“Who are you?”
For the briefest of moments, their gazes wed.
Dante’s eyes glinted as if he knew exactly what Elle looked like stark naked…and he approved. The intimate suggestion in his stare caused her to catch her breath.
Nature had packaged him in a hard muscular frame. Then Elle spied something that completely rattled her. There, at his wrist, circled the hint of dark blue ink.
A tattoo. Talk about out of place.
Who was he really?
The look that passed between them was weighted with a meaning Elle couldn’t begin to unravel. Her cheeks tingled. How embarrassing—she was blushing!
What was happening to her? One minute she’d been minding her own business, and the next minute this sharply dressed, broad-shouldered stranger had her locked in some kind of sensual hold.
She didn’t trust a man who could make her feel so aroused with just a look.
Or could she?
Available in November 2009
from Mills & Boon® Blaze®
BLAZE 2-IN-1
Drop Dead Gorgeous by Kimberly Raye & Come Toy with Me by Cara Summers
Crossing the Line by Lori Wilde
Reckless by Tori Carrington
Lori Wilde is the author of forty books. She’s been nominated for a RITA® Award and four Romantic Times BOOKreviews Reviewers’ Choice Awards. Her books have been excerpted in Cosmopolitan, Redbook and Quick & Simple. Lori teaches writing online through Ed2go. She’s a registered nurse trained in forensics, and she volunteers at a battered women’s shelter.
CROSSING THE LINE
BY
LORI WILDE
To Candy Halliday—dear friend and medical cohort.
Keep writing, Candy. The world needs more of
your unique perspective.
Chapter 1
FROM ITS STATELY EXTERIOR overlooking the bucolic Colorado River just outside Austin, Texas, Confidential Rejuvenations—a small but criminally expensive medical treatment facility for the crème-de-la-crème—exuded an atmosphere of supreme tranquility.
The lush green lawns were perfectly clipped, as were the bountiful privacy hedges. Ivy-twined trellises shaded genteel redwood park benches. The profusion of petunias, pansies, daisies and daffodils in full bloom undulated in the breeze, testifying to the exemplary gardening skills of the groundskeepers.
A luxurious flagstone walkway led toward the discrete front entrance in one direction. The other fork wound its way to an elaborate hand-carved gazebo positioned on a bluff above the sensuous curve of the river.
Confidential Rejuvenations was a favorite recuperation spot for southwest politicians, actors, musicians and other VIPs seeking various cures for addictions, aging and crisis of identity.
But Dr. Dante Nash wasn’t fooled by appearances.
Beneath the serene surface, behind the healing promises made in the glossy full-color, trifold brochure resting on the passenger seat beside him, beyond those stately vinecovered walls, lurked a shadowy menace.
Careers lay on the line. Fortunes stood to be lost or gained. Lives hung in the balance.
And Dante was the catalyst. Sent undercover by the FBI to find out exactly who at Confidential Rejuvenations was trafficking in a very potent sex drug.
The designer party drug, street named Rapture, had been popping up on the club scene and college campuses around the Southwest for the past several months. It was being blamed for a dozen senseless deaths, and the FBI had traced the genesis of the substance to this quaint boutique hospital, partially owned by Dante’s former college roommate, Dr. Mark Lawson.
For the past three years, Dante had worked for the Bureau as a plastic surgeon, giving new faces to people entering the Witness Protection Program. This was his first actual undercover assignment; he’d been hand selected for the project due to both his skills as a surgeon and his connection to Mark.
Dante didn’t know if his ex-roommate was involved or not, but if Lawson was, he would take the man down without a moment’s hesitation. Nothing was going to stop Dante from getting those drugs off the street. Ultimately, he was doing this to avenge Leeza’s death.
He winced at the thought of his murdered sister. Of all the things they had suffered together. Sense memories of his miserable childhood rolled over him. The stench of sour mash whiskey on his father’s breath. The feel of a leather strap slapping against his skin. The taste of fear on his tongue. He thought of the beatings he’d taken. Both from neighborhood thugs and his old man, until he had learned to fight back, learned how to protect his baby sister.
Painfully he recalled the way Leeza had looked the last time he’d seen her, strung out on drugs, eyes red, unwashed hair matted to her head, track marks running up and down her arms as she carried that hopeless, helpless air of the damned.
He’d tried to help her. Had gotten her into rehab twice, and she’d run away both times, unable to resist the seductive allure of heroin and the dangerous pull of her mobconnected boyfriend, Furio Gambezi.
Dante’s desire to save his sister was the motivating factor in his decision to join the FBI after he’d completed his residency in reconstructive cosmetic surgery. Itwas the burning need to see justice served. His hunger to even the score.
Patience.
His body tensed, fingers tightening around the leather steering wheel, his mind on full alert.
Dante stopped the Porsche Carrera GT—the FBI had provided it as a prop—at the security guard station and rolled down the window. The car had been seized during a drug bust. After the mobster who’d owned it had gone to prison, the FBI had been allowed to keep it for use in undercover operations such as this one.
He had to admit he took some satisfaction in driving one of the world’s most expensive sports cars, especially since it had been confiscated from a gangster. The sensuous purr of the engine, the luxurious feel of the butter-soft leather, the illicit thrill. It put him in mind of truly great sex.
Unfortunately, it had been so long since he’d had truly great sex he was a bit fuzzy on the details of exactly how good it did feel. His job didn’t allow much time for developing intimate contacts and he’d never been proud of his brief, meaningless affairs.
“Morning, sir,” the security guard on duty greeted him.
“Good morning.”
“You here to visit?” The guard eyed him. “Or are you a patient checking in for treatment?”
Dante wore high-end sunglasses and a dove-gray silk Armani suit. His cologne was exotic, his hair fashionably clipped and his fingernails manicured to a high sheen. A purple orchid boutonniere nestled in the buttonhole of his outrageously priced suit.
Nothing about the slick exterior represented the real Dante. His inner soul was much darker, much grittier, much more tortured than the glitzy image he projected. He was playing the part of an upscale young plastic surgeon with an ego bigger than God. It was his duty to embody the role. Insecurities and vulnerabilities had no place in this plan. Nor was there any room for mistakes.
“I’m