No Strings Attached

Some mistakes are worth repeating…

Tasha Riordan’s one night with Luc Bradshaw was the best of her life. The following two—when he left her to be thrown into a Bahamian jail on bogus charges—were her worst. Now, seven years later, the undercover DEA agent is back. Invading her town. Her restaurant. Her fantasies. She can’t trust a man who lied to her. Yet neither can she trust herself—not when their chemistry burns even hotter than before.

Learning he has two half brothers shocks Luc. Discovering they live in the same town as Tasha—that’s a different kind of thrill. Their mutual lust is still off the charts, but he can’t get her to listen to his side of what happened on that long-ago night. Good thing he’s got powers of persuasion that go deeper than words. Because nothing has ever felt this right….

No Strings Attached

Susan Andersen

www.millsandboon.co.uk

This is dedicated to girls who wear glasses,

and to all the readers who’ve taken the time

to leave reviews and let me know you enjoy my work.

Thank you!

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Title Page

Dedication

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

EPILOGUE

EXTRACT

Copyright

PROLOGUE

Seven years ago. Andros Island, Bahamas

A HOT, MOIST BREEZE, perfumed by the sea and the faintest exotic whiff of an unidentifiable flower, wafted through the hut’s open window just as Tasha Riordan collapsed atop Diego. Her nose squashed into the damp curve where his neck flowed into a muscular shoulder, and as she silently breathed in his salty, slightly spicy scent, it occurred to her she hadn’t once asked what his last name was during the thirtysomething hours since they’d met. Waiting for her heart to cease its thunderous reggae beat, however, she didn’t dwell too closely on that just-met-yesterday thing.

Okay, you would think, given she’d spent a good part of her life keeping her chin up while living her mother’s reputation down, that she’d sort of welcome a little soul-searching. After all, diving into bed with a virtual stranger was a big departure for her.

A big, big departure. Huge. And she ought to be a little concerned about it, right?

Tough-skinned fingertips ran down her naked spine, sparking back to life nerve endings that by rights should have been incinerated to cold, dead ash. “You okay, cariño?” Diego asked, his voice a rumbling vibration beneath the ear she had pressed to his throat.

And just like that, her half-assed inclination to whip herself into a lather of self-recrimination melted away as her lips curved into a little smile against his skin. She didn’t know what it was about this guy, but one thing was for certain: he possessed an undeniable magic. In spades. From the instant he’d approached her on the beach yesterday morning, he’d kept her pretty much swept off her feet.

That was no small accomplishment. Ask anyone back home in Razor Bay, and damn few would hesitate to tell you—Tasha Riordan’s feet were always firmly, pragmatically planted on the ground.

But she merely murmured, “Oh, yeah” and kept her heartfelt And then some to herself.

This was probably par for the course for him. God knew he made her feel things she’d never felt before, and she was usually a hard sell. She could only imagine how many women already geared up for a vacation lover had thrown their room keys at him. The fact that she’d managed to keep her undies on until today was downright brag-worthy. She’d been tempted to shed them from the instant she’d laid eyes on him.

And considering the orgasm he’d just given her, perhaps she should have. It had been the most phenomenal, amazing one of her life.

She swallowed a snort. Like you’ve had so many to compare it to. But she shrugged the thought aside as unimportant. Yeah, yeah, she hadn’t experienced a plethora of non-self-induced climaxes in her twenty-two years. Still, neither was she a virgin, so she’d certainly had enough to know she’d never felt anything close to this. “How are you?” she asked softly.

He went so still she thought he’d suddenly quit breathing. She found herself doing the same. As several heartbeats passed in silence, her euphoria leaked away. Oh, God, she thought. Like you could rock his world. A person only had to look at Diego to understand his experience was galaxies beyond her own.

Then his hands tightened against her back, and he said in a low, gritty voice, “You wanna know how I am?” An exhalation of amusement, which just perhaps wasn’t amusement at all, huffed out of his lungs. “I’m so blown away it’s not even funny.”

