While JULIE MILLER has never driven an actual drag racer, she has written more than thirty-five books and won several awards for her work, including the National Readers’ Choice Award. Some of her books have appeared on the USA TODAY and Waldenbooks bestseller lists. Julie lives in Nebraska, where she teaches English and spoils her dog. Find out more about her at www.juliemiller.org.

Out of Control
Julie Miller

www.millsandboon.co.uk

For Lori Borrill, Alison Kent and Jennifer LaBrecque.

FROM 0–60 has been a great collaborative effort and a lot of fun to boot!

Dahlia, Tennessee, really came to life for me, working with you guys.

I feel I’ve been to that town and I know those people living there.

I appreciate you sharing your knowledge of drag racing with a novice like me.

I appreciate your humour and your creative energy fed my own.

And thanks to Brenda Chin for introducing us!

Table of Contents

Cover

About the Author

Title Page

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Copyright

1

Nashville, Tennessee Seven months ago

“GET OUT OF THE VEHICLE. Get out of the vehicle!”

Detective Jack Riley pulled his Glock 9 mm and pointed it, along with his flashlight, at the three-hundred-pound behemoth who ignored his badge and his command and started the engine. Shit.

As the drug dealer shifted his customized Chevy Suburban into gear, Jack jumped back inside the cab of his pickup and slammed it into reverse, hoping to block his target’s exit from the convenience store parking lot. But Lorenzo Vaughn slipped past him, burning an acrid trail of black rubber onto the pavement as he swung out into the street.

“Screw that.”

Silently apologizing to the truck’s big bruiser engine, he shifted into drive and ruthlessly gunned it.

Jack flipped on the siren and warning lights of his unmarked truck, praying Vaughn would take this pursuit to the open road. With a long, straight stretch ahead of them, Jack’s years of training behind the wheel would give him the advantage. But it might already be too late. There were too many hills, too many trees and houses blocking his line of sight—too many things wrong with this takedown.

The original plan he and his drug enforcement team had worked weeks on had gone way beyond south.

“Come on, baby.” He urged as much speed out of the engine as he dared this time of night with so many cars still on the streets.

“Jack? You in trouble?” His partner Eric Mesner’s voice crackled over the radio. “We’re hung up in traffic at least five minutes away from your location.”

Jack swore, yanking his steering wheel to the left to swerve around a car pulling out of a driveway. “We’re already a day late and a dollar short, buddy. Vaughn didn’t stick to his regular schedule. He got away from me. I’m in pursuit.”

“Son of a bitch. Did you see the drugs?”

“Didn’t get a chance to. But the Chevy he’s driving has been modified like the others. Looks like a monster-sized race car. If it’s street legal, I’m your Aunt Fanny. Whatever he’s selling was either transported in there or is still hidden inside.”

Rather than risk their lives or any innocent bystanders’ lives by confronting Vaughn at his house—where guns, drugs, lieutenants and a reputed fighting dog stayed—they’d wanted to arrest him when he slipped out to pay a nightly visit to one of his girlfriends. “You watch your back, Jack. Don’t take this guy on by yourself.”

“Too late for that.” Jack had been spying on Vaughn’s house, tracking his routine for weeks. The closest they could figure was that Vaughn was getting his drugs stashed inside one of the new vehicles that seemed to show up at his house about once a month. The plan had been to grab the man, grab the car, and break both down until NPD had the proof necessary to bring down one of the city’s biggest drug rings. But their precisely timed plan was turning into a flat-out road race. “You’re coming to save my ass, right?”

“We’re coming,” Eric assured him. “Let’s get moving. Now!” he shouted to the other team members who were closing in on Jack’s lead position.

Jack switched his radio to an all-call channel and reported his location. “Officer in pursuit. I could use some backup.”

Flying through intersections and leaving streetlights and startled drivers in the dust, Jack needed to think fast. He glanced at the name of a side street, pulled up a map inside his head. Hell, yes. Flexing his fingers around his truck’s taut leather steering-wheel cover, Jack took a deep, steadying breath…and jerked the wheel to the right. He cut through an alley, skidded around the corner and pressed on the gas, his eyes peeled for any sign of pedestrians or civilian vehicles as he zoomed ahead of Vaughn’s position on a less-populated parallel street. He couldn’t safely outrace Lorenzo Vaughn, but he could damn well outsmart him.

Spotting the cross street he wanted, Jack spun left. By the time his two left wheels hit the pavement again, he had his target in sight. He floored it. “Gotcha.”

Forty damn years old and Jack Riley could still play a gutsy game of chicken. Vaughn’s head turned. He saw the inevitable rushing toward him and Jack grinned. He was either going to turn Vaughn toward the highway entrance ramp or T-bone him.

Only Vaughn didn’t understand the rules of the game he was playing.

“Turn, you son of a bitch. Turn!”

Vaughn’s SUV loomed larger and larger. He was close enough to see Vaughn’s oh, shit expression now, close enough to count down the seconds until impact or victory, close enough to—

A blur of blue and red flashed through Jack’s peripheral vision. In the same instant a bold, taunting voice blared across his radio. “I’ve got this one, old man! Back off!”

A black-and-white unit whipped around the corner in front of him, almost clipping Jack’s right fender. Adrenaline whooshed out of his body as Jack stomped on the brakes to avoid the crash. “Shit. Billington!”

Vaughn jerked his vehicle to the left as Jack skidded through the intersection behind him. In the seconds it took Jack to regain control of his truck, Vaughn’s SUV and the black-and-white unit had careened onto the highway ramp. He was blocks behind the chase already. But Paul Billington kept his speed steady, falling into close pursuit.

He’d asked for backup, hadn’t he? But Jack had been looking for his seasoned drug enforcement team to show up and save the day—not this fast and furious wannabe who’d answered the call from street patrol.

Cursing the young hotshot, Jack closed the distance between them, slipping into the unfamiliar role of playing backup on the arrest he was supposed to have made. “Damn it, Billington!” Jack watched the black-and-white police car slide into position to tap the rear of Vaughn’s vehicle and slam him into a spinout. They were going too fast. Too damn fast. “Billington!”

The kid was cocky. Reckless.

Perfect.

In a matter of seconds, the perp’s car had rolled to a stop in the ditch and Billington was dragging a dazed Lorenzo Vaughn from behind his deflating air bag. Jack pulled up in front of the wreck and climbed out. “Nice driving,” Jack conceded. “I appreciate the help.”

“Happy to save your ass anytime, Grandpa.”

Damn schmuck.

With Eric Mesner and the rest of the team finally reaching the scene to set up traffic control around the accident, Jack lowered his voice and reprimanded the young officer for the unnecessary risk he’d taken upon himself. “Speeding through a residential neighborhood where collateral damage is a definite possibility is not the way to prove you’ve got the cajones to make the drug squad.”

Billington jerked Vaughn to his feet and turned him toward the black-and-white. “Back in the day, when you set the police course driving record I’ve been trying to break since my rookie year, you would have gotten the job done yourself instead of calling for backup and giving me a lecture. Maybe it’s time to step aside and let some new blood into vice.”

“Back in the day?” Jack winced at the mix of awe and sympathy in Billington’s tone. “I’m hardly ready to retire.”

“Oh, yeah?” Billington’s expression blazed with an arrogance all too reminiscent of Jack’s earlier days on the force. “Who just made this arrest?”

“Good work, buddy.” Eric Mesner patted his shoulder as Jack eased the tight clench of his fists. “It’s good to see that bastard finally going to jail.”

Nodding, Jack replayed the night’s events in his head, trying to figure out where he’d lost that half-second advantage to Vaughn—and Billington—and wondering just how many other young bloods in NPD had taken to calling him Old Man and Grandpa.

Eric nodded his approval to Billington as he closed the back door of the official vehicle on Lorenzo Vaughn. “I’ve got the rest of the team securing the Suburban. We’ll check the accessible places for any hidden drugs. Otherwise, it’ll be up to the lab to break it down. In the meantime, I’m looking forward to putting him in an interrogation room and finding out how he’s getting his supply into Nashville in the first place.”

“You still coming over to the house for barbecue tomorrow afternoon?” Eric switched topics as smoothly as Jack eased through the gears on his truck. “I figure it’ll be the last weekend we can be outside before the cooler weather sets in. The kids and the missus haven’t seen you for a while. Not since you and Rosie broke up.”

Hell. His ego was taking it in the shorts tonight. There was no woman at home for him anymore, waiting to listen to his troubles, willing to ease his doubts and frustrations with the lush warmth of her body. Jack’s live-in lover of over a year had moved out a month ago because her job offer in St. Louis had been more tempting than a marriage proposal from him.

He liked Eric’s kids, was godfather to his oldest son. Even Eric’s wife welcomed him like a long-lost brother. But he didn’t feel much like celebrating with the family right now. Jack turned and headed back to his truck. “I don’t know.”

“Don’t know what?” Eric followed. “Hey. We got our guy. We’ll find where the cars and drugs are coming from. The rest will fall into place. We did good.”

“No, Eric, we sucked.” Jack pulled up and turned to his partner. “I sucked. If it wasn’t for Hotshot’s help back there, Vaughn would have gotten away. He could have dumped the car and the drugs and we’d have zilch. Nada. Nothing.”

“So we had an off night.” Eric propped his hands on his hips at the hem of his flak vest and shrugged. “How many times in the past have we had to punt and go to Plan B—or C or D—because Plan A didn’t work out?”

Jack raked his fingers through his hair. “Yeah, but we were always able to make B, C and D work for ourselves. We never had to have some punk ride in to save our asses before.”

