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.
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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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