The BY HIS GAME series:
Blindsided
Sidelined
Intercepted
The CALL series:
Late Call
Final Call
His Call
The WILD series:
Wild Attraction
Wild Temptation
Wild Addiction
The GAME series:
The Love Game
Playing for Keeps
The Right Moves
Worth the Risk
The MEMORIES series:
Never Forget
Always Remember
The BURKE BROTHERS series:
Dirty Secret
Dirty Past
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.)
For Danielle.
Because you reminded me that it’s okay to do something different – and that I have to write what my heart wants me to, and that it’s okay to do that, too.
And for calling me a whore when you found out I was writing this in secret. That could be one of the best things you’ve ever said to me.
Thank you for keeping me sane every day. This one is yours.
I always wanted to be a Bond girl.
When I was seven, I proudly declared to my family that I would one day be beneath Sean Connery on a haystack, a la Pussy Galore. My mother laughed, my father choked, my brothers looked at me like I’d gone batshit crazy, and my Nonna yelled that I would only ever be beneath a good Italian boy, preferably a Catholic, and only on my wedding night.
Of course, their reactions were pointless. At my tender, young age, I hadn’t considered how much older Mr. Connery was—or that, by the time I’d be at a suitable age to bump uglies with him, he’d be replaced several times over.
Now I’m not saying that Daniel Craig is a sight for sore eyes. The man is drops for pinkeye, if you know what I mean. I’m just saying that, when I decided to be a Bond girl, I meant Hollywood, California, and James Bond. Not Holly Woods, Texas, and Bond P.I.
Not that I hate my job. I sure don’t. When I quit my job as a cop two years ago and left Dallas for my shoddy yet adorable hometown after a case gone wrong, my best friend immediately enrolled in a private investigator course. Bekah nailed the course, flew through the police academy training, and passed her concealed carry test with so many damn colors that there isn’t a rainbow in existence that hasn’t turned green with envy.
Maybe the shooting thing is a Texas perk. I don’t know.
Still, this wasn’t my life plan. Neither was becoming a cop. But when your grandpa was a cop, just like your daddy was and your three brothers are, it’s pretty much a given. I was basically born in the Holly Woods Police Department building.
So it was the parking lot, but close enough.
Being Noelle Bond is kind of super shit—not least because my mom decided Christmas day was a good day to have a baby, but because people hear my surname and assume I have a fucking Aston Martin DB5 in my garage.
I don’t.
I have a freakin’ Honda that needs a good seeing to by a scrapping machine because I’m too damn lazy to drive to Austin and visit the dealership. I also really hate cars salesmen. They think that, because I’m in possession of a pair of breasts and a vagina, I don’t know anything about cars. Well, I know how to drive one, so suck on that, fancy-suited assholes.
“I don’t think Mr. Luiz is cheating on his wife.” Bekah lowers her binoculars. “He’s been watching that porn for a while.”
“I agree.” I drop my zoomed-in camera. “At least he isn’t tonight. But I’d bet that Mrs. Luiz doesn’t know about her husband’s interest in gay porn.”
Bekah purses her lips. “Well, no. For the sake of easiness, though, I’d rather my husband watch gay porn than cheat on me.”
“You don’t have a husband, Bek. You don’t even have a boyfriend.”
“I know that.” She rolls her eyes. “Wait. Who’s that?”
I snap the camera to my eyes and stare at the car pulling onto the Luiz’s driveway. “That isn’t Mrs. Luiz’s car.”
“She drives an Audi TT, right?”
“Yep. A bright-pink one.”
“Yuck.”
“Who is that?” I narrow my eyes.
“Oh, shit. He hasn’t turned off the porn. Or put his pants on!” Bekah whispers harshly. “And he’s going to the door! Noelle!”
“I can see,” I hiss, snapping a couple of pictures. And boy, can I see. Mr. Luiz is packin’, and I ain’t talking about a suitcase.
“What’s he… Oh my sweet baby Jesus.”
“Nonna would have a fit if she heard you using his name in vain.”
“I called him sweet,” Bekah argues. “Where did they go?”
“Upstairs, I think.” I keep my camera trained on the bedroom window and zoom in. How the fuck did I forget my binoculars? “Oh, yep. Yep. Upstairs.”