From the Publisher

Top 7 Reasons Why She's No Angel

7. Easily Palm Beach's sexiest private investigator, Angel Devlin always gets her man — and bad boy millionaire Tom Donovan is at the top of her Most Wanted list.

6. Instinct tells her that drop-dead-gorgeous Tom has something wicked up his sleeve, and she's going to get up close and personal to find out just what.

5. Her list of nocturnal activities includes lifting a wallet while seductively skimming her hands over her victim's rock-solid chest and performing a bewitching lap dance at a seedy underground club.

4. There's nothing sweet or innocent about Angel — she's as sharp as the steel stiletto she wears strapped to her shapely thigh.

3. Her motto is "dress to thrill." A tight skirt, a hint of cleavage, and a pair of kick-ass Jimmy Choos will make a man open up and divulge all sorts of little secrets.

2. Angel is devilish, devious, and sexy as sin.

1. She's the first to admit she's no angel, but it doesn't stop Tom from falling head over heels in love with the mischievous blonde.

Publishers Weekly

Savvy Palm Beach PI Angel Devlin, who wears both stiletto heels and a stiletto knife strapped to her thigh, knows trouble when she sees it, and it's written all over handsome-as-sin Tom Donovan, an ex-alligator wrestler who recently became a billionaire. Tom seems intent on getting to know Angel better, and she soon learns why. Tom wants access to reclusive Holt Hudson, Tom's godfather and the only one who knows what really happened 26 years earlier when Tom's father was fatally shot in Holt's mansion. But despite the incendiary attraction between Angel and Tom, she realizes she must keep Tom from Holt or risk having Holt cancel the charity gala she talked him into hosting at his estate. Though nearly incandescent with sensual heat, Berg's latest (after And Then He Kissed Me) feels like a cross between a soap opera and Alias: Angel slithers into a red hooker dress to go undercover at a strip club, her ex-husband's name is Dagger, and designer dresses and handbags receive enough page space to be minor characters. But the protagonists' affection for their families and the real-life problems they face (such as Alzheimer's) prevent this beach read from succumbing entirely to silliness. Agent, Robin Rue. (July) Forecast: With its electric orange cover, featuring a sexy blonde with angel wings and devil horns, this book should appeal to both chick-lit aficionados and romance readers. Copyright 2004 Reed Business Information.

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Read an Excerpt

I'm No AngelChapter One

He'd wrestled alligators in the Everglades.He'd charmed water moccasins to entertaintourists, and spent long nights in the swamps,gazing through cypress, palm, and mangrovebranches at the distant stars, with not much morethan mosquitoes and frogs for company.

But tonight Tom Donovan faced his mosttreacherous challenge — breaking into the home ofthe man he despised. And he was going to be upto his ass in trouble if he got caught.

He climbed cautiously from one branch to thenext, each foothold steady, precise. The fernlikeleaves of the tall and spreading royal Poincianashimmered in the moonlight, camouflaging hisblack-clad body as he made his way toward themansion's second-story window.

Breaking and entering wasn't his forte. Hell, hehad no clue what he was doing, but Holt Hudsonhad allowed Tom little choice.

The reclusive billionaire had refused to see him in spite of a dozen polite and maybe-not-so-politerequests. Didn't the bastard realize that all Tomwanted was for Holt to tell him face to face, manto man, why he'd emptied a .25 automatic intoChase Donovan — Tom's dad — twenty-six yearsbefore?

It seemed a damn simple request, yet Holt hadsealed his lips on the subject the moment thePalm Beach police had closed their investigationall those years ago. No one but Tom believed therewas more to the story. No one but Tom believedthat Chase had been shot in cold blood.

Money could buy a hell of a lot, Tom realized. Itcould buy the police; it could buy isolation fromthe world; it could buy respectability. Money hadbought an end to the tragedy for HoltHudson,and he'd come out of the nightmare completelyunscathed.

Chase Donovan had ended up dead.

Tom Donovan had come out of it scarred inside.And angry as hell.

