White Collar Christmas
Misty Evans
White Collar Christmas (a short, short FBI story)
Rookie FBI agent, Sara Amos, is on her first undercover op, posing as a chauffeur to sexy art forgerer Alexander Batisto. She wants to shed her rookie status and bring Batisto’s criminal ring down, but when she unexpectedly finds herself falling for the seductive art forgerer, her investigation takes a weird twist.
Batisto is not who he says he is…and he’s got a big surprise under the Christmas tree for Sara.
Dedication
As with all my stories, this one is for Mark. I’ll never forget our first Christmas together.
A special thank you also goes to author Autumn Jordan, who inspired this story with a writing prompt and was my first beta reader for it.
Chapter One
New job. New boss. Same old story.
Undercover FBI agents didn’t get the fun jobs or the cushy jobs, and rookie undercover agents? Well, they got the jobs from hell.
Sara Amos shifted the Mercedes into drive and ignored the hair on the back of her neck standing at attention. Her new boss—drop-dead gorgeous and charming in that sexy, Spanish, Antonio Banderas sort of way—watched her in the rearview.
“I don’t believe you are just a chauffeur,” he said from the leather backseat. Casual. Cunning.
Engaging Alexander Batisto in conversation about what she could be, other than his chauffeur, was dangerous territory. He might sense her fear, taste her deceit like licorice on his tongue.
A fluffy white snowflake hit the windshield, and she counted the seconds it took to melt before answering. “Would you like to listen to some music?”
Without waiting for his reply, she punched the stereo button. Latin guitar music, with holiday overtones, floated out of the speakers.
Batisto, however, couldn’t be dodged so easily. He slid forward, graceful as a leopard, putting his lips an inch from her ear. “There are opportunities in my company for a beautiful woman like you, beyond driving my car.”
She’d seen the look in his eyes when she’d applied for the job and knew he was still wondering what was under her tight-fitting uniform.
Let him wonder. She didn’t fall for white collar criminals any more than she fell for drug dealers and gun runners…
Even when they smelled like her mama’s decadent spice cake and moved with the grace of a leopard.
Nudging her chauffeur’s hat down half an inch, Sara glued her gaze to the road, recently scraped by plows. Batisto’s wavy, black curls and roaming dark eyes had left her momentarily speechless at the interview, but even his soft, teasing voice and gentle hands didn’t fool her. He was as cold and hard under that sexy exterior as the steering wheel she now gripped in place of a life preserver.
And soon, very soon, the black deerskin gloves on her hands would do more than grip the steering wheel of this criminal’s car. If all went as planned, they’d be gripping her Beretta when she finally took him downtown.
Chapter Two
Same job. Same story. New rookie.
Was it his imagination or were the undercover recruits getting younger? And sexier?
Alex scanned Sara’s profile as she drove him home from his fake meeting uptown. Olive skin, full lips, and eyes the color of good whiskey. She’d worked hard to keep the Jersey Girl out of her voice, but the silver hoop earrings the size of Lady Liberty dangling from under the chauffeur’s cap gave her away. He made a mental note to put that in his final evaluation. Employees of the local chauffeur service had rules, and one of them was no jewelry. If he’d been the criminal the fake file she’d read claimed he was, he would have known the rules and questioned the earrings, which in turn, might have blown her cover.
Guitar music filled the car’s interior with a Christmas tune. Alex slid his gaze off Sara and glanced at the snow falling outside. The year from hell was almost over and he was ready to lay some ghosts to rest. While it wasn’t his fault, he couldn’t shake the guilt of his partner’s death, and yet he’d made some inroads into coming to terms with it. The Clarke Project was one of those inroads. Rookie undercover agents came to him, full of fire and inexperience, believing they were in a real life situation with a criminal. Since training only went so far in either police departments or the FBI, the Clarke Project, named after his partner, Randy Clarke, was in essence the ultimate undercover op, and had saved a few lives since inception.
If Alex got his way, Sara’d be the next rookie to graduate from the Clarke Project with a new set of survival skills.
Holiday traffic clogged the one-way, forcing Sara to slow to a crawl. Another mental note. An experienced chauffeur would have known this street would be a quagmire this time of day.
The snow-filled sky darkened the afternoon. Street lights popped on as Sara inched the car forward a foot, and the brake lights of cars ahead of them glowed brightly in the gloom. Trees strung with white Christmas lights dotted the nearby sidewalks. A romantic setting.
