I’ll be working at The Hop for the rest of the summer. Eric’s still at Fine Ink. He got his body art practitioner’s certificate but he hasn’t started doing tattoos yet. Matthew said he has to wait until there’s an opening. In the meantime Eric’s been looking at art programs and putting in long hours at the junkyard, learning all the ropes. He drives the tow truck for Scrappy and runs the compactor now. It’s very manly.
He scraped up enough money to buy an old motorcycle two weeks ago. We found a leather jacket, boots, and a used helmet at a thrift shop. I begged him not to drive too fast or do any daredevil tricks. He promised easily, seeming amused by my concern. I think he’ll always enjoy danger and pushing the limits. At least this is legal.
“I bought you a graduation present,” he says.
“You did? I didn’t get you anything.”
He shrugs, going out to his bike to retrieve the box. I unwrap it with glee, ripping off the bow and tearing the paper.
It’s a motorcycle helmet. Brand-new.
“I thought we could go for a ride,” he says.
“You know I’m scared.”
“I’ll stay on the back roads and take it slow.”
Last weekend he cruised me around the junkyard while I clung to him for dear life, my eyes closed tight. I didn’t feel safe in my skirt and flip-flops, hair blowing in the wind. He was wearing only his boxer shorts and motorcycle boots, so that was pretty crazy. Maybe if we’re both in proper gear, I can relax.
“I’ll give you my jacket for extra protection,” he says. “Or not. If you don’t want to, there are other fun things to do.”
I smile at his suggestive tone. “Like what?”
“I could work on my painting.”
He’s got this wild idea to paint me in the nude in the junkyard, striking a hitchhiker pose. I agreed to let him, but we can do that anytime. He went to the trouble of buying me a helmet, so I decide to give it a whirl. I change into jeans and boots, donning his jacket. Then I hop on the back of his bike and put my arms around his lean waist.
He goes slow, as promised. My fear starts to fade after a few minutes and I find myself enjoying the ride. I expect him to drive to the junkyard, but he passes that street and continues south, to Border Field State Park. We travel down a long dirt road until we reach the gate. Eric pays a day-use fee even though the park will close in an hour.
We leave our helmets with his motorcycle and stroll down the near-deserted beach. It’s beautiful, if you don’t mind towers with armed guards. There are signs posted to prohibit swimming, and you can’t get anywhere near the fence. On the other side, it’s truly another world. Children are splashing in the waves, carefree.
“Do you think everything will be okay?” I ask.
“We’ll be okay,” he says, putting his arm around me. “I don’t know about anyone else.”
I study the place where the fence meets the ocean, contemplative. It’s sort of majestic and harsh at the same time, beyond my understanding. Bigger than us.
“I should paint this.”
“You should.”
“After I paint you.”
“I love you,” I say, hugging him again.
“I love you, too.”
And then he kisses me the way I wanted him to earlier. With tongue, deep and hot. With heart and passion and life. With hope for the future.
With love, forever.
To the readers who kept asking for Eric and Meghan—thank you.
BY JILL SORENSON
Crash Into Me
Set the Dark on Fire
The Edge of Night
Caught in the Act
Against the Wall (ebook)
JILL SORENSON is the RITA-nominated author of more than a dozen romantic suspense novels. She has a degree in Literature and Writing from California State University. Her books have been selected as Red-Hot Reads by Cosmopolitan magazine, and have received starred reviews from Publishers Weekly, Booklist, and Library Journal. Jill currently lives in the San Diego area with her family. She’s a soccer mom who loves nature, coffee, reading, Twitter, and reality TV.
jillsorenson.com
@JillSorenson
Find Jill Sorenson on Facebook
The Editor’s Corner
It’s another cold month of winter, but never fear, we have a few special somethings to warm your heart.