Eric’s dark eyes narrowed in that wise, patient way of his as he tried to assess Jack’s surly mood. “We may be slowing down, but our glory days are hardly over.”

Slowing down? Shit. Just the kind of pep talk he didn’t need.

“BACK IN THE DAY, MY ASS.” Jack thumped the truck’s steering wheel with his fist. It was late. He was tired. And his patience with himself had worn down to the driving need for an ice-cold beer or a long, hot lay to purge the restless frustration that gnawed at him.

But he was still on the clock, and there was no sweet, sophisticated Rosie waiting for him back home.

He couldn’t keep a woman. Couldn’t do the job. Eric had said it was an off day. That they’d crack the case tomorrow. Damn optimist. Probably why Eric’s wife had stuck with him for almost twenty years. Probably why Jack respected his partner so much. Eric could see the promise of tomorrow. He believed in it.

Meanwhile, Jack…? Well, hell. Even with the windows down and the damp autumn air blowing in his face as he cruised along Interstate 40, he couldn’t seem to cool down. Something was eating at him tonight.

And it damn well wasn’t the fact that he was forty, unattached and horny as hell with some adolescent need to prove he was still the man he once was. Yeah, right.

Exiting the highway, Jack veered onto Broadway—Nashville’s brightly lit, noisy magnet for tourists, partygoers and country-music star wannabes. Maybe there’d be a purse snatcher or scam artist he could haul in to headquarters. That’s it. Make an arrest. Protect and serve.

That’d get his mojo back. Then maybe he’d believe in tomorrow again, too. Jack inhaled deeply, feeling a surge of renewed confidence.

Scanning Broadway from sidewalk to sidewalk, Jack watched for anything out of the ordinary. Neon lights blinked on and off in modern contrast to the old brick buildings they adorned, marking open-mike joints, dance clubs and honky tonks. Despite the chill in the air, every door stood open to let the music inside pour out into the street.

With a beefy bouncer standing guard at every bar, he suspected there wouldn’t be anything to worry about there. Instead, Jack turned his attention to the crowds milling up and down the sidewalk. He took note of the tourists strolling toward a line of horse-drawn carriages, hoping to catch a leisurely tour of the capitol building and other historical and musical landmarks in the downtown area. He spotted a trio of derelict musicians hauling their instruments, bedrolls and backpacks in and out of doorways, looking for work and a place to sleep. Jack nodded to the two uniformed bicycle cops who’d pulled off their helmets and stopped to chat with a street-corner huckster who was probably selling overpriced tickets to something that didn’t even exist. Their answering salute told him the two men had the situation well under control.

Soon, he’d run out of road—and opportunities—and hit the Cumberland River that looped through the city. Jack rolled to a stop at the next light. He drummed his fingers against the wheel, thinking his apartment and a cold shower were his best bets to save this night, when a shrill voice pierced the night air.

“You touch me again and you’ll take back a stump.”

A swirl of honey-gold hair drew his eye to the street-corner commotion in front of Jasmine’s Saloon.

Petite yet stacked in a way that reminded him of country-music icons and teenage fantasies, a young blond woman marched down the sidewalk, bumping her way through the crowd. Her makeup had been applied with a heavy hand, and the little black dress she wore was far too short—her strappy silver stilettos way too high—for that sexy get-up to be anything other than an invitation for trouble.

Trouble followed in the form of two college-aged boys who hurried along behind her. “What if we pay you double?” the taller one shouted.

The blonde spun around on wobbly legs. Before Jack could wedge his truck into the entrance to a parking alley, Blondie drew her arm back and swung. He winced in sympathy at the slap that connected with the cheek of the gangly, red-haired young man. The young man’s buddy laughed, but quickly fell silent as both Red and Blondie turned and glared at him.

There was a story behind that assault, and Jack intended to find out the details before Blondie struck again or the two men retaliated. Closing the door behind him, Jack jogged down the sidewalk for a closer look.

While Blondie tottered on her heels in a less-than-dignified retreat, the red-haired kid massaged his cheek and made some kind of suggestion to his shorter companion. With a nod of agreement, Red and Shorty hurried after their target, perhaps intent on taking what she hadn’t been willing to give them.

“Easy, boys.” Jack quickly caught up to the boys, stopping them with a low-pitched warning. “Nashville PD. Now turn around nice and slow.”

Shorty thrust his hands into the air and whirled around, completely ignoring the slow part of the command. “We didn’t do anything wrong.”

“Shut up, Duane.”

The tall one turned, as well, and Jack looked him straight in his bleary eyes.

Hell. Not one wrinkle on the kid’s face. And clearly they’d already had a few. Were these two even legal? Jack pulled back the front of his leather jacket to give them a look at his badge and gun. “Let me see your IDs.”

As eager to cooperate as he’d been to laugh, Duane handed over his driver’s license. It looked authentic enough. Red’s ID showed he was old enough to hit the bars, as well. Just barely. Jack did some quick math before returning their licenses. “Celebrating your twenty-first birthday?”

“Yes, sir.”

Jack looked between their shoulders to see the young woman hugging her arms around herself for warmth as she paused outside the doorway to the next bar on the block. “What about Blondie over there? Is she part of the celebration?”

The tall one with the fading hand print on his face shrugged. “I thought she wanted to be. She hit on us inside.”

Duane slurred his words and blinked sporadically, trying to send a double entendre with a wink as he tucked his license back into his wallet. “She asked Isaac if he had a phone in his pocket. I sure had one in mine when I got a load of those gazongas.”

“Yeah. It was a come-on line if I ever heard one.”

“I told her that money was no object—that we’d pay the going rate. But she said she wouldn’t take our money—”

“I thought she meant she was gonna give me a birthday freebie.”

“Maybe she doesn’t do two at once, man. I don’t mind waiting. It’s Isaac’s birthday, anyway.”

“All right, boys, I’ve heard enough.” Jack raised his hand to end the discussion. These two were clueless but apparently harmless. “Move along. Make sure you call a cab when it’s time to go home. I don’t want to see either one of you behind the wheel tonight. Understood?”

Both young men nodded with obvious relief. “Yes, sir.”

They quickly turned and tottered back into the saloon. “I mean it, boys—” Jack called after them. “No driving tonight.”

“No, sir.”

Now, back to the real trouble.

Despite her lack of height, Jack easily spotted all that pale bare skin and golden hair as Blondie gave up the idea of going into the bar and, instead, joined the stream of partiers and tourists heading on down the street. Jack picked up speed as he threaded his way through the crowd in pursuit. The woman walked with a purpose. Though if she was running to something or running away, he couldn’t tell. He supposed Isaac and Duane back there weren’t up to her standards or they just hadn’t been willing or able to meet her price.

The spaghetti straps on the little black dress she wore had no chance of holding up those puppies if she continued to bounce along at that furious pace. Jack tried to ignore the rush of masculine appreciation that bubbled through his veins and pooled behind his zipper. Hookers weren’t his thing, but Blondie was hot, in a trashy sort of way that made him long for a fast car and a one-night stand. No commitment. Nothing complicated. Just pure, any-way-he-wanted-it sex. He wasn’t the only male in the vicinity to notice the possibilities, either.

“Ah, hell.”

Now she moved to the edge of the curb, stumbling backward in those spiky heels, her thumb in the air. She shouted something obscene to one car that slowed, then sped away without stopping.

Hitchhiking was just as illegal, and no safer than turning tricks. Jack needed to get to her before she got herself in a train wreck that would completely ruin what was left of this night.

“Miss?”

The instant he touched the cool skin of her arm, she started. Before he could identify himself, she jerked away, tilting her chin up, ready to do battle. “If you ask me for a blow job, too, I swear I’m gonna smack you.”

He crushed the erotic image of honey-blond curls at his crotch that instantly leaped to mind, and did his damnedest to remember he was a cop. Jack pulled his badge from his belt. “Well, that would be assaulting a police officer, and we frown upon that here in Nashville.”

“You’re a cop?” Instead of expressing relief or laughing at the joke, she muttered a curse. “This is not happening to me.”

2

WAS IT POSSIBLE for one woman to be any stupider about men than she’d been tonight?

Alexandra Morgan briefly flashed back to the crippling knowledge that she’d once proved the answer was yes.

Still, there was little comfort in knowing that tonight could actually be worse. She’d shunned the idea of dating for so long that she’d known it wouldn’t be easy, but she thought she’d get something right. After that awful night in high school, and the handful of doomed attempts in the nine years since that had turned her into a closed-up, guarded, spinster tomboy, she’d finally gotten frustrated enough to try embracing the sexy, feminine side of her nature again. She was anxious to learn about all the good things she’d been denying herself. The intimacy. The trust. The orgasms. She’d wanted this.

But nothing had changed. Wanting wasn’t the same as knowing. Her feminine instincts—or lack thereof—had failed her once again.

College had given her confidence in other aspects of her life. Her four years of the University of Tennessee made her rethink how she handled the small minds that had dictated the course of her life. She’d gone to work for her father, outlined new ideas to improve the family auto-repair business. She’d made a success of her life despite the concessions survival had forced her to make. But a degree in business management couldn’t prepare her for nights like this one.

Tears began to chafe like grit beneath her eyelids again, and Alex blinked them away along with the painful memories from her past. She was smart enough now to grab hold of the anger that gave her the strength to bear the disappointments of her life. Like tonight.

The big bruiser with the badge here was just the icing on the cake. Her feet were blistered. She was cold, embarrassed. Accepting a blind date with the friend of a friend hadn’t proved to be the fresh start she’d hoped for. “What did I do wrong?”

