CHAPTER 1

KARA MCMILLAN was going to kill her best friend. It was Holly's fault Kara stood alone, margarita in hand, in Denver's skankiest meat market, wishing she were invisible. Holly had brought her here—and then deserted her.

This time Holly had gone too far.

"Just go up to a guy who turns you on and start talking," Holly had said before she'd disappeared into the crowd. "Make it clear you want to get laid, and you'll find yourself on your back in no time."

On her back.

Kara hadn't been on her back for five long years—not since she'd learned she was pregnant with Connor—and the thought of ending the evening with her legs wrapped around some strong, sexy man while he drove himself into her, hot and hard, was almost enough to make her moan out loud.

But she was nothing if not a realist. She'd never hooked up with a man in a bar before, and there was no way she was going to meet anyone worthwhile tonight, no matter what Holly said. Why had she let Holly talk her into this? Was she truly that desperate?

Kara pressed herself farther back against the wall and took a sip of her drink just to have something to do. She stood next to an enormous potted fern not far from the entrance. The fern's lacy fronds made her feel somewhat sheltered but allowed her a view of both the bar to her right and the restaurant to her left.

The Rio del Sol, or The Rio as locals called it, was a spawning ground. The air was heavy with pheromones, the bar so crowded it was impossible to walk anywhere without brushing up against someone. Music pumped from overhead speakers but was drowned out by shouted conversation until the bass tones were nothing but a throb against the soles of her feet like a heartbeat, or the pulsing rhythm of sex.

Most everyone wore black—black leather, black Levis, black T-shirts, tiny black dresses that revealed black bra straps. It looked like a funeral, except everyone was smiling, flirting, touching. Kara's mind flashed on the prairie chickens she'd seen doing their mating dance at a nearby wildlife refuge—a sultry glance, the bulge of a bicep, a bit of exposed cleavage little more than the flash of mating plumage.

In the back corner, one couple had already paired off. They stood against the wall, all tongues and hands and writhing bodies. The woman had lifted her leg, had all but wrapped it around the man's waist, and he obligingly ground himself into her.

For a moment, Kara couldn't pull her eyes off them and found herself wondering what it would feel like to be that woman, to have a man maul her with the same kind of intensity. When the man reached up and cupped the woman's breast, Kara's pulse skipped.

She looked away, took another sip of her drink, and savored its salty tang. At least the margaritas were good. Signs on the wall said patrons were limited to three, so the drinks must be potent. She took another, bigger sip. If she had to be here, she might as well get a bit tipsy. Tomorrow was Saturday. Holly was driving, and Connor was staying with her mother tonight. She could afford to have a little fun for once—if drinking a margarita with an overgrown fern for company could be called fun.

Just go up to some guy who turns you on and start talking.

It ought to be easy. Kara talked to people all the time. In the ten years she'd been a journalist she'd talked to literally thousands of people—corporate CEOs, government officials, convicted drug smugglers, war survivors, rock stars, even a retired assassin. She'd gotten angry phone calls, hate mail, death threats. None of it fazed her. So why did the idea of approaching an attractive man in a bar seem so overwhelming?

Just go up to a guy who turns you on and start talking.

It was certainly easy for Holly, who was younger, platinum blond, and had the kind of body that rendered men stupid—big boobs, a slender waist, and plenty of booty. Kara had stretch marks on her belly from pregnancy and had never gotten out of a B-cup, except when she'd been nursing Connor. Her only striking asset was her hair, which attracted attention because it was long—that and maybe her eyes.

Even had she been a supermodel, casual sex just wasn't Kara's style. Not that she didn't wish it were her style. She'd give anything to have Holly's confidence and smorgasbord attitude toward men and sex. Kara was thirty-two and in her sexual prime, after all. She hadn't been with a man for so long she felt her sexual frustration could generate enough electricity to power the entire Denver metro area.

"You're pathetic, McMillan," she said to herself. "Pa-the-tic."

What was she doing here? She should be home snuggling her son and reading Fox in Sox for the millionth time, not standing in The Rio drinking by herself while Horny Holly went trolling for sperm.

Cold air rushed in as the front door opened again and more people strode inside. As they streamed toward the bar, one face caught her eye.

State Senator Reece Sheridan.

Though she'd never met him in person, she recognized him from the many photos that had run on the front page of the paper since he'd been elected two years ago. She'd interviewed him over the phone a few times when the bills he was carrying overlapped with one of her columns or investigative stories. She'd found him smart for a politician and unusually well spoken—which, in Colorado, set him apart.

She took another sip and studied him as he walked closer.

Copyright © 2005 by Pamela White.