USA Today bestselling author Stacey Kennedy launches a new series, Dirty Little Secrets, with Bound Beneath His Pain—ladies, meet Micah, a man who takes what he wants. New York Times bestselling author Missy Johnson introduces a young journalist who goes undercover for a hot lead, and gets seduced by the billionaire bachelor she’s supposed to be chasing, in Resist. New York Times bestselling author Tracy Wolff tells a story about a damaged actress who bares her soul, and falls for the one man who cares enough to listen, in Lovegame. Book two in the Recovered Innocence series from Beth Yarnall, Atone, is guaranteed to tug on your heartstrings, as will Charlotte Stein’s Never Sweeter, where a self-reliant college girl falls for a reformed bully. Then USA Today bestselling author Lauren Layne’s Oxford series heats up in this story of forbidden desire as a brooding jock hoping for a comeback falls for a woman who’s strictly off-limits in I Wish You Were Mine. Jill Sorenson releases a reunited love story with Against the Wall. And a popular song makes for a popular story in Ellie Cahill’s Call Me, Maybe. Then plan to rev it up with Hidden Heat from Carla Swafford, an MC story that’s almost real.
Your history lesson this month includes two new Loveswept releases. First, K. C. Bateman’s Napoleonic love story, To Steal a Heart, and second is Maeve Greyson’s time-traveling phenomena, My Tempting Highlander—where time’s not the only thing changing and there may be a bit of shape-shifting going on, too!
Don’t miss a little bit of sweetness from Flirt: Renita Pizzitola’s Addicted to You, and hockey hotness with Sophia Henry’s Power Play.
And last but not least, seven books in one with Stacey Kennedy’s Club Sin series bundle, where you’ll meet all the masters of sin.
Romance yourself this month with Loveswept—you know you want to.
~Happy Romance!
Gina Wachtel
Associate Publisher
Read on for a sneak peek of Jill Sorenson’s next thrilling book
Off the Rails
Coming soon from Loveswept
Chapter 1
Ian Foster waited for his new boss, ICE Special Agent in Charge Mark LaGuardia, to return for another debriefing.
The field office for U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement’s International Operations Division was in an inauspicious gray building overlooking San Diego Bay. It was about five miles north of the border, removed from the everyday chaos of customs inspections. Ian hadn’t expected to work for Homeland Security—or any other federal agency—ever again. He’d hated his short stint as a border patrol agent. The DEA had been a better fit, but that was over now.
Everything good was over.
He shifted his wounded leg, impatient. He was tired of sitting around, despite the pain of his injury. With every hour that passed, Maria slipped farther away. She’d snuck out of his hotel room yesterday morning at 0800. He hadn’t been able to drop his responsibilities to follow her, though he’d wanted to. Now he was stuck in an uncomfortable metal chair in an ugly office, his thigh aching from the bullet fragment that had ripped through it during a career-ending shootout last week.
What a clusterfuck.
SAC LaGuardia finally appeared and settled down across from Ian. He placed his laptop on the wood-veneer table and plugged it in. The frayed screen on the wall behind the table lit up with a blocky blue ICE logo. LaGuardia entered his password and accessed a file on the target, Armando Villarreal.
Ian couldn’t wait to go after him. And Maria.
He’d met Villarreal at the Hotel del Oro in San Diego, where Ian had done a series of drug buys as an undercover agent. Villarreal’s partner was the one who had shot Ian in the leg. He’d also pl
anted a bullet in Villarreal’s back.
Apparently there was some bad blood between them.
Several photos of Villarreal popped up on the screen. In the first he wore a neatly pressed military uniform. The second showed him in traditional farmworker garb with a young woman by his side and a curly-haired toddler at their feet. He was a stone-faced vaquero type, weathered and lean, about forty. His black eyes revealed nothing.
The next photo was of Caitlyn Weiss, a veterinarian from La Canada Pet Clinic, about two blocks away from the Hotel del Oro. She’d been missing since the shootout. Customs officers had confirmed that her vehicle crossed the border. It was assumed that Villarreal had kidnapped the woman and forced her to drive him to Tijuana.
“How far can he go with a hostage and a serious injury?” Ian asked.
“I have no idea. He’s probably dead or dying in some hovel near the border.”
“And if he’s not?”
