YOU WON'T WANT TO MISS
CHRISTINA SKYE'S NEXT THRILLINGLY
FAST-PACED ROMANCE:
After working six months straight on a hideous kidnapping case, all Summer Mulcahey wants is a serious dose of sun, surf, and sangria. Instead, she gets her craziest assignmentâprotecting the family of San Francisco's female DA in the wake of nasty death threats. Handling normal security procedures should be a breeze for Summer, a seasoned FBI operative on loan to the S.F. office. But with the DA posed for a splashy, high-society wedding to the country's most popular senator,
normal
doesn't figure into the mix.
Look for it in spring of 2004!
Read on for a sneak preview.
There was a naked man in her shower.
Six-feet four inches of man, judging by the brief glimpse she had from the living room.
Granted, she had just staggered off a twenty-two-hour flight, and her eyes were bloodshot, burning with exhaustion, but Summer clearly could see the outline of a male body down the corridor. She was pretty sure that ringing sound was water running, and that other sound, low and rumbling, was a dark male groan of satisfaction.
Her stomach clenched. Okay, she was out of here. Either there was a huge mistake about her room assignment or this was another trick. There had been constant hazing in the last year, little things like papers missing from her desk and coffee spilled inside her locker. This could be someone's warped idea of funny. It would have taken only a few phone calls to arrange it.
See what it takes to rattle the new kid. See if she'll stick or if she'll run. Summer shook her head, swung up her suitcase, and opened the front door.
The brass plaque on the shadowed porch still read “Blue Suite.” Beneath that, her name was still written in small, elegant letters.
Her room. Her name.
Something moved out in the darkness, and she froze.
Then Summer realized it was just her taxi, pulling away in a hiss of gravel. Completely exhausted, grimy from hours of travel, she stared longingly at the cozy room with the fruit basket on the black lacquered dresser and the huge vase of tulips framed by the front window.
Heavenly.
No
way
was she leaving.
She kicked off her shoes, padded across the room, and shoved her suitcase behind the couch. Her heavy coat went flying onto a sleek leather sofa along with her briefcase. Nursing a glass of water from the small refrigerator, she wandered through the plush living area. There were no signs of anyone living here, no dirty socks on the floor or clean shirts hanging in the closet. The bed was made, and there were no dents in the pillows.
Summer couldn't wait to sink down into that soft bed and sleep for a year.
Beyond the living area, water struck the glass walls of the shower, and the towel hanging over the door slid free, slapping as it hit the marble floor, giving Sunny an unobstructed view of broad shoulders and a world-class naked body.
A little voice hissed out a warning.
Punchy with exhaustion and anger, Sunny ignored it. She crossed her arms and sat down grimly in a velvet chair, where she had a full view of the airy bathroom and the shower enclosure.
He was singing an old Beatles songâlow and very off- keyâwhen the water hissed off, and the glass door slid open.
An odd tingle shot through Summer's stomach. Definitely a world-class body, with the sculpted shoulders of an athlete in superb condition and a chest to make a grown woman cry. Drops of warm water clung to the dark hair on his chest, then traveled lower.
She swallowed hard. She hadn't planned to look, but somehow she was doing it anyway.
When the stranger turned and saw her, he went still, muscles locking hard. The part of Summer's mind that was still functioning noted that the man had truly
excellent
muscles. As she sat rigid, he made no move to go for the towel angled across the floor.
A smile played across his mouth. “Maid?” He had the hint of an accent she couldn't trace. Something smoky and rough.
“Guest,” she countered flatly. “And unless you talk real fast, pal, you're going to be telling your story to the local police.”
His smile didn't waver. “Now you're terrifying me.” The roughness was there, but there wasn't a hint of anxiety in his cool smile or the slow way he scooped up his towel and tossed it over his shoulder.
Concealing nothing.
Obviously, modesty was a foreign concept to the man.
Summer prayed to the patron saint of travelers to stay cool under his unrelenting stare, but the prayer wasn't working. Heat was climbing slowly up her body, leaving fingers of awareness in a dozen sensitive locations. No doubt it was the result of the industrial-strength Dramamine she'd taken on the plane, dulling her edge.
“Get out,” she said tightly.
“You look tired. Sorry about this.” He anchored the towel low around his waist and shook his head. “Things were just starting to get interesting, too.” He didn't turn, giving a two-finger wave as he crossed the living area. “I'll talk to the kids about this tomorrow. Meanwhile, enjoy the shower, now that I got things all warmed up for you.”
The front door opened.
“Night, Ms. Mulcahey.”
Summer saw the towel slide lower on his lean hips. She was pretty sure her mouth was hanging open. She closed her eyes and sank back in the velvet chair, feeling the steam of his shower brush her face like a warm caress.
She'd had aggravating assignments before, but something told her
this
one was going to take the cake.
About the Author
Award-winning author Christina Skye lives on the western slope of the McDowell Mountains in Arizona.
Hot Pursuit
is her seventeenth novel.
Be sure to visit her online at
www.christinaskye.com
for updates on Taylor and Jack, Izzy and the wonderful folks in Almost. Watch for her new book, coming in the Spring of 2004.
HOT PURSUIT
A Dell Book/February 2003
Published by Bantam Dell
A Division of Random House, Inc.
New York, New York
All rights reserved.
Copyright © 2003 by Roberta Helmer
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the publisher, except where permitted by law. For information address: Dell Books, New York, New York.
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eISBN: 978-0-440-33400-2
v3.0