Introduction

Security expert Gates Bromley's number one priority is protecting art collector Dav Gianikopolis. But when he joins forces with CIA Agent Ana Burton tracing several pieces of stolen art, Gates is distracted by the leggy brunette who stirs up the raciest thoughts...After botching an operation that cost her colleagues' lives, Ana has been reassigned to cold cases. When news gets out that she's reopened a case involving stolen art and five brutal murders, Ana is almost killed. Seeking comfort in Gates' strong embrace is easy, but surrendering trust to the sexiest man she's ever known isn't - unless Gates can show her that an attraction this hot is worth all the risks. But first he'll have to stop a killer who's bent on keeping the past buried.

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Excerpt

Chapter One

The bodies lay before her. Five sets of staring eyes, five gruesome deaths mocked her from the shocking clarity of the police photos.

“Five dead,” the gravelly voice rumbled in Ana’s ear. “A completely cold case, and one fat headache. That’s what I got, Agent Burton.” Even the noise in the background didn’t disguise the irritation in Agent McGuire’s voice. “Whoever they were, they were slick, professional and cold as hell. They left us nuthin’ to work with, ya’ know?”

Ana Burton scanned the photos, fighting her own horrified reaction. The three meticulous professional, execution-style hits juxtaposed with the tortured bodies of two of the victims. Her stomach clenched. The pictures were painfully graphic, no angle was left to the imagination. In one of the pictures, the sheer volume of blood pooling around the body made the dead woman look like she was haloed in red. In another photo, a young man’s body lay arms akimbo, body ribboned with slashes and his remaining clothing so covered in red that its pattern was obliterated.

“I do know,” she replied, pulling herself back from the brink. Her own losses were too fresh, too close to the surface to be looking at this kind of thing. She cleared her throat and refocused on McGuire. “You and Agent Hines, you were all over it,” Ana told the retired agent, and meant the compliment. The notes on the cold case – a nine year old investigation of art fraud - were meticulous. They also led absolutely nowhere. “I’m hoping new technologies might shake something loose.”

McGuire hollered at his grandkids to keep it down before he continued. “Gotta say that it would be good to get those bastards. You saw the case files, two of those people were killed slow. Mean. The art fraud part, that’s stealing. Stealin’s one thing. Good to catch them for that too, but the killing part? They need to go down, ‘way down, for that.”

“Couldn’t have said it better, Agent McGuire. I talked to Agent Hines this morning and he feels the same. Okay if I tap you again, if I come up with something new?”

“I’d be pissed if you didn’t, get me?” McGuire’s growl was part hopeful, part order this time.

“Got it. I’ll be in touch.”

They hung up and Ana noted the conversation in her case log. She’d opened this cold case file two days ago, the second case in her four month exile to the CIA’s San Francisco office and the Cold Case Division. With this one, however, she’d felt the gut-level excitement she got from a real case, a hot one. Much as she didn’t want to get involved --she was only on cold cases until her probation hearing --this one had her instincts perking up. Between her art degree, computer expertise, and Agency experience, this one would challenge her every skill set.

Don’t get cocky. The self-caution was new. A painful reminder that she’d been tested in Rome and people had died when she was wrong. As horrific as the photos were, at least these people were already dead and buried. Her lips twisted in a grimace. She couldn’t kill anyone on a cold case.

She’d already talked to the other agent, the very impatient Agent Hines. He’d handled the legwork on the original crime. Hines was a Senior Special Agent now, covering Oregon, Washington, Montana and Wyoming. McGuire on the other hand, had retired to New Orleans. They’d each given her a personal rundown, suggested some new areas to check, and been generally cordial. Neither recognized her name, which was a relief. To them, she was just another agent doing grunt work on a cold-as-ice case.

Her cell phone beeped an incoming text. She read about her best friend’s latest scheme, some matchmaker deal. “Jenny,” she muttered to the phone as she returned the text. “I don’t want to go to some cattle call. Nice men? I don’t think so. How many times do I have to tell you those Maximillionare Matchmaker cocktail parties are a straight up booty call?”

