Release Day Blast: Mr. Rook by Mimi Jean Pamfiloff

He’s Enigmatic, Dangerously Handsome, and COMPLETELY OFF-LIMITS…

MR. ROOK

Mr. Rook's Island #1

Mimi Jean Pamfiloff

Releasing June 13th, 2017

From NEW YORK TIMES Bestseller Mimi Jean Pamfiloff, comes Part One of Mr. Rook’s Island, a Sexy, Dark, Romantic Suspense.

He’s enigmatic, dangerously handsome, and COMPLETELY OFF-LIMITS…

The women who vacation on Mr. Rook’s exclusive island are looking for one thing and one thing only: to have their wildest romantic fantasies come to life. Pirates, cowboys, billionaires—there’s nothing Rook’s staff can’t deliver.

But when Stephanie Fitzgerald’s sister doesn’t return after her week in paradise, Stephanie will have to pose as a guest in order to dig for answers. Unfortunately, this means she’ll need to get close to the one thing on the island that’s not on the menu: the devastatingly handsome and intimidating Mr. Rook. And he’s not about to give the island’s secrets away.

CHAPTER ONE

Like its mysterious owner, Rook’s Island was practically an urban legend. No brochures. No real website. They advertised strictly by whisper of mouth. In other words, you had to know someone willing to tell you about it. Confidentially.

But from the bits and pieces I’d gathered off the Internet, I deduced it was an uncharted island somewhere west of the Bermuda Triangle in Bahaman waters, likely northwest of Highborne Cay among a cluster of unnamed isles. That said, no one could tell you exactly where it was, and if they knew, they’d never admit it. Even the employees of the Bahaman government had simply stared at me like I was a madwoman.

“There is nothing in those waters, ma’am, except fish,” one of the clerks from the Bahaman embassy in DC had said several months ago.

“Then why the hell did my sister have a goddamned plane ticket to the island?”

The man had simply shrugged. “I cannot say, ma’am. I have never heard of such a place, so perhaps your sister simply lied. People disappear on purpose all the time.”

What the fuck? Cici, my sister, was a goddamned saint, a kindergarten teacher who loved her life. She lived for those kids and was the kind of person who made everyone smile.

Unlike me. I used to be outgoing and optimistic, but now I’m just broken. I’m broken because I loved my big sister more than anything. She was my best friend, my blood, and my hero. She was there for me when my widowed father was too busy working and I was trying to grow up without a mother. Cici made us a family, and now she was gone. Just like that. A fact the police had little to say about since they had a video of her clearing out her safe deposit box.

“She did not abandon us, you piece of shit!” I had screamed at the embassy guy. “Now help me fucking find her!”

The rest of that moment—a blur, really—consisted of multiple expletives, resulting in my being arrested and banned from their embassy. Indefinitely. My father, an award-winning war correspondent, had to pull a few strings to get me out of jail that day.

“Stephanie, please don’t do this to me,” he’d said, his thinning gray hair its usual mess, his strong hands wrapped tightly around the steering wheel of his Volvo—an old beige thing he’d purchased for my mother right before she died. God rest her beautiful soul. She had been a journalist like my dad when they met in Afghanistan, but they moved around a lot for work, eventually landing in New York right after I came along. Then one morning, she was out for a jog and dropped dead of a heart attack. Poof. Gone forever from our lives.

My poor father was never right in the head again, and until this day, he refused to let go of my mom or that Volvo. So while I never really knew her, I felt the painful void she’d left behind, which was why I couldn’t give up searching for Cici or accept that there was no island.

And look. There it is… I glanced out the tiny window of the plane, knowing I was one step closer to getting answers.

My heart hammered against my rib cage as the private jet’s outer door popped open. Okay, really, my heart hadn’t stopped hammering since I’d boarded. What kind of place doesn’t require a visa or passport? A shady place, that’s what.

