The Professional

Praise for #1
New York Times
bestselling author
KRESLEY COLE

and
THE PROFESSIONAL

“Kresley Cole brought the heat with this one, delivering page-melting erotic scenes that you’ll have to read to believe.”

—Kyra Davis,
New York Times
bestselling author

“A sublimely sexual feast for the senses. Every touch—every feeling—was palpable. Toe curling. Kresley Cole is a wicked genius with her words.”

—
Romantic Book Affairs

“The hottest, most sensually erotic scenes I’ve ever read! The chemistry is beyond explosive. . . . I can’t tell you how many times I blushed, fanned myself, or squirmed in my seat while reading.”

—
HEAs Are Us

“The suspense is addictive, the characters likeable, and the drama palpable. I found my new addiction, and it comes in the shape of a hot and sexy Siberian.”

—
Sinful Reads

“Kresley Cole succeeds in every genre she attempts.”

—
Fresh Fiction

“The book crackled with sensuality. . . . The only thing I hated? That it ended. I was desperately trying to turn the last page hoping there would be more.”

—
Under the Covers Book Blog

“Full of beautiful descriptions, vivid imagery, great characters and humor. This isn’t a run-of-the-mill, slapped-together erotica. This is engrossing, well-written literature that happens to be sexy as hell.”

—
The Book Vixen

“Intriguing, smart, super hot, and just plain well written have come to be hallmarks of Cole’s writing, and it comes out full force in this new series.”

—
The Brunette Librarian

“The romance is lusty, HOT and HOT and did I say HOT?”

—
Clue Review

“Grab a fan, the smelling salts, and keep the BP cuff on hand, this is going to have you panting for more! BEST CARDIO EVER!”

—
Tome Tender Book Blog

“Five sexy CAN’T-WAIT-TIL-THE-NEXT-ONE, WHAT-AM-I-SUPPOSED-TO-DO-WITH-MYSELF-TIL-THEN stars.”

—
Kayla the Bibliophile

Warmly dedicated to Lauren McKenna, my incomparable editor. Ten years, three genres, twenty-two books. Couldn’t have done it without you, lady.

“If you run, I will catch you. It’s what I do.”

—ALEKSANDR “THE SIBERIAN” SEVASTYAN, BRATVA ENFORCER, FORMER PRIZEFIGHTER

“Heading off to a Russian gangsterland.

With a twisted enforcer who’s hotter than the sun.

What could possibly go wrong?”

—NATALIE MARIE PORTER, GRAD STUDENT

From: [email protected]

Sent: Saturday 2:51 PM

To: [email protected]

Subject: Don’t keep me in suspense. . . .

Dear Mr. Zironoff,

Sorry to e-mail you yet again, but I was so excited to learn of the potential DNA match you discovered last month. After six years of searching for my biological parents, I’d love to hear back from you, even if the lead didn’t pan out. I’ve tried calling, but your voice mailbox is full. I don’t have enough money to start over with a new investigator, so could you please respond?

Sincerely,

Natalie Porter

From: [email protected]

Sent: Thursday 1:14 AM

To: [email protected]

Subject: Response needed!

Dear Mr. Zironoff,

I’m starting to get worried, so please write me back. You gave me such hope that I would soon find my mother and father. I can wire the last of my savings to you. Anything.

But I need you to respond.

Sincerely,

Natalie

Sent: Thursday 1:15 AM

To: [email protected]

Subject: Mail delivery failed

The following address(es) failed: [email protected]

Mailbox is FULL

“M
ommy issues. Serial cheater. Humor void. Two-pump chump.” With each guy who entered the campus bar, I ticked off my initial impression to my drunken friends.

I had an uncanny knack for sizing up males—I was a regular “manalyst.” My secret? I always went negative, and the guys, well, they always accommodated.

The girls at the table—several of my roommate’s friends and a couple of mine—looked at me like I was a fun sideshow act, their carny pal. Drinks were perpetually free.

After the week I’d had, my dinner of salt, tequila, and lime was hitting the spot.

My best friend Jessica murmured at my ear, “You better be careful, you picky prude, or else you’ll take your hymen to your grave. Like a skin tag.”

She alone knew that I’d never given it up—and why. “Low blow, Jess,” I said without any heat. Like her, it took a lot to get me ruffled, which was one of the reasons we made such great roommates.

Other than that, we were as different as we could be. Whereas she was leggy and tan with twinkling blue eyes and cropped black hair, I was short and top-heavy, with long red hair and pale-as-a-porcelain-sink skin.

I was a workaholic studyaholic, pursuing my history PhD. After years’ worth of incompletes, Jess had finally dipped a toe into the core courses of her major—leisure studies—and decided college was “a racket” for “wretched fucks.” Though it was midsemester, she was heading out tomorrow for a tour of the Greek Isles with her wealthy family.

Another round of tequila shooters arrived, sent by a trio of frat boys a few tables away. We raised our glasses, then dutifully licked, pounded, and sucked. The tequila, not the boys.

While other women might look at these superficially attractive guys and see potential mates or even fun one-night stands, I saw impending headaches. Other girls got hot and bothered by their lines and pickups; I just got bothered.

But I hadn’t always been that way.

“Do the frat boys, Nat!” our friend Polly cried. She was a sturdy corn-fed Nebraska girl—her family’s farm was in a small town outside Lincoln, just a few miles away from ours. Well, not ours anymore, since Mom had sold out last year.

“Too easy,” I said, having already sized up the trio. The first guy had been constantly checking sports scores on TV while his leg jogged. The second was a bleary mess whose own friends rolled their eyes at his drunkenness. The third one’s grooming and clothing were fanatically perfect, and he kept checking his appearance in the mirror behind the bar.

“From left to right, then?” I said. “Inveterate gambler, habitual drunk, and—how should I put this?—the third is
ill-equipped
.”

I sighed. Yep, those guys were too easy to read. Where was the excitement? Here I was at the same Lincoln bar I always went to, with the same crowd I always hung around. I had an early work shift tomorrow at one restaurant, a late one at the other, and classes to take and to teach on Monday. I’d been averaging five hours of sleep a night for the last few weeks. What was I even doing here?

I guessed I could sleep when I was dead.

“I’ve chosen my quarry for the evening,” beautiful Jess said. “Ill-equipped is mine.” As per her usual, she would pick up another conquest and take him back to his place—so she could leave when finished with him. “His type,” she continued blithely, “usually make up for any shortcomings with their mouths. True story.”

I told her, “And
you
better be careful, Jessebel, or else you’ll collect another admirer who clings like lichen.”

“I can’t help it that this is the Bermuda Triangle”—she pointed at her crotch—“when guys venture there, they tend to stay.”

I tapped my chin. “Oh, I thought you called it that because it’s sucked in lots of seamen.”