Inevitable. Michelle Rowen

      The star of her most erotic fantasies.

      Ryan was bad news. And bad news was best thrown in the trash or used to line a bird cage.

      He was talking to a buxom blonde wearing a pink feathered mask to match her tight pink cocktail dress when Emma tapped him on the shoulder. His back stiffened and he glanced at her.

      “Hi there,” he said with a slow smile.

      She cocked her head. “Hi there? Really?”

      He turned back to the blonde. “Sorry.”

      “Not a problem,” she demurred. “I’ll catch up with you later. You have my phone number.”

      “Yes, I do. Thanks for that.”

      “My pleasure.”

      Oh, brother. Emma crossed her arms and tapped her foot as she waited for the blonde to wander off. Finally, he turned back to face her. The cobalt-blue eyes she remembered all too clearly were jarring behind his mask as he leisurely scanned her from head to toe. He ran a hand through his jet-black hair. It was a little longer than it had been the last time she’d seen him.

      The smile he gave her was enough to melt her panties. That is, if he really affected her anymore. And, unfortunately, he did. Unexpected desire, much like a surge of electricity jolted through her.

      Not helpful.

      “Well?” she prompted, wanting some sort of explanation about why he was there and what he was up to.

      “Are you enjoying yourself?” he asked casually.

      She stared at him for a moment. “Pardon me?”

      “It’s a great party, isn’t it? The food is incredible. Have you been to the rooftop terrace yet?” He glanced toward the spiral staircase. “The view of Central Park is spectacular from up there.”

      She gaped at him in disbelief. After everything that had happened, every case they’d investigated together, every hour they’d spoken in the past, every sexual fantasy she’d secretly harbored for him—he didn’t know who she was under her mask.

      Of all the damned nerve.

      RYAN WRACKED HIS MIND for the right movie quote. It was from Casablanca and Bogie had said it. Something about a whole lot of gin joints in the world and Ingrid Bergman had to walk into his.

      He wasn’t Humphrey Bogart and this wasn’t an old movie. But the sight of beautiful Emma Black immediately made him want to head to the bar in the corner of the parlor and consume a great deal of gin.

      Even with a party mask on, he would recognize her anywhere. And not just because of her long flame-red hair—although it did help her stand out in a crowd. She was short in stature—not much over five feet, but she always made up for it by wearing treacherously high heels. Tonight she wore a simple black dress, a little less fancy and shiny than what other women were wearing tonight, but he had to fight his gaze not to skim down her body again. He thought he’d memorized every luscious curve back when they were partners, but unexpectedly seeing her standing right in front of him had been enough to knock all logical thought out of his head.

      No, it wasn’t just because of her hair or her body that he recognized her.

      It was the look in her emerald green eyes. He remembered that look after being on the receiving end of it nearly six months ago.

      Sheer unadulterated hatred.

      It brought back memories—bad ones.

      His knee-jerk reaction to seeing her standing there glaring at him like he was an insect that had the audacity to smash into her windshield was to pretend he didn’t recognize her.

      And here they were.

      “Anyway—” he pushed a facsimile of a charming smile to his lips “—have a lovely evening.”

      He didn’t want to scurry off with his tail between his legs, but the compulsion was strong.

      “Ryan,” she said sharply. “It’s me.”

      This ruse wasn’t going to last. But owning up to it right away just wasn’t in his nature. “Have we met before?”

      “Yes.” It was more of a hiss than a confirmation.

      He scratched his chin. “You do seem a bit familiar to me. Was it Hawaii? A little bar called the Lotus Flower?”

      The glare she gave him was sharp enough to wound. “You’re hilarious.”

      “I am known for my sense of humor.”

      “What the hell are you doing here, Ryan?” There was a decidedly unpleasant edge to her words that tasted a bit to him like venom. She had just as much of a sense of humor as he did—at least she used to. It was one of the things he liked best about her. This, however, was not one of those times she chose to tap into it.

      Ryan’s smile finally faded. “Emma.”

      Her eyes widened. “Ha! I knew you recognized me.”

      “Long time no see.”

      “Not long enough. Why are you here?”

      He glanced around. “I’m attending a party.”

      “With or without an invitation?”

      One thing he’d learned about the delicious Emma Black, after working side by side with her for a year—she never minced words. Tact was not always at the top of her to-do list either. “What are you doing here?” he countered.

      “You didn’t answer my question.”

      “You’re right, I didn’t.” He eyed a couple who passed them on the way to the open bar. “I do have an invite, although it wasn’t necessarily sent to me personally. Perhaps you’d like to alert security that I’m crashing and have them drag me out. Would that make you feel good about yourself?”

      “It might.”

      He forced a smile. “Don’t worry your pretty little head. I’m not up to anything nefarious.”

      “I find that hard to believe.”

      He held out his hand. “Let’s put the past behind us, Emma.”

      She eyed his hand as if it were covered in fungus. “Right, like I’m going to touch you so you can get a read on me.”

      All agents with PARA, current and former, were psychic. The majority were either empathic—those able to sense emotions and feelings from other people through touch—or clairvoyant—those able to communicate with ghosts and sense important things from objects or places without relying on the usual five senses.

      In their partnership, Ryan was the people person and Emma dealt with all the other stuff. His empathic ability had never been very strong and he had to work hard to get any kind of reading at all. He also had to do it through skin to skin contact. Some empaths were strong enough to get a sense of another just from being in the same room with them. Not Ryan. He was a one on a scale of one to five, maybe a two on a good day. His gift was more like strong intuition rather than total psychic ability. But he’d made it work for himself and his low-end ability had never really given him any problems on the job.

      He was much better with cars, really. Tinkering with cars, sensing what made them work—or not work—was his true talent. And his true love. It wasn’t related to his psychic ability, but it might as well have been. He felt he had a sixth sense about cars. But that hadn’t been put to much use as a PARA agent.

      One thing he had going for himself as an empath was that other empaths couldn’t get a read on him. This was both a blessing and a curse since it meant that his secrets remained secrets.

      “Read you?” He gave her an innocent look. “I wouldn’t do something shady like that without your permission.”

      “You