Spies, vengeance, and one seriously well-dressed man
“If Bourne dressed like Bond and acted like Grey, you’d have Jax De Luca.”
An addictive new romantic suspense series from the desk of USA Today bestselling author Deanna Roy/JJ Knight
Mia trembles as she reads the letter that arrives from Ridley Prison.
Seduction. Bondage ropes. Descriptions of things Mia has never experienced or known.
The man’s words are desperately passionate. He longs for a woman who must have given him a fake address. Mia’s address.
She plans to send the letter back. He’s a convicted felon.
But his words gnaw at her. She’s never done anything dangerous. And no man has ever talked to her like this.
So Mia writes him, pretending to be the woman he desires.
It’s her one dark thrill in her dull, solitary small-town life.
The man is in prison for another fifteen years.
It’s harmless. She is safe enough.
Until he escapes.
I turn to the box of the letters from the prisoner, wondering if I can handle reading one more before I go to sleep. Maybe my dreams will be full of Jax De Luca. I lift my hand in the air, the long cotton sleeve of the old-fashioned nightgown sliding to my elbow. I giggle, imagining my wrist tethered to the bedpost.
I’m just not the sort of girl made for BDSM novels.
But Jax doesn’t know that. I can say anything I want to when I write him. He’s locked away. He’ll never know.
My eyes are heavy. For a little while, I drift in a twilight sleep. The letters ruffle through my thoughts. The cool silk of a well-made rope sliding around my wrist. The tickle of a sheet as it slips across my body.
Then I’m awake.
The light on me is harsh.
My arms are immobile.
Both wrists are tight against the bedposts.
My breasts and belly are crisscrossed with red rope over my white gown.
One ankle is tethered to the knob at the base of the bed.
My other leg is in the air, lifted by an arm.
An arm in a slick pale gray suit.
A suit connected to a man with a scruffy beard and dark, impenetrable eyes.
“Good evening,” says a deep voice.
Oh, God. Who is it?
I can’t speak. I can’t breathe.
My nightgown is riding up, exposing my leg. The man tucks my ankle on his shoulder.
I begin to hyperventilate, my chest heaving. This isn’t happening. Not in my town. Not to me. It’s a dream. A bad dream.
I try to look at the man, to see inside those hooded eyes.
“Who…are…you?” I finally ask.
“I think you know who I am.” He reaches down for the sheaf of letters and flings them across my body.
“The one and only.”
“But you’re in prison.” My eyes dart to my body, the rope, the white pages, and his lean body in the silk suit.
His grin spreads wide.