Crash Into Me

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  • Edition: Original
  • Format: Trade Book
  • Copyright: 2009-01-27
  • Publisher: Bantam
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In this heart-stopping novel, Jill Sorenson delivers a romantic thriller featuring one too-tough female agent, one too-hot male suspect, and a head-on erotic collision.... Though he'd gone into virtual seclusion, Ben Fortune was still the world's most famous surfer, known as much for his good looks as for his skill. He's also a suspect in a series of brutal murders that may have begun with his late wife. Now FBI Special Agent Sonora "Sonny" Vasquez has been sent undercover to the elite beach community of La Jolla to make friends with Fortune. With her fierce beauty and take-no-prisoners attitude, she's more than equipped for the job, and soon she and Ben have collided in an affair that is both intense and irresistible. But for the firstand worsttime in Sonny's career, her emotions are threatening to get the better of her. Could this sensual, wounded man, who is genuinely anguished over his troubled daughter, really be a killer? And could falling in love blind Sonny to the greatest danger of all?

Author Biography

Jill Sorenson’s family moved from a small town in Kansas to a suburb of San Diego when she was twelve. In the past twenty years, she hasn’t lost her appreciation for sunny weather, her fascination with the Pacific Ocean, or her love for Southern California culture. She still lives in San Diego with her husband, Chris, and their two small children, and is happily working on her next novel.


Chapter One

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

Excerpted from Crash into Me by Jill Sorenson
All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.

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