BLURB
A brand new, gripping novel of romantic suspense from New
York Times and USA Today bestselling author Dana Marton.
When an American teenager disappears abroad, Clara Roberts,
a by-the-book investigator on a secret mission, joins forces with Light Walker,
an ex-SEAL turned lawless mercenary, to save her. The sparks they generate—and
the trouble they stir up—threaten to set the jungle ablaze. Nothing is what it
seems in this fast-paced romantic thriller. As attraction grows into love,
looming danger turns into all-out war, and the whole region explodes around
them. Clara and Walker must hold on to each other and race against time to
survive.
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EXCERPT
…the front door banged
open, and she turned that way, still hoping for her travel guide, finding
herself staring at a mercenary who looked like he’d just stepped out of one of
those high-testosterone video games.
A machete strapped to
his back, a semiautomatic slung over his shoulder, and an army knife on his
belt, he walked into the cantina with a swagger that said he could beat any man
in town, and could take any woman to bed. If he wanted.
He was taller than the
locals, his hair a few shades lighter, a couple of days’ worth of bristle
covering the lower half of his face. He wore army boots, cargo pants, and a
black T-shirt that did nothing to conceal a distracting amount of muscle. White
flashed as he chomped on the cigar between his teeth, his eyes covered by
sunglasses.
Clara slid down in her
chair and inched farther into the shadows as she watched him. Okay, so Pedro
wasn’t alpha dog of the local pack. This
guy was most definitely the top predator in Furino. His body language seemed
completely relaxed, yet power emanated from his every pore.
All around, hands
surreptitiously migrated to the tops of the tables, as if making sure the
newcomer didn’t accidentally misinterpret any move as someone going for a
weapon.
The mercenary took the
empty stool at the far end of the bar. He didn’t ask for a drink. The bartender
poured him one anyway. He didn’t so much as cock an eyebrow at a woman. But Margarita
went to sit on his lap and rubbed against his well-built chest like a cat. She
just about purred.
The waitress’s lustrous
mahogany hair tumbled to her waist in waves, curling and swinging all over the
place. She looked wild and free. Clara touched a hand to the strict bun tucked
under her baseball hat.
The mercenary tossed
back his drink with one hand while putting the other one on Margarita’s bare
knee, running his palm up her thigh, under her short red skirt. He bent to her
neck and nibbled her. Or maybe whispered something into her ear, because
Margarita threw back her head and laughed.
One second Clara was
glaring at them with annoyed disapproval, and the next she suddenly felt her
own skin heat, as if the man was touching her, his callused palm running over
her naked skin. A long-neglected part of her body tingled, waving a flag, Hey, remember me?
At the bar, Margarita
flattened her palms against the muscles of the mercenary’s chest and caressed
them, moving lower and lower.
Clara blinked. What the
hell was wrong with them? Then she clenched her jaw. What the hell was wrong
with her?
It had to be the heat. A
dozen fans whirled overhead, swirling the hot, humid air without providing much
relief.
The mercenary chatted on
with the bartender, as if being publicly fondled was par for the course for
him, certainly nothing to remove his sunglasses over.
Appalling. Both his behavior, and that Clara would feel
hot and bothered from simply watching the outrageous bastard.
Then he finally slid off
his glasses, and the next second his unerring gaze pinned Clara, and it was too
late to turn away or slide down in her chair, because he’d caught her watching
him.
He gave a knowing smirk
as he shooed the waitress off his lap and patted her curvy behind. He never
looked at the woman again as he sauntered toward Clara, over six feet of pure
muscle and laser-focused attention.
The scene should have
been the opening shot of an action movie—light glinting off hills of muscles,
determination in every masculine move, a cock-sure grin. Casting directors all
over Hollywood would have peed their pants at the sight of this guy.
He dropped into the
chair across from Clara, his muscled thighs spread. She clamped her own thighs
together. His white teeth flashed in the dim light of the cantina as he chomped
on his cigar and took stock of her.
“Are you lost, Cupcake?”
His I’m-a-bad-boy-and-you-know-it voice scraped along her nerve endings. He was
definitely American. East Coast, if she had to guess from his accent.
Her grandmother used to
say there were men the devil put on Earth to test good women. Clara was tempted
to ask the guy whether he’d just zip-lined in from hell.
“Go away,” she said
instead.
His voice dipped. “How
can I, when your eyes begged me to come over?”
She rolled said eyes so
hard, she might have caused permanent damage.
One: she hadn’t begged
in her life.
Two: the only thing she
wanted was to hit him over the head with the bottle of tequila between them on
the table. She was trying to keep a low profile, and he was drawing every eye
to them.
He smiled around his
cigar. “What’s your name?”
DOD Investigator Clara Roberts,
she badly wanted to say to wipe the superior smirk off his face. “None of your
business.”
His eyes were a
brilliant multi-color green like the rain forest, alive and full of secrets. He
let his gaze travel over her chest from left to right, then from right to left
with undisguised disappointment.
He tsked. “No tits, no
manners.” He shook his head. “You should try to have at least one or the other.
A pair of great tits covers a multitude of sins.”
When his gaze reached
hers again, the very fires of hell glinting in his eyes, he said magnanimously,
“Don’t worry about it, Cupcake. You look like the brainy type. Believe it or
not, that appeals to some men. I think I read that somewhere.” He edged his
chair forward, until their knees touched under the table.
A tingle ran up her
thighs at the contact. She shifted her legs away from his. “Please leave.”
“I can’t. You need me.”
He flashed an infuriatingly cocky grin. “Walker.”
A who? Her mouth dropped
open. Light Walker? The hippie travel guide Walker? The one she’d been
picturing with long, thinning hair, wearing a tie-dye shirt?
How on earth did her
father even know a man like this? And why on earth would he send his daughter
to him?
New York Times and USA Today bestselling author Dana Marton has thrilled and entertained millions of readers around the globe with her fast-paced stories about strong women and honorable men who fight side by side for justice and survival.
Kirkus Reviews calls her writing “compelling and honest.” RT Book Review Magazine said, “Marton knows what makes a hero…her characters are sure to become reader favorites.” Her writing has been acclaimed by critics, called, “gripping,” “intense and chilling,” “full of action,” “a thrilling adventure,” and wholeheartedly recommended to readers. Dana is the winner of the Daphne du Maurier Award of Excellence, the Readers’ Choice Award, and Best Intrigue, among other awards. Her book, TALL, DARK, AND LETHAL was nominated for the prestigious Rita Award. DEATHSCAPE reached the #1 spot on Amazon’s Romantic Suspense Bestseller list.
Dana has a Master’s degree in Writing Popular Fiction, and is continuously studying the art and craft of writing, attending several workshops, seminars and conferences each year. Her number one goal is to bring the best books she possibly can to her readers.
Keeping in touch with readers is Dana’s favorite part of being an author. Please connect with her via her web site (www.danamarton.com) or her Facebook page (www.facebook.com/danamarton).
Having lived around the world, Dana currently creates her compelling stories in a small and lovely little town in Pennsylvania. The fictional town of her bestselling Broslin Creek series is based on her real life home where she fights her addictions to reading, garage sales, coffee and chocolate. If you know a good twelve-step program to help her with any of that, she’d be interested in hearing about it!
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