“Ladies,” said the stewardess with dark brown hair matching my own, “the staff here at Mr. Rook’s island would like to welcome you to your dream vacation. As you exit the plane, please be careful descending the staircase. Of course,” she giggled, “if you do decide to fall, there will be a strong, handsome gentleman waiting to catch you.”

The female passengers, who’d been sipping fancy cocktails since we boarded at a private airfield south of Newark, started clapping and hooting.

“I’m definitely taking a dive, then!” barked out a redhead in her mid-forties, wearing an animal print blouse, white jeggings, and a heavy amount of gold jewelry around her neck. Her accent screamed Southerner, while her outfit screamed new money and that she liked borrowing clothes from her daughter—the one she’d been talking about nonstop to the other passenger directly behind me. Apparently, the redhead had just got divorced from her wealthy cheating husband and the daughter recently graduated from college. This vacation was her big indulgence after years of marital ugliness. The woman to her side, a timid little blonde thing, didn’t say much other than her sister had come to Rook’s Island over a decade ago and hadn’t stop talking about it since.

“I can’t wait to meet Mr. Rook,” said the redhead. “I hear he’s the most delicious thing on the island.”

“My sister only saw him once because he didn’t mingle much with the guests,” said the blonde lady.

“Well,” said the redhead with a sassy voice, “if he’s as good looking as my friends say, I’m changing my fantasy to a night with him.”

In the back of my mind, I tried to understand how these women could actually pay money to come all the way here and sleep with strange men in a weeklong, role-playing, fantasy vacation. It felt so strange to me.

“What’s your fantasy this week, sweetheart?” the redhead asked, staring at me with her mascara-caked eyes.

“Who, me?” I pointed to my chest.

“Yeah. You gonna do some pirate fantasy? Oh wait. I know. You look like the superhero kind.” She snapped her fingers. “Thor. You went for the Thor fantasy, didn’t ya? I heard he has the biggest hammer in the world.” She winked.

Nice. Real nice. And why had she made that assessment about me? My look didn’t scream cosplay-lover. It didn’t scream anything, really. Most men—my exes—would describe me as having classic beauty. I would describe myself as average. Average-length brown hair with average waves. Average brown eyes. Average five foot four height. Average ten pounds overweight. Average intelligence.

My special feature was my tenacity. Once I set out to do something, I achieved my goal no matter how difficult. For example, when I was eight and Cici was fourteen, I decided that our yard needed a treehouse. My father said he was too busy, so I put up a lemonade stand every weekend for five months until I raised enough money to hire a handyman. I got my damned treehouse.

I smiled politely at the redhead and mousy blonde who waited for my reply. “I, uh, really just want flowers, a candlelit dinner on a yacht, and cuddling by the fire—your basic romance,” I lied.

They looked at me like I was out of my soft skull for choosing something so tame. But I wasn’t here for wild. I was here to find Cici.

“Well, that’s cute,” said the redhead.

“I’m doing Tarzan,” said the blonde, staring at the floor.

I tried to keep a straight face. I couldn’t picture this shy little thing swinging through the trees in a suede bikini.

“Sounds…” I swallowed, “dangerous.”

“I knooow.” Her brown eyes lit with joy.

The line began to clear out of the cabin, so I grabbed my backpack and purse and faced forward.

“Well, enjoy your romantic candles…?” Redhead wanted to know my name.

I glanced over my shoulder. “Stephanie.”

“Nice to meet you. I’m Meg,” she said and then jerked her head toward the blonde, “and she’s Emily.”

“Nice meeting you, too,” I replied politely.

“We’ll see you at the welcome dinner tonight!” Meg said. “I hear the dancers are amazing—ripped from head to toe and almost naked in those Hawaiian grass skirt things.”

“Mmmm. Can’t wait.” I didn’t give a crap about dancers or dinners. I wanted to find this Mr. Rook and start asking about Cici. I was ready to put a goddamned knife to his throat if that was what it took.