Romance? Where had that come from? Alex huffed. Sara’s very female presence was messing with his neurons. She was the first woman he’d had in the program, and he’d never expected her to be so damned attractive.
The obvious button to push was sexual. Using sex as a tool to make her blow her cover, however, would be playing with fire. Bottom line, though, she was sure to face sexual harassment from real criminals, so putting her in a few hot situations would be good experience for her.
And probably for him too. Getting back on the bike was not as easy as everyone said it was. A little flirting, that would lead absolutely nowhere, was safe, and when it came to women these days, Alex liked safe.
Again he huffed. Was he really trading in his days as an adventure-seeking Romeo for safe?
Ten years of Romeo with no Juliet in sight made it easy for him to answer yes. He didn’t want safe necessarily, but he did want a woman he could trust. Someone who was good and nice and...
Sara lowered the volume of the music, snapping him out of his reverie. “I apologize for the delay, Mr. Batisto. I should have avoided this route and gone past Times Square before doubling back to your penthouse. I thought this would be faster with the plows out.”
Slipping back into Batisto’s persona of a playboy art forgerer, Alex called up his Basque roots and slid forward in the seat to put his mouth beside Sara’s ear again. “You can make it up to me by joining me for a drink once we get back.”
Her whiskey-brown eyes blinked once before she turned her head to meet his gaze. In their depths he could see a hint of fear, but also a hint of anticipation. “While I appreciate the offer, I’m not allowed to drink while I’m on duty.”
A sudden hot need sizzled in his veins. Undercover or not, he wanted to spend more time with her. “I make a mean virgin martini. Chocolate if you like.”
Chocolate got them every time. A crease formed in the corner of her bottom lip as if she were biting the inside of it as she considered his offer. She wanted to find information to warrant an arrest, and he’d just given her the opportunity to have a look at his place. The consequence, however, was ending up alone with him. Her lip returned to normal. “Fraternizing with the boss isn’t allowed. Company rules.”
There was no umph behind her words. He could almost smell her weakness. “On company time, yes, but off-duty, you may fraternize with whomever you choose. Believe me, I’m familiar with your employer’s rules.”
Again the crease in her lower lip before she spoke. “Really, Mr. Batisto, it wouldn’t be wise for us to share a drink.”
“Call me Alex, please.” With his finger, he traced the outline of one earring. She shivered. “And do you always do the wise thing, Sara? It’s just a martini, after all.”
Pressing her lips together, she turned her gaze back to the street and inched the car forward with traffic. Alex slid back in his seat and smiled at her when she chanced a glance at him in the rearview.
Her shoulders rose and fell as she sighed deeply. “I take my martinis dirty, no chocolate.”
The sizzling in his veins popped and cracked with his success. He nodded at her. “Dirty it is.”
Chapter Three
Sara stood in front of the penthouse door and wanted to shoot herself as she listened to the doorbell boing, boing, boing inside. She’d gone back to her hole in the wall, cleaned up and then spent twenty minutes trying to figure out the right outfit. Everything she owned either screamed cop or Jersey party girl. The party girl was long gone but the cop paycheck barely covered rent and basics. What was left went to pay her mother’s hospital bills. She couldn’t afford a new wardrobe to fit her party-less lifestyle.
She’d settled on a red turtleneck and black jeans, eschewing stilettos for shiny black flats and keeping her make-up subdued. The only thing she hadn’t resisted was her Christmas lipstick—HollyBerry Pout. It matched her turtleneck perfectly.
The door opened and Batisto greeted her with obvious approval and a knowing smirk. He’d shed his business suit and was also wearing a turtleneck. Ash gray with designer ribbing. Probably cost more than her entire month’s pay. “You came.”
“One drink, that’s all.”
He ushered her in, helping her out of her coat. “Of course.”
The penthouse was what she expected. Hardwood floors, floor to ceiling windows, high-end furniture and an open layout for the kitchen, living room and dining areas. Contemporary paintings hung on the walls—real or fakes? An iron sculpture accented one corner—had he bought it legitimately or stolen it? And in the kitchen, she glimpsed chef-grade appliances and marble countertops.
“Have a seat.” He motioned her toward the sofa which brimmed with brightly colored throw pillows.
She sank down and found, to her surprise, the elegant sofa was actually plush and comfortable. Norah Jones music played from hidden speakers, and Batisto hummed along as he mixed martinis at the bar.