He clipped his badge back beneath his black leather jacket, giving her a glimpse of a gun and a rip of muscles that warned her getting away from him wouldn’t be as easy as getting away from Dawson Barnes had been. “Relax, sweetheart. I’m not necessarily taking you in. But we do need to talk about what you’re selling.”

“Selling?” Alex planted her hands on her hips in a defiant pose. “Do you see a purse? Pockets? A suitcase? I don’t have anything on me to sell.” Dawson had left her with nothing but the clothes on her back. She’d thought his offer to drive all the way to Dahlia to pick her up for dinner had been a gentlemanly gesture.

But when he’d started tearing at her sweater before they’d even gotten inside the restaurant, she’d fought her way out of the car without thinking about her phone or purse or the fact he might drive off and leave her.

Oh. My. God.

The blood rushed from her head down to her painted toenails. Those two boys in the saloon who’d seemed harmless enough to approach? That jerk in the car? Mr. Tall, Dark and Serious here? “You think I’m a hooker?”

“Well, that dress doesn’t exactly say all-American sweetheart now does it.” His sarcasm burned through her.

Alex glanced down at the twin curses bulging over the lowcut neckline, seeing for the first time just how close she was to popping out over the top of the tight rayon knit. She quickly hugged her arms around her chest as if she could hide her assets. But the cop’s gray eyes, dark as steel and just as hard, said it all.

“I look like a hooker.”

She was going to be sick.

Alex rubbed her hands along her skin from her elbows to her shoulders. Her father had assured her that her late mother had always put on makeup when she’d gone out. She’d always worn a dress and heels like a “fine lady.” Every fashion magazine Alex had picked up over the years talked about how a woman could never go wrong with a little black dress.

She’d managed to go wrong.

Despite the good intentions of the military father and workaholic brother who’d raised her, Alex had managed to go way wrong.

All she’d wanted was a date. One date with one decent guy who’d treat her like a lady and maybe teach her a thing or two about the intricacies of a physical relationship with a man. But Dawson hadn’t wanted to teach. He’d wanted to take.

And, by damn, Alexandra Morgan was done letting men take what she’d be willing to give the right one.

At five foot three, she didn’t have much to work with in the intimidation department, but she tipped her chin up, way up, to look this cop in the eye and set him straight. “Just so we’re clear on this. I am not a hooker.”

“Then I expect you’re either in trouble, or you’re well on your way to finding it. Either way, you need my help.”

“I can take care of myself.”

“Yeah, I can see that.” More sarcasm? He raked his fingers over dark hair that had enough silver in it to give the short, crisp cut a smoky cast. “Come on.” Making some sort of decision, he cupped a hand beneath her elbow and turned her back in the direction she’d come from. “Let’s get you off the street before I have to arrest you for public indecency.”

“Are you kidding me?” She jerked her arm out of his grasp. “This is a perfectly good dress.” At least, it had looked fine on the girl in the catalog. Of course, that girl was probably taller, and no way did a fashion model have a pair of 38 EEs to work with. “It’s not my fault I lost the sweater that goes with it. You take a look for yourself, pal. Everything I own is covered.”

But even Alex could look down and see that wasn’t far from a lie. Oh, God. She was blushing hard enough that even her boobs were turning pink. Quickly, she tugged the square neckline up half an inch. But then she felt a distinct breeze down between her thighs.

What she wouldn’t give for one of her brother’s big T-shirts—or a hole to crawl into—right about now.

Alex didn’t know whether to give NPD here credit for patience or perseverence. She saw the officer’s gaze go there, then politely move back up to her face. He nodded toward a halfton black pickup parked in an alley at the end of the block. “I’ll give you a ride to headquarters where we can sort this out.”

“There’s nothing to sort out. I’m going home.”

“Excuse me?”

She shook her head. “Unless you are arresting me, I am not going anywhere with you.”

His gray eyes grew even steelier. The cool leather of his jacket brushed against her cheek as he took a step closer and pointed over her shoulder at the cars passing by. “You won’t accept a ride from a police officer, yet you’ll get into the car of a complete stranger?”

“You’re a stranger to me,” she countered, feeling suddenly surrounded by his heat and strength, and fighting the urge to either turn tail and run or throw herself against that wall of black T-shirt and pray his offer to help was a legitimate one. “How do I know I can trust you?”

He was going for his badge again. “You see this? This means you do what I say.”

“I don’t have a particular fondness for cops.” And though this one with the jeans and the leather and the shoulders was a sight better looking than the good ol’ boy who ran her hometown, she wasn’t inclined to put her faith in any man right now.

“I wasn’t giving you a choice, Trouble.” He grabbed her arm firmly enough make her understand he wasn’t letting go. “You’re coming with me.”

“Hey!” The crowd parted in front of his long, determined stride as he escorted her back to his truck. Alex tapped along in double-time beside him, struggling against his grip every step of the way. “Did you just call me Trouble? This is police harassment. I’ve got a good lawyer.” A big brother who’d be indignant on her behalf, at any rate. “I’ll sue.”

“Sue away, sweetheart.”

He kept right on walking, ignoring her protests, ignoring curious stares and pointing and laughs that made part of her wilt inside. The one man who stepped forward to help quickly changed his mind and backed off when the cop thrust his badge in the guy’s face.

“You’re a big bully, you know that?”

“You’re a pain in the ass.”

“Is that any way to talk to a lady—”

The sidewalk ended. The cop turned. Alex tugged. His grip slipped. But escape was short-lived. Her heel caught in the seam of the curb, snapped and pitched her forward.

A rock-hard arm shot around her waist to catch her. “Easy.”

Alex shoved it away. Why the hell should anything go right? She stumbled sideways, plucked off the traitorous shoe and tossed it. “Get away from me.”

Two big hands closed over her shoulders now, saving her from falling. “Let me help.”

“I don’t want any help. I just want to go home.” She wanted to crawl under the covers and hide her head and heart in shame.

He pulled her back. “I’m not the bad guy.”

“Let…” Alex’s vision had reduced to a blur of black leather and neon lights. But she had the presence of mind to put that surviving shoe to some good use tonight. She stomped down hard on his instep. “…go!”

Cussing up a blue streak, he did just that. Alex lurched forward, nearly splatting on the concrete. Her pulse roared in her ears. Her eyes burned.

“That’s it.” Before she could right herself, a straight-jacket came down around her shoulders. Its warmth and softness were almost a shock to her system. But there was nothing soft about the wrap-around bands of masculine strength that pinned her arms to her sides and lifted her feet clear off the pavement.

Alex shrieked. Twisted in his grasp.

“Stop it!”

Tears clouded her vision, burned down her cheeks. “No!”

“Don’t fight me.”

She writhed and kicked. The second shoe flew into the shadows. “Please,” she sobbed. If anything, his hold on her tightened. He locked one arm beneath her breasts, the other farther down, around her hips. She was moving through the air. He was carrying her away as easily and ignominiously as a sack of potatoes. And then she was trapped, her whole body cinched up tight, unable to wiggle anything besides her bare feet, which dangled in the air beneath her.

The humiliation of her evening was complete. She was grappling in an alley with a full-grown man who was neither her brother nor her date…nor her enemy.

The fight drained out of Alex and she sagged inside the prison of the cop’s arms. She was breathing hard, her chest pushing against the jacket’s silky lining. The cocoon of fiery warmth surrounding her finally pierced the blind haze of fight-or-flight emotions that had turned her into a crazy woman for a few minutes. She could finally blink enough tears from her puffy eyes to see that she was facing the bed of a black pickup truck. She was pinned against the side, wrapped up in a leather jacket and sandwiched between cold steel and warm man.

As her breathing returned to a more normal rhythm, Alex became aware of a hushed, deep-pitched sound murmuring against her neck. “Shh. There’s nothing to be afraid of. Just quit fightin’ me. Okay?”

Alex nodded slowly, hearing the cadence of that soothing voice more than the actual words. “I’m…sorry.”

She exhaled on a surrendering sigh and instinctively leaned her ear closer to the seductive sound. Smooth like whiskey, and just as intoxicating, the deep, soft tones warmed her from the inside out.

“That’s it, sweetheart. Relax. I’m not going to hurt you.” The rough pad of a finger was surprisingly gentle against her skin as the man who held her wiped the tears from her cheeks. “Shh. Now, come on. Don’t do that. You don’t want to be cryin’.”

The tears of frustration and humiliation quickly dried up beneath his tender ministrations. For a few moments, there was simply fatigue—and gratitude that there was a man whose will and strength were stronger than her own—a good man whose will and strength hadn’t been used to hurt her. But as her sensibilities returned, Alex became aware of other things. Interesting things. Things that were as male and intriguing and unsettling as that voice.

The muscled forearm wedged beneath her breasts. The rasp of beard stubble that tickled her ear and neck. The buttery softness and furnace-like warmth of the jacket he’d wrapped around her body. Alex breathed in deeply. The jacket smelled like heaven.

She felt the belt buckle pressing into her rear, and the thigh that had been forced between her legs. In their struggle, her short dress had ridden up to an embarrassing level, leaving only her cotton panties between them. But shielded from curious eyes by the truck and the man’s big, muscular body, she didn’t feel exposed or embarrassed.

Instead, Alex felt…female. Vulnerable.

But not afraid.

The roughness of denim rubbed against her most sensitive skin. And a rippling response of pressure seemed to be gathering at the juncture between her thighs, building with each flex of hard muscles against her there.

“Let’s try this again.” He adjusted their positions, shifting her higher onto his hip. Alex closed her eyes, her thighs clenching at the friction of his leg sliding between hers. How could being trapped—helpless—like this feel so good? “I’m a detective with Nashville PD. It’s too chilly for this dress and too late for a woman to be walking the streets on her own. I’m here to help you. How old are you?”

