not to manipulate me.”

  He stepped closer and challenged her eye-to-eye. “And I warned you to do as you were told. I run Titan, Ms. Morales. My agents do as I say. I could fire you right here on the spot.”

  She narrowed her gaze. “I dare you.”

  He tilted his head back and laughed. “Fine then. I needed you for this case and this case only. You have outlived your usefulness. You’re fired.”

  “No, she’s not.”

  The door had swung open and in walked the leggiest redhead Marisela had ever seen. She wore a slim, pencil skirt, roach-killer pumps, and a silk blouse that draped lovingly over a bustline even Marisela envied for a few seconds before reminding herself that her own girls were nothing to sneeze at. With pure warmth in her cool, emerald gaze—one that matched Ian’s with utter exactness except for the color—the woman extended her hand in greeting.

  “Brynn Blake,” she greeted. “I’m honored to meet you, Marisela.”

  Ian had stepped forward, seething. “This is not your operation, Brynn. You have no right to be here.”

  Marisela accepted the woman’s hand and wasn’t surprised to find a firm grip underneath her silky skin.

  Ian was so screwed.

  “No right? That’s exactly the kind of misconception I came to clear up, brother, dear. Let’s start with the idea that you run Titan. Technically, you are in charge of North American operations, but I don’t need to remind you about who runs the rest, now do I?”

  “You assured me you wouldn’t interfere.”

  “So long as you had a firm grip, yes. But I received a call from Ms. Morales earlier today that made me doubt your leadership abilities. Seems I’ve arrived just in time to keep you from dismissing our most promising new agent.”

  Marisela had taken a risk in contacting Ian’s twin shortly after Frankie had gone into the operating room for a six-hour surgery, but she’d been so furious at the way Ian had toyed with Frankie’s life, she’d decided to deliver one parting shot before she quit or he fired her. Either way, she knew that her days at Titan had been numbered. She’d never imagined the woman would travel halfway around the world to save her job.

  Things hadn’t worked out as planned in any way, shape, or form. Marisela figured that on the surface, she’d actually failed in her first case. The objective had not been met, but the truth had come to light. Wasn’t what she’d been paid to do, but hey, she’d take it.

  “You can’t interfere, Brynn. You have no idea how contrary Marisela is.”

  Brynn dramatically placed her hands onto her slim hips and sighed with exasperation. “I know! A woman with her own mind! How dare she think for herself.”

  He jabbed a finger at her. “That’s not what I meant.”

  “Isn’t it?”

  Brynn turned her benevolent gaze toward Marisela, strode forward, and took her hand again, this time giving her a gentle pat. “My dear, you’re probably a damned gorgeous babe when you’ve gotten some sleep, but right now you look like hell.”

  Marisela shook her head wearily. “I’m too tired to take that as an insult.”

  “Good, because when I want you to be insulted,” Brynn replied, “I’ll be entirely more clever. Take Jessica home. Go see Frank. Once Ian and I have settled our business, we’ll get more acquainted, yes?”

  Marisela would have loved to be a fly on the wall of the hotel suite, but she didn’t have the energy. The most she could manage was a private smile as she crossed over the threshold into the hall. All in all, this hadn’t turned out to be such a bad day. Sure, she’d blown the mission all to hell, had likely pissed off one of the most powerful arms dealers in the Western hemisphere, and had no idea what she was going to do about her ex now that she knew he’d live, but she’d kept her job.

  For her, not a bad day at all.

  Epilogue

  The pain in his gut was searing, but Frankie forced his eyes open, pushed the button on the edge of his hospital bed that released another dose of morphine into his system, and waited for his eyesight to clear. When the shadows and light stopped doing a sickening dance around the room, he focused on the woman sitting in the lounge chair by the window, her attention entirely engaged in a book.

  “You read?”

  Marisela looked up, her bright brown eyes filled with something he’d like to hope was relief. Maybe a little caring, too. He couldn’t ask for her to love him, not now, but damn, having such an intimate showdown with death made him realize that he wanted something more from Marisela than an occasional roll in the hay. Though he wouldn’t turn one down if she made the suggestion.

  But not today.

  “Smart ass,” she quipped, closing the book and sweeping over to his bedside with that sultry, swinging walk that made his body ache in places that luckily hadn’t been blown apart by a bullet or sliced open by a surgeon’s scalpel. “I’ve been waiting for you to return to the world of the living.”

  He inhaled, bracing himself against the pain of forming words in his brain and actually speaking them with his lips, teeth, and tongue.

  “Long wait?”

  “Two days. Not so bad. Gave me a chance to study up on my mythology. I’ve got to pick a code name.”

  The sickening rock in his stomach plummeted another few feet into his sutured intestines. Dios mio, she wanted to work for Titan permanently?

  “You’re staying?”

  “Of course! Okay, so our mission failed and we nearly got killed. Twice. But man,” she said, sitting on the bed so hard and heavy that Frankie had to bite his tongue to keep from cursing, “what a rush! We were good together, too, don’t you think? I mean,” she said slyly, leaning forward and swiping her tongue over his parched lips. “In more ways than one.”