“Right this way, ladies!” said the overly peppy air stewardess.

One by one, we filed down the rollaway staircase. I immediately noticed the tropical summer heat, the never-ending stretch of lush green jungle, and the musty smell of moist dirt mixed with salty air.

My mind immediately jumped to my sister—her bright smile and big brown eyes. She had been right here on this island, on this very fucking staircase. What did they do to her?

MIMI JEAN 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.

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Release Day Blitz: Leather Pants by Mimi Jean Pamfiloff

It Only Takes One Hot Rock Star To Ruin Your Life…

LEATHER PANTS

Happy Pants #2

Mimi Jean Pamfiloff

Releasing March 3rd, 2017

From New York Times Bestseller, Mimi Jean Pamfiloff, Comes Book #2 of The Happy Pants Cafe Series...

It Only Takes One Hot Rock Star To Ruin Your Life…

The youngest woman to ever sit on the bench, the Honorable Sarah Rae Alma has busted her butt to get where she is. No fun. No distractions. And definitely no bad boys. In fact, she takes a certain pleasure in crushing their souls—yes, she has her reasons.

So when rock-n-roll’s most famous bad boy, the legendary Colton Young, enters her court, looking hotter than sin and smugger than hell, she’s just itching to serve a little justice.

But Sarah’s about to make the biggest mistake of her life. And her fate will land squarely in the hands of the world’s most notorious rock star rebel.

Will he crush her? Or will he tempt her to take a walk on the wild side?

Mimi Jean 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.

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Release Day Blitz: The Ten Club by Mini Jean Pamfiloff

Can she find a way to bring back the man he once was, 

or will she have to send him back to hell?

THE TEN CLUB

King Series #5

Mimi Jean Pamfiloff

Released Jan 31st, 2017

From New York Times Bestseller Mimi Jean Pamfiloff…

Book #5 and the FINALE of the King Series

HE WANTS TO OWN HER. King doesn’t recall dying and he definitely doesn’t recall this feisty woman Mia who claims to be his wife. But he’s happy to make her his if she’ll be obedient and loyal. After all, a king needs a queen, and now that he’s back from the dead, this evil billionaire has big plans.

SHE WANTS HIM DEAD. Mia Turner made painful sacrifices to save the love of her life from his cursed hell. So when he promised to love and protect her always, she believed him. But after he trades his life to save his brother, she’s left all alone with a baby and a broken heart. Until he returns. Evil, more powerful, and with absolutely no memory of her.

Can she find a way to bring back the man he once was, or will she have to send him back to hell?

KING

Tonight calls for a celebration. No, it is not a birthday nor an anniversary. Men like me do not give a dark fuck about life’s shitty little milestones. We care only for power or money—same fucking thing. And after tonight, I will have enough of both to break the fucking world.

“Hey, baby,” says the topless bleach blonde rubbing her ass on my cock over my black slacks to the beat of the music, “I’m free after work.”

“Shut up and keep dancing.” Women like her don’t come close to doing it for me, but she is the hottest, most expensive stripper in this private bar. A thousand dollars a minute. It’s pocket change to me; however, everyone here tonight now wonders why I’m treating myself.

Just as I hoped.

My eyes sweep the smoky, dimly lit bar filled with 10 Club members sitting at little tables, whispering in the shadows, making their deals and bartering for whatever sadistic crap will get them off tonight—sex slaves, drugs, torture, murder, whatever. Anything goes. Of course, they’re all talking about me, as well.

I smile and take a long victory drag off my cigar, ceremoniously blowing the smoke into the air above. I want them all to see me gloating. I want them talking to the other degenerate 10 Club fucks and speculating what I am up to. Because regardless of what it is, they’ll all want to steal it from me. They’ll all want a piece.

I’m counting on it.