“Twenty-five.”

“Before I got to you…” He paused, went still around her—as if the next question was hard for him to get out. “Have you been assaulted?”

Grabbing hands. Buttons popping. Pushing her down in the seat. “I heard you did it for all the boys in Dahlia. Let’s see those tits.”

“Shh. Easy.”

Something in Alex had gone rigid, defensive. But his mesmerizing voice calmed her into breathing easy again.

Alex answered. “I was on a blind date. There was a little miscommunication. I thought he’d be interesting—he thought I’d put out.”

“I’m sorry.” He adjusted his stance, pulling the prop of his leg from between hers, relaxing the intimacy of his hold on her without releasing her entirely. “Did he force you?”

Alex squirmed in his grasp, wanting to turn around and ease away the concern—or was it fear? Anger?—that eroded the seductive timbre of his voice into a predatory growl. But she was at his mercy, and all she had to give him were words. “No. I wasn’t raped if that’s what you’re asking. But his plans for the evening didn’t match up with mine. When I got out of the car, he drove off with my purse and sweater and cell phone inside.”

He cursed. Apologized. “And you’ve been walking ever since?”

“Yeah. It’s been a long night.”

“And I thought I was having a bad one. Sounds like yours might have been worse.” He adjusted his arms around her, softening his hold. Though there was still little chance for Alex to escape, it felt more like an embrace rather than a takedown maneuver. “Sometimes, it’s hard to get it all right.”

Alex nodded. “Sometimes, it’s hard to get anything right.”

“Sometimes.”

This man made it so easy to sink into his strength. He was still pressed against her, his cheek to her ear, his chest to her back, his…Alex’s cheeks colored with warmth. There was something more than his belt buckle pressing into her bottom. But he wasn’t rubbing himself against her or demanding she do something about it. His restraint, despite the hell she’d given him, created a whole new world of confusion inside her.

But oddly enough, this felt right.

Even though she was the one being held captive, he was letting her be the one in control of the unexpected, yet obvious, attraction simmering between them. Control was a whole new experience for Alex. And she was beginning to think she wouldn’t mind if the handsome detective asked for something more than answers from her.

She tried to ignore the strange impulse and explain what had led her to this moment—pinned against a truck by what had to be the sexiest man who’d ever had a hard-on for her. “I swear I haven’t committed any crime. Although, if Dawson Barnes complains that he can’t father children for a couple of weeks, then I’ll argue it was self-defense. And I’m sorry that I kicked you and hit you. I didn’t mean to flake out like that.” She squeezed her eyes shut and sent up a quick prayer. She might have really gotten herself into some trouble here. “Are you hurt?”

Laughter danced against her ear and vibrated from his body into hers. “By a little bundle of dynamite like you?”

“Is that a yes or no?”

“Relax.” His lips brushed against her nape as he pushed her hair out of his face. “I’ll heal.”

“You’re sure?”

“I’m fine.” He exhaled slowly, tickling the fine hairs on the back of her neck. A riot of goose bumps rose on her skin, despite the heat from his jacket and body. “Now. If I set you down, nice and easy, will you tell me your name?”

No. No name. Alexandra Morgan was a failure when it came to men. And she was feeling something, wanting something so badly with this man that she didn’t want to blow it. Maybe anonymity would give her a safety net, confidence she normally lacked. And maybe a man with no preconceived notions of who she was, a man who saw her as a desirable woman and nothing more or less, could give Alex what she wanted—a chance to be a normal, sexual, cherished woman.

Even if it was only for one night. Or one hour.

Or one kiss.

“Just like you said, Detective,” she finally answered. “It’s Trouble.”

“I believe that. Okay, so no names. Are you flirting with me, Miss Trouble?”

“Would that be a crime?”

“Depends on if you’re playing me or if this is really going somewhere.”

Alex breathed out the last of her doubts. She might not know exactly what she was doing, but she understood exactly what she wanted. “I don’t like playing games.”

“Then this is definitely going somewhere.” He let go with one arm to feather his fingers into her hair and lift the curling strands to his nose. “You smell so good. Like gardenias carried on a distant breeze.”

Alex’s breath locked in her throat as the atmosphere around them grew heavy. This man could read a grocery list and make it sound sexy in that voice. A compliment like that was pure poetry.

“You…smell good, too,” she whispered. Ugh. Not so poetic. What was she supposed to say?

But the words didn’t matter. He angled his head and pressed a hot, openmouthed kiss against the nape of her neck.

Her startled gasp tensed through her body. But when she exhaled, any surprise flowed away and settled with a purr of contentment in her throat. “That was…nice. Better than nice. I didn’t know there was a bundle of nerves back there.”

“You like that?” he whispered, warming the same spot with his tongue.

She trembled. Nodded.

“You want me to stop?”

They were strangers. She was needy. He was willing. And he was being so…patient. Such a gentleman. And yet, this gentleman’s erection was nestled in the seam of her bottom, telling her she wasn’t the only one interested in exploring whatever was happening between them. It was damn crazy to want a man so badly. A stranger, no less. But when had an opportunity like this ever landed in her lap? Or rather, when had she ever landed in Detective Opportunity’s lap?

“Don’t stop.”

He nibbled the sensitive spot on her neck gently, making her jerk in his arms. Then he worked his way down her spine to the collar of his jacket, discovering nerve after nerve that leaped to life beneath his warm, moist touch.

Alex squirmed between the man and truck, trying to free her hands to grab on to something to steady herself—to try to take part in the embrace. But all she managed to do was work her dress up even higher—exposing more bottom, more damp, slick heat that desperately wanted to feel the press of his leg again.

“Careful,” he warned. His arm constricted around her ribcage. His fingers clenched in her hair, pulling slightly at her scalp. But the pinpricks of pain quickly blended in with the pleasure of his moan vibrating against her skin, his teeth nipping at the taut muscle where her neck and shoulder joined. His thumb inched higher, testing the weight of one breast, hooking around the taut nipple that strained against the band of her dress. He flicked the tender nub once, twice, a third time, forcing Alex’s mouth open in a gasp of need and want that matched his own. “I’m not getting my signals mixed up, am I, Trouble? Tell me what you want. It’s yours. Or tell me to stop.”

She’d come to Nashville, expecting to learn a thing or two about this man-woman mystery that other women her age seemed to enjoy. She was looking for the good part of sexual experience that had been frightened out of her by a cruel act, denied her by a small town that would never let her forget her mistake. She’d thought she’d failed in her quest.

Maybe she’d just been looking for that experience with the wrong man.

“I want you to kiss me again. Really kiss me.”

Her request seemed to open up a throttle, turbocharging the leisurely, languid connection between them. Without ever letting her feet hit the ground, he turned her—using the truck and the friction of her curves bunching against his harder angles to keep her suspended in the air and aligned against him in a way that was sending every red blood cell in her body charging hard into the tips of her aching breasts and down to her full, weeping center. And then he kissed her. And kissed her. His kisses consumed her.

His jacket fell away from her shoulders as her fingers crept around his neck, then raked up the back of his head, tugging his short, silky hair into her greedy grasp. His tongue reached into her mouth, caught hers in a twist and pulled it between his lips for a light nip between his teeth.

Alex returned the bold move, his groan of approval matching the restless cries in her throat. There was nothing soft about this meeting of lips, nothing reticient about the deep, ragged breaths that moved their bodies against each other. He slid one hand down to her bottom, slipped his fingers beneath the elastic band of the cotton and squeezed, branding her, skin to skin. Alex hooked her heel behind his thigh, instinctively opening her body to the hard, thrusting need of his. The truck rocked as he pushed his body closer, drove his tongue deeper.

A wolfish whistle from the entrance to the alley was the first glitch in Alex’s mindless need to fulfill tonight’s quest. A familiar panic button tried to break through the haze of passion. She should reconsider this impulsive encounter.

But the dectective had other ideas.

“Stay with me, sweetheart.” He kissed away her doubts, turned and carried her to the cab of his truck. With an unceremonious shifting of grips and digging into pockets, he unlocked the door, opened it and dumped her inside. “Move over,” he commanded. As soon as Alex scooted backward across the bench seat, he started the engine and took off. “We need some privacy.”

His growly pronouncement spoke not only of his need, but reassured a bone-deep fear inside Alex that this was a good choice. That he was a good choice. This man would save the night—he’d save her lovelife—for her.

Alex held on tight as they jerked around corners and sped on a straightaway. Then they squealed through a parking lot and swerved into an alley where the neon lights and music and crowds of Broadway couldn’t reach. About the time she’d worked her arms into the sleeves of his jacket and had pulled her dress down to a relatively modest level, he stomped on the brake, killed the engine and turned to her.

“You still game?” he asked. The glow from the dashboard shadowed the rugged lines of his face, but his eyes reflected a need, an intent, that rivaled her own.

Alex reached for him. “Yes.”

As he wrapped his arm behind her back and laid her down on the seat, the truck plunged into darkness.

Perfect.

For a brief moment, his shadow loomed over her. But Alex felt excitement, not fear. She felt his palms on her thighs, his thumbs sliding up beneath the elastic of her panties. The heady weight of his body pressed her down into the upholstery as he sought out her bruised, swollen mouth for a tender kiss. “I can’t believe I’m making out in my truck like some kind of randy teenager.” His beard stubble abraded the underside of her chin. His kiss followed. He blazed a trail down her neck, arousing, soothing. “God, I need this, sweetheart. I need this.”