Huh, who’d have guessed a Spanish art forgerer liked soft jazz?
There were two doors off the main living area. One had to be the master suite and probably the second, a bathroom. Unless he only had one bathroom, in the bedroom suite, and then that doorway might lead to an office.
An office full of evidence she was dying to get her hands on.
He arrived at her side and handed her a glass. “One dirty martini, no chocolate.”
“Thanks,” she said, taking a sip. The salty olive juice accented the dry alcohol perfectly.
He retrieved a second martini for himself before sitting across from her on a matching chair. Another surprise that he didn’t invade her space. As he sipped his own drink, his sexy, dark eyes lingered on her lips. “Dirty enough?”
Her breath caught for a second until she realized he was asking her about the drink. “Oh, uh, yes, just right.” She tilted her head to the bank of windows, attempting to redirect his gaze. “Who’d you kill for the view?”
He smiled, but his eyes dimmed as if a bad memory had just crossed his mind. “Did you eat?”
“Not since lunch.”
He set his martini down and retrieved a tray of appetizers from the fridge. They were as colorful as the throw pillows, and Sara realized, to her embarrassment, she couldn’t guess what any of them were.
As if reading her mind, he named them one by one. That triggered a discussion about foods, which led to travel. Soon, their glasses were empty, the appetizers devoured, and Sara found herself completely enthralled by Batisto’s self-deprecating manner and contagious laugh.
Enjoying herself a bit too much, and still wanting to check out the rest of the penthouse, she declined a second martini and accepted a Perrier instead. Before she knew it, the sparkling water was gone and Alexander—when had she started thinking of him by his first name?—had yet to make a pass at her. The desire was in his eyes, but never went further. He stayed on his side of the coffee table and only occasionally took their conversation into a flirtatious zone.
All the liquid finally hit and she had to ask about the bathroom. Unfortunately the room she’d thought was an office was the bath, masterfully decorated in bronze and earth tones. The hand towel was plusher than three of her towels put together and she brought it to her face after drying her hands just to feel the soft texture and breathe in the fresh-from-the-dryer smell. Damn criminals. It wasn’t fair they lived this kind of life while she and the rest of the law abiding world scrounged just to make their rent.
When she returned to the living room, Alexander was absent but she could hear his voice coming from another room. His bedroom? He was on the phone from the sounds of it, and Sara immediately went into cop mode.
First she tiptoed to the edge of the door and listened. His voice was muffled and all she could make out were a few words. It sounded like he was upset about a change of plans, although she couldn’t be certain.
The dining area contained a buffet. The kitchen had multiple drawers. Unlikely a criminal would keep damning evidence in either, but what did she have to lose? She crossed the floor, listening for any hint that Alexander had terminated his call, before methodically sorting through the kitchen drawers first. A notepad and pen by the landline caught her attention. Breaking the pad in half, she stole the top section and slipped it into her bag. Later, she’d run a pencil tip over it and see if she could read names or numbers he’d jotted down.
Obscured by the refrigerator was another door. Alexander was still talking, so she stuck her head inside.
Bingo. A laptop. On a desk cluttered with papers.
Before slipping inside, she grabbed the pen by the phone and dropped it in her handbag. At the desk, she hurriedly scanned the papers. Invoices, bills and assorted faxes. Any of it could have been evidence, but she didn’t know what, and she couldn’t take all of it. She eyed the laptop. No doubt it was password protected.
Without warning, she heard someone clear his throat. Her head snapped up, and there he was, the most wanted art forgerer in the state, catching her snooping in his office.
He crossed his arms over his sizable chest and leaned against the door frame. A very predatory look gleamed in his eyes. “Did you find what you were looking for?”
Good thing she’d taken the pen. She forced a smile. “Actually, no. You were on the phone, and I have to go so I was looking for a pen to write you a note.”
Suspicion was evident in his face. “There’s one out here next to my kitchen phone.”
“Really?” She tried not to overplay it. “I only saw a notepad.”
He left the doorway and she followed, ready to make a hasty retreat.
“I guess you’re right,” he said. There was a moment when Sara swore he grinned at the floor and shook his head before he met her gaze. “I enjoyed tonight. Perhaps we can do it again.”
“I’d like that.” No lie there. It just figured the first man she’d met and liked since landing on the White Collar Crimes taskforce had to be a criminal she was investigating. What was wrong with her? The child’s holiday tune played in her head, only to different lyrics. All I want for Christmas is a new love life. A new love life. A new love life.
