Praise for the novels of
Jill Sorenson
THE EDGE OF NIGHT
“With an emotionally charged romance, heart-pounding suspense and characters who resonate long after the book is finished, The Edge of Night delivers! You are guaranteed a dangerously addictive, gut-wrenchingly tight paced read.”
—STEPHANIE TYLER, New York Times bestselling author
“Sorenson paints the graffiti-lined streets and the gang scene with broad strokes, and makes her characters realistic, flawed, and appealing. Deftly handled violent action and red herrings rush this thriller to a believable ending.”
—Publishers Weekly
“A spectacular story. The non-stop action and the budding romance between April and Noah made for a fast-paced tale, which I was unable to put down until the very end. I highly suggest blocking off a good amount of time when you pick this book up, because you’re not going to want to put it down.”
—Night Owl Romance
“Riveting! The Edge of Night is taut with emotion, suspense and danger. Sorenson expertly weaves the two stories into a heart-wrenching conclusion.”
—RT Book Reviews
“An exciting romantic suspense, fast paced and well written. The Edge of Night is an entertaining story to read in the cold days of winter.”
—Romance Reviews Today
CRASH INTO ME
“Sorenson’s sleek sensuality and fresh new voice are sure to score big with readers.”
—CINDY GERARD, New York Times bestselling author
“Beautiful characters, true-to-life emotions, heart-stopping action, and a bona fide bad guy—it doesn’t get any better than this.”
—RT Book Reviews
“It was definitely hot. Sooo hot. Jill Sorenson is my new favorite romantic suspense author!”
—VICTORIA DAHL
“Crash into Me has so many unexpected events and twists that readers will be hooked all the way to the final page. Jill Sorenson is an author to watch!”
—The Romance Reader Connection
“Get comfy, because once you start reading Crash into Me, you will not want to move for anything. It is like devouring decadent chocolate; you savor every bite, and cannot put it down until it is finished. Jill Sorenson does not miss a beat in this magnificent read with great pacing, intense emotions, and unexpected twists and turns that kept this reader guessing.”
—Coffee Time Romance
SET THE DARK ON FIRE
“Sorenson knocks it out of the park again. Her latest is like a fine wine—a full-bodied romance with rich and complex characters. [In] this creative suspense, each personal story overlaps with the others, and the effect is immensely satisfying. Couple that with the gripping plot, and Sorenson has another winner on her hands. HOT.”
—RT Book Reviews
“A good romance for those that like a little bite to their romances along with a well-balanced suspense.”
—Dear Author
Caught in the Act is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
A Bantam Books eBook Edition
Copyright © 2012 by Jill Sorenson
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States by Bantam Books, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.
BANTAM BOOKS and the rooster colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.
eISBN: 978-0-345-53209-1
Cover design: Jae Song
Cover images: © Dundanim /shutterstock (man), © Carlos Castilla /shutterstock (street)
www.bantamdell.com
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Acknowledgments
Other Books by This Author
1
Karina Strauss approached the San Ysidro border crossing at a snail’s pace, her cargo van idling among a thousand other vehicles.
There were twenty-four lanes on the Tijuana side, a massive snarl of traffic that found order in the last hundred yards. Before the inspection booths were visible, the dividing lines were ignored. The more aggressive drivers made their own lanes, squeezing into narrow spaces and zigzagging across the chaos. Everyone else lurched forward in semiregular intervals while street vendors navigated the shifting aisles, selling everything from chicle and cold drinks to silver jewelry and colorful hammocks. Some of the peddlers were children whose shoulders barely cleared the hoods of the cars.
Kari let out a slow breath, removing her sweaty hands from the steering wheel. She’d turned off the air-conditioning and rolled down the windows in hopes that her van wouldn’t overheat. At just past noon, the summer sun was blazing. Her left shoulder, exposed by her sleeveless cotton top, felt burned.
As the crush of vehicles evened into single rows, Kari became aware of impatient drivers angling toward the right. Her lane seemed more backed up than the others—not a good sign. Some of the inspectors were very thorough, checking the contents of each and every car. Normally she appreciated their diligence.
Today she was desperate for lax security.
She put on her signal and tried to merge into the next lane, with no luck. A woman in a midsized sedan stole the spot, her radio blaring Juan Gabriel.
The space in front of Kari cleared and she was forced to move ahead in the same lane. Now there were only a few cars between her and the inspection booth. She met her startled reflection in the rearview mirror, swallowing dryly. Her heart slammed in her chest, beating too hard, too fast.
Stay calm, she told herself. Act cool.
The officer stationed at the booth ahead didn’t appear lax in any way. His dark blue uniform fit well. He had short black hair and a stern face. She couldn’t see his eyes behind the lenses of his authoritative sunglasses, but she’d bet they were brown.