And then, there really wasn’t much talking.

Driven by instincts, directed by his responsive moans, sometimes guided by the instruction of his hands and mouth, Alex became more powerful, more certain of herself, more demanding.

He pushed the jacket off her shoulders. The straps of the dress followed. The strapless bra offered no resistance. When he closed his mouth over the throbbing peak of her breast, she moaned. When he blew softly across the damp tip, she twisted. And when he pulled the straining nipple into his mouth and suckled her with the rasp of his tongue she bucked beneath him.

Her fingers flexed convulsively in his hair, wanting to pull him closer, wanting to share his attentions with the other breast. As frantic as they’d been outside his truck, he seemed to be taking his own sweet time transforming her into a heavy, quivering, raw nerve of pure desire. He brushed his rough jaw over the other nipple in a caress that made her cry out, yet savor the healing touch of his tongue against her all the more.

She wasn’t sure which happened first, the mindless panting or the fist of pressure building up between her thighs. She snatched at his T-shirt, tugged it from his belt as his kisses moved lower. She was desperate to touch the warm skin and the hard muscles underneath, but he moved beyond her reach. She was sitting half upright again, leaning up against the door. He shoved her dress up and kissed her belly, nuzzled her belly button, traced the sensible waistband of her panties with his chin, making muscles clench and stretch and contract. Before she could steady herself, his hand was inside her panties, cupping her bottom, lifting her to drag the underwear completely down her legs and toss them to the floorboards.

And then he was back, his kisses moving lower still. He brushed his lips through the thatch of golden curls and pressed a kiss to the swollen mound beneath. Alex dug her fingers into his shoulders and heard him laugh. The sound vibrated against her inner thigh.

“Easy, sweetheart.” He stroked his thumbs along the seams where her legs joined her hips, each stroke getting longer, opening her wider and taking him closer to her slick, pulsating center. “I’m just thinking about how good you smell. All over.”

Back home in Dahlia, she would have frozen up at the wanton intimacy of their position. She would have second-guessed. She never could have relaxed enough, felt safe enough, to lose her inhibitions like this. She would have failed to know and give pleasure.

But this wasn’t Dahlia, she reasoned. She wasn’t Alex Morgan, pariah of gossip turned extreme tomboy. Tonight, she was this man’s mystery woman. And she was all woman—all whole, sexually confident woman.

“What are you waiting for?” she gasped into the darkness. And then she tunneled her fingers into his hair and pulled his mouth against her.

Alex’s head fell back and she cried out almost instantaneously as he ran his tongue between her folds and thrust inside her. Wave after wave of sensation rolled down to her core and blossomed back like shock waves through her body. He gently bit down against the hard nub, stroked his thumb along her aching crevice, kissed her and licked her and made her come again and again with just his mouth. Alex bucked and moaned and clutched him against her, her body weeping at the newfound experience of having a man bring her to orgasm.

When he was done, when she was spent, he pulled away, crawling up over her body to reclaim her mouth in a full, deep kiss. She inhaled her own release on his skin, tasted it on her tongue. Alex Morgan had never had a night like this. “You’re good.”

She felt him smile against her lips. “I kind of got that idea. Thanks.”

But she wasn’t done. She pushed against his chest. “Your turn.”

He gave her one last kiss and pulled away. “You’re sure?”

“You’ll have to arrest me to stop me.”

He pulled off his badge and gun and set them on the dashboard.

While she hurriedly redressed, he gingerly dropped one foot to the floor and stretched his other leg out behind her, opening himself up just as she’d offered herself to him. His deep voice coaxed her across the seat. “However you want.”

Alex curled her legs beneath her and scooted closer. The jerk of his leg when she braced her hand against his knee told her he might be as primed for this forbidden encounter as she’d been. “Do you have protection?”

“Shit.” She’d take that as a no.

But not as a never mind. Alex slid her hand along his thigh, crawling closer, massaging away any noble instinct to stop her wandering hands. His shoulders were broad enough, near enough, to blot out any light from her vision. But her sense of touch worked just fine. She palmed him through his jeans and she heard the creak of leather where he squeezed the seat back in his fist.

Interesting. Alex’s pulse kicked up a notch in anticipation. Maybe there were other ways to feel the strength of her femininity that had nothing to do with her own release. She rubbed her palm down the length of his zipper and traced the seam of denim that ran between his legs. He groaned. “There are ways, right? Safe ones?” she asked.

His deep breath stirred the hair beside her ear. “Don’t you know?”

All the innuendoes over the years didn’t mean she knew what she was doing. But she was a quick study when given the chance. She dragged her hand up, tracing the same path. “I’m learning.”

His shoulders rose and fell in the shadows. “You weren’t a virgin. Were you?”

Unfortunately, no. That honor had been stolen from her long ago, trampled on, laughed away as meaningless.

Tonight had meaning. Alex pressed her fingers to his lips, easing his distress as well as her own. “Shh. Enough about me. Talk me through this.”

“You are one serious package of trouble, aren’t you.” He made it sound like a good kind of trouble. An irresistible kind of trouble. He pulled her fingers from his lips and guided her hand down to join the other one. For several moments, he simply cupped her hands over the bulge in his jeans and rocked against her. Her breathing quickened along with his. And then he gave her a command. “Unzip me. Careful. That’s it.”

The trembling of her fingers lessened with each hint of praise or pleasure. She unhooked his belt buckle, slid the zipper gently downward. He shifted slightly to help her ease his jeans off his hips. She smiled at the bright white cotton that poked through the opening they’d created.

Plain white cotton? A kindred spirit. The detective was the right man for the job tonight.

“Pull it out.” She did as he asked, stroking his length through the tight tent of cotton, then reaching inside to capture the hot, pulsing hardness of him in her hand. “Oh, yeah.” His hand tightened around her wrist, holding her still while he thrust inside her grip. The moisture at the tip caught in her palm and smoothed the friction between them. With a gasp that sounded like a tight breath through clenched teeth, he released her. “You do it. Just like that. Don’t stop.”

While Alex slid her hand from tip to base and back again, he framed her face with his hands, sifting his fingers into her hair, holding her as tenderly as he’d been firm with her a moment ago. “I want to kiss you,” he whispered at the corner of her mouth. “I can’t seem to get enough of kissing you.”

And then he seized her mouth with the same vigor that Alex used on him. She braced her hand against his shoulder and worked him as his tongue thrust into her mouth. The harder he kissed, the firmer her touch. He went deeper; she stroked harder. He gentled the brush of his lips across hers; she lightly teased the ridge of skin beneath him.

He was pulsing, throbbing, driving into her grip, mimicking the same rhythm with his tongue in her mouth. As she continued to caress his silken length, something deep inside Alex began to pulse in response. He moaned into her mouth, reached down and wrapped his fingers around hers, squeezing tightly as he came up off the seat and pushed himself one last, long time into her hand.

The power of his release triggered an answering satisfaction in her own body and Alex collapsed against him. For several long, timeless minutes, he wrapped his arms around her and she burrowed against his chest, marveling at the warmth, the exhaustion, the contentment she felt.

No encounter had ever been like this for her. She felt safe. Satisfied. Serenely pleased with herself and grateful to this man. Her night in Nashville had turned out to be a success, after all.

As she became aware of the soft, patternless lines he was tracing against her back, Alex noticed the time on his dashboard clock: 2:14 a.m. Her brother would be worried about her by now, her father up, pacing the living room, trying to decide whether to call the sheriff or get into his own car and drive into Nashville to search for her.

And with those concerns, the first frissons of worry marred her contentment.

“Restless?” the detective asked.

Alex pushed away from the tempting haven of his chest and slid back to her side of the seat. She pulled his jacket more tightly around her, but couldn’t seem to ward off the chill of reality that had wormed its way into her thoughts. “I’m just remembering that I’m stranded, that I don’t have any way to get home or even call there.”

He sat up straight, pulling up his jeans and tucking everything back into place. He reached for his gun and badge. “I’ll take you.”

“No.” Alex shot her hand out to touch his wrist. An armed man would hardly reassure her father and brother. She pulled away just as quickly, distracted by the warmth of his skin. “I don’t usually do anything like this.”

“Neither do I.” The gun and badge found their place on his belt. He started the engine. “I haven’t had an enounter like this…for a while.”

He fastened his seat belt, and while Alex did the same, he shifted into reverse and backed out of the alley.

Alex tucked her tangled hair behind her ears. “An encounter sounds like a clandestine rendezvous. Like we were supposed to meet. I’m…”

He checked for traffic and pulled onto the street. “You’re what?”

“Confused.”

“Join the club.”

“Yeah, but you’re…older.”

“So I’ve been told.” The lights from the street and other cars let her read the hard expression that deepened the lines on his face. “Doesn’t mean I’ve got women all figured out.”

Her laugh sounded more like a snort. Yeah, she was a real femme fatale. Not. At least not outside that alley. “I sure don’t have men figured out.”

“I’m not going to apologize for what happened.”

“I don’t want you to.” The old Alex’s doubts were quickly resufacing. “I know we didn’t do…everything. But, you enjoyed it, didn’t you?”

“Hell yeah, sweetheart. I enjoyed it a little too much.”

Alex frowned. “You can enjoy it too much?”

He swore and Alex jerked in her seat. “There are rules and regulations to life. To my job. I think I’ve broken about every last damn one of them with you tonight.”

“I’m sorry.”

He headed up a hill, picking up speed. “Don’t be sorry. Be mad. Get that lawyer of yours and sue me.”

“Why?”