But Tom had his own money now. A ton of it.He'd hoped his recent inheritance could buy himinformation. Answers to what had truly happenedthat night so he could put his bitternessaside and move on with his life. But damn it all,his newfound riches were buying him nothingbut frustration.

His only course of action now was to go out ona limb — literally and figuratively — to find whathe wanted. What he needed. Since Holt Hudsonwouldn't talk to him or even allow him into hisinner sanctum, Tom Donovan hoped and evenprayed that somewhere within the gilded walls of I'm No AngelPalazzo Paradiso he'd find the truth that wouldmake his endless nightmares go away.

He had to know that his dad, the man who hadbeen shot inside the palatial mansion and then escapedto the Everglades, where he'd bled to deathin his son's scrawny, four-year-old arms, had beenframed not only for robbery, but for assaultingHolt Hudson's wife.

Ducking under a branch of feathery leaves,Tom placed one foot in front of the other, cautiouslynegotiating limbs that fought him everystep of the way. The foliage rustled. Twigs splintered.

He wiped his brow with leather-gloved fingers,wishing the night wasn't so damn hot and humid,so calm and quiet. The only sounds around himwere the gentle lap of salt water on the beach andthe sweet strains of Mozart coming from somewhereinside the mansion.

A man could make all the noise he wantedwading through the towering mangroves and theendless sawgrass in the Glades. But silence wasimperative now.

Take your time, he told himself. Don't get caught.

The window ledge jutted out of the mansion'slimestone façade. At least two feet deep and fourfeet wide, it was the perfect platform for a sixfoot-three-inch man to balance on while figuringout the best way to get inside. Unfortunately theglistening remnants of late afternoon rain thathad puddled up on the ledge glared at him. If hetook a flying leap, he could easily hit the water,slide right off the window edge, and end up onhis butt in the prickly bougainvillea below.

That would surely set off an alarm or two; thenthe cops would come; then he'd be dead meat.

He needed to move a few more feet out on thetapering limb and then, if his luck held out, hecould latch on to the ornamental arch and swingonto the windowsill.

His heart thudded as he took another step. Ithadn't beat this hard since the teeth of a gator gottoo close to his balls.

A bead of perspiration coursed down his temple,slipped over his jaw. The tension in his bodywas palpable, and his eyes and ears were on suchhigh alert for even the smallest unwanted noisearound the estate that he could almost hear thedrop of sweat hit the ground.

And then he made his move.

Tearing one hand from its hold on the branchabove him, Trace reached across the void for theintricately carved limestone archway, but it wasstill too far away.

The limb beneath his feet wobbled. One footslipped and he knew damn good and well he wasgoing to fall if he didn't move fast. Without givinghis next action a second thought, he ripped hisother hand from the branch above, used the limbhe stood on as a springboard, and propelled himselfthrough the air toward the window.

His gloved hands slapped against the wall andhe grabbed hold of the jutting limestone, digginghis fingers into the crevices. The toes of his shoeslanded on the very brink of the ledge, all the holdhe needed to keep from careening down the sideof the mansion. Amoment later, after careful ma-I'm No Angel 5neuvering, he managed to gain a firm footholdwithin the alcove.

His chest swelled as he took a deep, calmingbreath.

He'd made it — at least to the window.

He was safe — so far ...

Read a Sample Chapter

I'm No Angel

Avon Books

Chapter One

He hadn't aspired to be a cat burglar.

He'd wrestled alligators in the Everglades. He'd charmed water moccasins to entertain tourists, and spent long nights in the swamps, gazing through cypress, palm, and mangrove branches at the distant stars, with not much more than mosquitoes and frogs for company.

But tonight Tom Donovan faced his most treacherous challenge -- breaking into the home of the man he despised. And he was going to be up to his ass in trouble if he got caught.

He climbed cautiously from one branch to the next, each foothold steady, precise. The fernlike leaves of the tall and spreading royal Poinciana shimmered in the moonlight, camouflaging his black-clad body as he made his way toward the mansion's second-story window.

Breaking and entering wasn't his forte. Hell, he had no clue what he was doing, but Holt Hudson had allowed Tom little choice.