“That’s enough.” I push the blonde’s ass forward, rise from my seat, and straighten my blood red tie. I’ve done what I came for and can already hear the phones vibrating with speculation around the world at the hundred other 10 Club establishments like this one. “King is here.” “Something’s going down.” “What do you know and what’s the price?” they’re all saying.

They’ll never guess. Not in a million years.

I toss a thick roll of hundreds at the stripper, who goes on her hands and knees to fetch it from the floor. I can feel her lust-filled eyes on me as I step over her like the dog she is. After all, she’s 10 Club property, not even human in my eyes. But she made her choice. We all have. No one is part of this debauchery by accident. That’s not to say some aren’t backed into impossible corners, forced to choose between things such as death or becoming part of our secret society comprised of two levels—the powerful and the powerless.

Make that three levels. Because there’s me. At the top.

I stroll toward the set of heavy iron doors and make my exit into the dark alley. It’s raining and windy. Typical for a January in San Francisco. Personally, I like the somber feel of this weather—fits my mood. Dark as fuck.

I am ten steps from my sleek black Mercedes when I hear footsteps splashing through puddles behind me. From the sound of the short strides, I know it’s a woman.

Fucking idiot. Doesn’t she know I despise desperation? And I definitely don’t pay to fuck strippers who are owned by 10 Club. God only knows where that pussy’s been.

I shake my head, pulling my keys from my pocket, and hit the unlock button on the remote. “Sorry, sweetheart. Not interested.”

“You’re King, right?”

The soft voice is unfamiliar, so I turn my head. She’s petite, blonde, and mildly interesting to look at; however, it’s hard to tell just how interesting since she’s wearing a garish yellow raincoat.

“Who’s asking?” I say.

“Yes or no,” she replies with a hint of a growl in her sweet voice.

My, my. Aren’t we a demanding little thing? I decide to play along. Of course, she has no clue I can snap her neck with the twitch of my fingers.

“Let us pretend for a moment that I have replied with a yes. What’s in it for me?” I ask.

She steps closer, which definitely draws my attention. Most people fear me. They don’t know why, they often don’t even realize it, but they definitely fear me. This one doesn’t seem afraid.

Either that or she’s too desperate to notice she’s in the presence of something black hearted.

“They say you are the man who can find anything or anyone for a price,” she says.

I like the way this conversation is moving. It means she wants something, and now that the streetlamp above has given me a better look at her luscious little lips, I’m fairly sure we can come to some sort of arrangement.

I cock a brow, silently urging her to continue.

“I-I need help finding someone.”

Someone very important, I hope. Because I think I might like to add you to my collection. I collect many things, including people, although usually not for sex. I can get that without having to take on the responsibility of ownership. But for her, I might make an exception. Her wavy, shoulder-length blonde hair and wide blue eyes are at the top of my list when it comes to turn-ons, but what really gets me off are naivety and fearlessness. She has plenty of both.

“Go on,” I say.

“I want you to help me find my husband.”

Tonight just got a whole hell of a lot more interesting. Because I love taking things that don’t belong to me, and I sure as hell love breaking a person’s soul.

I dip my head to give her a good look. She should see the face of the man who will be fucking her for the next few years until I grow tired of her and trade her away to another club member, likely one of those sick fuckers who enjoys making lampshades from women’s legs and breasts. Like I said, anything goes in 10 Club, just as long as you’ve got ten billion in the bank and money to pay your dues—one billion a year—which buys you complete immunity from any government anywhere in the world. Of course, we own all the governments. How do you think so many sadistic pricks make it into office? Power and money are everything.

I lean down and let her drink in my dark features. Yes, look into my eyes, sweetheart. See the promise of suffering in their cold gray depths. But as I stare back at her, there’s nothing. No fear in her eyes. No sadness or desperation. She’s void of all emotion.

Tonight just got a whole hell of a lot less interesting. It’s no fun for me if they’re already broken.

“Sorry. I’m busy.” I turn away and pop open the driver-side door.

“Wait. Aren’t you going to help me?”

