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  That was the beginning of the end of our thing.

  —Anthony Casso

  PROLOGUE

  SIX MONTHS AGO

  “Tequila and tonic number two,” I say, setting the drink on top of a MARTINA’S CASA napkin for the dark, good-looking stranger who’d come in asking for my brother.

  He ignores the drink, his dark brown eyes on me. “Thank you, Teresa.”

  “You know my name.”

  “I make it a point of knowing a pretty woman’s name.”

  “You know my name because you know my brother.”

  He straightens and I am momentarily distracted by the way his lean, athletic body flexes beneath the material of his white button-down shirt. That is, until he murmurs, “Holy shit. You’re Adrian’s sweetheart sister?”

  “Ah … yes. I guess you didn’t know.”

  “No. You’re fucking waiting tables.” He holds up a hand. “Sorry. They say he beats the crap out of people that flirt with you.”

  Sorry for flirting, not cursing obviously. Sorry for daring to cross my brother. Sorry for ever talking to me, I suspect. Anger rolls through me, lighting up every nerve ending this stranger has hit. I lean on the table and look him in the eye. “If that were the case I’d be a virgin, now wouldn’t I? Or maybe I just found a man braver than you.” I start to move away and he grabs my hand.

  “I’m sorry. I offended you.”

  “Apology number two,” I say. He might be a stranger, but he’s managed to get under my skin in all kinds of wrong ways. “Are you apologizing because you mean it? Or because you’re afraid I’ll tell my brother?” His lips tighten but he doesn’t reply, and I suppose I should be sympathetic. My brother scares a lot of people, and with good reason. “Now you’re afraid of me.”

  Seeming to read my thoughts, he defends himself. “He’s the leader of a drug cartel. What do you expect?”

  “My father’s the boss.”

  “Your brother practically owns every official in Denver.”

  He’s right. He does and he’s about to own this man as well. “Let me give you some advice. You’re obviously doing business with him, so what I expect is what he’ll expect. That you grow some balls. Take that advice, or you’ll be nothing but prey to him. His prey never survives.”

  “Teresa.”

  I suck in a breath at the sound of my brother’s voice and whirl around, shoving my hands in my apron pockets. He stands there, tall, broad, and tattooed, in jeans and a T-shirt with his long, dark hair tied at his nape, his brown eyes sharp, hard. He’d kill for me, and that kind of terrifies me at times. Like now. “Adrian,” I manage.

  “Leave us. Ed and I have business to attend.”

  I nod and step around him, walking to the bar and rounding the counter to watch as Ed stands and joins my brother. They head to the corner offices and I have a really bad feeling about this. I watch them disappear and several of my brother’s men follow them. I inhale for courage and realize I might have just gotten that man hurt. I can’t let that happen.

  I round the bar again and rush across the restaurant, down a long hallway toward my brother’s office where the door is shut. I lean against the door, pressing my ear to the surface and for once, I’m happy they are hollow and thin. “Man, I’m sorry,” I hear the stranger say. “I didn’t know she was your sister. I’m working for you. I got you into college-level sports.”

  “And I got you a win on the football field, Coach. Thanks to my drug, your athletes perform better and test clean.”

  “I know.”

  “You don’t know or you wouldn’t be hitting on my sister. There are rules and ‘not knowing’ is not acceptable.”

  “How would I know?”

  “What if you offer the drug to the wrong person? You have to know who you are approaching. One mistake can land us all in jail. You have to pay.”

  “Pay? How?”

  “Strip him naked,” my brother orders and I cover my mouth to stifle my gasp. Oh God. What is he going to do?

  “No,” Ed says, and even through the door, I hear his fear, which is exactly what my brother wants. “No,” he pleads. “No. I won’t. You aren’t—” A thud hits the door and I jump back, my heart thundering in my chest and I decide it must be Ed trying to get away. A harder thud rattles the door, followed by my brother’s voice at close range.

  “I’m going to beat you,” he says. “And if you shout, I will beat you more.”

  I look down and my hands are trembling. How can Adrian be so loving to me and so brutal to others? Why is this my life? Why? Ed grunts and I know he’s being beaten. I can’t help him, though. I can barely help myself. I rush down the hallway and duck into a small office. Grabbing my purse, I pull the strap over my head and across my chest when my gaze catches on the image in the mirror, my long dark hair falling in waves at my shoulders, my brown eyes filled with torment. I hate how much I look like every other Martina. How so much of their blood is my blood.

  I rush out of the office and down the hall, not stopping until I’m at the exit, pushing the door open. Once I’m outside, a cool evening wind gusts over me, the mountains offering sweet relief from an abnormally warm October in Colorado. I start walking, no destination in mind, thankful the hustle and bustle of the downtown area during the midday is absent at ten o’clock on Monday night.

  I need air. Space. Time to think.

  I’ve just turned a corner, headed toward a little twenty-four-hour coffee shop I know, when a black sedan stops next to me and the window rolls down. The minute I see him, adrenaline races through me. He’s been gone for weeks, since I told him who my brother was. I thought he too was scared away. He motions me to the car and I don’t even try to play coy. I race forward and the door opens, the window sliding up. In an instant, he’s pulling me to his lap and I’m straddling him, shoving open his suit jacket.