The perfect gentleman, Alexander helped her with her coat and walked her out to the elevator. As the doors opened, he squeezed her elbow. A silent thank you? “See you tomorrow. Eight o’clock.”
While she fought it, this time her smile was real. “I’ll be here.”
Chapter Four
Two weeks later, Christmas Eve, Sara stood outside the penthouse doors, again wanting to shoot herself. The last of the evidence was in her handbag. She was turning it over to the Special Agent in charge of the taskforce tonight. Within hours of doing so, a search warrant would be issued. By tomorrow morning, Alexander’s penthouse and storage unit—where she was sure he hid his forgeries—would be searched and his property seized. Alexander, himself, would be arrested.
Since Martini Night, as she’d dubbed it, they’d shared childhood stories every morning in the car, watched the entire first season of The Tudors on DVD, and been on a holiday wine tasting tour in the Burroughs. They’d talked art and art history for hours.
He got her snarky sense of humor. She got his lame jokes.
Through it all, she’d ridden a roller coaster of emotions while still doing her job. Her training had prepared her for the ins and outs of serving justice, but it hadn’t prepared her for the discovery she’d made on this undercover assignment…that a criminal was also a human being, with hopes and fears and dreams just like hers.
So now she stood there, ready to risk her job by seeing Alexander before the search warrant was executed and the arrest went down. She needed to see him smiling and happy one more time. She needed to be Sara Amos—not an agent or fake chauffeur, just a woman—for a few precious moments.
Taking a deep breath, she rang the doorbell. Her chest constricted with doubts, and she forced more air into her lungs as the familiar boing, boing, boing announced her presence.
Before she could hyperventilate, the door swung open and Alexander’s face brightened. He scanned her from head to toe, taking in her white wool coat, red dress, and killer heels.
“Merry Christmas,” she said.
Heat flashed in his eyes. Without a word, he drew her inside, slammed the door and pressed her up against it. His lips came down on hers and she accepted the kiss, wrapping her arms around his neck.
Her coat came off, his skilled fingers working the buttons free to slide it down her arms. He nibbled her earlobe, his hands skimming the silk fabric of her dress, and she moaned as he lingered in certain places. Her body moved of its own will against his, even as her brain screamed no at her.
This was wrong. She could lose her job for sleeping with him, and really, in the end, did she want to deepen the betrayal he was sure to feel when the undercover op was over? Did she want him to hate her even more than he would for her deception?
As his fingers grazed the hem of her dress and worked it up to touch her thighs, she grabbed his hand. “Wait.”
Immediately, he released her, stepping back. Embarrassment showed on his face as if he couldn’t believe he’d lost control like that.
If only they’d met in a different place and time. If only he wasn’t a criminal.
She cleared her throat and smoothed down her dress. “I brought you a gift.”
Grabbing up her coat, she dug a small, black jeweler’s box out of the pocket.
Still breathing hard, Alexander reached out to take it. He looked her in the eye, looked at the box, and then at her again. “You bought me a present.”
He sounded dumbfounded; the incredulous tone in his voice twisted her gut. “Just a little something.” To remember me by. “It’s nothing, really. I saw them at Macy’s, and they were just so…you.”
The chuckle he emitted untwisted her gut. His grin made him look like a kid about to open the biggest present under the tree.
As he lifted the lid, she held her breath.
“Miniature martini glasses?”
“They’re cufflinks.”
“Ah, ha.,” he said, still grinning. “In honor of Martini Night, yes?”
“Yes.”
He opened his arms and she went into them. A moment later, he laid his forehead against hers. “I love them.”
“Are you sure? They’re not fancy or expensive, but I wanted you to remember our first evening together.”
“They’re perfect.”
Contentment flooded her chest. If only…
Hating herself, she broke free from his embrace. “I’m sorry.” For everything. “I have to go.”
“What?” Confusion shadowed his face. “You just got here.”
She shrugged her coat over her shoulders. “I know, but duty calls.”
“You’re working tonight?” His gaze dropped to her cleavage. “In that?”
She started for the door, turned and took one last look at him to preserve in her memory. “I really am sorry.”
He propped a hand on the doorjamb. “Well, I’m not. You did good, even tonight. There’re a few things we have to work on, but otherwise, you passed. Congratulations.”
