Total pages in book: 70
Estimated words: 68509 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 343(@200wpm)___ 274(@250wpm)___ 228(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 68509 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 343(@200wpm)___ 274(@250wpm)___ 228(@300wpm)
Bounty hunter Violet doesn’t want to hear sob stories—she just brings her skips in, collects her money, and moves on to the next. So when her latest target, Wick Hughs, swears he’s innocent of the multi-million-dollar securities fraud being pinned on him, she doesn’t care. He ran, and now it’s her job to drag him back. Case closed. No mater how convincing—or attractive—he might be.
But the job takes an unexpected turn when Wick’s former company send hit men to kill him before he can expose their tangled web of crime. And now Violet is caught in the crossfire.
When the mission sends them deep in the Amazon rainforest, Vi has two options—trust Wick, or die.
With deadly wildlife, perilous surroundings, and relentless assassins nipping at their heels, Violet and Wick must fight to survive long enough to uncover the truth.
The real danger, though, might not be the jungle or the men hunting them down—it might be the explosive attraction growing between the two of them…
*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************
CHAPTER ONE
Violet
I just wanted a decent cup of coffee.
I’d spent the last seven nights braving no fewer than eighteen sticky-floored, dimly-lit dive bars full of regulars who didn’t ask questions and didn’t appreciate being asked any either. I’d endured far too many Cross Canadian Ragweed songs, cheap, warm beers, and ass-grabs in the search for some idiot frat boy who’d skipped out on his bail for stealing a luxury sports car from his job as a valet, then promptly crashing it into the back of—of all things—a police car.
I was running on four broken hours of sleep on a cheap motel room mattress, the inner springs poking out and jabbing me in the back, making me wonder when I’d last had a tetanus booster.
And the cold, flip-flop-clad rinse in the moldy shower with the dribbling water pressure hadn’t exactly woken me up the way I wanted.
So, yeah, coffee was needed.
I’d just made it up to the counter and tapped my card for my extra-large, extra-sweet, lightly creamy coffee when I saw him.
Right there.
Five feet away.
In that same Limp Bizkit T-shirt for the Anger Management Tour—with the weird, naked alien dudes sitting on a pile of hotdogs—he was definitely not old enough to have attended.
All my bleary eyes could see were dollar signs. And all of the take-out it could buy me for the next six weeks while I sat on my—likely widening—ass, not even caring to look to see what other idiots skipped their court dates.
“Hey! Freeze!” I mean, not my best line. But I wasn’t exactly firing on all cylinders.
Then I followed it up with an equally unimpressive, “You are under arrest! Sort of.”
I mean, I wasn’t a cop. But “you’re being taken into custody” just didn’t have the same ring to it, y’know?
I wasn’t exactly expecting the guy to shrug his shoulders and thrust out his wrists to me or anything, lamenting about his crimes and apologizing for making me chase him around the tristate area for the past week. But he didn’t have to go and toss an iced coffee at me—cubes and all—and turn to run.
“Oh, so we’re doing this.” I sighed, then leapt over a recently abandoned chair and knocked over another as I pushed through the crush of people in the small café.
All eyes turned toward me. And, I imagined, several cell phone cameras. It wouldn’t be the first time I would find myself posted onto social media while just trying to do my job. With hashtags like #crazychick #notacop #abuseofpower #hotbountyhunter #arrestme.
I wasn’t exactly mad about the last two. Even if the video glitched on a particularly unflattering frame of me as I tried to wrestle a guy twice my size to the ground—teeth bared, looking like I was going to rip the man’s throat out like some cheesy, low-budget horror movie.
But, yeah, later, I would likely be eating a metric ton of tacos while rewatching the vertical videos of me knocking some poor schmuck’s seven-dollar latte out of his hand as I followed my skip out of the front door.
“Stop!” I yelled as the guy paused, trying to decide which way to turn. “Fine.” I grumbled and ducked down to run.
They always did it the hard way.
I took a running leap toward him, tackling him just as he started to turn to the right, sending us both flying toward the ground. But at least I had his body to cushion my fall.
As he groaned and cursed, I reached in my back pocket for my handcuffs and clipped them on his wrists.
“You can run, you can hide,” I said, getting to my feet and dragging him up to his. “You can force me to endure one too many ‘What’s a pretty thing like you doing in a place like this,’ but you—” I turned him. “Wait… who the hell are you?”
He was the right height and build. He had the same brassy brown hair cut in that ridiculous alpaca haircut that was shaved close at the sides and all curly fluff on top. Hell, they even had the same dark brown eyes.
That wasn’t even accounting for the very niche vintage nu metal band tee.
But this guy was not my skip, whose face I’d become very familiar with as he ducked into men’s rooms only to escape out the window, as he smiled at me while moving through the crush of a crowded bar to elude me, leaving me to try to get away from a dozen drunk old bikers who wanted my number. Or to take me for a ‘fun’ quickie in the bathroom.
“For chrissake.” I sighed as I reached for my handcuff key. “If it helps, you look like someone who should be arrested.” I kind of felt bad for the bloody scratches on his cheek. But, hey, he was the one running from someone who said he was under arrest. He was probably guilty of something. “Where’d you get that shirt?” I asked.