King’s
The King Trilogy
By: Mimi Jean Pamfiloff
KING’S, Book One of The King Trilogy,
releasing May 15th, 2014
“I am
the man who can find anything or anyone. For a price. And my price is you.”
When Mia Turner’s brother goes missing while on an archaeological dig, she believes that life couldn’t get much worse. But when
she’s blocked at every turn by both local and U.S. authorities from finding
answers, she must turn to a man she swears is the devil.
Others might be fooled by his private jet, fine tailored
suits, and disarming smile, but Mia knows something dark, something sinister
lurks behind those penetrating, pale gray eyes. And the more she learns, the
more she realizes she may never be free again.
Buy Links: Mimi's Website Amazon
Author Info
When San Francisco native, Mimi Jean, went on an
adventure as an exchange student to Mexico City, she never imagined the journey
would lead to writing Romance. But one Mexican MBA, one sexy Mexican husband,
and two rowdy kids later, Mimi would trade in corporate life for vampires,
deities, and snarky humor. She
continues to hope that her books will inspire a leather pants comeback (for
men) and that she might make you laugh when you need it most. She also enjoys interacting with her fans
(especially if they’re batshit crazy). You can always find her chatting away on
Facebook, Twitter, or saying many naughty words on her show MAN CANDY on
Radioslot.com
Stalker Links: Website * Show Website * Twitter * Facebook
I squirmed
in my tight gray pencil-skirt from behind the antique desk and forced myself to
look away.
Three minutes to go.
But I
didn’t need a clock to tell me that. I knew it. My stomach knew it. And the
sweat trickling beneath my fitted white blouse, down the small of my back, knew
it.
Focus on something else, Mia.
I glanced
at the drizzle of rain collecting outside on the office window, but I couldn’t
see past the film of dirt. Even if I could, I wouldn’t see clouds or the
long-overdue rain. I would only see him. Or, really, the mental ghost of his
tailored black suit, jet black hair, and pale-gray eyes powering through me
from the darkened doorway, cautioning me not to speak. That was how he greeted
me each evening before he walked directly to his private office and shut the
door, leaving behind a subtle trail of delicious cologne. There would be no
other exchange between us. His cologne. My nose. Oh yes, I almost forgot. The
phone calls.
At exactly
6:02 p.m., he would call my desk, a mere five feet from his door, and say in
that deep, mesmerizing voice that sent prickly chills to my bones, “That will
be all, Miss Turner.”
Those five
feet felt like a thousand miles of scorching desert. One, I dared not cross.
Because while some people might be fooled by the exquisite lines of his
handsome face or by his European arrogance that reeked of old money, I was not.
I saw right through that rapturous smile. He was a cruel, sadistic son of a
bitch. That was the only explanation as to why he kept me waiting like this,
day after agonizing day, forcing me to swallow back my bile while the clock
ticked away, all sense of hope dying with every breath I took. I glanced at the
clock once again.
One minute to go.
I continued
reminding myself that I had to be strong this time—no getting tongue tied or
woozy—and demand what was mine. We had a deal. I wanted his help, he
wanted…well, me. As his assistant. Only I just sat there like his personal
museum piece. 6:00 a.m. to 6:02 p.m. Six days a week. On the sixth floor.
The devil likes sixes, I thought, so why wouldn’t this guy?
What my new
employer didn’t like, however, were questions. “Just do, Miss Turner. Just do,”
he’d say.
“But do
what?” I would ask.
Then he’d
laugh, causing deep creases to form on both sides of his wickedly beautiful
mouth. “As you are told, Miss Turner. As you are told,” he’d say, while his
hypnotic, cold gaze said something else: I own you now. Don’t you ever fucking
forget it.
Maybe he
was right. Maybe he did own me. I didn’t know anymore. I just knew that I’d
given up regretting the choice I’d made on that horrible, dark and rainy night
when I’d come to him, crawling on hands and knees, praying he’d be the miracle
I needed. But from the first moment he saw me, he was like a shark that tasted
blood. Only, it was my desperation and weakness that had him salivating. And
the things he did to me over this very desk I now sat at...Oh Lord, I can’t
bear to think about it. I should have turned around and run when I had the
chance. Instead, I told myself that whatever it took, whatever the price, it
was worth it. If he were the goddamned devil himself, it didn’t matter. Just as
long as he helped me.
But that
was three long weeks ago, and my decision to make a deal with this evil man had
bought me nothing but more time to think. Mostly about my fears. Fears I now
knew inside and out. Fears that pecked away at the flesh of my soul like hell’s
vultures while I sat in a giant empty loft that no one ever visited, with a
phone that never rang. Except when he called it.
The clock
on the wall struck six. The witching hour.
My gaze
focused on the doorway, and I willed my unsteady nerves not to feel, not to be
awestruck by the tall, supremely masculine figure I expected to find.
Empty.
I glanced
down at my wrist watch then back at the doorway. Where was he? I pulled a
sharpened pencil from the holder—the only other thing on my desk aside from the
phone and lamp—and began flicking the unused eraser against my palm.
6:01. My
pulse accelerated.
He’d never
been late. Not once. Had the evil bastard skipped town without holding up his
end of the bargain? It’s not like there was anything in this office he couldn’t
leave behind: two desks, two chairs, and two brass lamps. No computers. No
mail. No clients. It was unsettling. “Sonofabitch,” I whispered. We had a deal.
I stared at
the goddamned door, willing the sharp angles of his cheeks and his square,
broad shoulders to darken it.
Nothing.
I glanced
one last time at the clock.
6:02.
The phone
on my lonely desk rang, jolting me in my chair.
Crap.
My hand
shook as I reached for it. “He—hello?”
“It is
time, Miss Turner.”
“King?”
“No. It’s
your fucking fairy godmother, Miss Turner. And your wish has been granted.”
I was
speechless. Not because of what he said, but because his voice had such a
crippling effect on me. In a million years, I’d never be able to articulate how
he so rigidly divided my mind from my body. Hate and desire. My two halves
sickened by the other. “Miss Turner?” I opened my mouth, but nothing came out.
“As usual,
Miss Turner, I find myself questioning the value of our arrangement. One would
expect his assistant to possess the ability to speak, at the very fucking
least.”
I wanted to
tell him that he was the devil. The goddamned devil. Instead, I eked out two
tiny words. Two words that I instantly despised myself for saying. They were
weak. They were submissive. They were the last things on my mind, yet I said
them anyway. “Thank you.”
He laughed,
sounding all too pleased. “Be at the airport with your passport in two hours.
I’ll email you the itinerary.”
I wanted to
ask where we were going, but knew better; he didn’t like questions, and he was
giving me what I wanted: help. At least, I hoped.
“And Miss
Turner?” he added.
“Ye—yes?”
“Pack
light. None of those fucking useless heels. Where we’re going, you’ll only need
your wits. Anything else is just dead weight.”
The phone
clicked.
“King?”
The angry
sound of a busy signal poured through the receiver.
Once again,
I found myself wondering who I’d gotten myself mixed up with.
He’s the
man who can find anything, Mia. Anything. For a price.
If that was
the case, would he find the one thing in this world I couldn’t live without
that had been taken from me?
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