Huh? “Passed what?”
Crooking a finger at her in a follow-me motion, he said, “I have a present for you too.”
Completely confused, she trailed him to his office, where he opened a wall safe and extracted a black leather wallet. He tossed it on the desk and directed her to have a look.
Sara knew what it was even before she opened it to see the shiny silver badge that said NYC Police Department. “I don’t understand.”
Alexander, a twinkle in his eyes, handed her a navy blue file folder. “Maybe this will explain it.”
Taking the file, she began reading an abbreviated personnel file-slash-dossier of Detective Alex Balasko, one of New York’s finest, listed as the Clarke Project team leader of the White Crimes taskforce. Sara had to sit down to finish reading.
When she finally looked up, his expression was almost unreadable. Only a hint of worry creased his forehead. “I apologize for lying to you, but it was important.”
“What exactly is the Clarke Project?”
He waved a hand. “All of this. The penthouse, me, the cover, all of it. It’s a special training op. You can’t work the taskforce unless you pass.”
“You tricked me.”
“Yes. Like I said, I’m sorry. If there were another way…”
“But why? Why keep this a secret?”
“Because if you knew it was training, you might not act or react the same as you would in a real life situation. In your job description, the Clarke Project falls under ‘any further training deemed necessary’. This project may be the very thing that helps save your life down the road.”
For the next twenty minutes, Sara’s emotional roller coaster went up and down again as Alex told her about his former partner, Randy Clarke, and the reason the Clarke Project even existed. His story touched her heart, but she still demanded and received answers to all her questions. Finally, there was only one question left.
“So you and I…” she started, then stopped, wondering if there was a you and I to even talk about.
Alex took her hand and drew her out of his office chair. “Where we go from here is totally up to you.”
Up to her. If only…“You’re not my boss or anything, right?”
“The only thing I do for the taskforce is this project. We won’t work together after tonight.”
“And off duty you can fraternize with whomever you choose?”
He traced the outline of one silver hoop earring before skimming her neck with his fingers. “Of course.”
She shivered at his touch. “I think I’d like a martini, then. Dirty.”
He grinned before bending her back over his desk. “Dirty it is.”
Alias meets 24…
Operation Sheba
©2008 Misty Evans
5 Stars! “This is truly the best book I have ever read. OPERATION SHEBA is not at the head of the class, it is in a class by itself. The adventure never stops, it is really sexy, and the reader will go from laughter to terror as the plot is uncovered and the traitor is exposed.”
~ Reviewed by Susiq2 http://www.ecataromance.com/?p=588
“…a heart-pounding, super-hot read…continuous nonstop action and blazing sexual interactions. Overall, OPERATION SHEBA was a thrilling, erotic spy game that I enjoyed playing.”
~ Reviewed by Contessa for Romance Junkies
http://romancejunkiesreviews.com/artman/publish/suspense/Operation_Sheba.shtml
Arlington, Virginia
The man sat perfectly still in the semidarkness watching the woman sleep. Only a sheet covered the slender body on the queen-size bed. Long hair stretched out in waves on her pillow, and he tamped down the urge to reach out and touch it. He watched the rhythmic rise and fall of her chest and slowed his own breathing to match. Resting his gun, a suppressed Heckler & Koch, on his right thigh, he wished he had a cigarette to calm his nerves.
Cigarettes, like his true identity, had been given up years ago, but every once in awhile he caught himself craving the feel of the stick between his lips, the smoke curling around his face. At thirty-two, he’d lost track of all the things he’d given up to become the man he was at this moment. He’d played too many roles, led too many lives, losing his sense of duty and fairness only to find himself becoming the enemy he was supposed to search out and destroy.
But he’d never lost track of her.
She continued to sleep deeply, a sight he had rarely witnessed in their five-plus years together. Her demeanor when awake was calm and unshakable. She was analytical and calculating, sizing up any given situation and devising two or three options to keep herself, and him, alive. But in sleep, nightmares tormented her. Nightmares that gripped her so hard she would cry out, making his blood run cold. He would pull her close and murmur reassurances in her ear, stroke her face and rock her in his arms. Anything to scatter the demons that terrorized her mind and raped her soul.
Seeing her at peace here in the early morning hours gave him comfort. I shouldn’t have come. I should have stayed dead to her, left her in whatever conciliation she has found. But he needed her and the hand was already dealt. If he failed he would be dead, for real this time, and someone else would come for her. He couldn’t fail. Her life depended on it as much as his did.
