www.millsandboon.co.uk

      DEBRA WEBB

      was born in Scottsboro, Alabama, to parents who taught her that anything is possible if you want it bad enough. She began writing at age nine. Eventually, she met and married the man of her dreams, and tried some other occupations, including selling vacuum cleaners, working in a factory, a day-care center, a hospital and a department store. When her husband joined the military, they moved to Berlin, Germany, and Debra became a secretary in the commanding general’s office. By 1985, they were back in the States, and finally moved to Tennessee, to a small town where everyone knows everyone else. With the support of her husband and two beautiful daughters, Debra took up writing again, looking to mystery and movies for inspiration. In 1998, her dream of writing for Harlequin came true. You can write to Debra with your comments at P.O. Box 64, Huntland, Tennessee 37345 or visit her Web site at http://www.debrawebb.com to find out exciting news about her next book.

      This book is dedicated to all the Athena Ladies and a terrific editor, Natashya Wilson—a true bombshell!

      Contents

      Chapter 1

      Chapter 2

      Chapter 3

      Chapter 4

      Chapter 5

      Chapter 6

      Chapter 7

      Chapter 8

      Chapter 9

      Chapter 10

      Chapter 11

      Chapter 12

      Chapter 13

      Chapter 14

      Chapter 15

      Chapter 1

      Kayla Ryan eased her Jeep Cherokee into the alley between two long rows of U-Store-It buildings. She lowered the driver’s side window and cut the engine.

      For a full thirty seconds she sat very still, utilized all her senses to estimate the threat level.

      The cool December air felt thick with tension in spite of the utter silence enveloping the deserted storage facility. Nothing moved.

      They waited. Listening. Anticipating her move…her risk level. At least two men. Maybe three.

      Now or never.

      Ten seconds more and she’d be made.

      No way backup would arrive in time.

      Her partner would be pissed.

      It wouldn’t be the first time. She doubted it would be the last.

      Her heart rate ramming into overdrive, Kayla opened her door and got out. She strode straight over to the nearest storage unit, number forty-two, and reached for the lock. Though she had no key, only a couple quick flicks with the lock pick she carried were required before the mechanism disengaged, falling open in her palm.

      She removed the lock and raised the four-foot-wide overhead door. The grind of metal on metal screeched, shattering the silence and sending a clear message to the men about ten units down and on the next row who would be listening.

      Nothing to worry about. Just someone adding to or taking from her storage unit.

      Her gaze roving left and right, Kayla slipped into the shadows of the ten-by-twelve cinder-block unit. Whatever the boxes stacked nearly to the ceiling contained was of no significance. This wasn’t about unit forty-two or its contents.

      Keeping her attention fixed on the vacant alleyway, she relayed a text message to Jim Harkey, her partner, from her cellular phone. The message was simple. SOS…UStoreIt.

      She’d sent it once already. He hadn’t responded. Today was his day off. Hers too. But some things couldn’t wait.

      With the phone clipped back on her utility belt, she wrapped her fingers around the butt of her weapon. The hiss of cool steel sliding from her leather holster prompted a sense of calm that instantly neutralized the negative effects of the adrenaline pumping through her veins.

      She might be off duty but she never went anywhere, not even to bed, without her weapon. To a cop, being unarmed was the equivalent of being naked on stage in front of a jam-packed stadium. Not a good thing—unless you’re a part of a living art exhibit.

      The muted sound of voices reached her position. She’d been right. Three. All male. All comfortable with continuing business since her presence had obviously been assessed as insignificant.

      That kind of carelessness told her something else about her targets. They had grown complacent. Risky business for criminals.

      Adopting a battle-ready stance, she eased out into the light of day. Her rubber-soled shoes made no sound on the concrete that formed the drive through the alley between the rows of storage units.

      Four more units…three…she moved toward the end of the long row…two more. When she reached the final one she halted, held absolutely still and listened.

      The voices were clear now.

      “Twenty of the best,” one man bragged. “I can get you as many as you require.”

      Kayla didn’t have to see the product to know what the man was hawking. High-end bikes. Valued at upwards of hundreds, even thousands, of dollars each. The goods were stolen from tourists who preferred to bicycle their way around Arizona’s trails and from university students who considered the designer bikes to be “all that” and more. The more expensive the product, the better the students from wealthy families liked it. Titanium frames, leather seats…top-end bikes came just about any way a customer wanted them.

      Though the consumer might have to work hours, days or even weeks to earn the cost, it only took the average thief