  His fingers tangle in my hair and he drags his mouth to mine.

  “Miss me, sweetheart?”

  “I thought you wanted out,” I whisper.

  “I had to leave town, but I’m here now.”

  His mouth slants over mine and the rest of the world disappears, as does the driver, leaving me alone with the only man who’s ever possessed me and made me like it.

  There’s no such thing as good money or bad money. There’s just money.

  —Lucky Luciano

  CHAPTER ONE

  SHANE

  I park the silver Bentley convertible, which my father gifted me last year for saving his ass, into my reserved spot in the garage of the downtown Denver high-rise building owned by our family conglomerate, Brandon Enterprises. It’s a car he and I both know was far more about his attempt to drag me to the dark side, and aligning me with his way of doing business, than the thank-you for keeping his ass out of jail. I’d have refused the damn thing if my mother hadn’t begged me to take it, insisting I’d bruise him when he’s already fragile and cancer-ridden. Like my father ever fucki
ng bruises and he damn sure isn’t fragile. And if he knew I’d coddled him, he’d most likely spit in my face, and tell me I’m a disappointment.

  Killing the engine, I exit the vehicle and stare at my older brother’s white Porsche 911, also a gift from my father, ironically and most likely for getting us into the very mess I’d returned to Denver to clean up. Jaw clenched, I shove my keys into the pocket of the gray two-thousand-dollar suit I’d bought back in New York, a reward to myself for winning a high-profile case for one of the most prestigious law firms in the country. I wore it today to remind myself that I’m a few well-played cards from conquering the challenge I took when I returned home: becoming the head of the family empire when my father retires and replacing all the dirty money running through six of the seven asset companies with good, clean cash. Namely, the revenue produced by Brandon Pharmaceuticals, or BP, the newest asset I’d forced into acquisition only three months ago.

  I head toward the elevators, when my cell phone buzzes with a text. Fishing it from my jacket pocket, I glance down to read a message from my secretary, Jessica: Seth just called. Needs to speak to you urgently. I told him you had a meeting at the BP division this morning and he hung up on me. Knowing Seth, he’ll show up at your meeting. Seth Cage was the one person I brought to the company with me, and the only person other than Jessica who I trust now that I’m here.

  I punch the call button for the elevator, and dial Seth. “I’m pulling into the BP parking lot now to see you,” he says by way of greeting.

  “I just pulled into the garage downtown.”

  “Son of a bitch. I’m pulling a U-turn at the security gates. I have something you need to see now, not later, and I can’t talk about it on the phone. Is your brother in the building?”

  I glance at the Porsche. “His car’s here so I assume he is as well. What the hell has Derek done now?”

  “Let’s just say I’m not sure it’s a good idea that he’s in close range when you find out. Let’s meet outside the office.”

  “Fuck me,” I growl.

  “No,” he amends. “More like fuck us all.”

  “I don’t even want to know what that means,” I say, catching the elevator door that’s opened and already trying to close. “Meet me at the coffee shop.”

  “That still puts you in the same building as him. I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

  “Just hurry the hell up and get here,” I order testily, ending the call and stepping into the otherwise empty car where I punch the L button on the panel to my left. In the short trip to the lobby level, I manage to come up with at least five ways my brother could fuck over the plays I have in action, and I’m still counting.

  Exiting into the gray marble corridor, I walk toward the huge oval foyer of the building and then to the right, where a coffee shop is nestled between a restaurant and a postal facility, both of which rent from Brandon Enterprises. I head to the counter when Karen, the owner of the coffee shop—a robust forty-something woman with red hair and a big attitude—appears, leaving me no escape from her habitual chitchat.

  “Well, well, well,” she says, leaning on the counter. “Now I know what I’m missing on the morning shift and I do declare that seeing Shane Brandon himself, instead of his secretary, is a better ‘wake-me-up’ than any java shot I sell. But then, you Brandon boys came by those looks honestly. That father of yours is a looker.”

  And therein lies the reason she irritates the shit out of my mother and I happily treat Jessica to afternoon coffee to have her bring me mine. Karen’s not only a chatterbox and a flirt, she has it bad for my father.

  “All right now,” Karen says, grabbing a cup and pen, and preparing to write. “Large latte with a triple shot?”

  “Just what the doctor ordered,” I confirm, though I have a feeling once Seth arrives I’ll be wishing for a bottle of whiskey.

  “Will do, honey,” she says, giving me a wink before moving toward the espresso machine. “I’ll add it to your tab.”

  I retreat to the end of the counter where the orders are delivered, resting my elbow on the ledge, retreating into my mind and chasing problems made worse by the division between Derek and me. He’s thirty-seven, five years my senior, and the rightful successor to our father. I’d happily stepped aside and started my own life, but damn it to hell, I know things now and I can’t walk away.