The image of some millionaire stalking up and down a line of scantily clad models, Jen included, popped into her brain. Not in the market, she texted back. Remember the migraine? The headache had actually come from gritting her teeth and resisting the urge to shoot the self-important moron who’d bored her to tears the last time Jen talked her into a social event.

She decided not to mention that part.

Jen was on a mission to get her out of her apartment and into the land of the living, if not the dating pool. She kept saying, “Hey, you used to love it, you were the life of the party.”

That much was true. Before Rome, before probation, Ana had loved dressing up, going out, hanging out. Now?

“Not so much,” she said, pondering over the changes in her life. She had good reasons for holing up at home. The cat needed her. And she needed the cat. And to organize her shoes by color. And to rearrange the spices she didn’t cook with. Life outside the apartment was work and she didn’t want to do it. Not right now.

Besides, no one wanted a brooding, gun-toting washed up CIA Agent for a date.

Through the glass top of her cubicle, she saw Special Agent Pretzky, change directions and stalk her way. Ana winced, which increased her self-disgust. Cold case duty, a safe place for a dangerous, potentially weak link in the Central Intelligence Agency’s strong chains, wasn’t fun, but working for Pretzky was even less so. Everyone walked on eggshells around her and avoided direct contact. Pretzky had made it obvious she didn’t trust Ana Burton, agent-under-scrutiny.

Hell, Ana thought, resigned to another difficult encounter. She didn’t trust herself, why would anyone else trust her? Really, the stone cold silence from the other agents was okay. Some days, Ana didn’t even want to talk to herself which was a sad state of affairs since she was notorious for constantly talking scenarios through out loud.

Pretzky, however, insisted on talking, but she used it as a whip, the way the others used their silence. Neither was pleasant.

“Agent Burton,” the woman rounded the corner of Ana’s cubicle and stood, hands on hips, glowering her disapproval at the new stack of boxes on Ana’s desktop. “That isn’t the arms dealer’s file.” Trust Pretzky to know which files were in the dumptruck load of cold files on her desk. She probably had them microbugged.

“An art fraud case from mid-two-thousand. The arms dealer is finished. Here’s the report,” Ana said as she handed over a file folder with a neatly printed report, in triplicate, enclosed. Since Pretzky expected it, Ana gave her a rundown. “The prime suspect from the old notes didn’t do it. I tracked down the guy who did pull the trigger, via DNA, to Nevada. He died in prison. The man confessed to our case, even gave evidentiary proof and signed a confession, but no one bothered to cross the t’s and let us know.”

A ferocious frown creased Pretzky’s brow. “They didn’t see fit to notify us?”

“No. It’s in my report,” Ana said. She’d been waiting for Pretzky to appear so she could hand it over. She’d sent everything else to Closed Files. It would be held there till Pretzky signed off, but it was off her desk.

One cold case down, eight million to go.

Pretzky’s “Hmmmm” was more of a growl, but Ana ignored it. She ignored most things these days, except the job, and the cat. And Jen, who refused to be ignored. Withdrawing, of course, was exactly what the department shrink wanted her to admit to, and Jen regularly accused her of.

She practiced the Company line on that one: deny, deny, deny.

Ana crossed her arms and waited as Pretzky read through the data. It was good, thorough work and Ana knew it. Not that Pretzky, or anyone else, would admit it but it was. Ana knew there weren’t many agents who could have ferreted out the data she did, thought of the angles, pulled the case files and made the intuitive leaps that got more info and closed the case in two months of digging through old dirt. It was her gift. Or at least it had been. view abbreviated excerpt only...

Discussion Questions

From the Author:

Before reading Deadly Little Secrets, had you read about art fraud? Many paintings are stolen each year, some are recovered, some aren't. Do you know of any stolen art?

What is the most interesting museum you've ever visited? If you could, which painting would you hang in your home for a month, a year, or a lifetime?

What twist surprised you most, in Deadly Little Secrets? The one concerning Gates, or the one at the end?

What City in the US would you like to see a book set in?

Weblinks

»	Publisher's Book Info
»	Author Jeanne Adams' Web Site
»	Romance Bandits Blog

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