He's a descendant of the town sheriff and she's a descendant of the town madam--is it a love fated to last or to fade away? FBI Agent Dylan Matthews returns to his hometown of Hot Water, California and to the woman--Kitty Wilder--to discover the answer.

Excerpt from FIRST COMES LOVE:

Kitty Wilder tried telling herself that the odds Dylan Matthews had found out her--their, really--secret had to be infinitesimal. But looking at that big, no-nonsense hand that had just slapped down on the tabletop in front of her, she couldn't shake the conviction that he had. And the idea that he knew their secret was bad. Terrible. Nothing short of disaster.

Her gaze skittered away from the tanned flesh of his hand, shifting downward to take in black jeans and a pair of black leather motorcycle boots. When she sucked in a shallow, panicky breath, she also sucked in the smell of that leather. Of him.

Funny, she thought woozily. She'd always associated the smell of leather with Dylan. But it had been the All-American, leather-and-wool scent of a letterman's jacket, not this new, dangerous scent of hot engines and animal skin.

"Damn you, Kitty Wilder," he said softly. Menacingly.

Oh, God. Yes. He knew the secret.

Kitty kept her gaze on his boots and tried with all her might to pretend this was just a dream. No, a nightmare. "C-Can I help you?"

"Yeah." He paused, then leaned forward, one hand still on the table. With the other, he grasped her chin and forced her to look at him.

Kitty shivered as she stared into his face. His features were the same as she remembered--the sexy mouth, the almost dimpled chin--but so different too. His black hair was rock-and-roller wicked looking, and his eyes weren't just dark brown, they were burning.

Swallowing hard, she had the distinct, unpleasant suspicion that even if she made it out of town five weeks from now, she wasn't going to entirely escape her past. Because it looked as if six feet two inches of it had just caught up with her.

He cemented that suspicion by tightening his grip on her chin. "Yeah, you can help me, Kitty Wilder," he said, his voice still prey-stalking quiet. "You can tell me when the hell we got married."