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BLOOD RED LIPSTICK, A HOT PAIR of heels and a sweet little .38 Special—these were Ellie Jameson's favorite weapons.

She strode down the long corridor, metal briefcase in hand, her black skirt swishing at her knees over a pair of stiletto boots. Up ahead, through the door, she could hear the voices of the students waiting for her. Waiting to learn the wisdom she had to impart.

She liked to think of herself as a modern girl Sun Tzu, teaching The Art of War as it applied to women in the twenty-first century. Waging War, Offensive Strategies, Weaknesses and Strengths—these would not have been inappropriate names for her courses. But the powers that be at Vegas Top Models and Talent lacked vision when it came to course titles. So as much as it annoyed her to admit it, Ellie was about to act the fearless leader of the mundanely named Makeup 101.

Other people probably didn't see her makeup artist and instructor position at the second-rate modeling school as a chance to teach young women about the art of modern warfare. But those same people weren't the ones who had to endure talking a bunch of self-centered girls through proper application of lip liner, bronzer and an array of other baffling but necessary beauty products. Those same people also weren't the ones who had to pretend they took seriously their students' modeling dreams, when really, Ellie couldn't think of a more senseless career.

So she did what she could with the resources she had. She believed in the power of transformation—having been forced to transform herself more than a few times in her life. And she believed that a woman's most useful skills were her ability to think and her ability to wield her sex appeal like a machete.

These were the most valuable lessons she'd learned from her mother, and she could, at least, teach a little of that to her starry-eyed students. Whether they wanted to listen or not.

Still, she harbored the urge to put her more lethal training to good use.

As she switched hands on her makeup case, she secretly loved the way the shiny silver number looked as if it might contain more conventional weapons than a full array of MAC cosmetics. Sometimes she liked to imagine herself as an undercover agent, disguised as an everyday working girl, on her way to extract information from some gorgeous but despicable criminal by whatever means necessary.

Ellie, admittedly, had an overactive imagination.

Of course, thanks to her unconventional upbringing, she actually had the necessary skills to bring down those despicable criminals should the need arise. Her skill with a semiautomatic rifle was at least as impressive as her skill at eliminating under-eye circles with concealer.

Sadly, the corridors that housed Vegas Top Models and Talent provided little opportunity to use her more lethal skills. No, the white office building—a boxy thing with big square windows tinted metallic brown—located five blocks off the strip, was void of threat or peril. Unless one considered dodging wannabe models toppling from stilettos or ducking brandished mascara wands particularly treacherous. Ellie did not.

So her .38 Special stayed tucked away in her nightstand, under an issue of Cosmo, brought out only for an occasional pose in front of the mirror Charlie's Angels style. And her Remington assault rifle—a graduation gift from her father—hadn't seen the inside of a gun range for target practice in over a year.

When had her life become so, well, boring? When had she given up on becoming the kick-ass superheroine she often fantasized about being? For all her attempts to inject strategy and thrills into her job, it was still a dull position. Somewhere along the way, she'd chosen the safe path—the apartment-dwelling, bill-paying, lousy-job-having path. Her mother, an enemy of the word boring, would have been ashamed. Ellie was halfway there herself.

Just as she reached the classroom, her cell phone rang and she paused to answer it. The LCD displayed her home phone number, which instantly gave Ellie an uneasy feeling. It meant her cousin and not-so-welcome roommate, Destiny, was calling.

She never called to chat. Instead her conversations usually started with statements such as, "Please tell me you still have car insurance," or "Don't be mad at me, but…" At the rate she was going, all of Ellie's stuff would be destroyed before Destiny decided to move on to greener housing pastures.

"What is it?" Ellie answered.

"God, you're suspicious. Why do you automatically assume something's wrong?"

"I'm late for work," Ellie said as she glanced at her watch, a sweet little black Gucci she'd bought on eBay from a seller who'd promised it was authentic. She'd chosen to believe him mainly because the price was right and her dangerous alter ego would not be caught dead wearing a Timex.

"Did you see the news?"

"What news?"

"CNN did a story about domestic terrorism threats, and they talked about your dad and his friend Ray like they were some kind of lunatics."

Ellie didn't hear what Destiny said next. Later she'd overcome the shock that her cousin was watching something besides an E! True Hollywood Story. For now Ellie was occupied calculating how long she had before the FBI showed up to question her about dear old Dad. They'd want to know where her father was. Want to know what his connection to Raymond Riddell was. As if she knew anything helpful. It had been years since she'd seen her father. But despite the distance she'd put between herself and her not-so-squeaky-clean past, there was no way to erase the fact that she was Harlan Jameson's daughter.

Her stomach churned and a film of sweat formed on her upper lip. Suddenly her boring life seemed infinitely preferable to going another round with the Feds. No matter how much proof that she no longer communicated with Harlan she gave them, they always took their sweet-ass time determining the truth of her statements. And the investigations they conducted inevitably tore her life apart.

Copyright © 2007 Harlequin Books S.A.