“No,” she said on a disbelieving laugh, pushing up to look down at him. She had no illusions about herself. She was tall and skinny and had decent boobs, but hips and a booty that could belong to a twelve-year-old boy. She knew men found her reasonably attractive, but in no man’s universe was she close to being in this guy’s league.

Her mass of strawberry-blond curls, by now scary-crazy-frizzy from air that was still humid from an earlier, short-lived downpour—not to mention Diego’s demanding hands tangling in them—fell forward to intertwine with his sleeker black curls. She looked down at her hands where they splayed against the ebony fan of hair on his deep golden-brown chest. After nine days in the tropics, her skin was the tannest it had ever been. Unfortunately, all that meant was that, instead of its usual 2-percent-milk hue, it was the color of anemic toast.

Diego brought both hands up to smooth her hair away from her face, gathering it into a fat ponytail at the base of her skull. Holding it in one fist, he looked into her eyes, and his own were free of laughter for perhaps the first time since he’d sauntered up to where she’d been dipping her toes in the surf and introduced himself. “Yes,” he refuted, as the fingertips of his free hand brushed up and down the side of her throat. His thumb left a streak of fire in its wake as it briefly swept her jawline. “You blew me right out of the ballpark.” His full mouth developed a wry slant, and his broad shoulders performed a minute shrug against blindingly white sheets. “I didn’t see that coming.”

It was probably a line, but if so, it was a good one. Lord knew it was working on her—her heart felt gooey as a chocolate truffle left out on a hot tropic night.

Diego stared up at her. “I love your mouth.” His voice was rough, his dark eyes hot, and Tasha’s heart pounded as he crunched up from six-pack abs with the clear intention of kissing her. Before he could, however, his cell phone rang.

He swore and glanced at the nightstand where it rested. Then swore again.

“I’m sorry,” he said, turning his attention back to her. “I have to get this.” He gently levered her off of him and onto the middle of the mattress. Then in one smooth, unbroken movement, he pushed to his feet, swept the phone off the stand and, thumbing the green button, brought it to his ear. “Yeah,” he said. “This better be important.”

Watching him, Tasha realized he didn’t look charming in that moment. He looked dangerous: big and dark and unselfconsciously naked, his eyes hard and his mouth grim. Untangling the sheet from the bed, she pulled it up, covering herself and tucking it under her armpits. She glanced at her watch.

Oh, God. She needed to think about getting dressed if she wanted to catch the last plane back to Nassau.

Dragging the sheet with her, she climbed off the bed. Suddenly, what had seemed so daring and exciting several hours ago—impulsively agreeing to accompany Diego to the big island of Andros—felt reckless and so not smart. She began gathering her scattered clothing.

She slid into her panties, pulled on her sundress and was digging through her purse in search of something to pin her hair up with when warm, hard arms slid around her waist and pulled her back against a warmer, even harder chest. “Heyyyy.” Diego hunched to breathe in her ear. He’d pulled on the shorts and muscle tee he’d worn earlier. “What are you doing?”

It was hard to think with his heat and scent and feel all around her, and she cleared her throat. “My plane leaves in an hour and a half. I need to get to the airport.”

“Stay here with me another night. I’m supposed to be on vacation but my boss tracked me down and I have to go out for a bit to talk to him. But I’ll only be gone an hour, tops, and then we can have the rest of the night.”

“Oh.” Temptation beckoned, and for a minute she thought she could give in to it. Then reason and her usual pragmatism resurfaced. She pulled her e-ticket out of her purse and wagged it in front of their faces. “I don’t think so. I have a reservation.”

He kissed the side of her neck. “I’d really, really like to spend the rest of the night with you,” he murmured in that low, deep voice of his. “I’ll get you back to Nassau tomorrow, I promise, even if I have to charter a seaplane.” He moved his lips to the vulnerable hollow behind her ear.

And both Tasha’s reservations and her spine melted. “Well, maaaaybe that would be okay.”