“I was supposed to be rescuing a damsel in distress, not gettin’ my rocks off with her. You can report me for that. In fact, I’ll give you the form to fill out and introduce you to the officer where you can file a complaint against me.”

After a moment’s hesitation, she smiled. “I don’t have any complaints. No one’s ever called me a damsel in distress before. That’s kind of girly, isn’t it?”

“I suppose.” She didn’t understand the 180 degree shifts in his mood from hero of the hour to angry cop, but she had a feeling she was going to be okay. “So, milady—will you let me drive you to precinct headquarters before something worse than me happens to you?”

He maneuvered them smoothly through the late-night traffic and pedestrians. “Is that where we’re going?”

“Yeah.”

“And you’re not arresting me?”

“I’m the one who screwed up tonight, not you. Here.” He pulled out his cell phone and handed it across the seat to her. “The call’s on me.” He stopped at an intersection and watched her punch in a number. “Contacting a friend? Family? That lawyer of yours?”

Alex smiled, feeling extraordinarily relieved and comforted by the simple gift of a phone call. “All of the above. My big brother. He’ll come get me.”

“Tell him to meet you at the downtown precinct station.”

She slid a glance across the seat to her knight in shining armor while she waited for Nick to answer. “You won’t tell my brother what we did tonight, will you?”

He scoffed. “If you don’t tell my deputy chief.”

Nick Morgan picked up after the second ring. “Alex? You okay? I saw Buell and his buddies yukking it up at the track tonight, and I couldn’t help but think…I called your cell a dozen times. You’ve got me scared shitless here.”

“I’m okay.” The truck slowed and turned into a parking garage. “My date with Drew’s friend didn’t go as well as I expected. And I lost my purse.”

Her brother swore. She could hear her father in the background now, asking questions. “She’s okay, Dad.” Nick explained a few details to their father, George Morgan, then turned his attention back to the phone. “You’re not hurt?”

She’d been embarrassed, angry, frustrated and a little afraid before this smoky-haired detective had literally picked her up off the street. But she hadn’t been hurt. “I’m okay, Nick. I met…” Detective Galahad was watching her, hanging on to every word. “Nashville PD has been very helpful.” In ways that made her blush and turn away. “Just come get me, okay? I’m at the downtown precinct station.”

“I’ll be there in forty minutes. I love you, Shrimp.”

“I love you too, Nick.”

They were parked beneath the precinct offices by the time she handed the phone back to the detective.

“Thank you.” She offered him a hesitant smile. “Big brother will save the day.”

He nodded. “So now I know this infamous lawyer-slash-wonder-brother of yours is Nick. You ever gonna tell me your name?”

“Look, Detective…” She unfastened her seat belt and reached for the exit handle. “Don’t get me wrong, I enjoyed tonight, but…”

She laughed. It was a sad sound, really—a sound that revealed just how much this encounter had been an aberration for her, for both of them, perhaps.

“This isn’t reality. Let’s forget the names so we can skip the embarrassment of you mentioning tonight to anybody who happens to know anybody I happen to know. Okay?”

“Okay. Your call. Tonight never happened.”

So why did it hurt that he’d agreed so easily to her request?

3

Dahlia, Tennessee Present day

“MMM. YEAH. RIGHT THERE.”

Alexandra Morgan caught her tongue between parched lips as her thoughts drifted away from the fan belt she stretched between her hands and took note of how the fender of the ’94 Buick she was repairing pressed against the juncture of her thighs. A pocket of pressure was gathering where hard steel met soft woman, fueled by an errant fantasy that seemed to keep cropping up at the most inopportune times.

Normally, she relegated her secret fantasies to the privacy of her bedroom or one of her late-night bubble baths where she washed away the grime of a day spent in the family garage where she worked as a mechanic. But this was a routine fix on a slow day, just maintenance stuff for a local customer. The real excitement of her job wouldn’t start until tomorrow or Thursday, when the drag racers who frequented the Dahlia Speedway across the parking lot started showing up for replacement parts and tune-ups in preparation for the regular weekend races.

In other words, Alex was bored. And when she was bored, her mind wandered. Wandering into something as pleasant as her fabricated forbidden affair with the big-city cop with the wide shoulders and hushed, seductive words was a welcome respite from the grief and anger over her brother Nick’s recent death that normally filled her head these days.

Outside the open doors of Morgan & Son’s Garage, the afternoon air was heavy with the promise of a spring rain. Maybe the green scents of budding trees and flower blossoms hanging in the mist and dappling her bare arms with moisture had reminded her subconscious mind of those bubble baths where a cop with stormy gray eyes had had his way with her time and again in an assortment of imaginary story lines.

Her imagination took her to places far removed from tense, worrisome reality.

“You like that, milady?” her knight in shining armor drawled, sliding his hand between her legs and cupping her warmth.

“Yes,” she moaned, closing her eyes against the pleasure of his strong hand reaching into the water and rubbing against her clit. “Please don’t stop.”

“Ah, my damsel is in distress, is she?” Broad shoulders filled her vision as he bent over her to gentle her soft cries with a kiss. “You don’t have to beg with me.”

Her diaphanous bathing gown floated in the water, its sheer material hiding nothing from his eyes. The smoky gray orbs lazily looked their fill, each visual caress like the stroke of his hand on her body.

He was unlike the other men in her kingdom. This one came from a far-off country. He served her willingly, while the treacherous knights of her own kingdom were not allowed to touch her. Her mystery knight, the Silver Fox, spoke in hushed, seductive tones. He ruled his own lands with an iron fist but always treated her as nothing less than a lady.

“Will you join me, good sir?”

“You only had to ask.” His tunic and breeches became a taut black T-shirt and jeans as he peeled off his clothes and slipped into the tub with her. Water sloshed over the sides and she laughed as his big frame displaced all the bubbles. Alex’s thighs clenched together when he wrapped his viselike arm around her waist and pulled her onto his lap. A well-honed warrior, he’d fought many battles. But each evening he returned to her chamber to take her in any number of ways. Tonight’s seduction was to be slow and sensuous. And merciless, she thought with a gasp of pleasure, as the bulging evidence of his arousal poked against her bottom. “Milady should never have to beg for pleasure.”

He kissed the back of her neck as he palmed her breasts. His big hands lifted them and kneaded them with a gently urgent reverence—like the patient, mature man he was, not some grabby, greedy teen who could earn ten bucks on a bet if he touched them.

Teen? Eeuw. Reality tried to nudge its way in and mess with her fantasy.

Alex squeezed the humiliating memory from her mind and tried to feel the hardness of the grown man pressed against her.

“You don’t think I’m common, do you?”

“You talk too much, milady. Let me show you my appreciation.” No. She smiled wickedly. This time she’d show him. She spread her thighs slightly, boldly catching his arousal and squeezing it. “Alexandra…”

How did he know her name? That was one of the rules between them. No names. Ever. She squeezed him again, gently punishing him for forgetting.

Alex squirmed in his lap, guiding him closer and closer to where she wanted him to be. Inside her.

“Alexandra…” No names. She adjusted herself over him. He moved beneath her. This time they’d come together. He wanted it, too. She was a lady. His lady. The kingdom need never doubt her fine qualities again.

The pressure was building. The water on their skin—lapping between them, surrounding them—simmered with heat. Their heat.

“Alexandra…”

Someone was shouting her name.

But not in passion.

“Alexandra Morgan!”

Alex jerked at the drill-sergeant shout, bumping her head on the open hood of the Buick. “Ow. Damn.” She slid off her perch on the fender and tugged her tool belt back into place, embarrassed to think that an errant monkey wrench and a tan sedan had triggered one of her stupid fantasies.

“Daddy?” Alex rubbed at the sore spot beneath the yellow bandanna wrapped on top of her head, clearing her brain of naughty thoughts and ignoring the male laughter coming from underneath the car in the next bay. She quickly scanned the length of the garage, from the lube pit to the office hallway door, trying to account for each of the employees who hadn’t gone on lunch break yet. No one had seen her squirming on top of the car, had they?

But she had bigger problems.

“Alexandra!” Her father’s deep, booming voice—as crisp and quick as his military stride—announced she was in trouble. Again.

The door to his office slammed, jolting through Alex’s body with dread. “Oh, no. He found it.”

“Found what?” Winston “Tater” Rawls, a longtime employee of the garage and the closest thing to a big brother she had now that Nick was gone, rolled out from under a Ford hybrid in the next bay. “What’d you do this time, Alex?”

She grabbed a rag off her tool chest and wiped her hands, mentally shaking her head at the lanky blond goofball’s question. “I was thinking for myself again.”

He made a tsk-tsk sound behind his teeth. “That’ll teach you. I think I’ll just listen to the fireworks from here, if you don’t mind.”

“Thanks for having my back, Tater.” Sarcasm dripped from her voice.

“Anytime.” He rolled back beneath the Ford, his laugh echoing from under the chassis. “Anytime.”

Alex dashed toward the exit leading to the business offices. She made it all the way around the sedan before the stale smells of body odor and cigarette smoke stopped her in her tracks. Not now.

She tipped her chin to the black-haired mechanic who blocked her path. Artie Buell was nothing if not persistent. Of course, she wished he’d also learn how to wash his stained coveralls, use a little less gel in his hair, and take no for an answer.

Using his tongue, he rolled a toothpick from one side of his mouth to the other with a suggestive swipe. “I’ll watch your back, Alex,” he drawled. “You need me to smooth over anything between you and your daddy, I’m your man.”