  Frankie cleared his throat. The thought of working for Ian Blake again rivaled the pain of moving in the bed after two days flat on his back, but the thought of leaving Marisela to work with Blake and him not around to run interference stung even worse. “He wants us back?”

  Marisela shrugged and glanced aside, obviously withholding information. “Well, let’s just say our jobs are available if we want them.”

  She propped the book back into her lap and flipped through the pages. “I got a list from Max. Unfortunately for you, Adonis and Atlas are already taken. However, I was thinking something dark and mysterious. Hades, maybe. He’s the God of the Dead. Or maybe Hephe… Hepheas… oh, forget it. If I can’t pronounce it, no one can.”

  With all the energy he could muster, Frankie reached out and took the book away from her. “V
idita, you’re making my head hurt.”

  She leaned forward and kissed him on the nose, her gaze dipping downward. “Which one?”

  “Calienta polla.”

  “I killed the last man who called me that,” she pointed out.

  “Maybe, but you saved my life. I’m going to have to pay you back for that, you know?”

  A tiny but wicked smile crossed her lips and she crawled nearer. “You’ve made that promise before, Francisco Vega. This time, I’m going to have to make sure you collect.”

  The scent of her perfume overpowered the medicinal smells of the hospital room. For an instant, he could almost imagine he was somewhere in paradise.

  “Por favor, don’t torture me, Marisela. I’m an injured man.”

  “Yes, but you’re alive—and that’s what matters most.”

  Silence hung there for a moment, a quiet that Frankie knew should be filled with some sort of private words between them, something to help classify what they were to each other. They were more than friends, but even lovers didn’t seem to cut it. But he was too groggy to say more than, “Marisela.”

  The longing in his voice must have given him away, because instantly, she placed her soft fingers over his lips. “Don’t, Frankie.”

  “Don’t what?”

  Tell me how much you care about me? Say that from now on, we should decide our futures together? Admit that being lovers after all we’ve been through is no longer enough?

  She leaned back and popped open the book. “Don’t call me Marisela. I’ve got a new code name, now.”

  Frankie groaned. He wasn’t sure if he had the strength to hear.

  “What is it?”

  “Aphrodite, of course. The Goddess of Love.” She strung out the last syllable, laughing at her own cleverness in a way that made Frankie’s body, for an instant, pain-free.

  “Mighty Aphrodite,” came a voice from the doorway. “The world will never be the same!”

  Marisela snickered, waving Max into the room. He strolled inside, a hint of reluctance in his colorless eyes.

  “Good to see you awake,” he said to Frankie.

  “Good to be awake.” Frankie shifted in the bed and though he’d never admit it, Marisela could see the price he paid for moving around. The skin around his lips had paled and his eyelids drooped heavy over bloodshot eyes. The doctors warned her that he’d be back to his old bad-ass self in no time, but what Marisela didn’t know was if she’d be there to help him through. All depended on Brynn Blake and whatever deal she offered.

  “Marisela, you ready?” Max asked.

  She grabbed the worn paperback Max had lent her and tried to stuff it into her back pocket. Her jeans, of course, were too right. She tossed him back the mythology primer.

  “As I’ll ever be,” she said.

  “Ready for what?” Frankie asked.

  Marisela brushed a quick kiss across Frankie’s lips, and then bounded to the door without looking back. Frankie didn’t ask again and if she wasn’t imagining things, she could have sworn she heard him curse softly when she pulled shut his door. He was alive. She’d deal with him. Later.

  Max gestured toward the elevator.

  She followed, releasing a wide-mouthed yawn she’d been harnessing for hours. “You did good,” she said to Max, realizing she hadn’t had a chance to thank him for coming through with the information on Elise.

  “So did you.”

  She shrugged, leaning her shoulder against the wall. “I broke the rules.”

  Max grinned as he punched the button and the automatic doors slid open. “That seems to be your forte. Might come in handy on your next case, too.”

  She laughed. Yes, it would. And for once in her life, she might have found a profession that not only appreciated her inability to do what she was told, but paid her handsomely for it. For once in her life, Marisela Morales might have found the true path to her future.

  Thank you for reading DIRTY LITTLE SECRETS! If you would like to read more stories starring Marisela Morales, click here to learn more about the other titles in this series.

  KISS OF THE PHANTOM

  Author's Note: This is the third book in a three-book series. What you need to know is that years ago, a band of brothers were cursed so that their essences were trapped within various items housed in a remote Romani village. The items were sometimes valuable, which is why this kick-ass heroine, Mariah Hunter—and the story’s equally tough nemesis, Gemma Van Roan—both want it so desperately…

  PROLOGUE

  Gemma Von Roan dangled the antique keys in front of Paschal Rousseau’s face, shaking them enticingly, her back to the door he’d anticipated entering for more than six months. Inside a room hidden beneath this centuries-old manse in upstate New York was the secret horde of the K’vr, a cult founded to plunder the bounty of the eighteenth-century sorcerer Lord Rogan. Even through the thick oak door, Paschal sensed the blackguard’s bloody fingerprints on the cache within.