“That’s what I like to hear.” He swung her around to face him and kissed her long and hot and deep. Her purse fell from nerveless fingers, and the next time she managed to locate two semi-functioning brain cells to rub together, Diego was pushing off of her as she once more lay flat on her back on the bed.

“I’m sorry,” he said, looking down at her. “I don’t like to leave either of us hanging this way, but my boss is an impatient sonuvabitch, and I told him I’d meet him in—” he looked at his watch “—shit, two minutes.” He bent down and planted another fast, hard kiss on her lips before straightening again. “I’ll be back just as soon as I can, okay?”

She nodded; he groaned. Then with a muttered “I will not kiss her again. I will not kiss her,” he turned on his heel and strode from the hut.

She’d barely dragged herself upright, repaired her lipstick and finally located a couple of clips to deal with her hair when the pounding on the door of the little hotel hut commenced. Grinning, she whirled from the mirror and raced on bare feet to open the door. “Hah! Forgot your key, didja?”

But it wasn’t Diego on the lanai. Several dark-skinned men in the light blue uniform shirts and black berets of the Royal Bahamian police pushed past her into the one-room hut. Not one of them offered her the usual friendly smiles she’d become accustomed to seeing since her arrival in the islands. These men, wrapped in Kevlar vests, were grim-eyed and grimmer-mouthed.

“What’s going on?” she demanded, only to find herself herded to a chair, where all she could see was the red tuxedo stripe that ran up the leg of the officer’s black slacks as he and the curve of the hut blocked her view of most of the activity going on around her.

But she could hear them dragging the mattress from the bed and opening and slamming drawers. Then suddenly the officer in front of her stepped aside, and an older man in a khaki shirt stood in his place, one hand folded at the small of his back, the other hanging loose at his side, a black dress hat with a red band and white bill tucked under his arm.

“I am Inspector Rolle of the DEU,” he said in a deep, melodious voice.

“DEU?” she squeaked. “What’s that?”

“Drug Enforcement Unit. Your name, please?”

“Tasha.” She swallowed, wondering what the hell was going on. It couldn’t have anything to do with Diego...could it? “Tasha Riordan.”

“Where is your accomplice, Ms. Riordan?”

Panic punched harder. Oh, God, oh, God, this was so not good. “Accomplice to what? I don’t have an accomplice!”

“This is your room?”

“No. No, I’m a guest.”

“A guest of whom?” he demanded sternly.

“Diego...?” She stumbled to a halt, and the austere-faced inspector raised bushy brows at her.

“I never actually got his last name,” she stammered. “I know that sounds—” Then her brain finally kicked in. “It should be on the registration, though. Ask the man who checked us in.”

Inspector Rolle pointed to an officer, who strode briskly from the hut. Then they sat in nerve-twanging silence, during which she could only conclude that Diego had done something horrible, criminal...unforgivable. Something he’d skated from free and clear—while leaving her holding the bag.

When the officer returned, he came straight over to the inspector, murmured something, then moved a discreet distance away. The inspector turned to her.

“The man who checked you in said the room was paid for in cash. He described you quite accurately, Ms. Riordan, but has no recollection of this Diego.”

“No! That’s not true. I didn’t even go up to the counter with Diego. I stayed on the deck while he checked us in. Take fingerprints or something! I wasn’t anywhere near the check-in desk!”

He studied her for a moment before shrugging. “That may turn out to be true—”

“It is true!”

“But what we have here—” he brought his hand out from behind his back and dropped a large ziplock bag filled with what looked like powdered sugar, but which she had a sick feeling was not, on the little table next to her elbow, where it settled with a heavy thud “—is this kilo of heroin—and you. No mystery man named Diego. Just you. So, Tasha Riordan, you are under arrest for possession with intent to sell.”

CHAPTER ONE

Present day

“CRAP,” TASHA WHISPERED as she pulled up behind the other cars in Max’s driveway. She was beyond late.

And this comes as a big surprise to you? her inner smart-ass demanded.

