Total pages in book: 92
Estimated words: 88114 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 441(@200wpm)___ 352(@250wpm)___ 294(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88114 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 441(@200wpm)___ 352(@250wpm)___ 294(@300wpm)
Read Online Books/Novels: | Reckless Promise - A Dark Mafia Romance |
|---|---|
Author/Writer of Book/Novel: | B.B. Hamel |
| Language: | English |
| Book Information: | |
I can’t stop obsessing over my new wife. I’ve known Tara Caruso most of my life and I hate her guts. I blame her for the accident that took my little sister’s life and left me emotionally scarred and destroyed. Now, I have no interest in friendships, romance, or morality. I run my mafia crew, kill my enemies, and take whatever I desire. Sin is my only motivation. But when my father dies, I move back home to claim my inheritance and find Tara living in a cottage in my back yard. The girl I hate more than anything in the world is only fifty yards away. I despise her, and yet I want to use her. I need a wife, but most of all, I desire a new plaything. Something sweet to entertain me. Except she’s more delicious than I could’ve imagined. Every word is like a puzzle. Every motion is like a painting. She might be the weakness that ruins me for good. ***Welcome to another steamy dark mafia story set in Phoenix! Reckless Promise follows an all-new family through twists and turns you won’t see coming. It’s a standalone, full-length book, first in a possible series, with no cliffhanger and a guaranteed happily-ever-after. Enjoy! XO BB | |
| Books by Author: | B.B. Hamel |
Chapter 1
Tara
I find him digging at the base of some palm trees, his body dripping sweat, his back muscles flexing with every sharp bite of shovel into dirt.
Nobody should be digging right now for a bunch of reasons. First, it’s midday in Phoenix, Arizona, and it’s pushing a hundred easily in the sun. There’s lots of shade in the Hayle garden, but still, I’m tired just hiking around the bushes and cacti and through the rough rocky ground to find whoever’s insane enough to do physical labor right now. I can’t imagine actually digging.
Whoever he is, the guy’s got a death wish.
But second, and more importantly, nobody, and I mean nobody, should ever turn over dirt in these gardens without my approval. That’s literally my only job in this hellish place. I’m the gardener, the master of this monstrosity, this abomination against nature, this massive waste of important water, this ode to excess and wealth, this big fuck you to all the average poor people that can spot the flowery bushes and towering palms from the street. Still, my garden means my rules, and I definitely didn’t approve digging.
I hurry toward a copse of palm trees ringed by net-leaf hackberry, this large, leathery, spiky bush with flat leaves and long, dry, vine-like fingers. Right in the center of it, at the base of the palms, is the shirtless man, sweating in the heat, his finely chiseled torso slashed with ink and puckered white-and-pink scars and rippling with beautifully sculpted muscles, like the sort of muscles you see on TV but never expect to gawk at in real life, like this guy must seriously spend half his life in gyms or maybe he just goes around digging in random gardens because those biceps, those back muscles, my god, it’s incredible. He’s a man made for digging. I’d let him turn me over.
I walk faster, anger rising, because no matter how hot this guy may be, this is my garden, I’m the gardener, and it’s my ass if the Hayle family is unhappy with whatever hole he’s randomly digging.
And the Hayle family is unhappy with absolutely everything.
“Hey, you,” I call out, trying to put on my big-girl voice, but it’s hard. I’m a solid five-foot-four in heels and this guy is easily over six feet tall and twice my weight, which means he practically hulks above me, but I’ve got to exude confidence and poise anyway. “Excuse me, sir, what are you doing?”
I slow and come to a stop when I get closer. He turns to me, wipes a forearm across his sweat-dripping forehead, and a smile slips onto his handsome face.
A face I know very, very well, but haven’t seen in years.
He’s the last person I expected and the only man in this entire world I truly hoped I’d never encounter again in my life.
“Tara,” he says, sounding genuinely pleased to see me. “I was wondering when you’d find me.”
Kellen Hayle leans confidently on his shovel, his arm muscles bulging, and I have to take a second to stare at his ripped stomach and chest, swirling with black ink and more scars I can’t identify, just to get it out of my system before I can look him in the eyes. They’re green, forest-dark like a mist-shrouded jungle, and his dark hair’s grown a little longer, pushed sideways and matted with sweat. His dark eyebrows and long lashes emphasize his high cheekbones, slightly crooked nose, and square jaw. The bastard looks like there should be a statue of him sitting in some ancient Greek temple somewhere. Except I suspect even the Greek gods would be jealous of his absurd body.