“We want to take him alive and keep it quiet.”
“At the expense of a U.S. citizen?”
“Not at all. Ms. Weiss is our top priority.”
Ian regarded this assertion with cynicism. LaGuardia wanted to capture Villarreal to exploit his cartel connections, not to save the hostage. She was incidental. That was why they hadn’t launched a public, transnational manhunt.
Which was a mistake, in Ian’s opinion.
It was also a mistake to underestimate Villarreal’s ability to adapt and survive. He was a tough motherfucker, cold as ice. Ian didn’t think Villarreal would kill an innocent woman, but he might not be able to protect her from his dangerous associates.
LaGuardia brought up another screen with photos of several active cartel members. “These men will be looking for Villarreal. They might go after his daughter.”
Ian memorized their names and faces. “Can they find her?”
“If we can, they can.”
The only hint of the girl’s whereabouts would come from Maria Santos, the hotel maid. A woman from Ian’s past. Four years ago, when he was a border patrol officer, he’d discovered her, badly beaten, in the desert. He hadn’t been able to investigate the crime because it had happened on Mexican soil. His frustration over the case had been a major factor in his decision to leave Homeland Security. He’d walked away from the line, but had never forgotten Maria.
When he’d spotted her at the Hotel del Oro, he’d recognized her immediately. She’d remembered him as well, despite his scruffy disguise. Against his better judgment, they’d gotten involved.
And then everything went to hell.
Maria had been terrorized at gunpoint by Villarreal’s shady partner, and Ian had been forced to break cover to help her. He’d ignored the direct orders of his supervisor, risked his own life, and tossed out months of investigative work to save an undocumented immigrant. The DEA had not been pleased with this decision. They’d fired him on the spot.
Villarreal had managed to stumble away from the hotel, bleeding profusely. He’d passed Maria an envelope and begged her to deliver it to his daughter in person. Maria had agreed, unable to refuse an apparently dying man his final wish.
She’d kept the letter a secret from Ian. He hadn’t learned of its existence until after she’d left the country.
After she left him.
Maria had told her friend and roommate, Kari, about the letter. According to Kari, Maria planned to drop it off at the girl’s school on her way home.
“Maria Santos’s mother lives in Mezcala, Guerrero,” LaGuardia said. “I’m sending you there to speak to Miss Santos in person. I want you to confirm the location of Villarreal’s daughter and take some photos of the area. I’ll send in a team to do the rest.”
Ian understood his assignment. He was supposed to collect an easy-to-get piece of intel and stay on the sidelines, where he couldn’t fuck up again. He saw no reason to decline. He wanted to catch up with Maria. He had to see her one more time.
He was a fool for her. Always would be.
“Michelson told me you speak Spanish,” LaGuardia said.
“That’s right.”
“You won’t pass for Mexican.”
“No,” he agreed. He’d grown up in a poor Mexican neighborhood in San Diego, and he’d practically been raised by his best friend’s mother, Señora Cortez. But he wasn’t Mexican, no matter how many times he’d wished to be as a kid. He spoke Spanish like a pocho. But he was too tall and lanky, too fair skinned. His father had probably been some white-trash tweaker or a homeless bum. Maybe a traveling businessman.
Who knew? His mother certainly didn’t.
“We’ve got some camera equipment for you in the back,” LaGuardia said, taking some documents out of his briefcase. There was a passport, a photo ID, and media credentials. “You’re Ian Phillips, freelance photographer for National Geographic.”
Ian accepted the items with a wry smile. He’d come a long way from the barrio. Too bad when this short assignment ended he’d be neither a successful photographer nor a DEA agent. He wasn’t sure he’d have a job with ICE, either. He sensed LaGuardia’s disapproval, a sore festering beneath the surface.
It was clear that LaGuardia didn’t want Ian on his team. SACs weren’t fond of rogue agents. Some of them didn’t even like independent thinkers.
LaGuardia changed the images on the screen once again, revealing a photo of Maria Santos in a hospital bed. It must have been taken about a week after he’d found her in the desert, because her face still bore the bruises from the attack. She was achingly beautiful, regardless. Tall and willowy, with long black hair and lovely brown eyes.