A memory of their escape from Berlin the first time he’d used her knowledge of explosives surfaced in his mind. After he had detonated the bomb and eliminated the warehouse, he had pulled her into a hotel in the Mitte District and paid for a shabby room. There they had spent those first few hours after the explosion making love under the goose-down quilt, needing the affirmation they both still lived to wipe out the pain they shared. Hours later, after he had slept and she had stared out the window at the stagnant Spree River, they wired a car and drove to Tegel Airport. Both had changed their appearance and, traveling together, never raised a single eyebrow as they passed the airport’s security and boarded a plane to Venice. Only then in the safety of the sky did exhaustion take over and afford her sleep.
The woman stirred, bringing her legs up into a fetal position. The room was starting to gray with the approaching sunrise. Her hand slipped under her absent lover’s pillow and he smiled, the familiarity of her movement sending ripples of anticipation rushing through his veins. He struggled to keep himself from whispering her name in the silent room. Pulling himself back a step from the edge, he took a deep breath, slid his gun into the waistband at the small of his back and willed himself to be patient and savor the moment. After all, he had waited seventeen months for this.
* * *
Julia Torrison sensed two things upon wakening. Michael was gone and there was another unidentifiable human presence in her room.
Maintaining her deep, even breathing, she kept her body motionless as if still in sleep to give her mind a few more precious minutes to filter through the probable identity of her visitor.
The options were cataloged in her brain. Enemies of her country and of her own making were widespread. But who these days cared whether she lived or died? She was simply an analyst now, lost in the windowless, cubicle-induced maze of the CIA’s Counterterrorism Center. From her four-by-six bunker of space, she did what they asked her to—analyze terrorists. Fieldwork was behind her now. Years of training and self-discipline, invisible orders and covert operations lost in the blink of an eye, in the explosion of a bomb, in the abrupt and complete silence of her partner.
No enemy could have found her easily. The CIA had created a new identity for her, Abigail Quinn, and plunked her in their ultimate safe house at Langley. She had thought she would go mad from the sterile confinement of the CTC office, but filtering through the endless pools of information about the disciplined madmen trying to bring America to its knees had actually pacified her. It had become meditation, freeing her brain from the racing thoughts about him. About what she could have, should have done to save him. The guilt for still being alive while he was dead gnawed at her, especially in the dark hours of the night when Michael’s hands reached for her instead of his. But through the work, and because of Michael’s constant reinforcement, she was finally becoming Abigail Quinn. Her past self was doggedly being sealed off, layer of brick over layer of brick, never to be seen again.
Perhaps her visitor was simply a thief who had watched Michael leave with Pongo, his Rottweiler, for their daily run to the lake. However, no casual burglar could have made it past the posted guard at the gate or the home’s eleven-thousand-dollar security system.
Michael’s pillow was still warm where his head had been minutes earlier. Her hand wrapped slowly around the hidden Beretta 92F 9-mm stored there and she felt the thrill of the hunted turned hunter. People underestimated her because she was a woman and because her characteristic quietness was often taken for ignorance.
It was always their mistake.
Julia willed her heart not to pump out of her chest as she eased the safety off the gun. It really didn’t matter who the intruder was…he was in for a big surprise.
Welcome to Temptation!
Read all the Witches Anonymous books:
The Devil & Venus di Milo, A Witches Anonymous prequel
Who needs love on Valentine’s Day when a pair of
Louboutins will do?
In this short story prequel to Witches
Anonymous, bad witch Amy Atwood heads to Paris in search of the
perfect pair of shoes. Instead, she finds love at the feet of Venus
di Milo and gives away her heart…and her soul…to the Devil.
Witches Anonymous, Step 1, A Tickle My Fantasy story
Can a bad witch go good in thirteen steps? Not if Lucifer has his way with her!
Amy Atwood is a witch. Not the harm-none kind…the Satan-worshipping, devil-made-me-do-it kind. But after catching Lucifer in a particularly wicked hex act with her goodie-two-shoes Wiccan sister, Amy does what every self-respecting witch would do. She pops a Dove chocolate in her mouth, ends her affair with the devil, and swears an oath never to use magic again.
She wants to be normal. Human. Even if it means no more fun—and she’s looking for a nice, normal guy to complement her new lifestyle. And ice-cream-loving firefighter Adam Foster looks like perfect hero material.
