From New York Times and Top 100 bestseller Marata Eros, comes a #1 Amazon Heist & Organized Crime Thriller and Top 100 Bestselling series.
" ... engrossing story ... awesome plot, sexy goodness, and gritty action... Road Kill MC is gripping, sexy, and suspenseful ...I highly recommend ..."
Synopsis:
Puck likes women. All kinds. But he's not prepared to share the secret that keeps intimacy at arm's length.
Until Charlotte Temperance.
Temp is passionate about her job as a social worker. When she shuts down a dangerous criminal who's abusing her minor client, Temp finds herself in the crosshairs of a human trafficking operation, thinly masqueraded as a prostitution ring.
The relationship she begins with Puck is weighted by a secret they both share, and hard hidden truths. Once they discover what the other knows, will the truth shatter all hope of the future—or will the horror they experienced bring them closer?
When Puck discovers that Temp is in danger, he'll stop at nothing to rescue her—with Road Kill MC as his side. But will they arrive too late to save Temp, before she's sucked into a system of depraved humanity, to which there's no escape?
Full-length novel.
An Amazon #1 Thriller and Top 100 bestselling series.
I shift my weight, thankful I wore my hair out of my way, in a secure bun high on my head.
Shit just might get saucy.
I’m sort of crafty, and in my spare time, I like to work with my hands. Right now, I have a handmade hair stick speared through my topknot. A faceted glass bead twinkles on the tip, winking with a color that compliments my outfit.
Also, this hair accessory would make a fine weapon in a pinch.
Like now.
The folder I’m holding contains useless papers. The stiff rectangle is more comfort than practicality. Most of my clients and their information is inside my high-tech, state-appointed cell phone.
But I like the substantial feel of the large smooth file in front of me like a shield, especially when I have someone prickly to deal with.
The one who’s standing right in front of me is particularly prickly. He’s blocking my line of sight inside the house where I know my charges are—the woman and little girl.
They’re just out of my range of sight.
I can get a court order of entry. But that might take time.
My eyes skate around the big bastard’s bulging belly and my gaze latches on to frightened eyes.
“Listen, bitch,” he grates, running a hand back and forth over his stained once-white undershirt.
My eyes move back to his lovely form. Lionel Ritchie. Not like the singer from the late 1980s my parents listened to when I was growing up, but a criminal coward who abuses women and children.
Just another day in my caseload, thank you very much.
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Portuguese
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Unavailable for translation.
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