The extra star because it is Sandra Brown, otherwise one star.
Sandra Brown has a good marketing strategy, one book a year and no more. Keep them expectant, filled with gushing anticipation. It works dandy. When one of the most famous (and one of the best) writers in the RS genre releases a book, you are already primed to believe that some fine work has gone into it. And often Sandra Brown delivers on that carefully cultivated expectation. Unfortunately, this is not one of those times.
As is with most of Sandra's heroes, Shaw is reticent and laconic, enigmatic and profane (all traits I like, btw. Shaw says 'I'm going to fuck you', not 'I will make love to you' or 'I want intimacy'. No super-ego discourse for Sandra's boys, just good old base Id). At her best, Sandra Brown can pull it off (as she did in 'Envy', to name but one), at her worst she makes her hero read and feel haphazardly put together, much too formulaic and a tired version of other similar and much better written Sandra heroes. Shaw Kinnard feels a bit cardboard, a bit like a product of routine and tired writing, a bit copy-pastey and deadliney. If one of Sandra's best points, the terse, foul-mouthed hunk with (often) a terrible past and/or an undercover present does not feel right, the whole book collapses. Most of the time, the 'he is not who he is' works just fine with me but not this time, for Shaw merely goes through the motions simply miming all the past Sandra Brown males.
If one is to be honest, the heroine's character has never been one of Sandra's strongest points, and in 'Sting', she is particularly irritating and spectacularly TSTL. In addition, the book suffers from, what is my pet peeve, the constant bickering between the heroine and hero, that went on and on for far too long, coupled with having the heroine physically attack the hero (a man with a gun!) on a number of occasions (face scratching, etc.), the whole thing became ridiculously unbelievable and vexing beyond belief. The problem with endless bickering between the main characters is not only the awful headache it gives you but also the structural impossibility of bouncing back from it and writing a convincing romance. All this cacophony removes the space in which a romance can develop and allow the reader to believe the obligatory 'I love yous' that always follow. It is surprising that a veteran like SB committed such a faux pas, as she knows very well that you simply cannot fight the hero for 100 pages and then profess to feel 'the loss of his presence' on page 101. But the bickering is not all that is wrong with the heroine. Jordie Bennett's story and the reasons she gives for her actions are so cretinous that my intelligence was mortally offended.
The idea behind this book is quite intriguing (despite the fact that a seasoned Sandra Brown reader won't for a moment be fooled about the hero's identity), but the actual book does not deliver the goods. One does not care either for the hero (and there's a mountain of silly piled on his past as well -trauma treated like salad dressing) or the thick heroine (and her asinine actions, motives and reasoning). Sandra's customary multiple points-of-view narrative fails too. Instead of creating suspense, of playing a nice, intricate guessing game, it only confirms the suspicion that the writer, as much as the reader, can't wait to get away from the main couple. It is a well-known trick that when you see your couple clearly does not cut the mustard, you insert as many characters as possible to fill in the page quota.
There are other big problems with the book. Sandra Brown is usually a pro when it comes to police and FBI procedure but not here. The heroine gets away with so much! A Catholic priest at confession would have given her a harder time than the FBI did (really people?!?! She fails to mention her trip to Costa Rica, her grand tour of Costa Rican banks on the arm of the man you've been investigating, and hoping to catch for years, and you simply let her walk away without charging her even with some minor violation?!?!!!).
The heroine's relation to her brother is stated as deeply pathological, yet instead of treating it for what it is ( you know, pathological!), i.e., accepting the fact that the heroine is in desperate need of an army of psychiatrists and psychoanalysts to help her understand her own experience, Sandra trivialises it. She reduces a traumatised family's terrible life to a question of 'guilt' (as if a whole universe of other stuff is not hiding behind the concept). Heroine (and hero) from then on take every opportunity to engage in spectacular dumbfests of tabloid-level talk about 'guilt' (all the vague and trite nonsense you can think about it), while dismissing professional help as useless! After all, did not her brother receive endless therapy to no avail? Since the brother wins the Nobel prize for 'most f*cked up character of the year', states Sandra while licking her lips, then it must be true that therapy makes you worse! While the heroine (whose only problem is, apparently, 'guilt') is congratulated on doing fantastically well after giving up on that therapy thingy! Obviously, the fact that she always succumbs to odious blackmail and does the bidding of her twisted and messed up brother, as well as aiding and abetting a villain, counts as 'doing well by herself' these days. The end result, i.e., what we ACTUALLY see on the page, is not some admirable female character overcoming her traumatic childhood but only a heroine who could not manage a piss-up in a brewery, let alone the consequences of terrible events in her early life, or the present entanglements with her brother and his boss. Yet, all we see asserted (against what is actually there) is how terrifically well this paragon has done by herself. Naturally, when the writer asserts one thing and her characters and story another, a wide chasm is created that cannot be bridged even by the most sympathetic reader.
To Sandra's fans, you've seen it all done much better before, to newcomers, you'll do well to skip this.