I’m an Italian-Texan woman in a family full of cops. I’m passionate and shoot before I think. You only f*ck with me if you’re stupid.
Photograph cheating spouses. Hand over the evidence. Cash my check.
That was my plan when I returned home to Holly Woods, Texas, and became a private investigator.
Finding the dead body in my dumpster? Yeah… Given the choice, I think I would have opted out of that little discovery, especially since all three of my brothers are cops. And my Italian grandmother is sure the reason I’m single is because of my job.
Of course, my connection to the victim is entirely coincidental. Until I’m hired by her husband to investigate her murder and shoved bang-smack into the path of Detective Drake Nash.
My nemesis, a persistent pain in my ass, and one hell of a sexy son of a bitch.
Shame he still holds a grudge from that time I shot him in the foot twelve years ago, or we could have something. In another life.
So now all I have to do is avoid my nonna’s blind dates, try not to blackmail my brothers into giving me confidential police files, and absolutely do not point my gun at Drake Nash. Or kiss him. Or jump his bones.
All while I hunt down the killer.
Sounds totally simple—until a second body proves that sometimes things that start as coincidences don’t always end up that way…
(Twisted Bond is book one of the Holly Woods Files series and while it does not end in a cliffhanger, it is not a standalone.)
“Get out!” I yell, my voice hoarse.
“I’m sorry?” Drake recoils.
“Get out. Of my building,” I add, moving toward him as he
walks backward. “If you don’t have a warrant in your ass pocket, get the fuck
out. Now.”
walks backward. “If you don’t have a warrant in your ass pocket, get the fuck
out. Now.”
He grabs my wrist and pulls me into him. “Listen to me,
cupcake. Someone got real lucky last night, and that someone was you. You
weren’t here when your killer wanted you to be. Yeah, I said yours. They know
you’re waitin’ for ‘em. Most nights you’d be here, right? But last night,
because I pissed your ass off, you weren’t. Know what that tells me?”
cupcake. Someone got real lucky last night, and that someone was you. You
weren’t here when your killer wanted you to be. Yeah, I said yours. They know
you’re waitin’ for ‘em. Most nights you’d be here, right? But last night,
because I pissed your ass off, you weren’t. Know what that tells me?”
“I’m sure you’re gonna tell me,” I manage through gritted
teeth.
teeth.
“It tells me this killer is watching you. You ain’t safe.
They’re waiting to strike, and it’s gonna be the second you’re alone. We’re close.
I can feel it. You’re their target now. And this killer? They want to kill
you.”
They’re waiting to strike, and it’s gonna be the second you’re alone. We’re close.
I can feel it. You’re their target now. And this killer? They want to kill
you.”
“No shit,” I whisper, looking away from him. “I won’t back
down. I don’t care what you say. They can try and kill me. I’ve dealt with
worse.”
down. I don’t care what you say. They can try and kill me. I’ve dealt with
worse.”
“Stop being a pain in my ass.” He grabs my chin and forces
me to look into his eyes and all their devastatingly icy glory. “Someone.
Wants. To. Kill. You.”
me to look into his eyes and all their devastatingly icy glory. “Someone.
Wants. To. Kill. You.”
“I know.”
“Yet you don’t care.”
“I care,” I whisper, holding his gaze. “But did you ever
think that I’m your best bet at catching this person? If they’re watching me,
if they want to kill me, they’re there. Waitin’, like you said. And that means
they’re gonna come to me. Not you. Not anyone else. Me.”
think that I’m your best bet at catching this person? If they’re watching me,
if they want to kill me, they’re there. Waitin’, like you said. And that means
they’re gonna come to me. Not you. Not anyone else. Me.”
“Yeah, I thought it. But I don’t like it.”
“Ain’t your job to like it, Detective. It’s your job to deal
with it.”
with it.”
“You’re right. It ain’t my job to like it, but I ain’t
exactly dealing with it either.”
exactly dealing with it either.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
“It means,” he leans in, his touch relaxing just a smidge,
“It means that I don’t like it. I’m not dealin’ with it. And the thought of you
bein’ in the kinda danger you are scares the ever-lovin’ fuckin’ shit out of
me.”
“It means that I don’t like it. I’m not dealin’ with it. And the thought of you
bein’ in the kinda danger you are scares the ever-lovin’ fuckin’ shit out of
me.”
By day, New York Times and USA Today bestselling New Adult author Emma Hart dons a cape and calls herself Super Mum to two beautiful little monsters. By night, she drops the cape, pours a glass of whatever she fancies - usually wine - and writes books.
Emma is working on Top Secret projects she will share with her followers and fans at every available opportunity. Naturally, all Top Secret projects involve a dashingly hot guy who likes to forget to wear a shirt, a sprinkling (or several) of hold-onto-your-panties hot scenes, and a whole lotta love.
She likes to be busy - unless busy involves doing the dishes, but that seems to be when all the ideas come to life.
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