Sara stared up at the ceiling, and scowled. Another sleepless night. It wasn't because she was over twenty-five and still single, a fact that definitely raised a few eyebrows in the old-fashioned, gossip-driven Portuguese community she came from. And it wasn't because Sara had opted against the nursery school teacher and secretary career options her mother had lined up for her, and had decided to become a police detective instead. No, the borderline workaholic tendencies coupled with a misguided superhero complex and no personal life to speak of probably kept her mother up at night (lighting candles and worrying at her rosary beads), but these things didn't bother Sara. It also wasn't the disturbing fact that a sociopathic serial killer was preying on defenseless women all over the city, and that after five victims she and her new partner were no closer to discovering a lead on the culprit. Sara knew exactly why she couldn't sleep. His name was Angel, but there was nothing angelic in his dangerous eyes and smoldering looks. From the moment they'd met Sara was drawn to the mysterious stranger who'd saved her life. It didn't matter that she knew hardly anything about him, or that she wasn't even sure which side of the law he was on. As a cop, that should definitely matter to her. But it didn't. She only knew how he made her feel and it didn't bode well for the last rule about good Portuguese girls. The only one she'd managed not to break yet (you know, the one about being a virgin on her wedding day).