  My order appears and I straighten, intending to claim my coffee and find a seat, when a pretty twenty-something brunette races forward in a puff of sweet, floral-scented perfume, and grabs it.

  “Miss,” I begin, “that’s—”

  She takes a sip and grimaces. “What is this?” She turns to the counter. “Excuse me,” she calls out. “My drink is wrong.”

  “Because it’s not your drink,” Karen reprimands her, setting a new cup on the counter. “This is your drink.” She reaches for my cup and turns it around, pointing to the name scribbled on the side. “This one’s for Shane.” She glances at me. “I’ll be right back to fix this. I have another customer.”

  I wave my acknowledgment and she hurries away, while my floral-scented coffee thief faces me, her porcelain cheeks flushed, her full, really damn distracting mouth painted pink. “I’m so sorry,” she offers quickly. “I thought I was the only one without my coffee and I was in a hurry.” She starts to hand me my coffee and then quickly sets it on the counter. “You can’t have that. I drank out of it.”

  “I saw that,” I say, picking it up. “You grimaced with disgust after trying it.”

  Her eyes, a pale blue that matches the short-sleeved silk blouse, go wide. “Oh. I mean no. Or I did, but not because it’s a bad cup of coffee. It’s just very strong.”

  “It’s a triple-shot latte.”

  “A triple,” she says, looking quite serious. “Did you know that in some third-world countries they bottle that stuff and sell it as a way to grow hair on your chest?” She lowers her voice and whispers, “That’s not a good look for me.”

  “Fortunately,” I say in the midst of a chuckle I would have claimed wasn’t possible five minutes ago, “I don’t share that dilemma.” I lift my cup and add, “Cheers,” before taking a drink, the heavy, rich flavor sliding over my tongue.

  She pales, looking exceedingly uncomfortable, before repeating, “I drank from that cup.”

  “I know,” I say, offering it back to her. “Try another drink.”

  She takes the cup and sets it on the counter. “I can’t drink that. And you can’t either.” She points to the hole on top, now smudged pink. “My lipstick is all over it and I really hate to tell you this but it’s all over you too and…” She laughs, a soft, sexy sound, her hands settling on her slender but curvy hips, accented by a fitted black skirt. “Sorry. I don’t mean to laugh, but it’s not a good shade for you.”

  I laugh now too, officially and impossibly charmed by this woman in spite of being in the middle of what feels like World War III. “Seems you know how to make a lasting impression.”

  “Thankfully it’s not lasting,” she says. “It’ll wipe right off. And thank you for being such a good sport. I really am sorry again for all of this.”

  “Apologize by getting it off me.”

  Confusion puckers her brow. “What?”

  “You put it on me.” I grab a napkin from the counter and offer it to her. “You get it off.”

  “I put it on the cup,” she says, clearly recovering. “You put it on you.”

  “I assure you, that had I put it on me, we both would have enjoyed it much more than we are now.” I glance at the napkin. “Are you going to help me?”

  Her cheeks flush and she hugs herself, her sudden shyness an intriguing contrast to her confident banter. “I’ll let you know if you don’t get it all.”

  My apparently lipstick-stained lips curve at her quick wit but I take the napkin and wipe my mouth, arching a questioning brow when I’m done. She points to the corner of my mouth. “A little more on the left.”

  I hand her the na
pkin. “You do it.”

  She inhales, as if for courage, but takes it. “Fine,” she says, stepping closer, that wicked sweet scent of hers teasing my nostrils. Wasting no time, she reaches for my mouth, her body swaying in my direction while my hand itches to settle at her waist. I want this woman and I’m not letting her get away.

  “There,” she says, her arm lowering, and not about to let her escape, I capture her hand, holding it and the napkin between us.

  Those gorgeous pale blue eyes of hers dart to mine, wide with surprise, the connection sparking an unmistakable charge between us, which I feel with an unexpected, but not unwelcome, jolt. “Thank you,” I say, softening the hard demand in my tone that long ago became natural.

  “I owed you,” she says, her voice steady, but there’s a hint of panic in her eyes that isn’t what I expect from this clearly confident, smart woman.

  “What’s your name?” I ask.

  “Emily,” she replies, sounding just a hint breathless. I decide right then that I like her breathless but I’d like her a whole lot more if she were naked and breathless. “And you’re Shane.”

  “That’s right,” I say, already thinking of all the ways I could make her say my name again. “I’ve never seen you here before.”

  “I’ve never been here before,” she counters and I have this sense that we are sparring, when we’re not. Or are we?

  My cell phone rings and I silently curse the timing, some sixth sense telling me that the minute I let go of this woman, she’s gone, but I also have to think about whatever explosion Seth is trying to contain. “Don’t move,” I order, before releasing her to dig my phone from my pocket. I glance down at the caller ID to find my mother’s number, and just that fast, Emily darts around me.

  I curse and turn, fully intending to pursue her, only to have Seth step in front of me. Considering the man equals my six feet two inches, and is broader than I am wide, he stops me in my tracks. I grimace and he arches a blond brow that matches the thick waves of hair on his head. “Looking for me?”