Right. Ever since their sophomore year of high school, when dating his older brother hadn’t worked out so well for her, he’d tried to be her man. She’d grown up, moved away and learned to dream of bigger things than small-town stereotypes. She’d come home again because her father and brother had needed someone to manage their home and feed them. She couldn’t cook as well as she could fix a car. She couldn’t sew or garden as well as she could grow a business. But she loved the men who’d been her only family from the time she was a toddler, and for right now—especially now that Nick was gone—she’d be whatever her father needed her to be.

Artie Buell, however, hadn’t changed a bit in nine years. If he wasn’t such a good mechanic—and the sheriff’s son—she’d have raised a stink about him working here. But she had her own reasons for wanting to stay on the Buell family’s good side now. The truth might depend upon their cooperation. And for that reason alone, she summoned a smile. “I can handle my dad just fine. Thanks.”

“I think I impressed him when I won the Moonshine Run last month.” Damn. The polite chit-chat wasn’t over. Alex froze her smile into place and endured. “You know, I didn’t see you at that race. I kind of thought you might want to root a friend on, especially seeing as how I rebuilt most of that car right here in your daddy’s garage. Remember I ran some of those last-minute calibrations by you?”

“Sure. I’m glad they helped. Gotta go.”

When she would have scooted around him, Artie’s hand snaked out to grab her arm and halt her beside him. “You should have at least helped me celebrate at the party afterwards.”

Working with Artie was one thing. Anything more personal would be like reliving a nightmare. Keep it nice. “I told you I was busy that weekend. Congratulations again, though.” She tugged against his grip. “Dad’s waiting.”

Instead of releasing her, he pulled her close enough that she got a whiff of the cigarettes on his breath when he leaned down to whisper. “You haven’t even been down to the pit to see my trophy. It’s a bigun.”

Right. Like she’d ever venture down into that sunken room that reminded her of a burial chamber unless she had a damn good—work-related—reason to do so. The fact that it was Artie’s main work space at the garage probably added to the eerie claustrophobia she got whenever she went down there. “A bigun? That’s a pretty lame line, even for you.”

“C’mon, Alex. I’m not the bad guy in the family. Remember?”

“Artie.” Tater was out from underneath the Ford again. This time, he wasn’t laughing. “I thought I asked you to get the specs for this car off the computer for me.”

Artie winked one dark eye at Alex but spoke to Tater. “I got ’em.”

“Then move it.”

“I’m movin’.”

When he pulled the printouts from his pocket and released her to deliver them, Alex glanced down at her forearm. She didn’t know which bothered her more, his grimy fingers on her skin, or the memory of another Buell’s touch. Both turned her stomach.

“Alexandra!”

The steel door connecting the garage to the office corridor swung open. Alex jumped as her father’s barrel-chested physique filled the doorway.

For a moment, his stern green eyes looked beyond her into the garage. “Get to work, Artie. I need you back down in the lube pit to change the oil on Jeb Worth’s car before he stops by at one to pick it up. I don’t pay you to stand around and flirt with my daughter.”

“Yes, sir.”

As Artie handed off the papers to Tater and both men returned to the cars they were working on, Alex hurried on over and greeted her father’s ruddy expression with a wry smile. “Thanks for the rescue, Daddy.”

But Staff Sergeant George Montgomery Morgan, USMC, Ret., didn’t smile back. Instead, he waved a bill at her face. “What is this? What new scheme are you cooking up now? You know I don’t like surprises. I told you I wanted to be cautious about expenditures now that the Fisks are selling the track to Whip Davis.”

Alex’s relief came out as an embarrassing snort. Thank heaven. He hadn’t found the papers she’d taken from Nick’s things, after all. She stuffed the shop rag into the back pocket of her baggy denim overalls, using the moment to compose her thoughts before she gave away what she’d been working so hard to hide. “I thought something serious had happened.”

“This is serious,” he groused.

“Right. The money. Of course, it is.” She should have known her father wouldn’t go snooping through her personal things. But if he’d found the stash of notes she’d been sorting through regarding her brother’s death, he’d be in a whole new world of hurt. She’d worried and confounded him enough over the years. Not enough of a lady. No husband. No man. She knew he didn’t blame her for their trouble with the Buells, but still, it had to be disappointing for him to know how Artie’s older brother had forever changed her view of men and relationships. Causing her father more pain was the last thing she wanted. In fact, she was doing her best to help her father climb out of the emotional pit he was already trapped in by investigating the truth behind Nick Morgan’s car crash.

Artie’s father had declared it a tragic accident—said Nick had probably fallen asleep at the wheel and careened off the country highway into the bottom of a ravine. Maybe she was grasping at straws, but Alex had seen two sets of tread marks on the muddy shoulder before winter rains had washed the evidence away that night. “Somebody probably stopped there to see if they could help him,” the sheriff had suggested. So how did he explain away the twin sets of skid marks on the road near the crash site? Sleeping drivers didn’t slam on their brakes. And what was the likelihood of a second driver laying tread in the same exact location?

Sheriff Buell had come up with many plausible scenarios to explain away Nick’s death, but Alex wasn’t buying them. The rain hadn’t started until after the crash that January night. The family business was taking care of cars, for God’s sake, and Nick’s had been in top-notch condition. Nick had raced at the speedway before heading to law school. He knew how to handle a car. Knew how to handle any road condition. The crash made no sense. His death made even less.

Though George Morgan seemed to accept walking through life with his son in the ground and his heart buried there beside him, Alex wasn’t ready to let this town deal her another cruel blow. Especially not when, in Nick’s last phone call before his accident, he’d told her that he’d be missing their traditional New Year’s Eve game night because he was working on something for the state attorney general’s office—and that that something could have serious consequences if the wrong people found out what he was up to.

“Wrong people?” she asked. “Here in Dahlia? Who?”

Nick laughed at her curiosity and ignored her concern. “Don’t worry, Shrimp. It’s just some paperwork I need to finish up. Boring stuff. I’m afraid you’ll have to find someone else to play that marathon game of RISK with this time. But I’ll be looking for a rematch next year. Okay?”

“Okay. I’ll give Dad the message. Happy New Year, Nick. I love you.”

“Love you, too, Shrimp.”

The next time she saw her brother was at the county morgue. That night Alex had wept with her father and vowed to uncover how boring paperwork could get a good man killed.

But right now she had to deal with whatever current crisis she’d brought into her father’s world. “Is there a problem?”

“A five-hundred-dollar problem.” He smacked the paper with his hand. “I appreciate you stepping up to help with the business side of things now that—” Alex’s heart twisted at the hesitation “—now that Nick isn’t here. But the racing season has only been going for a couple of months. I don’t want to be spending money we may need to see us through the rest of the year.”

Alex reached out and wrapped her fingers around her father’s fist where he clenched it at his side, holding on until the tension in him began to relax. When he turned his hand and squeezed hers in return, Alex knew he was going to be all right. For now. Her secret was safe. Suspicious bills she could argue—suspicions about Nick’s death she could not. Not until she had something more to back them up with, at any rate.

“This doesn’t have anything to do with the Fisks or Mr. Worth or changes at the speedway. You’re afraid I’m going to screw something else up. But I’ve really thought this through, Dad.” Alex pointed out the letterhead on the paper. “The Nelson Racing Team is making a name for themselves on the circuit. Skyler Nelson won the Missouri Flats in 4.89, running with an LSX 427 iron block motor. Exactly what we specialize in building. If he puts our name on his car, just think of the advertising. Our business could grow exponentially. We might have to open a second garage.”

“I suppose you’d want to manage it?”

Why not? Nick had been the lawyer. She was the one with the business sense. “During my internship my senior year at Tennessee, I worked in that auto parts store in Knoxville. In six months’ time, my business plan saved a struggling business and helped put them in the black.”

Her father scratched his fingers over the top of his silvering crewcut, gradually transforming from the grizzly bear who’d stormed into the garage into the gruff teddy bear who might love her, but who rarely understood her. “I’m not interested in opening another garage or going nationwide. We have a thriving business right now, right here in Dahlia, growing as attendance at the track grows. I hope we’ll continue to turn a profit once the speedway changes hands, but during this transition time, I can’t guarantee what kind of cash flow I’m going to have. I want to see how things pan out with Davis managing things before I start dipping into our cash reserves.”

Alex used his perfunctory explanation as an opportunity to steer the conversation away from anything remotely personal. “What about sponsoring a local driver, then?”

“This is five-hundred dollars out of our budget already. And you want to spend more?”

“We have to spend money to make money, Dad. We need to sponsor a car, not just service the cars whenever the driver needs something. If we hook up with a big name and he or she is successful, then we’ll be successful.” Oops. Open mouth, insert foot. Retreat to the brig. “I mean, we’ll continue to be successful and you won’t have to worry about our future, no matter who’s running the speedway.”

But his eyes shuttered and the debate was over. Her father drew back his shoulders, silently reminding her that it was his experience and own two hands that had started this business twenty-two years ago. Nick and Alex’s mother had died and George Morgan—former chief mechanic at the Camp LeJeune motor pool—had left the marines to settle in one spot and raise them. The garage had been built from a small military pension and big dreams. “My decision stands. I can absorb this bill. Just don’t surprise me with any more new ideas.” He reached out and tapped the point of her chin in a gesture he’d used as far back as she could remember. “Okay?”

But Alex wasn’t Daddy’s little girl anymore. When he opened the door to the office corridor, she followed right behind him. “Drew Fisk and his father and grandfather have poured a lot of money into the speedway to bring it up to code, modernize the track and add the amenities that racers and fans want nowadays.” Her father’s sigh told her she wasn’t making any headway, but he held the door to his office open for her and let her keep talking. “Those upgrades brought in the Farron Fuels Racing Series, and Dahlia is turning into a booming little town again. We can do the same—increase our promotional budget, sponsor a team and take advantage of the influx of business and money.”