“Pretty girl,” LaGuardia remarked, watching Ian for a reaction.
Ian didn’t answer. Maria’s looks weren’t really a matter for debate. Anyone with clear vision could agree on her appeal.
“How old is she? Twenty?”
“Twenty-two,” Ian said in a low voice. He knew where this was going.
“You met her when she was eighteen.”
“Briefly.”
“And you were with her the night before last.”
“I didn’t write that in my report.” And it’s none of your fucking business. Ian was twenty-eight, not forty-five. If he’d pursued Maria after apprehending her at the border four years ago, that would have been extremely inappropriate. But he hadn’t.
“She assisted Villarreal with his getaway.”
“She gave him some towels to stop the bleeding,” Ian countered.
“And then she fled the scene.”
“She’s illegal. What do you expect?”
“You don’t think it’s odd that she promised to deliver a letter for him?”
“No, I don’t think it’s odd.” He thought it was stupid, and softhearted, and infuriatingly selfless. But that was Maria to a fault. She was going to get herself killed someday doing dangerous favors for people in need.
Like him. She’d helped him keep his cover one night, and cared for him while he was incapacitated.
“Did you sleep with her?”
“What difference does it make? I’d already handed in my resignation.”
LaGuardia leaned back in his chair, twiddling his fingers. “There’s a name for patrol agents who prey on female aliens.”
Ian had a few choice names for LaGuardia also, but he kept them to himself. He hadn’t laid a hand on Maria or any other female he’d encountered on the line. He’d been celibate during his months-long undercover assignment, too. He wasn’t the kind of man who’d take advantage of a helpless woman, especially one who’d been assaulted in the past. It rankled him to be accused of predatory sexual behavior. “I didn’t prey on her, sir. With all due respect, what happened between us was completely consensual.”
LaGuardia shook his head. “The power imbalance between a federal agent and an illegal alien overrules any kind of permission or consent.”
Ian couldn’t defend himself against these charges, and he resented LaGuardia for making them. LaGuardia didn’t unde
rstand the nature of his relationship with Maria, and Ian wasn’t going to fill him in on the intimate details. There had been no coercion. No penetration, in fact. Did a thirty-second handjob even count as sex?
“I don’t want your personal feelings to interfere with this assignment,” LaGuardia added.
“They won’t.”
The SAC made a skeptical sound. “You requested a transfer from border patrol a few weeks after you met Santos. You crashed and burned in the DEA as soon as you came into contact with her again. But you don’t foresee any problems this time?”
Ian clenched his jaw tight. “No, I don’t.”
“You’re full of shit,” LaGuardia said flatly. “If I had a choice, I wouldn’t put you on my team. You’re only here because you know this girl and you’ve got a better chance of getting information from her than anyone else.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” Ian said, disgruntled. “I’ll feel real safe in Mexico knowing you’ve got my back.”
“Just keep your dick in your pants, Foster. If you touch her or anyone else while you’re on duty—if you so much as jerk off south of the border—I’ll have your credentials stripped and you’ll be mopping up piss in the holding vans for a living.”
Ian took a deep breath, trying to control his anger. He wanted to mop the floor with LaGuardia’s face, but restrained himself. It wasn’t easy to sit here and take this abuse. He was already at rock bottom, his ego badly bruised.
Despite being a meth addict’s kid who’d come from nothing, he’d done well for himself. He’d been an ace student, a dedicated athlete, a crack shot. He’d never expected to falter at twenty-four, and again at twenty-eight. This second career setback had really thrown him for a loop.
“Are we clear?”
“Crystal.”
LaGuardia’s harsh expression softened. He was one of those hardass military types, overworked and underpaid. He looked worn down. Ian was worn down, too. His undercover assignment with the DEA had taken a toll on him mentally and physically. It had reminded him of his early childhood. When he’d been hungry and dirty and scared. Hiding in the closet from doped-out strangers.
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