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I'm known for writing cold, dark romantic suspense novels. But even I need to warm up after awhile. ENDLESS NIGHT will take you to the cliffs of Maine's rugged coast in the middle of a blustery nor'easter, but JUNGLE OF DECEITwill have you sweating in the Guatemalan rainforest. Whatever your geographical or weather preference may be, chances are that I'm going to weave you a tale of romance and danger in one of them.
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JUNGLE OF DECEIT $.99 JUNGLE OF DECEIT TRAILER
Chuck had gone ahead to check the trail one last time. It was almost a relief to have him out of her hair. Between him and Wes, their disapproval of her intended destination was stifling. It wasn’t as if she was crossing that barrier—that unseen line where people had gone missing over the past few years. No, they would be a good forty miles from the sector labeled No Man’s Land on Chuck’s map.
Alex would never jeopardize the safety of her crew, particularly considering most were college students, too young to know any better on their own. Maybe she was barely ten years older than most of them, but it might as well have been a lifetime. Youth was something that fascinated her, but she felt a strange disassociation with it.
Again Alex’s gaze returned to the photographer. He swiped a hand through hair made darker by perspiration. The hair was nice to look at, but her focus was on that hand. Big and scarred with nicks. A man’s hand.
That rogue thought spurred Alex to slam down the trunk of the Jeep. The sound drew the photographer’s attention her way and she met his eyes.
Midnight blue.
They reminded her of the ponds that provided sanctuary from the rigors of this dig. Cloistered by palm fronds, those small bodies of stagnant water discharged curls of steam on sultry mornings. Each pond was a temple to her. Each a retreat.
And Mitch Hasslet’s eyes looked exactly like the dark shadows at their depths.
Alex jerked her glance away. Maybe the move of their camp would improve her sudden treacherous thoughts. Yes, of course it would. A new challenge in an uncharted jungle. Land that no archeologist had covered.
Well, she couldn’t say that was true.
If an archeologist had—they never returned to tell about it.
Closing the trunk and hoisting it under her arm, she reached out to throw the latch open as the door ripped from her hands and the Atlantic screamed at her.
She screamed back.
Even with the collar pulled up over her ears, the sounds of the tempest assaulted her. In the wind, she heard the ghostly woman crying, the phantom that besieged her at night. Outside of Wakefield’s dark chambers, the cry took on a hollow sound, like a woeful moan meant to lure souls toward its source, the yawning black shadows beyond the cliff’s edge. Megan also heard the anxious murmur of ice and snow, like a thousand voices whispering about her, berating her, cajoling her. Amidst their dissonance, one voice broke through.
"Margaret."
Her body jerked and the radio fell to the ground. It wasn’t the storm that called her name. She spun around and instinctively crouched, prepared to attack, but she did not have her trusty GLOCK. She had nothing but her bare hands and a flashlight.
“Margaret,” that chilled voice called again.
Megan whirled and saw his outline. Night swelled into the menacing form of a man. There were no distinct features, only a shadow—a frightening profile that looked as if the storm had taken its vivacity and breathed life into this very monster.
Serena’s feet crunched over frozen turf. Air billowed from her mouth as her eyes began to tear from the wind. She tucked her chin even deeper into the down collar. Walking backwards against the gust, she focused on the floodlights illuminating the tavern’s deck. From this perspective, O’Flanagans represented a warm and inviting symbol of hope, the lights on the third floor reminding her that Brett lay safe and asleep.
Turning back into the blustery weather, sounds came to Serena in muffled echoes within the cocoon of the jacket hiked around her ears. She nearly missed the grinding tread to her right. Instinctively she crouched, cursing the open knolls that lead to the lighthouse. She prayed for cloud cover—any form of camouflage. But the moon glimmered across the fresh snow.
Spinning about, she studied the dirt path that led to the light-keeper’s house like a black vein scarring white marble.
The path was empty. She was alone.
Brian felt a jolt when he touched her. After all, it was less than twenty-four hours ago that he thought this woman was the most beautiful, benevolent creature he had ever encountered. Hah, how could someone like him ever fall for that? He had been bred to be mistrustful. He had been taught to find the deceit in everyone. How had he succumbed and been infatuated with this woman?
Simple. Painkillers.
He forced aside the disturbing recollection, but nonetheless gentled his grip. Emily wasn’t going anywhere that he couldn’t catch her. He used his touch to prompt her through the woods, impressed with her agility on such a gnarled and slippery trail.
A light above the porch of the cabin acted as a homing beacon. When they emerged into the clearing, Emily tugged against his touch and stopped to stare at him. She looked wary. Ready to take flight. He could tell that she was trembling, but under the glow of the overhead bulb he detected aggression in eyes that looked like midnight and still tempted him.
“I’m with NMD.”
“Of course you are.” Scorn tinged her reply.
“Why did you do it?”
“None of your damn business.”
“Yes,” he smirked, “actually it is. Do you want to turn it over now?”
“You think I kept it? I got rid of it. It’s safe, but I don’t have it anymore.”
Brian’s glance sliced towards the cabin, its innards glowing from a stoked fireplace. “In there maybe?”
“No.”
The response was quick enough to make his lips thin. “It’s cold out here. I’ve been traveling for hours and I’ve got one hell of a headache—why don’t you invite me in at least, and we can talk about it.”
“Look, if you’re going to arrest me, just go ahead and get it over with.” She went so far as to offer up her wrists for him to shackle.
Brian snorted. “We’re going inside, and we’re going to discuss your options.”
“Options? You’re giving me options? How damn noble of you.”
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