Total pages in book: 107
Estimated words: 102071 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 510(@200wpm)___ 408(@250wpm)___ 340(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 102071 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 510(@200wpm)___ 408(@250wpm)___ 340(@300wpm)
I live my life by three simple rules. Don’t mix business with pleasure. Always work solo. And family comes first.
But when I head to the tropics for a quick job and meet a fiery woman who makes my pulse roar, I can’t resist bending the first rule for her.
Trouble is, after we spend a scorching night together on the beach, I discover she’s my new enemy. The quick-witted and clever beauty is on a treasure hunt for the same damn prize – beating me in a race to find millions in stolen diamonds.
See you later, sexy stranger.
Too bad I keep bumping into my gorgeous rival all over this tropical paradise as we chase clues.
Maybe it’s better to partner up. But the more time we spend together sneaking into nightclubs and art galleries, the harder it is to keep my hands off her. And soon, I'm not just sleeping with my very irresistible enemy.
I’m starting to give her my heart.
That breaks my biggest rule of all. Don’t ever fall in love. Because it always screws you over.
Note: A Real Good Bad Thing is a complete rewrite of the 2016 two-book duet The Jewel Series. The two-book storyline has been rewritten from 3rd person to 1st person, presented now in a complete standalone, and with entirely new characterizations, motivations and dialogue for the MCs, as well as a new location. In short, it's a new story, inspired by one that is now off sale completely.
*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************
1
THE TEN-MILLION-DOLLAR QUESTION
Jake
Always knock first.
It was a simple rule, but it could save a ton of time and trouble. If someone was inside, you could feign being a delivery guy who got the wrong address. If someone wasn’t inside, well, that was often good news.
Standing flush against the wall by the entrance to the flat, I had a view of the hallway, the stairs, and the door. No sign of anyone watching me.
I knocked then pressed my ear to the door, listening for a cough, a bit of chitchat, any hint of activity. My intel said the flat should have been empty, but I didn’t take chances. If the guys were inside, I’d have to improvise, but it sounded like I was in luck. Nothing but silence.
Another scan of the cramped hallway—all was quiet. I took my lockpicks from the back pocket of my jeans, quickly worked open the old French lock, and then slipped inside the thimble-size studio apartment.
The place reeked of rotten fruit, moldy bread, and unwashed laundry, even though one of the windows was open, letting in a ghost of a Parisian twilight breeze.
Trying to breathe only through my mouth, I rifled through a few cupboards and drawers, then crouched to spy under the couch.
Nothing there but papers, dust bunnies, and bottle caps.
Where could it be? I turned in a tight circle, hunting for nooks, crannies, and hiding places, and noticed a small bureau in the corner, piled high with clothes. Something about the bureau called to me in a whisper to see what was inside. My fingertips tingled. Kneeling between mountains of dirty clothes, I eased open the bureau doors and held in a whoop of victory when I spotted the prize.
A gorgeous, glorious Stradivarius.
With a new, long, and unsightly scratch down the body.
I ground my teeth, cursing the bastard who’d treated such a precious thing with so little care.
Come to Daddy. Those bastards don’t deserve you.
I reached in and gently grasped the instrument by the neck. With the other hand, I unzipped my backpack and took out the violin case I’d brought. Because a goddamn Strad needed a goddamn padded ride. Once I’d tucked the rare instrument in the case and the case in the large backpack, you could just make out the distinctive shape under the nylon of the pack. So be it. No one would likely get close enough to see it, and if they did, well, I’d handle it.
I’d just slipped the strap over my shoulder when voices floated through the window from the courtyard below. Bits of French conversation. Yup. You couldn’t trust easy. Someone was always lurking around a corner.
Adrenaline surged, my heart pumping with the thrill of getting the hell out of Dodge with the prize. I closed the bureau—the only thing I’d disturbed—crossed the apartment in two strides and slipped out, shutting the door behind me. Adjusting the pack to hang low on my back, I headed to the stairs at a steady pace, sliding on a pair of sunglasses before I reached the foyer.
Nope. Nothing to see here. Just an average guy, visiting friends in this building.
I strolled past the mailboxes, even holding the door for the two men entering, which just happened to put my back to the wall until they went past. They didn’t thank me—just headed to the stairs without sparing me a glance.
I ducked out the door into the warm early summer evening. Lucky break? Yeah, I’d take that. But now it was time to move.
I hoofed it across the courtyard, keeping my gaze fixed on the street ahead, a few cars surging past and the footpath lined with locals and tourists alike. I was careful not to look like I was in a hurry. I’d been tracking the Strad for nearly a month, the last week of that here in Paris. I just had to get to the street, where I could blend in with the crowd, hail a taxi, and head for the airport.
Bon fucking voyage.
When I was almost to the courtyard gate and home free, luck turned her back on me. A cry of alarm came from the second-story window.
Seriously? Those guys had picked now to get conscientious?
Don’t look back, Jake. Don’t run. Running attracted attention. Running made you look guilty.
Someone burst out of the door behind me, shouting in French, which, even if I hadn’t understood the language, didn’t require translation to get the gist of.
Too late to stay inconspicuous. As the great Kenny Rogers said, you’ve got to know when to walk away.
And when to motherfucking run.
I took off, hightailing it out of the courtyard and onto the sidewalk. I skirted around two men in suits, both talking loudly on their phones, and nearly trampled a gray-haired French woman wearing a tweed skirt and knit hat and pushing a shopping bag.