It all began with letters.
Every word he wrote etched itself into my soul.

I had no choice but to fall for him. Was it really so bad that the letters were part of a pen-pal program . . . for prisoners? Or that they weren't¿addressed to me?

It's not as if we'd ever meet. It's not as if I'd ever get to look into Beau's eyes, which yearn for the ranch he left behind. Or that I'd ever get to feel his work-roughened hands dominating my body just as he does my fevered dreams. What harm could there be?

Until one afternoon when I find myself standing in front of Beau - pretending to be someone I'm not. But the joke's on me¿because for all my pretences, his deception is much crueller . . . This hardened, dangerous, impossibly¿beautiful man is nothing like the man in the letters. And it's too late for me to run.

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