Crash Into Me
Me
Sorenson,
Jill
CONTENTS
Writing is such a
solitary exercise that I think we tend to forget how many people helped us
along the way.
I’d
like to thank the members of
surfingsandiego.com
and the surfers I interviewed at Windansea
Beach. Everyone I communicated with was gracious in answering my questions and
generous with their time.
Thanks
to Larsen-Pomada Literary Agents, especially Laurie McLean. Your input on this
project was integral and your support unswerving.
To
Shauna Summers and Jessica Sebor of Bantam Dell, thank you so much for helping
me make this story better, and for taking a chance on a new author. The
experience has been amazing.
Thanks
to my two best friends, Jennifer and Celeste, for always being the first to read
my books (and praise them!) no matter how busy they are. And special thanks to
the members of the San Diego chapter of the Romance Writers of America. We are
a wonderful group.
Mom,
you’re the best. Thanks for always being there for me, and for my girls. We
love you!
Last
but definitely not least, thanks to Chris. You are proud of me, and it shows.
You mean the world to me.
Any
factual errors I made or liberties I took are completely my own.
FBI
Training Center. Quantico, Virginia.
Special Agent Colby Mitchell was about to
drop Special Agent Sonny Vasquez.
He
pivoted, leading with his right elbow, intent on driving it home and ending a
sparring match that had gone on far too long.
Vasquez
was a legend, a chimera, a fantastical figure the cadets had heard about but
seldom seen, so their attention was rapt. Then again, they probably would have
enjoyed watching anyone get the better of Mitchell, who ran a grueling two-week
training session. Although most of the trainees were in good shape, they valued
the cerebral over the physical, and called Mitchell a meathead behind his
well-muscled back.
Legend
or no, Vasquez was the underdog, or had been before this impromptu
demonstration started. Despite the considerable differences between them in height
and weight, which should have tipped the scales in Mitchell’s favor, he was the
one dripping sweat and grunting with exertion, while Vasquez remained as cool
and elusive as a goddamned ghost.
Mitchell
added the energy of desperation to his blow. He did not want to lose to this
particular opponent. His colleagues would never let him live it down, and
Vasquez, too superior to gloat, would merely study him calmly, assessing his
weaknesses, making it apparent to all that he wasn’t up to snuff.
So
he said a mental prayer as he swung his arm around, visualizing success,
anticipating the winning impact of his triceps against Vasquez’s smooth,
perfectly shaped jaw.
But
as his powerful body turned, he knew he’d miscalculated. Vasquez
was
a
ghost, and Mitchell’s prayer went unanswered. Instead of being in position to
receive the blow, Vasquez had ducked under and down. In leading with his elbow,
Mitchell made another fatal mistake: leaving open the vulnerable expanse
between his armpit and waist.
Of
course, Vasquez struck with the swiftness and ferocity of a mythical creature.
The jabs to Mitchell’s side were startlingly painful—how Vasquez wrung that
amount of strength from those scrawny arms was an elliptical mystery.
Sucking
in a sharp breath, Mitchell dropped his arm to protect his burning midsection,
focusing only on preventing Vasquez’s bladelike fists from striking into his
sore ribs. Then he saw a premonition of his own defeat in those strange, light
eyes, and Mitchell didn’t have time to blink before Vasquez dropped
him,
with a blow to the temple so well placed it was almost a caress.
An
excruciating, debilitating caress.
From
the ground, Mitchell looked up at his nemesis in wonder, fighting nausea and
gasping for breath, his eyes stinging with sweat and tears. The circle around
them clapped and cheered, oblivious to his torture, or perhaps excited by it.
Bloodthirsty
little guppies.
Vasquez’s
head gave a slight shake, indicating to the group that celebration was
unnecessary. Mitchell groaned, letting his head fall back against the mat while
Vasquez made a sanctimonious little speech about never underestimating a
smaller opponent. After the crowd dispersed, Mitchell focused his eyes long
enough to see Vasquez standing over him, neither smiling nor smug, offering a
hand to help him to his feet.
At
the sight of that hand, so slender and deceptively innocuous-looking, the same
that had dealt his ego, not to mention his temple, a crushing blow, Mitchell
snapped. He took the proffered hand and yanked on it, bringing the victor down
to his level, and in a split second, Sonora Vasquez was on her back, with Colby
Mitchell on top of her.
“How’d
that sex change operation go, Vasquez?”