“I could,” I say blandly, sliding into the cool leather of the driver’s seat, “however, as you’ve pointed out, I am the man who can find anyone or anything for a price. You don’t have anything I want.”

She wedges herself between me and the car door I’m about to close. “Name it. Name your price, King.” She grabs my shoulder and my groin floods with heated lust. Is it because she’s not the least bit afraid and should be? Probably. Like I said, fearlessness and naivety make my dick hard.

I look up at her, deciding to make an offer though I would probably be better off going home to enjoy a bottle of expensive scotch and prepare for my dinner party. No. I won’t be cooking or cleaning. I have slaves for such mundane bullcrap. This preparation is something else entirely.

“My price is you,” I say, thinking she might make an interesting toy.

She doesn’t bat an eyelash, which is surprising. They usually look a little offended or shocked when I tell them I’d like to own them.

“No deal,” she says.

I shrug and start the engine. “Then I’m afraid we must part ways. Good luck finding him.”

“I have money. A lot of money.”

“Not interested.” I’m already obscenely wealthy and will soon have the kinds of funds that make or break GDPs of first world countries. Whatever cash she’s got is a pittance.

I give her a push and send her stumbling back so I can close the door.

“Wait!” She gets her footing straightened out and comes at me again. I almost admire her persistence. Almost.

“I have a ring,” she announces. “I’m told it can keep a person from dying.”

I push back on the heavy door to prevent it from slamming into her. She’s got my attention. A man like me is always interested in items that bring back the dead or prevent people from dying once I do. Especially now.

I turn off the engine, slowly step from the car, and look down at her as she shrinks back a few feet. That’s when I notice something’s different about her. The light doesn’t quite touch her, but instead reflects off a nearly undetectable sheen of energy surrounding her.

And we’re back to a very interesting evening, indeed. People like her are rare. In fact, they are nearly extinct. I might have had something to do with that, but what can I say? In my younger years, I wasn’t a fan of her people.

“How did you come about such an object?” I ask.

She lifts her delicate chin defiantly. I fucking love it. She’s dancing with the devil and showing such bravery.

“None of your business.”

Such bravado. I chuckle. “All right then, how do you know it works?”

“I just know. Do we have a deal? Yes or no, King.”

That sounds like something I might say, so I appreciate it. “I confess I am intrigued; therefore I will say yes. However, I should warn you that welshers are shown no mercy. If you do not deliver, for any reason, you will belong to me, and I won’t be kind.”

The woman freezes.

Ah, there it is. Fear. My black heart tingles with delight. Now we are getting somewhere.

“I won’t back out,” she says. “And the ring will work.”

“Very good.” I slide a card from the inside pocket of my coat and hand it over. “Be here tomorrow night at eight. I’m throwing a dinner party.”

“I-I don’t understand.”

“I’m a busy man. You want me to find your missing husband, then we work when and where I say. That’s the deal. Take it or leave it.” Of course, that’s a complete lie. I have no intention of helping her, but she will most certainly be useful to me. In fact, she’s exactly what I’ve been needing. Saves me the trouble of having to kill my brother’s woman. For now.

She nods in compliance.

“Very good. And don’t be late. Ever.” I return to my car, close the door, and restart the engine, realizing that she’s simply standing there staring at me and that I’ve forgotten something.

I lower the window. “What’s your name?”

She suddenly looks like someone has punched her in the stomach—a pained stillness in her face, and shoulders hunched forward like she wants to be sick. I’m guessing it’s all sinking in. Yes, sweetheart, you’ve just made a deal with the devil. Actually, I’m worse. A thousand times over. There is no divine creation in my past. No possibility of regaining my wings. I am the sort of man who makes this world a horrible place to live in.

Not even death dares to fuck with me.

I look at the little woman, wondering what the hell she’s waiting for. “Well?”

“Mia. My name is Mia Turner.”

Mimi Jean 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.

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