Some like it hot. The men and women of Alison Kent's sizzling SG-5 series like it hotter. In this all new novel of steamy suspense, the jungle is the only place wild enough for a hotshot helicopter pilot and a renegade rich girl with one hell of an agenda...
Bachelor parties are fun, as long as you're not the poor sap getting hitched...or slipped a Mickey and waking to discover you just became the poor sap. Not to mention that your "wife" is pregnant, and if you don't go along to her village to meet the in-laws, the nice police comandante will be muy unhappy. Just another day in the life of helicopter pilot J. Jackson Briggs? Not so much. His Smithson Group gig wasn't supposed to be dangerous, but the woman who drugs him, then knocks him out, then drugs him again certainly is. She also may or may not be a nun. She's definitely a lying, scheming, lethally gorgeous...American. Jack's light years from believing the story Jillian Endicott gives him about her noble cause in the sweltering wilds of San Torisco, but he knows one thing: he'll get the truth--and plenty more--from her, one way or another...
Being an Endicott of the Boston Endicotts taught Jillian plenty about the haves vs. the have-nots--and made it easy to choose sides. But there's nothing easy about her mission in San Torisco, and things only get harder when Jack Briggs is thrown into the mix. Six-foot-three of big Texas mouth and big...other things...Jack's pegged her as a bored little rich girl. Hey, he can think what he wants, as long as he does what she wants. Do unto others what needs to be done--that's Jillian's motto. Problem is, Jack knows how to push her buttons from minute one--and the closer he gets to pushing her over the edge, the more she wants him to...
Now under dark velvet cover of jungle nights, two rebels with a cause are going deep--and falling hard--for the perfect stranger...
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April 01, 2007
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Excerpt from The Perfect Stranger by Alison Kent
Tequila and Mickey Finn.
A hell of a bachelor party guest list.
A jackhammer morning-after headache.
Jose Cuervo might be a sumbitch, but the bottle didn't deserve the blame for the hangover that had J. Jackson Briggs pressing the heels of his palms to his eye sockets.
His spinning head was all about waking on a cold, concrete prison floor, an AK-47 five inches from his nose jump-starting his day with a jolt.
The stumbling trip he'd taken at gunpoint--from his cell, down a dark corridor, into a military command center--had terrorized him into nausea.
And now here he was, stuck holding his tongue because he wasn't so backwater that he didn't know not to piss off his host country.
He didn't care that the charity-based Smithson Engineering crew had just signed on for another back-breaking, year-long stint in the jungles of San Torisco.
He didn't care that the contentious nature of the military dictatorship characterized a nation on the brink of total disaster. He didn't care that he was the construction site's only chop per pilot. He was ready to go home. To the States. As soon as he was outta here, he was outta here.
And it couldn't happen soon enough to suit.
Irritation spilled down his back along with his body's physical response to San Torisco's tropical climate. Ninety-eight percent humidity and a new sheen of sweat drenched his work shirt.
He didn't want to know what had dried in his hair, matting it in a crust to his skull. He didn't want to know what constituted the brown stains on his green fatigues.
He especially didn't want to consider when or how his boot laces had been chewed through.
All he wanted was out.
The coat of puke green paint slapped across the floor in El Comandante's headquarters did little for his mood or his stomach.
Rocked back on two legs of a rickety chair, he eyed the machine gun five feet away on top of the scarred and battered metal desk. The additional distance gave the weapon a new perspective, one no less menacing.
From here, however, he could see the eyes of the uniformed man behind it. They were as cold as the floor he had slept on, as black as the darkness summoning him down.
He refused to look at the woman sitting in the chair three feet from his side.
Twisting the tight gold band around his left ring finger, Jack released a sigh, then burped up a blast of the chemical churning in his gut.
The burn up his throat told him there'd been more in his glass than the shot of tequila he'd sloshed there sometime before midnight.
Then, his buddy Brad's bachelor party had been in full swing, and Jack had been lucid, sober, and still the wedding party's best man.
Six hours later he'd come awake to find himself a prisoner.
And the groom.
He wondered who'd slipped him the Mickey, who'd added the wife.
Most of all he wondered why.
"Once more, Senor Briggs. And this time be warned that my patience grows thin."
Comandante Mosquera pushed the parchment document across the piece of furniture that was a scratch-and-dent reject, then sat back and swiveled his chair side to side. "Is this, or is this not, your signature?"
Jack brought his own chair down hard and snatched up the paper. Elbows on his knees, he forced himself not to sway to the maddening squeak-squeal, squeak-squeal of the other man's seat for fear he'd tumble to the floor.
Instead, he focused one bleary eye on the Partida de Matrimonio. Certificate of marriage. The real McCoy. One hundred percent. Eighteen karat. Sure as sh--
"Yeah, it's mine," Jack bit off. With a flick of his wrist, he spun the parchment back onto the desk. No one did that backward left-handed scrawl like J. Jackson Briggs. He'd recognize it in a heartbeat.
"Bueno. Muy bueno." Comandante Mosquera dried his forehead in the crook of an elbow, the sweat stain one more service medal decorating his olive-drab uniform.