Kari watched the officer walk around a dusty Oldsmobile, gesturing for the owner to open the trunk. His short-sleeved shirt stretched across his back as he leaned forward to glance into the trunk’s recesses. He looked strong, broad-shouldered, bronze-skinned. There was nothing unusual about him, other than an eye-pleasing physique, but she sensed that he was sharp and precise.
Sweat trickled between her breasts.
Too nervous to sit still, she unfastened the top buttons on her blouse, searching around the front seats of the van for a tissue to blot her perspiration.
The line crawled forward again. Damn!
She used the hem of her skirt to wipe her chest and left the buttons undone. Maybe she could entice the inspector to look down her shirt rather than inside her vehicle. Tapping the gas pedal, she eased the van closer.
She’d been waiting in traffic for over an hour and the final moments were the most intense. Blood pounded in her ears, her temple, her throat. She took a small sip
of water and fiddled with the radio, trying to disguise her fear. Her pulse was racing, her hands trembling. She didn’t dare glance back into the cargo space.
At last, it was her turn. She pulled up to the inspection booth, which was underneath a shaded structure, and prayed for a wave-through.
“Citizenship?”
“U.S.,” she murmured, handing him her passport. Most of the stamps marked her visits to Mexico. Others were from the Czech Republic, where she’d been born. She watched him handle her paperwork, fixating on the almost indiscernible grain of stubble along his jaw, the smoothness of his taut brown throat.
Officer A. Cortez, the name tag on his shirtfront read. He was Hispanic, but that didn’t relax her. There was no room for mixed sympathies in his profession.
“Anything to declare?” he asked.
She fumbled for her inventory list. His voice was low and even, no trace of an accent. He was also disturbingly handsome. As she passed him the handwritten account of the items in her van—well, most of the items—she remembered her gaping blouse. The flat expression on his face suggested that he’d noticed but wasn’t impressed.
“It’s all just stuff for my store,” she explained, flushing. “Zócalo, on E Street?”
His gaze dropped to the insignia on the side of her van. Authentic Arts and Crafts from Latin America. The accompanying image was whimsical, a dancing skeleton in a sombrero. In Mexico, even death was a fiesta.
“Please turn off the engine and step outside the vehicle.”
Her stomach dropped.
She switched off the ignition and removed the keys, curbing the urge to ask if she’d done something wrong. Better to stay mum. With numb fingers, she opened the driver’s-side door. The instant she climbed out, her rubber flip-flops soaked up the heat of the asphalt, and a warm breeze rippled through her calf-length skirt.
She followed Officer Cortez to the rear of the vehicle, her heart in her throat.
“Open the doors, please.”
Oh no. What could she do? Refusing to cooperate was not an option.
As she approached the double doors on shaky legs, her keys slid from her slippery grip, clattering to the pavement. She bent to pick them up, aware that her thin cotton skirt was clinging to her backside.
Cortez waited patiently, making no move to assist her.
Straightening, she unlocked the doors. Although her eyes had trouble adjusting to the dim interior, she could make out a few shadowy boxes and piles of textiles, her usual haul. She stepped aside, not allowing her gaze to linger.
Cortez glanced into the cargo space and then squinted down the line of cars, assessing the rows of vehicles. When he looked back at her, she shifted her weight from one foot to the other, self-conscious. He touched the radio at his shoulder and spoke into it, engaging in a clipped conversation she couldn’t overhear.
Kari had to do something to distract him from the contents of her van. As he dropped his hand from the radio, she saw that he wasn’t wearing a wedding ring. He had a lean, muscular build, and he was medium-tall, maybe six feet. Under different circumstances, she wouldn’t have to feign interest.
“This must be an exciting job,” she ventured, trying to sound fascinated.
He perused her cargo. “It has its moments.”
“Have you handled any big loads?”
That got his attention. He gave her a bald look, obviously wondering if she meant to be suggestive.
She smiled, fanning her cleavage with one hand. “Hot, isn’t it?”
Behind the dark lenses of his sunglasses, his eyes followed her movements. Although she’d dressed for comfort, not seduction, the outfit flattered her figure. Most men liked breasts, and hers were half-showing. Cortez was also fairly young, which worked in her favor. He might be an exemplary officer, but he wasn’t immune to the stuff.
To her disappointment, he tore his gaze from her chest and continued the routine inspection, a muscle in his jaw flexing.
Her mind whirred with ridiculous options, like pretending to faint on the hot blacktop. Then a loud noise stole Cortez’s attention. Several lanes over, a trio of intimidating-looking German shepherds were barking up a storm, straining at their leashes. Alerting officers of illegal cargo.
Officer Cortez stepped away from her vehicle. “Have a nice day, ma’am,” he said, handing back her paperwork. After calling for another uniformed man to cover his station, he walked toward the commotion in long strides.
Kari shut the back doors of the van, dizzy with relief. She went around to the driver’s side and got in, ears peeled for a shout to halt. Thankfully, it didn’t come. She turned on the engine and pulled forward, crossing the border into San Diego. Clear, organized roadways and a clean ocean breeze greeted her.
Freedom.