The reclusive billionaire had refused to see him in spite of a dozen polite and maybe-not-so-polite requests. Didn't the bastard realize that all Tom wanted was for Holt to tell him face to face, man to man, why he'd emptied a .25 automatic into Chase Donovan -- Tom's dad -- twenty-six years before?

It seemed a damn simple request, yet Holt had sealed his lips on the subject the moment the Palm Beach police had closed their investigation all those years ago. No one but Tom believed there was more to the story. No one but Tom believed that Chase had been shot in cold blood.

Money could buy a hell of a lot, Tom realized. It could buy the police; it could buy isolation from the world; it could buy respectability. Money had bought an end to the tragedy for Holt Hudson, and he'd come out of the nightmare completely unscathed.

Chase Donovan had ended up dead.

Tom Donovan had come out of it scarred inside. And angry as hell.

But Tom had his own money now. A ton of it. He'd hoped his recent inheritance could buy him information. Answers to what had truly happened that night so he could put his bitterness aside and move on with his life. But damn it all, his newfound riches were buying him nothing but frustration.

His only course of action now was to go out on a limb -- literally and figuratively -- to find what he wanted. What he needed. Since Holt Hudson wouldn't talk to him or even allow him into his inner sanctum, Tom Donovan hoped and even prayed that somewhere within the gilded walls of I'm No Angel Palazzo Paradiso he'd find the truth that would make his endless nightmares go away.

He had to know that his dad, the man who had been shot inside the palatial mansion and then escaped to the Everglades, where he'd bled to death in his son's scrawny, four-year-old arms, had been framed not only for robbery, but for assaulting Holt Hudson's wife.

Ducking under a branch of feathery leaves, Tom placed one foot in front of the other, cautiously negotiating limbs that fought him every step of the way. The foliage rustled. Twigs splintered.

He wiped his brow with leather-gloved fingers, wishing the night wasn't so damn hot and humid, so calm and quiet. The only sounds around him were the gentle lap of salt water on the beach and the sweet strains of Mozart coming from somewhere inside the mansion.

A man could make all the noise he wanted wading through the towering mangroves and the endless sawgrass in the Glades. But silence was imperative now.

Take your time, he told himself. Don't get caught.

The window ledge jutted out of the mansion's limestone façade. At least two feet deep and four feet wide, it was the perfect platform for a sixfoot- three-inch man to balance on while figuring out the best way to get inside. Unfortunately the glistening remnants of late afternoon rain that had puddled up on the ledge glared at him. If he took a flying leap, he could easily hit the water, slide right off the window edge, and end up on his butt in the prickly bougainvillea below.

That would surely set off an alarm or two; then the cops would come; then he'd be dead meat.

He needed to move a few more feet out on the tapering limb and then, if his luck held out, he could latch on to the ornamental arch and swing onto the windowsill.

His heart thudded as he took another step. It hadn't beat this hard since the teeth of a gator got too close to his balls.

A bead of perspiration coursed down his temple, slipped over his jaw. The tension in his body was palpable, and his eyes and ears were on such high alert for even the smallest unwanted noise around the estate that he could almost hear the drop of sweat hit the ground.

And then he made his move.

Tearing one hand from its hold on the branch above him, Trace reached across the void for the intricately carved limestone archway, but it was still too far away.

The limb beneath his feet wobbled. One foot slipped and he knew damn good and well he was going to fall if he didn't move fast. Without giving his next action a second thought, he ripped his other hand from the branch above, used the limb he stood on as a springboard, and propelled himself through the air toward the window.

His gloved hands slapped against the wall and he grabbed hold of the jutting limestone, digging his fingers into the crevices. The toes of his shoes landed on the very brink of the ledge, all the hold he needed to keep from careening down the side of the mansion. Amoment later, after careful ma-I'm No Angel 5 neuvering, he managed to gain a firm foothold within the alcove.

His chest swelled as he took a deep, calming breath.

He'd made it -- at least to the window.

He was safe -- so far ...

---

Excerpted from I'm No Angel by Berg, Patti Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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