♥ April 7, 2016
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In Ann Christopher’s classic novel of suspense, a drug kingpin’s vicious crimes spark a DEADLY chain of events…
When DEA Special Agent Jackson Parker is forced into hiding following an undercover operation that snares a sociopathic drug kingpin, he does his best to fly under the radar and minimize civilian casualties. The last thing Jack expects is for his cover to be blown in a spectacularly public way that involves Amara Clarke, a beautiful but infuriating criminal defense attorney. Now Amara’s fate is inextricably linked with Jack’s, and they both have targets on their backs. With the body count rising all around them, will the lovers escape the drug lord’s…DEADLY PURSUIT?
“Thrilling. Relentless. Sexy. Romantic suspense for fans of Karen Robards, Lisa Jackson and Karen Rose.”
—Eve Silver, National Bestselling Author
“[An] exciting romantic thriller [with a] thrilling conclusion.”
—Publisher’s Weekly on Deadly Pursuit
“Christopher does not disappoint in her second DEA thriller. There’s no shortage of heart-stopping action and explosive encounters. ‘Page-turner’ is definitely an apt description for this story because the surprises just keep on coming.”
—Romantic Times BOOKreviews on Deadly Desires
Ann Christopher’s DEADLY Series:
Book 1: Deadly Pursuit
Book 2: Deadly Desires
Book 3: Deadly Secrets
“No one’s happy about you, Bunny,” Jack said.
In what he supposed was a one-time only thing, she let both the sarcasm and the nickname pass. “How’s your forehead?” she asked quietly.
“What? Oh.” Peeling the washcloth away, he poked at it with his fingers, trying to assess the damage.
Amara jerked his hand away and scowled. “Brilliant. Be sure to infect it with as many germs as possible, genius.”
He laughed, which was proof positive that this whole adventure had rendered him insane. Actually cracked his lips open in a smile and let it play out to its natural conclusion, which was laughter.
It almost felt good. Almost eased some of the pain.
“Amara,” he said. “We’re running for our lives. We’ll be lucky to see the sun come up in a few hours. Do you think we might have a few more important things to worry about than a little cut on my forehead?”
Snatching the washcloth away, she went to the sink, ran some water on it, wrung it out and came back to gently wipe his skin with it. “With brains like that, I’m surprised you’ve managed to keep yourself alive for this long. This guy who’s after you must be a real idiot, huh?”
He laughed again, and the sound was strange to his own ears. His laughter didn’t get much of a workout these days and hadn’t for years. There’d been more than one or two dark moments when he’d thought he’d never laugh again.
Forgetting himself—he always forgot himself when she was around—he stared down at her wry smile and felt connected to another human being in a way he wasn’t sure he’d ever been. But then he remembered and the moment became too intimate and delicious.
Don’t get too close, man.
He turned away on the pretext of grabbing his bag from the floor, slinging it onto the dresser near the TV and rummaging around for some fresh clothes. With tremendous effort, he focused on the hot shower he was about to take and tried not to feel her silent presence behind him.
She’d be gone soon, so it was best to concentrate on that.
The problem was, she was here now…
Copyright © 2016 by Sally Young Moore
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The edition published by arrangement with Blue Iris Press LLC.
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