KICK ASS: A Boxed Set

KICK ASS: A COLLECTION

Three thrilling stories about women who know what they want...and stop at nothing to get it.

by

New York Times Bestselling Author

Julie Leto

PRAISE FOR THE WOMEN IN *KICK ASS: A COLLECTION*…

“Fast paced, grab you by the balls fiction. Marisela is a no-nonsense, take no prisoners kind of girl.”

~Yolande Pienaar, Amazon Reader on
Dirty Little Secrets

“Bravo to Leto for writing a modern woman who isn’t a wilting flower!”

~Amy Wroblewsky, The Romance Reader, on
Kiss of the Phantom

“I loved that Macy is such a strong and smart woman.”

~Elizabeth Brown, Amazon Reader on
Dare Me

MAIN MENU

Dirty Little Secrets (Sexy Suspense)

Kiss of the Phantom (Sexy Paranormal)

Dare Me (Sexy Suspense Novella)

Afterword

Other Works by Julie Leto

About the Author

Contact Information

Copyright Information

Table of Contents

DIRTY LITTLE SECRETS

Author's Note:
This book is the first in a series about an ex-gang member and former bounty hunter, Marisela Morales, whose life is about to change...thanks to a sexy bad-boy and the trouble he’s brought to town…

One

“I remember when
you used to stroke me like that.”

Marisela Morales punctuated her pickup line by blowing on the back of Francisco Vega’s neck. She watched the soft downy strands on his nape spike and knew her luck had finally turned around.

His fingers, visible as she glanced over his shoulder, drew streaks through the condensation on his beer bottle. Up and down. Slow and straight. Lazy, but precise. He toyed with his
cerveza
the same way he’d once made love to her, and for a split second, a trickle of moist heat curled intimately between Marisela’s thighs. For the moment, the part of her Frankie used to oh-so-easily manipulate was safe, encased beneath silky panties and skin-tight, hip-hugging jeans.

Tonight, she’d have him—but on her terms. The hunter had found her prey. Now, she just had to bring him in.

“I don’t remember taking time for slow strokes when you and me got busy,
niña
.”

Marisela sighed, teasing his neck with her hot breath one more time before she slid onto the bar stool next to his. She’d been trying to track the man down for nearly a week. Who knew Frankie would turn up at an old haunt? Since they’d parted ways, Club Electric, a white box on the outside, hot joint on the inside, had changed names, hands, and clientele a good dozen times. But a few things remained constant—the music, the raw atmosphere—and the availability of men like Frankie, who defined the word
caliente
.

Like the song said,
Hot, hot, hot
.

“We were young then,” Marisela admitted with a shrug, loosening the holster strap that cradled the cherished 9 mm Taurus Millennium she wore beneath her slick leather jacket. “Now, I’m all grown up.”

Marisela wiggled her crimson fingernails at Theresa, the owner of the club. The way the older woman’s face lit up, Marisela figured she was going to get more than a drink. Damn. Marisela loved Theresa as if she were her aunt, but now wasn’t the time for…

“Oh, Marisela!
Mija
, how can I thank you for what you did?”

The sentiment was as loud as it was sincere. So she’d done a nice thing for Theresa. The world didn’t have to know. Good deeds could ruin her reputation.

And a simple thank-you wasn’t enough for Theresa. She stepped up onto the shelf on the other side of the bar and practically launched herself into Marisela’s arms. Rolling her eyes at Frankie, Marisela gave the owner a genuine squeeze. She deserved as much. She was a good listener, kept great secrets and mixed the best
Cuba Libre
in town.

“
De nada
, Theresa,” Marisela said, gently disentangling herself. She appreciated the woman’s gratitude, but she had work to do.

“Anything for you. Anytime. For you, drinks are on the house from now on, okay? You and… your friend.”

Even as she tried to be the courteous hostess, Theresa’s voice faltered when her eyes met Frankie’s. Marisela’s ex hadn’t been in the neighborhood for years. And in that time, he’d aged. His skin, naturally dark, now sported a rough texture, complete with a scar that traced just below his bottom lip. His jaw seemed sharper and his once perfect nose now shifted slightly to the right—likely the result of an untreated break. Even if he hadn’t matured from a devilish boy to a clearly dangerous man, he likely wouldn’t be recognized by anyone but Marisela and a few others who’d once known him well—the very “others” Marisela had made sure wouldn’t come into Club Electric again, on Theresa’s behalf.

“I never say no to free booze,” Marisela answered. “
Gracias
, Theresa.”

Theresa blew Marisela a kiss, patted her cheek, then moved aside to work on her drink. To most people, a
Cuba Libre
was just rum and Coke with lime. To Marisela, it was a taste of heaven.

“What did you do for her?” Frankie asked, his voice even, as if he wasn’t really curious.

Marisela knew better. She slid her arms on the bar, arching her back, working out the kinks in her spine while giving Frankie an unhampered view of her breasts. She didn’t want him to waste his curiosity on what she’d done for Theresa; she wanted to pique his interest another way.

“Last week,
las Reinas
chose this bar as their new hangout. Not quite the clientele Theresa has in mind. Gangs aren’t exactly good for business. I politely asked them to pick someplace else.”

“Politely?” Frankie asked, his dark eyebrows bowed over his hypnotic eyes. “Last I remember,
las Reinas
didn’t respond well to polite.”

Marisela shrugged. She’d earned a great deal of respect from her former gang by choosing to bleed out. She’d used every fighting skill she’d ever learned, every survival instinct she’d ever experienced, to escape a lifelong bond to the gang. But she’d survived. Barely.

“They’ve learned some manners while you’ve been gone. Lots of things have changed. Like,” she said, snagging his beer around the neck and taking a sip, “I don’t settle for fast and furious no more.”

Frankie didn’t move a muscle. “Is that so?”

She smoothed her tongue over her teeth, then licked the lip of his bottle, careful not to smudge her ruby red lipstick. He snagged his drink back and chugged, his gaze locked on her mouth. Frankie always had a thing for her lips. Marisela thought they resembled something between Angelina Jolie and a grouper, but Frankie considered her thick, pouty flesh mighty fine. A detail she intended to use to her advantage, now that she’d found the man.

Theresa delivered her rum and Coke, tall and icy with a wedge of lime. After another wary glance at Frankie, she left them alone.

“So you come here a lot?” he asked.

“Where else am I gonna go? This is West Tampa, not Miami. We’ve got one club and this is it.”

“There’s always Ybor City.”

“If you don’t mind drunks who can’t dance and ridiculous cover charges. This is still the neighborhood hot spot. You’d know that if you came around more.”

“I’ve been busy,” he answered, draining the rest of his beer.

She sipped her spiked cola. “And how
was
prison?”

He chuckled, slid his beer bottle away. “Big party,” he quipped. “I got out two years ago.”

“Really? I hadn’t heard.”

He snorted. He likely knew as well as she did that the precise location and activities of all the neighborhood kids—young, old, and in between—were reported, catalogued, and reported again from the shiny vinyl chairs of Viola’s Beauty Parlor, two blocks south of Columbus Drive. Their mothers both had standing appointments every weekend. And thanks to Aida Morales’s devotion to the Saturday morning religion of gossip and speculation, Marisela knew precisely what Frankie had been up to over the last decade as if she’d been there herself. Gang. Prison. Dock work in Miami. Nothing too complicated.

Then a week ago, he’d shown up in Tampa uninvited and unexpected. After less than an hour in town, he’d been arrested for possession. Thanks to his parents, he’d made bail—and then he’d promptly disappeared.