He
grinned as beads of sweat from his forehead fell on her face. She needed to be
reminded she was a woman, and if he wasn’t man enough to do it on the mat, he
was more than willing to have a go at her on the mattress.
More
amused than insulted, Vasquez wiped away the offending drops of sweat like she
was swatting at flies. “It’s called sexual reassignment surgery, Mitchell.
Don’t they teach you anything in sensitivity training?”
“Yeah.
I’m feeling real sensitive right now.” He was aware of her breasts crushed
against his chest and the soft apex of her thighs, an inviting warmth beneath
him. She might not fight like a woman, but she felt like one, and although he
willed his body not to, it began to respond to hers. He was enjoying dominating
her a little too much. Still, he feared for his manhood. Vasquez would go
ballistic if he got hard.
But
she didn’t go ballistic—she laughed. “The doctor said if I wanted to live my
life as a man, I’d have to be happy with three inches, so I told him to forget
it. I couldn’t bear to look like you.”
Mitchell
grunted. “Keep wiggling, Vasquez. Those three inches will turn into six.”
For
a moment, she looked startled, as if she’d only just realized he’d been
flirting with her. Before she could shield the reaction, her unusual eyes
betrayed her panic, and Mitchell experienced an intense surge of satisfaction.
Vasquez couldn’t dislodge him, because she sucked at wrestling, and now he’d
found her secret vulnerability: she was afraid of men. The vindictive side of
him wanted to press her further, but he rolled away, because he was a meathead,
not a jerk, and the last thing he needed was a sexual harassment charge.
“You’re
such a Neanderthal, Mitchell,” she said, recovering.
“Ooga
booga,” he replied with a smile. “Want to go back to my cave?”
“No,”
she said, using the serious tone women affected when scolding a child, making
it embarrassingly clear that she did not encourage his advances.
He
shrugged, feeling amiable. Vasquez may have beaten him in front of everyone,
but now he had her number. Good agents knew that most warfare was
psychological, and Colby Mitchell was a very good agent. He was also smart
enough to do damage control, and sensitive enough to treat Vasquez with
respect, albeit belatedly.
“I
was just fooling around,” he said. “No hard feelings?”
The
tension in her face faded. “Whatever, Mitchell.” She brushed invisible lint
from her jogging pants. “Next time you want to rub your wiener on someone, ask
Stacy.”
“Really?”
Like most young, single males on the prowl, his attention was easily diverted.
Vasquez was hot, but Stacy League was…built. His eyes roved over Special Agent
League’s very pleasing form as she sparred with another female trainee. She
wasn’t half as good on the mat as Vasquez, but who wanted an assassin in the
sack? “She likes me?”
“You
didn’t hear it from me,” she said, pulling herself to her feet. This time, he
let her help him up.
“Thanks
for the tip, cutie.” He knocked her lightly on the chin.
She
wrinkled her nose. “Don’t push it.”
“Do
you want to know who likes you?” He scanned the room for a man who wasn’t more
afraid of her than attracted to her.
“No.”
“Why
not?” He smirked. “Oh, I get it.” He took her by the shoulders and turned her
toward the openly gay female cadet Stacy was sparring with. “Is she more your
style?”
“You
wish,” she said, shrugging away from him. “Do I need to kick your ass twice?”
“Yeah.
Show me how to do that temple thing.”
She
shook her head. “You’re too strong to use it for immobilization. You can only
do it with lethal intent.”
He
rubbed his hands together. “Goody.”
Sonny took a deep breath before she
entered Grant’s office.
Although
the summons ordered her to come right away, she’d taken the time to shower and
make herself presentable. Contrary to popular belief, Sonora Vasquez was a
woman, and sometimes she liked to look like one.
She
knew her appearance added to her formidable reputation, so she usually didn’t
bother to accentuate her femininity. Her features were too strong to be called
pretty, her eyes too fierce to put a man at ease, her mouth more appropriate
for biting than kissing. For a blue-eyed blonde, her complexion was dark,
giving her the unusual appearance of a dusky waif or a washed-out gypsy, and
her hair was an unremarkable champagne motley. It was thick and unruly, so she
kept it cropped short, which pleased her, not any man she’d ever met.
She’d
always been a tomboy—by chance, if not choice, having been forced to wear her
brother’s hand-me-downs throughout childhood. She still couldn’t afford
designer clothes, expensive makeup, or sexy shoes, but she worked well with
what she had: good bone structure, great instincts, and a killer bod.