1

      “I HAVE NOTHING to declare,” Marissa Suarez told the customs agent in a voice like broken glass, “except that my boyfriend’s a swine.”

      A snicker rose from the crowded line behind her.

      The bored official merely stamped her customs declaration form without looking up. “You can’t bring pork products into the country, ma’am.”

      Marissa squinted. “Oh, don’t worry. I left his bacon miles behind.”

      Paul Beckwith, forthwith known as Cheating Slime, was still in the Cayman Islands hobnobbing with his clients. If he’d missed Marissa it was only because she wasn’t there to slather sunscreen on his perfectly trapezoid shoulders and back. But any bunny off the beach could handle that duty. Paul would have no objections. When he hadn’t been ditching her for “vital” meetings, he’d been drooling over every pair of bouncing breast implants on Seven Mile beach.

      Marissa Suarez was not a woman who put up with that kind of bullshit.

      She was, unfortunately, a woman who chose the kind of man who shoveled it.

      Every…damn…time.

      With a clenched-teeth smile, she took the card from the customs official and tucked it into her passport. She truly had nothing to declare. Returning five days early from a supposedly romantic getaway, she was not only sans boyfriend, but minus the promised toasty tan and post-coital bliss, too.

      However, she had acquired a resolution during the flight into JFK: no more bad choices, no more mistakes.

      Next time—because, let’s face it, she wasn’t going to swear off men altogether—she would pick a guy who was the antithesis of the handsome, career-driven charmers she usually went for. Someone sweet, tender, laid-back.

      So what if she wasn’t sweet, tender or laid-back herself? Opposites were supposed to attract.

      New arrivals jostled into the roped-off customs line. A fat woman with a bad sunburn and a floppy hat jarred Marissa’s elbow just as she’d twisted to tuck her official papers into the straw bag hanging off her shoulder.

      The documents flew from her hand. When she bent to reach for it, the woman beaned her in the head with a bulging carry-on.

      Marissa bounced off the cordon and pitched forward in her spike-heeled sandals, falling onto her hands and knees. “Ouch!”

      “Let me help,” said a deep male voice. The French accent seemed to be authentic, but in Marissa’s current state of mind she was prone to doubt the sincerity of the entire male species. “These people have no manners.”

      The stranger knelt near her suitcase, smoothly offering one hand to help her stand while swooping up the passport with his other. He was dark and slight, with a seriously I’m-too-French-for-razors stubble happening below his gaunt cheekbones. He reeked of tobacco. Smoky sunglasses concealed his eyes, but she sensed he’d evaluated her in one lizard-like blink.

      Marissa rose and brushed away the strands of hair that had come free of her ponytail. Her knees stung. “Thank you, but please let me have that,” she said, being politely firm as she reached for her passport.

      The Frenchman had maneuvered her around so that her back was to the bustling meet-and-greet area. His eyes crawled over her photo ID and return ticket. Marissa steeled herself to deflect a suave compliment on her ebony hair or exotic eyes—she’d heard them all—but he simply handed over the passport without comment.

      After a glance past her shoulder, then the faintest twitch of a smile, he melted away into the nattering crowd of arrivals who’d cleared customs. “Good day.”

      Odd.