Immortal Matchmakers, Inc. #2
by Mimi Jean Pamfiloff
Releasing
May 24th 2016
Self-Published
Self-Published
Blurb
From New York Times
Bestseller Mimi Jean Pamfiloff…
TOMMASO, Book #2, Immortal Matchmakers, Inc. Series
(Standalone)
SOMETIMES,
HOT MEN CAN BE REAL MONSTERS…
Tommaso Fierro is used to the finer things in life—nice
suits, nice car, nice house. Okay, his past isn’t so nice, but that’s in the
past. Or at least it was until he blacked out after meeting the woman of his
dreams.
Annnd
possibly capturing her.
Annnd
possibly terrorizing her before she got away.
Annnd
discovering that he’s turning into a horrible creature he loathes with all his
heart.
Luckily, there’s a cure. Unluckily, it will require him
to track this woman down and convince her to give him a second chance. But if
he finds her, will she ever believe that he’s really not a monster?
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CHAPTER ONE
9:42 a.m., Los Angeles
Covered in bright red blood,
Tommaso Fierro stumbled from his sleek black Mercedes and staggered across the
litter-filled 7-Eleven parking lot, clutching the front of his sticky gray
dress shirt.
“Sonofabitch,” he groaned. This can’t be happening. He’d gone
through far too much, survived far too much, only to end up like this.
No. No. No. You are not
turning evil again.
But then why had his
turquoise eyes—the telltale sign of his godsgiven immortality—turned black? Why
did his heart feel like it was being prodded with a red-hot poker?
And where the fuck did all this blood come from? It sure as hell wasn’t his.
He looked at his sticky red
hands, suddenly seeing images of the dark-haired woman in his head. She was
bound and gagged in his closet, screaming at him through a rope knotted between
her lips.
Shit. Please don’t tell me I killed her. Because she was the one. Yes, the one. And no, he couldn’t explain why he had no clear memory of
what happened, but he did remember the wave of intense desire he’d felt the
moment he spotted her leaving the singles mixer last night—Wait. Was it last night? Everything was a blur after that, like
watching a violent movie on a dark screen that sporadically flickered.
Godsdammit! Wouldn’t
this just be his godsdamned luck? He finally meets the woman of his dreams—his
true mate—only to turn evil for no other reason than the Universe had decided
to be a huge bitch and mess with everyone.
More blurry images swarmed
his mind: the woman screaming and then…images of him letting her go, only to
start chasing her, like a cat playing with a mouse it wanted to torment before
the kill.
That is very fucked up.
Tommaso suddenly felt like
his skull was splitting open. Aaagh…
He shoved his fingers into his sticky short hair, pressing the sides of his
head. Then his lungs began closing up. I
can’t…breathe. He fell to his knees on the hard asphalt. And godsdammit, he
had just gotten his awesome pin-striped slacks back from the tailor. Three
hundred bucks just for the hem.
A candy apple red Mustang
tore into the parking lot, nearly colliding with a parked car before coming to
a tire-screeching halt a few feet in front of him. The driver door popped open
and out stepped a familiar face: Zac, God of Temptation.
The sound of Zac’s heavy
biker boots thumped toward Tommaso as he tried to keep his vision from blacking
out.
“Wow,” said Zac in his usual
cocky tone while brushing back his mane of shaggy black hair with his usual
affected gesture. “You weren’t joking. You really are turning into a
Maaskab—not such a great look for you, by the way.”
Maaskab were an ancient sect
of powerful, bloodthirsty Mayan priests who excelled in the dark arts. With
their blood-caked dreads, soulless pits for eyes, and grime-covered bodies
(they believed bathing robbed them of their powers), they looked like death
warmed over, reheated in a microwave, and then deep fried in evil waffle
batter. And though they were talented at many malevolent things, manipulating
dark energy and enslaving others to do their bidding were their claims to fame,
something Tommaso knew firsthand. For two loooong fucking years, he’d been
pumped full of Maaskab poisons and used to spy on the gods’ army. It was a
miracle he’d escaped, but an even bigger miracle the gods had chosen to help
him versus ending his life after he’d been discovered.