Well, no. But not seeing the men hanging out on the porch, grilling up a storm as usual, and knowing they likely weren’t out back, either, since it had been raining off and on all day, just drove the truth of her tardiness home. Because that could mean only one thing, couldn’t it? Everyone was either in the midst of dinner or—an even worse possibility—were already cleaning up.

She climbed out of the car and went around to the trunk to haul out her contributions to Harper’s mom’s going-away party. Dammit, not only had she not meant to be so late, she’d fully intended to get here early to help with the preparations. She certainly hadn’t counted on the new man she’d hired for her pizzeria turning out to be a lush. A freaking on-the-job lush.

You had to appreciate the irony here. She’d thought she had it all figured out. With the drop in business now that Labor Day was behind them and most of the tourists gone, her big plan had been to hire another cook to work part-time. She really could have used help with the summer rush this year, yet with it over, they were spared the crazy thrown-in-the-deep-end, sink-or-swim pressure. Now the new hire could take his time getting up to speed, and she’d add to his hours as he progressed. Stress-free had been her aim, the end goal to be sitting pretty by the time next summer’s rush began.

She snorted. In theory it was such a lovely, proactive idea and one that should eventually provide her some honest-to-God days off. And who knew, maybe it’d even give her a shot at an actual life. That was certainly something she’d had damn little of this summer. Once she got accustomed to the luxury of occasional free days, she might go totally hog wild and build her way up to treating herself to an actual vacation.

Okay, so the mere idea made her heart pound with anxiety and left a coppery taste in her mouth. But wasn’t it way past time she got over that?

Not that it mattered now. At this point the question was purely rhetorical. Her new cook, who had interviewed brilliantly, had in all likelihood already been drunk when he’d shown up for work. And if he hadn’t arrived with a good head start down Knee-walking Avenue, he’d definitely been fall-on-his-face hammered by the time she’d thrown his sorry ass out of Bella T’s. On her own house wine, no less, which just added an abundance of salt to the wound.

But the final straw, what truly and royally most pissed her off, was the way the bastard had tried to blame the wine theft on Jeremy, the Cedar Village boy who’d started bussing for her just the other week. The Village was a group home outside of town that helped troubled boys get their lives together, which was precisely what Jeremy was doing. The last thing he needed was for some ass to come along and falsely accuse him of larceny.

She climbed the porch steps but stopped before she reached the door. Setting down her goodies, she did her best to brush lint off her shorts, then reached into her purse for her lipstick.

One of the first things she’d noticed about Harper when the elegant mixed-race woman had come to Razor Bay was that, no matter what the occasion, she was always dressed perfectly for it. And clearly her mad style skills were directly inherited from Gina, because that went double for Harper’s sophisticated mother.

She, on the other hand, had been so rattled by the time she’d gotten the drunk cook out of Bella T’s, locked up and run upstairs to change that she’d pretty much grabbed the first thing to come to hand. That had turned out to be this linty pair of black walking shorts and—more fortunately—one of her nicer tank tops in a rich blue that almost, if not quite, gave her more-gray-than-blue eyes a hint more blue. After topping it with her little black cardigan and grabbing the foodstuffs she’d put together for the party, she’d dashed back out again.

Without a speck of makeup on, aside from the mascara she’d applied this morning so people would know she really did have eyelashes—even if they were so pale one might be excused for thinking otherwise.

She swiped on some lipstick, knocked on the door and let herself in. “Hey,” she called out over the laughter and voices coming from near Max’s unfinished kitchen. “Sorry I’m so late. But I brought a couple bottles of red to make up for it. And some homemade guacamole and veggie-tray fixings.”

She strode in sight of the long table full of people and spotted her bestie, Jenny, first, sitting next to Jake. “Hey, girlie,” she said, then greeted the Damoths and Mary-Margaret, who headed the Village, and their hosts Max and Harper and Harper’s mom. But she stopped dead in full-out shock as her eyes met the velvety dark gaze of a golden-skinned, chiseled-faced man. Images of a younger face flashed across her mind’s screen with lightning speed even as the heat of remembered kisses, caresses, sizzled through her veins, and she blinked, certain she was seeing things.

