Camden Neal Alexander

Camden Alexander may be construed as a womanizer in most women's terms, but he doesn’t think so. He just doesn’t plan on settling down anytime soon. As a DEA agent, he has his reasons for keeping romance at bay, until Rayma comes along.

They fit well together. She was tall enough not to make him feel like a giant, but even with her heels he was able to put his chin on the top of her head. He whipped her around the living room and she laughed, but kept up.

“You’re a good dancer,” she said when the song ended.

“So are you.”

They stopped. He looked at her and was just about to kiss her when she interrupted. “I don’t do one night stands.”

“Then let’s go out again tomorrow.”

Rayma entrances him. Well, most women do, but there is something about her. He’s undercover, working as a chef, and Rayma, a reporter, is investigating the restaurant he works for. Camden’s boss asks him to watch her, see what she knows, and at the same time Rayma is using him to see what he knows, unaware of his true identity.

Wooing was something Camden could definitely do. He enjoyed women and most of them enjoyed him. He’d be the first to admit he was a player, and most women didn’t care. There was no way he was going to settle down before a ripe old age, and thirty-three was still too young in his opinion. He figured seven more years would find him someone he could spend the rest of his life with. It was easier, as an undercover DEA agent, to swear off marriage. There was no reason to have a long-term relationship when he couldn’t commit.

Camden took off his hat and his apron, tossed the fish onto a plate, and handed it to Darrell. “This goes to table seventeen. Don’t forget the rice.”

This was part of the job he liked. Though he didn’t get much time to meet the patrons, every now and again he was afforded spare time to socialize, especially during slow times. And women seemed to flock to chefs, as if they held some secret in their genetic code. Chefs could cook, so they must know how to take care of a woman. Chefs weren’t hardhearted DEA agents who couldn’t know the first thing about romance.

And chefs looked damn good in tuxes.

Camden winked at Web, straightened his tie, and sauntered in search of…what was her name? The news reporter. He’d know her when he saw her.

And he couldn’t have missed her. Not enshrouded in that group of women. Woman was good. Women were even better.

Camden: tall, chocolate brown eyes, chocolate brown hair, a damningly handsome smile that pisses Rayma off because it lowers her defenses when she needs those defenses the most.

“Don’t I get a greeting?” he asked, keeping himself in between her and the phone. That fascinating, devilish, but irritating smile played at the corner of his lips.

“Hello,” she said. “Excuse me, I need the phone.”

“That’s it? No ten-second kiss?”

“With that cigarette smoke clinging to you? No way.” Okay, the cigarette smoke wasn’t that bad, not like it would have been a year ago when smoking was still allowed inside establishments.

“I’d rather have your body clinging to me,” he said.


Camden is infuriating. Rayma hates him for no other reason than he looks so damn good. He is exactly the kind of man she accuses men of being...an egotistical, sex-driven maniac who thinks every girl wants to be with him. And she hates that it is true for her.

“Last night was the most incredible night of my life,” Camden said, his lips next to hers.

She couldn’t pull away because there was no place she could go. The desk sat right at the edge of her lower back and his arms were wrapped around her with his hands hitting the desk.

Imprisoning her.

“Let me go,” she finally said, though it sounded like a choke to her ears.

“Not until you kiss me.”

“Absolutely not,” she said as she pushed on his chest.

“Then lie to me. Tell me last night wasn’t the most glorious night of your life.”

She shook her head but inside she was furious. He was pushing her buttons and for some reason, her heart hurt. Is that what he said to all women? Is that what he said to the women he met tonight?

And why the hell did she care? She never had before.

“You know, you’re not the only man in the world I’ve been with,” Rayma said. “It was great, as are many of my sexual exploits. It probably won’t be the greatest in the world. You’re not God’s gift to women, no matter how much you’d like to think so.”


So what should Camden do when his boss, the man he is investigating, puts a contract on Rayma’s head?

“There’s a price on that woman’s head. You find her, you determine that price. Leave it to someone else and they get the deal. Either way, she’s a dead woman.”

Find out in ONE WRONG MOVE, available now in ebook format from The Wild Rose Press, print version available soon.