Huge Giveaway!! Eight Chances to Win!
TOMMASO
Immortal Matchmakers, Inc #2
Mimi Jean Pamfiloff
Released May 24th, 2016
From New York Times Bestseller Mimi Jean
Pamfiloff…
Pamfiloff…
TOMMASO,
Book #2, Immortal Matchmakers, Inc. Series (Standalone)
Book #2, Immortal Matchmakers, Inc. Series (Standalone)
SOMETIMES, HOT MEN CAN BE REAL
MONSTERS…
MONSTERS…
Tommaso
Fierro is used to the finer things in life—nice suits, nice car, nice house.
Okay, his past isn’t so nice, but that’s in the past. Or at least it was until
he blacked out after meeting the woman of his dreams.
Fierro is used to the finer things in life—nice suits, nice car, nice house.
Okay, his past isn’t so nice, but that’s in the past. Or at least it was until
he blacked out after meeting the woman of his dreams.
Annnd possibly
capturing her.
capturing her.
Annnd possibly
terrorizing her before she got away.
terrorizing her before she got away.
Annnd discovering that
he’s turning into a horrible creature he loathes with all his heart.
he’s turning into a horrible creature he loathes with all his heart.
Luckily,
there’s a cure. Unluckily, it will require him to track this woman down and
convince her to give him a second chance. But if he finds her, will she ever
believe that he’s really not a monster?
there’s a cure. Unluckily, it will require him to track this woman down and
convince her to give him a second chance. But if he finds her, will she ever
believe that he’s really not a monster?
CHAPTER ONE
9:42 a.m., Los Angeles
Covered in
bright red blood, Tommaso Fierro stumbled from his sleek black Mercedes and
staggered across the litter-filled 7-Eleven parking lot, clutching the front of
his sticky gray dress shirt.
“Sonofabitch,”
he groaned. This can’t be happening.
He’d gone through far too much, survived far too much, only to end up like
this.
No. No. No. You are not turning evil again.
But then why
had his turquoise eyes—the telltale sign of his godsgiven immortality—turned
black? Why did his heart feel like it was being prodded with a red-hot poker?
And where the fuck did all this blood
come from? It sure as
hell wasn’t his.
He looked at
his sticky red hands, suddenly seeing images of the dark-haired woman in his
head. She was bound and gagged in his closet, screaming at him through a rope
knotted between her lips.
Shit. Please don’t tell me I killed
her. Because she was
the one. Yes, the one. And no, he
couldn’t explain why he had no clear memory of what happened, but he did
remember the wave of intense desire he’d felt the moment he spotted her leaving
the singles mixer last night—Wait. Was it
last night? Everything was a blur after that, like watching a violent movie
on a dark screen that sporadically flickered.
Godsdammit! Wouldn’t this just be his godsdamned
luck? He finally meets the woman of his dreams—his true mate—only to turn evil
for no other reason than the Universe had decided to be a huge bitch and mess
with everyone.
More blurry
images swarmed his mind: the woman screaming and then…images of him letting her
go, only to start chasing her, like a cat playing with a mouse it wanted to
torment before the kill.
That is very fucked up.
Tommaso
suddenly felt like his skull was splitting open. Aaagh… He shoved his fingers into his sticky short hair, pressing
the sides of his head. Then his lungs began closing up. I can’t…breathe. He fell to his knees on the hard asphalt. And
godsdammit, he had just gotten his awesome pin-striped slacks back from the
tailor. Three hundred bucks just for the hem.
A candy apple
red Mustang tore into the parking lot, nearly colliding with a parked car
before coming to a tire-screeching halt a few feet in front of him. The driver
door popped open and out stepped a familiar face: Zac, God of Temptation.
The sound of
Zac’s heavy biker boots thumped toward Tommaso as he tried to keep his vision
from blacking out.
“Wow,” said
Zac in his usual cocky tone while brushing back his mane of shaggy black hair
with his usual affected gesture. “You weren’t joking. You really are turning
into a Maaskab—not such a great look for you, by the way.”
Maaskab were
an ancient sect of powerful, bloodthirsty Mayan priests who excelled in the
dark arts. With their blood-caked dreads, soulless pits for eyes, and
grime-covered bodies (they believed bathing robbed them of their powers), they looked
like death warmed over, reheated in a microwave, and then deep fried in evil
waffle batter. And though they were talented at many malevolent things,
manipulating dark energy and enslaving others to do their bidding were their
claims to fame, something Tommaso knew firsthand. For two loooong fucking
years, he’d been pumped full of Maaskab poisons and used to spy on the gods’
army. It was a miracle he’d escaped, but an even bigger miracle the gods had
chosen to help him versus ending his life after he’d been discovered.
Only now, he
wasn’t so sure that he’d been cured (or what had happened over the last
twenty-four hours or why he was in a 7-Eleven parking lot covered in blood with
only a vague recollection of taking his newly found mate captive). In any case,
Zac had been the first name that came to mind when he’d called for help.
Perhaps not such a wise choice. Zac wasn’t known for being the most
compassionate of the gods. Okay. None of the gods were compassionate. Bat-shit crazy, the whole lot of them.
Tommaso
looked up at Zac, seven feet of pure conceited asshole in leather pants. And topless?
