Stop in the Name of Love
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Stop in the Name of Love
Undercover vice cop Russell Bridger hates his new assignment doing surveillance on the home of a suspected traitorous spy. That is, until he receives orders to cozy up to the man’s sweet, beautiful neighbor…and find a way to move in with her for the duration. But things don’t go as smoothly—or seductively—as he’d hoped when she tells him she hates cops with a passion and wants nothing to do with him, his lies, or his damn assignment.
Or under the covers…?
Cops in Mary Alice Flannery’s family keep dying, and she doesn’t think she can take another shot to her heart. So when the infinitely sexy road crew guy she’s crushing on big time turns out to embody her worst nightmare, she must decide what kind of future she wants…safe and lonely, or wild and dangerous but filled with love?
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From Chapter One
Mary Alice Cathryn Flannery did not make mad, passionate love to men on the hood of her car. Didn’t matter how hunky the guy from the road construction site down the street from her Sierra Madre Canyon cottage was. She had no plans to ask him out on a date when he stopped her vehicle on the way to work—or even flirt with him—and she definitely would not be having monkey sex with him on the hood of her SUV.
Which made it somewhat mortifying that he’d invaded her dreams all night, doing just that.
She, who hadn’t so much as looked at a man in three years, was suddenly having erotic dreams about the musclebound brain trust holding up a freaking stop sign on a road crew.
She was losing it. No doubt about it.
She bent down and swooped up the shards of her favorite coffee mug, flinging them into the kitchen rubbish bin—right on top of the remains of the half dozen eggs she’d splattered across the floor a few minutes earlier.
Seriously. They should make him put on a shirt. Every single female driver had her eyes glued to that ripped, tanned, hair-sprinkled chest. The man could cause an accident.
Sure, he was handsome enough to stir any woman’s blood—yeah, even hers. His body was hard and lean without an ounce to spare under those loose-hipped jeans. And the come-hither way he crooked his finger at her when he spun his sign from stop to slow, motioning her through the pitted construction site? Well, no wonder he induced snooze-button abusing dreams.
Still. It didn’t matter how provocative the sight of the man’s bare, muscular torso. Or how sexy the hint of spicy cologne, honest sweat, and canyon dust that drifted off that wide expanse of male flesh when he stood next to her open car window. Though granted, it was pretty darn sexy.
It was ironic, really. The first guy to get her engine going in three years, and his job was to hold up a stop sign.
Gawd. Was the universe trying to tell her something?
No naked chests. No car hoods. No monkey sex.
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