Lucifer, however, isn’t about to be nice about letting her go. Stalked by Satan, manipulated by the angel Gabriel—and surprised by Adam’s true identity—Amy finds herself up to her black hat in trouble of Biblical proportions…
Warning: Welcome to temptation. Sexy Lucifer is going to enchant you. The original Adam is going to charm you. And the angel Gabriel is going to scare your socks off!
Jingle Hells, Witches Anonymous, Step 2
Christmas is going to be hell this year.
In
this novella sequel to Witches Anonymous, word’s gotten around
Heaven (and Hell) that Amy tricked the angel Gabriel and helped Adam
with his second trial with temptation. Now Samson shows up on her
doorstep looking for true love, and Delilah’s not far behind,
insisting she wasn’t the one who cut off his hair.
In order
to get both of them out of her ice cream shop and back into each
others’ arms, Amy must become a relationship expert and a detective
while completing Step Two of Witches Anonymous. But will believing in
a higher power help Amy in her quest, or make matters worse?
Wicked Souls, Witches Anonymous, Step 3
In this continuing novella series, as reformed
witch Amy Atwood wrestles with completing the third step of Witches
Anonymous—turning her will over to a higher power—she’s
counting the days to her six-month magic-free anniversary. However,
when Gabriel steals half her soul, claiming she’s cast a spell on
him to keep him from returning to Heaven, the odds of her sticking to
her magic-free oath shrink. He demands she break the spell keeping
him Earth-bound…or he’ll kill her and damn her soul for eternity.
But Amy’s not about to go down without a fight. Having once
been the Devil’s right-hand witch, her soul’s already bound for
Hell, and while Gabriel now owns half, the other half belongs to
Lucifer…and Amy knows exactly how to use Luc to stop Gabe.
While
Amy will do anything—outside of using magic—to reunite the halves
of her soul, the powers of good and evil also control her free will.
As she works to uncover the real witch behind the spell holding
Gabriel prisoner, she finds herself back in Lucifer’s arms…and
her Witches Anonymous goal spinning further and further out of reach.
Dark Moon Lilith, Witches Anonymous, Step 4 (coming summer of 2011)
Misty Evans is also the author of the Super Agent Series
Operation Sheba, Super Agent Series, Book 1
Hotshot spies never die. They just slip undercover.
Julia Torrison—codename Sheba—is keeping secrets. Seventeen months ago she was a CIA superagent, tracking down dangerous terrorists with her partner and lover, Conrad Flynn. A mission was blown, literally, when a bomb Julia built exploded early and Conrad died.
Yanked back to Langley and given a new identity, she is now the Counterterrorism Center's top analyst, spending her days at CIA headquarters and her nights in the bed of her boss. Her former life as a secret agent has been sealed off. Like her heart.
Conrad Flynn—codename Solomon—has his own secrets. For starters, he's not dead. Going under the deepest cover possible, he faked his death to save Julia's life. Now he must tear her life apart and ask her to help him hunt down a traitor: her new love.
Is Con a rogue agent or just a jealous ex-lover? To find out, Julia will have to enter a web of seduction and betrayal to play the spy game of her life using nothing more than her iPod—and her intuition.
I’d Rather Be In Paris, Super Agent Series, Book 2
He makes the rules. She breaks them. This battle of wills just crossed the line…to deadly.
Elite CIA operative Zara Morgan has a reputation as a loose cannon with a penchant for breaking the rules. Now she’s got a chance to prove she can be a competent field officer, but the test doesn’t end there. She’s been paired with sexy covert ops team leader Lawson Vaughn, a man who lives and breathes protocol.
Methodical is Lawson’s middle name. He specializes in high-risk search and rescue, not missions that involve tracking down terrorists. Especially while trying to keep the lid on a partner who has a problem with authority and skates by on wits and bravado.
Even before they get on the plane for Paris they’re under each other’s skin…and fighting a scorching sexual attraction. Drawn into an unauthorized game of vengeance, Lawson is forced to dance a tightrope in order to protect his partner from their quarry—a terrorist who’s about to unleash a biological nightmare on the Muslim world. And Zara is the first target.
With her life, and that of millions of innocent people, on the line, Lawson must become the one thing he despises. A renegade.
Proof of Life, Super Agent Series, Book 3
Blood ties run deepest—and deadliest.