But, no. Dear God. It wasn’t, shouldn’t be possible, but it really was Diego NoLastName, the rat bastard who’d landed her in a Bahamian jail cell back when she was younger and stupider—or at least stupidly naive—and the last person she’d ever expected to see again. Yet there he sat at Max and Harper’s table, all black hair, black eyes and dark stubble, looking muscular, vital and bigger than life.

Her brain began buzzing with the staticky sound of a radio dialed half a notch off its station, and her hand went lax. The reusable cloth bag she’d stuffed full of wine and party food dropped to the floor, then tipped on its side.

She barely noticed when its contents scattered in all directions.

* * *

HOLY SHIT. THE SCENE unfolding around him went into slo-mo, and Luc Bradshaw came half out of his chair along with every other person around the table. Everyone seemed to be exclaiming and generally making a commotion in their desire to help the long-legged woman who’d stooped to gather the bottles of wine and plastic containers that rolled and skittered across the floor.

To him it was muffled white noise. He stared down at her bent head and unconsciously rubbed his diaphragm over the lower lobe of his left lung. When had all the air in here turned the consistency of Jell-O?

Jesus. It was Tasha.

Like he hadn’t known that the instant she’d blown into the room. Still, how many times this week had Jenny, his newly discovered half brother Jake’s fiancée, mentioned her BFF Tasha? His damn heart had seized a little every time he’d heard the name, even knowing Jenny was talking about someone other than the Tasha he’d known. It wasn’t until maybe two hours ago that he’d finally reached the point where it didn’t start up a chain reaction in his chest. So you’d have to excuse the hell out of him if for a second there he’d actually believed he was imagining things. Because what were the odds?

Damn good, it turned out. For this was his Tasha. Of all the women in his past he would have been perfectly content to see disappear without a trace, she had never been among their ranks.

He watched her vivid blue tank top beneath the cropped hem of a little sweater pull free from her shorts’ waistband, exposing a slice of pale satiny skin as, sitting on her heels, she stretched to grab one of the runaway bottles. Then he gave her a comprehensive survey from head to toe, concentrating for a moment on her round rump. She was quite a bit more...womanly now than the barely legal girl he remembered.

He swallowed a snort. Well, big surprise; it had been seven years since he’d seen her. So, yeah, she had a little more curve to her. But she still had no hips, and by no stretch of the imagination would anyone call her voluptuous.

Those riotous curls of hers were different, too: more sleekly defined than he recalled. But her long-lidded pale blue-gray eyes and that pillowy mouth with its fuller upper lip hadn’t changed a bit.

So screw the minor differences. She could have grown a mustache, sprouted a hairy mole and packed fifty pounds on her long frame, and he would still know her anywhere. He hadn’t the slightest doubt in his mind that this was the girl he’d spent two days and one memorable night with in the Bahamas.

“Tash!” Jenny moved to squat alongside the tall strawberry blonde, and it was as if the speed and sound of a movie had been switched back on. “Are you okay?”

Strawberry blond. He’d discovered after his night with her that that was what people called the pale red-gold color of her hair. Staring at her, he felt his entire face light up with a delighted smile.

It died an abrupt death when she suddenly raised her gaze and looked straight at him. His entire body recoiled as if a fireball were hurtling straight toward his head, and he dropped back into his seat. Because those eyes, that expression.

If looks could kill, he’d be sliced and diced into tiny bite-sized bits of steak tartare. What the fuck?

She glanced back at Jenny and apparently didn’t level that scary look on her as well, because there was no recoiling on Jenny’s part.

“No,” Tasha said in answer to the are you okay? question as she handed the little brunette first one wine bottle, then another. She must have gathered the rest of the containers as well, for she rose to her feet and extended the cloth sack to Gina, an elegant, slightly darker version of her daughter, Harper, who was Luc’s other half brother Max’s woman.