  Gemma, young and stylish and cunning beyond measure thanks to a bloodline that she could trace back to the wizard himself, knew how badly Paschal yearned to explore the collection. Undeterred by his advanced age, she’d pulled out all the stops to entice him away from his family, promising him unlimited access to the vast assemblage of Gypsy-wrought artifacts.

  All she wanted in return was the very thing Paschal had sworn he’d never give away.

  “So we have a deal, yes?” Gemma asked. “I let you in and give you open access to my family’s store and you’ll show me how to do what you do.”

  He frowned, his expression lost in the dim light. “It won’t be that easy.”

  Gemma fussed with the keys, inserting one in the rusted lock as she spoke. “If my life were ever easy, we’d have had access to this place six months ago.”

  “The radon and asbestos report really was genius,” Paschal complimented.

  But Gemma only snorted in disgust. Having to resort to chicanery in order to gain entrance to a building owned by her family since the Civil War had chafed her pride raw.

  Discounting her brother, currently awaiting trial for murder in Florida, Gemma was the last living descendant of Lord Rogan. And yet, because she was a woman, she’d been denied the leadership of the K’vr. For the past year and a half, the top spot of grand apprentice remained unclaimed while the council of elders determined if Keith Von Roan, the incarcerated brother, or Farrow Pryce, a wealthy businessman whose father had long served the Von Roan family, was better suited to serve.

  But with Keith Von Roan looking at a long jail term and Farrow Pryce missing and presumed dead, the K’vr was in disarray. Never had there been a better time for Gemma to step in and fight the patriarchal attitudes of the elders. But instead she was helping Paschal, someone she’d once had a hand in kidnapping, in order to break into her family’s most secret and treasured storehouse. Paschal wasn’t sure why she’d chosen this course of action, but he had no doubt she’d betray him at the first opportunity.

  Trouble was, he did not care. He just wanted her to find the right key.

  “Need help?” he asked.

  She flipped through the key ring again. “You’d think we already had the Source, with all these damned locks.”

  Paschal cleared his throat unnecessarily. They’d carefully avoided this topic over the last six months. Both of them recognized that any conversation regarding the mysterious fire opal would go nowhere. She wanted it, but could not find it. Paschal knew precisely where it was—certainly not in this secret storeroom—but he would die before he gave away the location. The stone possessed a frightening amount of dark magic. In the wrong hands, the potential for devastation was too terrifying for Paschal to contemplate.

  The Source had been the Holy Grail to the K’vr since Rogan’s disappearance in 1747. Gemma had probably been told bedtime stories about its limitless power. Yet, oddly enough, she did not seem to be after it at the moment. But even the powerful stone could not help Paschal in his quest. He needed wh
atever was inside the locked room, calling to him. Beckoning to him. Luring him to a fate that might just equal crashing on sharp and pitiless rocks.

  “Let me try,” he offered.

  Ignoring him, Gemma continued to try key after key. Paschal couldn’t help admiring how stubborn she was—or how lovely, no matter that she styled her hair like a porcupine. Her attempt to camouflage what amounted to a dollish, pretty face with spiked black and blond hair, dark eyeliner and darker lips revealed more about her true personality than she would ever admit. While on the arm of Farrow Pryce, she’d become a sleek, sophisticated seductress. Since his death, she’d taken on a tougher persona, from the shade of her lipstick to her Morticia Addams wardrobe. Paschal couldn’t help but wonder who was truly at the core of this ambitious young woman—or if he’d live long enough to find out.

  To her knowledge, Paschal was over ninety years old… though he was still as virile as a man half his “age.” She no longer tried to use sex as a weapon against him, and for this he was grateful. He might be ancient, but he wasn’t dead. Besides, he was on her side now. She’d begun, a little at a time, to treat him more like a mentor than a conquest.

  There was a responsibility in that role that Paschal had not experienced in years. While he’d enjoyed being a father to Ben, he’d spent too many years keeping secrets from his son to actually teach him anything of value. Now Paschal had a chance to influence a young woman who unknowingly possessed a unique power—one she could use for either good or evil. Perhaps her choice would depend on how he played this next challenge.

  Gemma finally cursed and threw the ring of keys onto the ground, then kicked them until they ricocheted against the scuffed and rat-gnawed baseboard—a rare show of genuine, raw emotion. “What does any of this fucking matter if we can’t get inside?”

  Paschal tsked at her colorful language, retrieved the keys and ran them through his fingers, trying to get a reading off the energy embedded in the metal. His talent with psychometry was trained and specific. Accepting energy from every single item he ever touched would be like boarding a bullet train straight to an insane asylum. Instead, he’d taught himself to focus on only the energy signature of members of his own family or on Rogan’s dark magic—which over time had become inextricably intertwined.