No matter how many times he patches the holes in the wall, CIA Deputy Director Michael Stone can’t forget the night a terrorist took him hostage in his own home. Or the mistakes that transformed him into an overwhelming force to keep his country safe. And now that his niece, the daughter of the Republican candidate for President, has been kidnapped just days from the election, Michael vows to do whatever it takes to get her back.
Dr. Brigit Kent, a consultant for the Department of Homeland Security, knows this particular kidnapper well. Exposing him, however, will reveal her sister’s secret ties to a terrorist group. The only way to keep her sister safe is to blackmail the sexy, rock-solid deputy director. A move that puts her directly in his line of fire.
Brigit is undeniably beautiful, brilliant, cunning. But is she friend or foe? The answer to that question could break Michael’s personal code of honor—and his heart.
Launch, Super Agent Series, Book 4 (coming 2012)
But wait! There’s more by Misty…
The Secret Ingredient, A Culinary Romantic Mystery with Bonus Recipes
Celebrity chef Katelyn Karr returns to her
hometown of Secret, Montana in order to stop an investigative
reporter from revealing the truth about her alcoholic father, dead
mother and the reason she was run out of town by the socialite Juno
family when she was only seventeen.
During a live cooking
show at the Juno ranch, her father dies in front of millions of
viewers, and suspicion falls on the celebrity diva when the autopsy
reveals he was poisoned. Nick Juno, the boy Kate left behind, and who
is now mayor, is the only person who can prove her innocence.
Did
Kate kill her father on national TV? Nick must untangle the lies and
past secrets to figure out if Kate has been framed or slipped her
father a secret ingredient that finally put an end to their family
dispute.
Bonus recipes are included at the end of the book!
Soul Survivor, Lost Worlds Series, Book 1
Haunted by tragedy, FBI profiler Rife St. Cloud is driven to find the person who brutally attacked six women. Unfortunately the only survivor, Keva Moon Water, has no memory of what happened, and the evidence makes her the prime suspect.
Keva cannot die. She has waited a thousand years to be reunited with the man she loves, whose soul sleeps within Rife. Though he refuses to believe her claims of immortality, there's no denying the passion that burns between them. Keva desperately hopes their sexual connection will be enough to awaken Rife's memories of the love affair that started a war and bound their souls together for all eternity.
But when Keva's own memories come trickling back, she realizes that a future with Rife depends upon confronting the mistakes of the distant past...
52,000 words
White Collar Christmas (a short, short FBI story)
Rookie FBI agent, Sara Amos, is on her first undercover op, posing as a chauffeur to sexy art forgerer Alexander Batisto. She wants to shed her rookie status and bring Batisto’s criminal ring down, but when she unexpectedly finds herself falling for the seductive art forgerer, her investigation takes a weird twist.
Batisto is not who he says he is…and he’s got a big surprise under the Christmas tree for Sara.
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About the Author
Misty was bitten by the writing bug when she won a contest in 4th grade with an essay about her dad. Today, she writes the award-winning Super Agent Series and Witches Anonymous series.
Her debut novel, Operation Sheba, Super Agent Series Book 1, won the CataNetwork Reviewers’ Choice Award in 2008, a CAPA nomination in 2009, and the New England Reader’s Choice Bean Pot Award for Best Romantic Suspense in 2010.
Operation Sheba was the number one Kindle Romantic Suspense book and a Top 10 Kindle bestseller for over a month in 2010. I’d Rather Be In Paris, the second book in her Super Agent Series, was nominated for a 2009 CAPA for Best Romantic Suspense, and along with the third book in the series, Proof of Life, remained in the Top 100 Kindle bestsellers for several months during 2010.
Misty is currently at work on the next books in both her series as well as her new paranormal romance series coming this fall. She likes her coffee black, her conspiracy stories juicy, and her wicked characters dressed in couture.
To learn more about Misty and her books, visit www.readMistyEvans.com, follow her on www.twitter.com/readmistyevans or visit her at www.magicmusings.com where she blogs once a month. Fans can also join her Yahoo! Group at http://groups.yahoo.com/group/MistyEvansSuspense, where Misty has free reads, contests and giveaways.
eBooks are cannot be sold as it is an infringement on the copyright of this work.
White Collar Christmas
Smashwords Edition
Copyright 2009 by Misty Evans
Cover by Mark Fanderclai
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner without the express written consent of the author, except in brief quotations embedded in critical articles and reviews.