by Tara Janzen
She did, helping him out, helping herself, and then he was pushing up inside her—and everything slowed down, way down.
It was so incredible, the sensations so intensely sweet, the rush of emotion overwhelming.
He swore softly. She felt so amazingly good. He nuzzled her neck, thrusting into her, and felt himself die a little from the pleasure—and the pain. His leg was killing him, and his side hurt like hell from lifting her, but God, there was no way on earth for him to stop.
With his arms under hers, he had one hand wrapped around a fistful of vines, holding them against the wall, and the other threaded through her hair, flowers crushed in his fingers. The whole thing was amazing, the heat, the smell, the softness—Nikki, taking him again and again. It had been so long. It had been forever since he’d been inside a woman, and this was her. All she had to do was breathe to make him hot.
But she did more, sealing her mouth over his and sucking on his tongue and just flat-out filling his whole body with the sensation of sex, from the top of his head on down. Everything. Consuming him. It was all sex and love and heat and Nikki.
He moved one arm down around under her bottom, holding her tighter, lifting her, pushing deeper—and then he came. He felt the warning signals, felt that first sweet edge of release and was helpless to stop it. He didn’t have the strength. He didn’t have the will. Not this time.
Oh, God. It was soul-wrenching, a melting orgasm that started at the back of his skull and the base of his groin and just flowed out of him, taking him deep inside himself, deep inside her. It was timeless sensation, and it lasted forever, and all the while she kissed him, holding him, her mouth on his so hot and sweet.
“Nikki...” he groaned, pushing himself deeper, his body shuddering. He’d needed her for so long—only her.
* * *
The Learjet glided to a stop on the private airstrip south of the city. Inside, two well-dressed men commandeered the forward cabin, one thin and ascetic, his clothes austerely black, the other younger, more solidly built, with broad shoulders and an elegant, aristocratic face. The white shirt beneath his expensive gray suit jacket was open to reveal a diamond-encrusted gold cross. Both men wore large gold rings engraved with the letter C in the shape of a fer-de-lance, the deadliest snake in tropical America. Its mouth was open, ready to strike, its fangs showing. The C stood for Conseco, and the snake epitomized Juan Conseco’s rise to the top of the drug cartel’s ladder, a rise punctuated by a series of sudden, lethal strikes against his competitors, until he’d had none left.
Now he only had enemies, and they treated him with all the care and consideration they would have given any poisonous serpent in their midst.
“This is not wise, Juan,” the older man said. “I cannot protect you in Panama the way I can at home.”
“The way you protected Ruperto and Diego, Uncle Drago?” It was a cruel question, but Juan Conseco was a cruel man, and vengeful. Ruperto had been his cousin, blood of his blood, Drago’s oldest son, and he’d been murdered a month ago at his breakfast table by an assassin’s bullet—by el cazador. Diego had died the same day, outside Juan’s own home, with twenty armed men guarding the walls. None of them had seen anything except Diego falling to the ground with a bullet between his eyes.
It was a signature shot, el cazador laughing in Juan’s face, baiting the snake. Losing two of his lieutenants, two cousins, in one day had been a terrible blow to his family’s heart, and a blow to his family’s pride. The theft at the airstrip on the Putumayo four days ago had been one more blow, the worst in a series of recent hits on the Consecos, all of them making him look weak to his enemies—until, by the grace of God and a night nurse at the Bogotá hospital, Juan’s prayers had been answered. The gringo who had been shot in Banco Nuevo, who had flown out of Santa María, had a name: Peter Alexander Chronopolous. It was a name Juan knew only too well, and it had lifted the mystery of el cazador. Finally, Juan understood the fierce ruthlessness that had driven the hunter the length of Colombia and into Peru, and brought him back again: revenge, hot with the same blood lust that drove Juan.
For what had been done to his brother, el cazador must desire to kill every guerrilla and pistolero in all of Colombia. Juan would, if J.T. Chronopolous had been his hermano.
He admired ruthless men, but the hunter, the gringo devil who dared to interfere with Juan Conseco’s affairs, needed to die, an eye for an eye. When Peter Chronopolous had gotten on a plane to Panama earlier this afternoon, Juan and Drago had not been far behind.
Juan looked down the length of the cabin, at the other men he’d brought with him, two assassins of his own, men skilled in all manner of death, and four soldiers from his private guard. They would hunt this Chronopolous down and kill him like a dog.
* * * * * *
Table of Contents
Reader Letter
Titles
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Epilogue
Excerpt: Crazy Hot
Excerpt: Crazy Kisses
Table of Contents
Reader Letter
Titles
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Epilogue
Excerpt: Crazy Hot
Excerpt: Crazy Kisses