He swiveled his leather chair forward, pointing to the door as he sat behind his big walnut desk. “I want to be careful about who we sponsor and where our logo shows up, honey. Remember, it’s my name on this company.”

Alex’s hands fisted at her hips when she glanced back at the red-and-white logo painted on the safety glass. Morgan & Son’s Garage. It was a sad reminder of dashed hopes—for her father, and for herself. That sadness painted her voice when she turned back to face him. “It’s my name, too.”

“Ah, honey, I didn’t mean…” A powerful engine gunned outside the front of the garage, loud enough to be heard in the interior offices. But George Morgan ignored the potential customer and reached for his daughter’s hand, pulling her closer as he sat on the corner of his desk. “I didn’t mean you aren’t an important part of this family. Or this business. Or that it hasn’t meant the world to me to have you close by these past few months. It’s just…”

“Dad—”

“Let me say this.” He grasped both her hands now, and Alex willingly held tight to his strong grip, wishing she knew the right words or actions to ease the pain that deepened the grooves beside his eyes and mouth. She couldn’t be hurting any more than he was. “I had it in my head all these years that Nick would be taking over the garage and running it with me one day. Even when he became a lawyer, he always found a way to stay involved.” He brushed his knuckles beneath her chin, and Alex did her best to summon a smile for him. “You’ve always been my little tomboy. But I hoped you’d grow up to be a fine lady like your mama was. I guess I’m still hoping to see you in a dress, with a good man at your side and little ones running around your feet.”

Work boots, overalls and dirty hands hardly lived up to that legacy. “I’m sorry, Daddy. I’ve tried. I just don’t seem to have much success when it comes to being that lady you want.” Besides the fact she’d been raised by a marine, and hadn’t had much feminine influence growing up, most of the eligible men of Dahlia—like Artie Buell—didn’t see her as much of a lady. One man had created the lies about her being a teenage tramp, but it took the well-oiled gears of small-town gossip to perpetuate them. “But I do know my way around cars and business. I’m good at this. Please give my ideas a little thought, okay?”

He leaned in and pressed a kiss to her forehead. “I’ll think about it, honey. I promise. In the meantime, just run it by me first before you spend five-hundred dollars on anything besides car parts. Okay?”

Not exactly a victory. But Alex wrapped her arms around his neck and hugged him tight, anyway. “Okay.”

A sharp knock on the door ended the father-daughter moment. George stood as Alex pulled away.

“You two open for business?”

“Well, look who’s here. Drew Fisk.” George reached out with a smile. “Where have you been keeping yourself, son? You weren’t at the track during last weekend’s races.”

Alex tilted her head to welcome the blond-haired man in the tailored blue suit and white dress shirt. As usual, the tie was long gone. “Hey, Drew.”

“Alex.” He winked by way of acknowledgment and reached in front of her to shake her father’s hand. “George. How’re y’all doing? I’ve been in and out of town, taking care of business.”

“For your father and grandfather? How are they?”

“Fine. Dad’s in India, trying to work out an agreement to build an aluminum fabrication plant there like the one we have here. Grandfather is as cantankerous and crusty as ever.”

“I can’t imagine him slowing down, even now that he’s retired.”

“He seems to keep his nose in everybody’s business, for sure.” Drew turned his attention to Alex, his bright blue gaze traveling up and down her body, appreciating her curves in the same way he had from the day he’d realized his best friend’s younger sister had sprouted breasts, and was no longer just a tagalong for his adventures with Nick. “Alex. You’re looking as pretty as that spring day outside.”

“And you’re full of it,” she scoffed, burying her dirty hands deep in her pockets. Though he used that same smooth BS on every female, it was nonetheless good to see an old family friend again. She smiled, knowing he liked talking about his cars almost as much as she liked working on them. “I thought I heard a seven liter V8 engine driving up. Did you get that new sports car you were bragging about?”

“I did.” He arched a golden brow in a devilish smile. “As I recall, somebody here wanted to know how the engine runs on one of those. Care to find out for yourself? It’s clouding up outside, but we can take it for a spin before the storm hits.”

Alex shrugged, appreciating the invitation, but knowing she had too much on her plate right now to have time to fritter away. “I’ve got Mrs. Stillwell’s Buick out in the shop that I need to finish.”

She felt her father’s hand in the middle of her back, nudging her toward Drew. “I’ll put Artie or Tater on it. I think I can spare you for a half hour or so.”

“But Dad, I—”

“Go. With his grandfather selling the track, Drew might not be around quite so often. Better seize the moment, as they say.” His hopeless matchmaking wasn’t obvious, was it? She had responsibilities here. “Oh, by the way, honey.” He reached back across his desk and picked up a pink slip of paper. “I took a phone message for you. From a Daniel Rutledge?”

Dan Rutledge? As in Nick’s friend from the state attorney general’s office Dan Rutledge? The man whom Nick had been going to see that awful night? Alex snatched the memo from her father’s hand, her fingers trembling. “Thanks.”

“He a friend of yours?” her father asked, no doubt hoping for news of a decent man in her life.

“I’ve never met him.” Technically, that wasn’t a lie. She only knew Daniel Rutledge through Nick’s notes and a series of phone messages and e-mail inquiries she’d asked him to return. Alex stuffed the note into her pocket. “I guess I’ll have to call him to see who he is and find out what he wants.”

She couldn’t reassure her father with a better answer than that? Especially with a mixture of excitement and fear that was no doubt stamped all over her face. Did Rutledge have suspicions about Nick’s death, too? Answers for her? Alex lowered her head, feeling her cheeks steam with her lousy cover-up.

Fortunately, her father was perplexed enough by the mystery to miss her reaction. “The name’s familiar. Wasn’t he a friend of Nick’s back in school? Did you ever know him, Drew?”

Drew shook his head. “Must be from law school. Nick and I lost touch for a couple of years when Grandfather sent me off to Princeton to finish my education.”

“I hope he wasn’t looking for Nick.” George sank back onto the corner of the desk. “Maybe he doesn’t know about the accident, and he was trying to reach him. Oh, hell. Somebody else I didn’t tell.”

“Daddy?” Alex reached out, but he was already drifting away from her, shrinking back into the distant shadow of the man he’d been before grief had ravaged him. “I’ll take care of it. Don’t worry.”

George Morgan barely nodded. Tears burned behind Alex’s eyelids. Some son of a bitch was going to pay for what they’d done to this man. “Daddy?”

A long arm wrapped around her waist and pulled her into the hallway. “Let’s give him his privacy.” Drew closed the door softly behind them and turned her against his chest for a hug, pressing her nose into the scent of designer cologne at the open collar of his shirt. “He’ll be all right, Alex. Give him some space.”

When she felt his lips brushing against her temple, she pushed away. “No. I want to fix this.”

“You can’t.”

“Watch me.”

“Alex.” His familiar, indulgent smile stopped her from retreating across the hall into her own office. “I miss Nick, too. I thought he and I would be a team forever. You can’t make your father’s hurt go away for him. You have to let him grieve.”

“In my head, I know you’re right. But…” Drew Fisk was no fantasy knight in shining armor. But he was a friend, and he drove a fast car. And right now, Alex needed some speed to drown out the frustrations roiling inside her. She mustered up an answering smile. “Maybe I could use a little fresh air, after all. Give me a few minutes to find Tater to tell him I’m leaving. Start your engine, Drew. I’ll be right there.”

4

JACK RILEY LEANED BACK against the wall at the Headlights Ice House, a bustling food and drink establishment where picnic tables and stacked crates formed eating areas that were anything but private. The lights were bright, the noise was loud, but with thunder rumbling in the night sky outside, it offered a warm, dry place where a man could fill his belly and get a crash course in who was who in Dahlia, Tennessee.

Stretching his long legs out across the bench seat of his table, he took a long swig from his second bottle of beer.

He’d come here to catch a criminal. Or two. Or six. Or however many sons of bitches it took to stop the flow of drugs and money that he’d traced from Nashville back to this deceptively innocent spot on the map.

Located about thirty miles east of Nashville, Dahlia had once been home to plantations, horse breeding and tobacco. According to his current investigation, Dahlia had nearly died during the Great Depression. But one of its founding families, the Fisks, had built the Dahlia Speedway in the 1960s, and the town was reborn. Now, instead of racing thoroughbreds, they raced cars.

The Chevy Camaro he’d been working on since he was a teenager—a lifetime ago, it seemed—was Jack’s ticket into town. Secured in the trailer he was hauling behind his pickup, the modified street car would qualify him as an entrant in the track’s Outlaw 10.5 Division Drag Racing Series.

He needed to become a part of the track.

He needed to become a part of this town.

Because someone here had murdered his partner.

When Lorenzo Vaughn had agreed to reveal his source for the drugs he’d sold in Nashville, in exchange for a reduced sentence, a fatal chain of events had been set into motion.

Vaughn had sent Jack and Eric to a chop shop. The business of tearing down racing cars from across the country and selling parts on the black market had also been a front for the even more dangerous business of smuggling heroin and other drugs inside some of the vehicles. But by the time the task force moved in to make an arrest, the business had closed up and moved its location. To ferret out the new distribution center and the men behind the drug import scheme, Eric had gone in undercover as a buyer looking to make a purchase. He’d stayed with the job, perfected the role of a new dealer in town, worked his way up through the hierarchy of thugs and lieutenants to the men in charge of the operation—who made him as a cop and had him gunned down in the street. Whoever was running the Dahlia-Nashville smuggling connection was going to pay.

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