I was assisting with the local church-sponsored produce giveaway and came upon this ugly fruit. I mean, I’ve seen the citrus with the common name of Ugli fruit, but this one had it beat. And guess what? Just like that ‘not the normal accepted version of attractive’ person you met who is now a spouse or best friend, this Lychee fruit is not what you expect.
You can’t judge a book by its cover, either, but sometimes you can get a good idea about what’s inside by the blurb. And if it’s written by one of your favorite authors, you’re in for a treat. Here’s your no-calorie treat that’s as pretty on the outside as it is the inside: Tempted by Mr. Wrong by Jacquie Biggar. It’s out for pre-order now, but will be live and ready to read on September 5. How can something so wrong feel so right? Read on and find out. Only 99 cents, too.
by Jacquie Biggar
How can something so wrong, feel so right?
Falling for her step-brother is a mistake T.J. doesn't want to repeat, but one look into those sapphire blue eyes and she's ready to give him whatever he wants.
Tammy-Jo Hawthorne's marriage was floundering, but she never expected her husband to make her the laughing stock of Magnolia.
And she definitely didn't expect to trip over him in their front yard after he'd been murdered.
Jason McIntyre was forced out of his home and the love of his life by the man who'd haunted his nightmares for ten long years.
Now Jason's back--and he wants revenge.
Tammy-Jo Hawthorne limped down the side of the highway, broken shoe in hand, and cursed everything from the gravel cutting into her bare foot, to the drizzling rain making her mascara run. But most of all, she cursed fate for ever introducing her to her no-good, dirty, rotten scumbag of an ex-husband—Timothy Hawthorne the third, and don’t you forget it.
Her cheeks flamed again even as goosebumps of embarrassed anger chased themselves over her flesh. They’d escorted her out; she still couldn’t believe it. Not one person had stood to defend her either. Ten years she’d belonged to that stupid high-falutin club, and no one had supported her in her time of need. Well, screw them.
A semi-trailer flew past, and a sheet of water drenched her to the bone.
“Ooh.” She raised her shoe in the air and shook it at the fading taillights. “Thanks for nothing.”
Disheartened, she dropped her Louboutin in the grass, careful to keep it off the scratchy gravel, and wrung out the hem of her shirt. Tim had a lot to answer for; not least of which was the fact her Jaguar had been towed away while she’d been inside the country club. It was becoming clear that this had been a well-choreographed plan on his part. He’d thought of everything too. When she’d tried to call for a cab, she found her phone had been cut off. She’d stomped over to a nearby gas station to use the payphone, and found her bank and credit cards had been cancelled as well. He’d taken her love and stomped it beneath his wingtips and now he wanted her pride too.
Well, he couldn’t have it, damn him.
If she had to walk the entire twenty miles to home, she would.
And then she was going to sue that bastard for every red cent he owned.
The traffic snaked by in a never-ending ribbon of color, the noise a match to the static in her head. She thought about doing like she’d seen on television and lift her thumb to catch a ride, but fear held her back. Those were the same shows where the unlucky traveler was never seen again. She didn’t plan on giving her soon-to-be ex that easy of an out.
The rain was falling harder now, coating everything in sight with a silvery glow. If she wasn’t so cold—a combination of nerves and early spring weather—it would be pretty. Okay, maybe that was a stretch. There was nothing remotely pretty about being stranded in the middle of nowheresville thanks to the man you’d promised to love and honor until death did you part. The last of which was looking tempting right now.
If only she knew a hitman.
A throaty engine gearing down set her heart to leap-frogging in her chest—he’d changed his mind and returned her car. She swung around, a relieved smile tipping her scowl upside down, but instead of her beautiful silver Jag, a black-as-sin Mustang idled behind her in the parking lane, its driving lights blinding her with their brightness.
Now her heart pounded for an entirely different reason. She glanced into the ditch, but the forest seemed impossibly far away and the traffic never even hesitated, unaware and uncaring that her life could be in danger.
T.J. shaded her eyes, but she couldn’t see the driver. She clutched her handbag. It wasn’t much, but the soft lambskin purse held the keys to her house and her car—once she got it back—her identification, all the odds and ends a woman deemed necessary, and the proof that her husband was the reason she was in this predicament. She wouldn’t give it up without a fight.
She picked up the only weapon at her disposal, her shoe, and inched backward, dismayed when the car stalked after her. Panic overrode decorum and she turned to run, but the ditch was slippery with the mud and rain and she lost her footing, careening down the steep embankment with a little screech. She landed hard on her butt and sat there for a minute, stunned. How the mighty had fallen. The Hawthorne couple were the envy of Magnolia, South Carolina. Everyone wanted to be them, have the same kind of loving relationship they had. What a joke.
And it was all on her.
A car door opened and a few ominous seconds later, T.J. heard footsteps on the gravel meridian. Even through the rain and early evening light, her white shirt practically glowed a neon here I am signal to anyone looking. And of course, someone was. She hunched over, doing her best to become one with the mud, and prayed like she’d never prayed before. Not hard, since she’d never followed any religious beliefs, but she promised anyone who was listening that she’d change. Just don’t let her die.
“Tammy-Jo Hawthorne?” scary stranger dude called down the hill, his voice filled with amused aggravation.
What did he have to be aggravated about? She was the one sitting in a cold, wet ditch while a stalker… well, stalked her.
“Go away,” she yelled, fed up with men and life in general. She swiped at a clump of ooey-gooey crap clinging to her leg below the silk pencil skirt she’d no doubt have to throw in the trash after this episode. Just one more reason to shoot Tim.
“I was at the club today,” he said, and the sympathy in his voice made her squirm. “I heard about your car, thought you could use a lift.”
She threw back her head and let the rain wash over her face. The humiliations just kept coming. The moment he’d mentioned the club she’d known who her dubious savior was; her evil step-brother.
JACQUIE BIGGAR is a USA Today bestselling author of Romantic Suspense who loves to write about tough, alpha males who know what they want, that is until they're gob-smacked by heroines who are strong, contemporary women willing to show them what they really need is love. She is the author of the popular Wounded Hearts series and has just started a new series in paranormal suspense, Mended Souls.
She has been blessed with a long, happy marriage and enjoys writing romance novels that end with happily-ever-afters.
Jacquie lives in paradise along the west coast of Canada with her family and loves reading, writing, and flower gardening. She swears she can't function without coffee, preferably at the beach with her sweetheart. 🙂
Free reads, excerpts, author news, and contests can be found on her website. You can follow her on Facebook, Twitter or email her via her web site.
Jacquie lives on Vancouver Island with her husband and loves to hear from readers all over the world! You can join her street team on Facebook, her exclusive Review Crew or sign up for her newsletter.