She stepped on the gas and inhaled deeply, letting the wind whip through her shoulder-length hair. Even after she’d gone a few miles, her heart wouldn’t stop racing. She didn’t dare glance back into the cargo space for fear she was being followed.
“Oh my God,” she said finally, letting out a nervous laugh. “That was close.”
Normally she went straight to her store, which was near Old Town, to unload the van. Today she drove to her quiet little house in Bonita. The tiny San Diego suburb was only a ten-minute trip from the San Ysidro port of entry. As soon as she came to a stop in her driveway, she scrambled into the cargo space, wading through cardboard boxes.
She tore open the largest box. “Maria?”
Her stowaway was hidden in a very cramped space, her slender limbs contorted in an uncomfortable position. As Kari lifted the top flaps of cardboard, Maria Santos moaned, insensible. Her eyes were closed and her head lolled to one side.
“Oh shit,” Kari said, grabbing her bottled water. The box must have been hot, stuffy, and intensely claustrophobic. She poured water on the young woman’s dark hair, trying to rouse her. Maria choked and sputtered, shaking her wet head. Kari put her arms around her slight body and heaved, pulling the woman from the box. Although Maria was slim, she weighed at least a hundred pounds and it wasn’t easy for Kari to get her out. When she was free, they lay together on the floor of the van, panting from exertion.
“Aire,” Maria rasped. “I need air.”
Kari leapt to her feet and shoved open the back doors, glancing around the deserted neighborhood. There was a vehicle she’d never seen before parked across the street, but it looked empty.
“This way,” she said, helping Maria out of the van. They stumbled across the driveway and collapsed on the front lawn. She rolled onto her stomach and retched, her slim back bowed, her arms trembling.
Kari retrieved her bottled water from the van and waited for Maria’s nausea to pass, wincing in sympathy.
After a moment, Maria straightened, wiping her mouth with her hand. She accepted the water and took a small sip, studying their surroundings with wet eyes. Her gaze moved from the vibrant green blades of grass beneath her to Kari’s front door. “This is your house?” she asked, pronouncing this as “thees” and your as “jour.”
Kari nodded. “Do you like it?”
“It’s beautiful,” she said, blinking the tears from her eyes.
Kari glanced around the front yard, surprised. The neighborhood was middle-class at best, and her house a modest two-bedroom. It was Maria who was beautiful, with her lovely dark hair and serene smile. She had a slightly crooked tooth in front, a tiny imperfection that added to her appeal.
They’d met in La Bufadora, a poverty-stricken tourist spot near Ensenada. Powerful waves met steep cliffs there, creating a gust of ocean spray known as “the Blowhole.” Kari bought crafts from the local women, but she also dropped off donations. She’d been a volunteer for a charity organization called Hands Across the Border for years, delivering clothes and school supplies to the needy.
Maria worked mornings at a nearby hotel and afternoons at a pottery kiln. The black clay of La Bufadora formed a very unique type of stoneware, and Kari was ha
ppy to pay a good price for one-of-a-kind creations. Whenever Kari came to the kiln, Maria went out of her way to accommodate her. She was charming and loquacious, a natural saleswoman. Over time, the two women had become friends.
Kari knew that Maria was supporting her widowed mother and younger siblings. Last week, over lunch, Maria had confessed that her family was in dire straits. Her sister needed medical treatment, and her brother, who was only fourteen, was threatening to cross the border to find work. Maria had begged Kari for a ride to the United States. In San Diego, she could make a week’s wages in a single day.
Kari looked Maria in the eye, preparing to say no. It wasn’t possible to assist every person in need, and trafficking was against the law. She couldn’t save the world. But there was something special about Maria, an inner strength. She was desperate, and she was determined. Kari had heard the horror stories about single women who attempted to immigrate illegally, and she feared for Maria’s safety.
So she said yes. Kari had always found it impossible to turn her back on those in need. Hoping she wasn’t making the biggest mistake of her life, she made plans to transport Maria the following week. This morning, as Kari was loading up her van, Maria had grabbed a beat-up duffel bag and climbed aboard.
“You’ve never been to the U.S. before?” Kari asked.
“Just once,” she said, her smile fading. “I walked through the desert with a group. It was a long journey.”
“What happened?”
She swallowed a few times, as if sickened anew by the memory. “I got separated from the others at night. I was lost for many days, I think. La migra picked me up and sent me back to Mexico.”
The story wasn’t at all uncommon. Dozens of illegal immigrants died every year making the same arduous trek.
Kari had never imagined that she was capable of smuggling a human being. And although she wouldn’t choose to repeat the experience, she couldn’t regret her decision. For some reason, Maria reminded Kari of her troubled little sister. She sensed a hint of sadness behind her disarming smile.
“Muchísimas gracias,” Maria said, giving Kari an enthusiastic hug. “I have waited years to return to the U.S. I am so happy to be here, to find work and send money to my family. You are angel from heaven. Bless you.”
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