“Why aren’t
you wearing a shirt?” Tommaso grumbled. Proper attire was essential, even when
one was in the process of transforming into a monster, as in his case. Didn’t
see him ripping off his clothes and acting uncivilized.
“Casual
Friday.” Zac shrugged and then bent to help Tommaso to his feet.
Tommaso’s
gaze gravitated toward the hazy figure of a petite blonde standing beside the
god, wearing only a pair of enormous flowery granny panties and matching
brassiere. He recognized her to be Tula, the new assistant at Immortal
Matchmakers, Inc., which was run by Zac and Zac’s insane redheaded mess of a
sister, Cimil—the Goddess of the Underworld.
“What’s with
Tula’s outfit?” Tommaso mumbled, wondering if he wasn’t dreaming.
“Casual
Friday,” Zac answered for Tula. “Did I not just explain that?”
“Okay, you
two,” said Tula, in a sugary tone, “let’s get out of here before the police
show and suck up another day with all their questions. I’m still trying to get
them not to press charges for the singles mixer.”
Tommaso
hadn’t stayed for more than a minute at that party, but he could only imagine
the long list of reasons the police had been called. Things tended to end up
decimated or lit on fire when a group of immortals got in a room and started
drinking. Belch, aka the God of Wine and Intoxication, for example, held the
all-time record for destroying the most hotels. Five hundred and twenty. All
burnt to the ground. All by accident.
Tommaso
winced, the pain of whatever searing through his veins becoming almost
unbearable. “Take me home.”
“Who said
anything about home, compadre?” Zac said. “You’re not safe to roam freely with
the masses.”
Zac looked at
Miss Flower-Power Panties and instructed her to retrieve Tommaso’s keys from
his pocket.
“But Zac,”
Tula protested, “a man’s pocket is his private space. Next to his privates.”
She was
standing in the middle of a public parking lot in broad daylight, wearing only
her undergarments—albeit, very unsexy undergarments, but undergarments
nonetheless—and she was concerned about improper behavior?
“My keys are
in the ignition,” Tommaso groaned, the splitting pain in his head and heart
only worsening. “And I’m sorry about all the blood in the car.” Sorrier than anyone could ever know. Please
don’t let it be my mate’s. Please.
Zac bent his
head and gave Tommaso a whiff. “Hate to break it to you, evil buddy, but if
what’s in your car is the same stuff that’s on your shirt, that’s not blood.
Cherry Slurpee is my guess.”
Really? Tommaso looked down at his sticky
gray shirt. “I killed a woman and went to get a Slurpee? I am a monster.”
“Do you
specifically remember killing someone?” Zac asked.
“No, but—”
Sirens began
wailing off in the distance.
“Time to go,
big man. Let’s get you to a secure location. We’ll sort it all out later.” Zac
turned toward Tula, who was already getting into Tommaso’s Mercedes. “I’ll meet
you back at the office.”
“Yes, sir,”
she replied.
“And, woman?”
Zac said, his deep voice filled with agitation.
“Yes?” she
answered.
“The next
time I see you, you’d better be wearing proper office apparel. We hold to
certain standards at Immortal Matchmakers, Inc. Even on casual Friday.”
“For the last
time, I am not going to work naked,
Zac!” She slammed the driver-side door shut and zoomed out of the parking lot.
“Humans,” Zac
grumbled. “So damned uppity! You know what I mean?” Zac looked at Tommaso,
fishing for validation.
Tommaso
frowned up at the deity, whose face was becoming a mishmash of swirls. I’m losing my mind. “Sure. Yeah. Wearing
clothes is so last year.”
“I know,
right?” Zac grabbed Tommaso’s arm to steady him as he began falling sideways.
“All right, let’s get you off to jail.”
“You’re
taking me to jail?” Tommaso stumbled along toward the Mustang, without a hope
or a prayer of getting free. Not in my
condition.
“Well, I’m
really taking you to Cimil’s basement until we can get you moved to our real
prison. But where else would I take an evil, bloodthirsty Maaskab to rot for
eternity?”
Rot? Eternity? Oh hell. Maybe Zac was right; that was where
he needed to go. Because if Tommaso had harmed a hair on his mate’s head, he
deserved to putrefy in a dark dungeon for all time.
But what if she’s not dead? He had seen an image of him untying
her and of her running away. Gods be
damned. I have to find out what I did… He needed to know she was all right.
Okay, and his heart demanded to see her again and beg her forgiveness.
But who was
she? He’d only seen her for a moment in passing as she left the mixer—that part
was clear. As for how would he go looking for her when he could barely see
straight? Not to mention you’re going off
to immortal jail.
There was
only one person he could turn to.
Gods help me…
BUY NOW
PAMFILOFF is a USA Today and New York Times bestselling romance author.
Although she obtained her MBA and worked for more than fifteen years in the
corporate world, she believes that it’s never too late to come out of the
romance closet and follow your dream. Mimi lives with her Latin Lover hubby,
two pirates-in-training (their boys), and the rat terrier duo, Snowflake and
Mini Me, in Arizona. She hopes to make you laugh when you need it most and
continues to pray daily that leather pants will make a big comeback for men.
No comments:
Post a Comment