Only now, he wasn’t so sure
that he’d been cured (or what had happened over the last twenty-four hours or
why he was in a 7-Eleven parking lot covered in blood with only a vague
recollection of taking his newly found mate captive). In any case, Zac had been
the first name that came to mind when he’d called for help.
Perhaps not such a wise choice. Zac wasn’t known for being the most compassionate of
the gods. Okay. None of the gods were compassionate. Bat-shit crazy, the whole lot of them.
Tommaso looked up at Zac,
seven feet of pure conceited asshole in leather pants. And topless?
“Why aren’t you wearing a
shirt?” Tommaso grumbled. Proper attire was essential, even when one was in the
process of transforming into a monster, as in his case. Didn’t see him ripping
off his clothes and acting uncivilized.
“Casual Friday.” Zac
shrugged and then bent to help Tommaso to his feet.
Tommaso’s gaze gravitated
toward the hazy figure of a petite blonde standing beside the god, wearing only
a pair of enormous flowery granny panties and matching brassiere. He recognized
her to be Tula, the new assistant at Immortal Matchmakers, Inc., which was run
by Zac and Zac’s insane redheaded mess of a sister, Cimil—the Goddess of the
Underworld.
“What’s with Tula’s outfit?”
Tommaso mumbled, wondering if he wasn’t dreaming.
“Casual Friday,” Zac
answered for Tula. “Did I not just explain that?”
“Okay, you two,” said Tula,
in a sugary tone, “let’s get out of here before the police show and suck up
another day with all their questions. I’m still trying to get them not to press
charges for the singles mixer.”
Tommaso hadn’t stayed for
more than a minute at that party, but he could only imagine the long list of
reasons the police had been called. Things tended to end up decimated or lit on
fire when a group of immortals got in a room and started drinking. Belch, aka
the God of Wine and Intoxication, for example, held the all-time record for
destroying the most hotels. Five hundred and twenty. All burnt to the ground. All
by accident.
Tommaso winced, the pain of
whatever searing through his veins becoming almost unbearable. “Take me home.”
“Who said anything about
home, compadre?” Zac said. “You’re not safe to roam freely with the masses.”
Zac looked at Miss
Flower-Power Panties and instructed her to retrieve Tommaso’s keys from his
pocket.
“But Zac,” Tula protested,
“a man’s pocket is his private space. Next to his privates.”
She was standing in the
middle of a public parking lot in broad daylight, wearing only her undergarments—albeit,
very unsexy undergarments, but undergarments nonetheless—and she was concerned
about improper behavior?
“My keys are in the
ignition,” Tommaso groaned, the splitting pain in his head and heart only
worsening. “And I’m sorry about all the blood in the car.” Sorrier than anyone could ever know. Please don’t let it be my mate’s.
Please.
Zac bent his head and gave
Tommaso a whiff. “Hate to break it to you, evil buddy, but if what’s in your
car is the same stuff that’s on your shirt, that’s not blood. Cherry Slurpee is
my guess.”
Really?
Tommaso looked down at his sticky gray shirt. “I killed a woman and went to get
a Slurpee? I am a monster.”
“Do you specifically
remember killing someone?” Zac asked.
“No, but—”
Sirens began wailing off in
the distance.
“Time to go, big man. Let’s
get you to a secure location. We’ll sort it all out later.” Zac turned toward
Tula, who was already getting into Tommaso’s Mercedes. “I’ll meet you back at
the office.”
“Yes, sir,” she replied.
“And, woman?” Zac said, his
deep voice filled with agitation.
“Yes?” she answered.
“The next time I see you,
you’d better be wearing proper office apparel. We hold to certain standards at
Immortal Matchmakers, Inc. Even on casual Friday.”
“For the last time, I am not going to work naked, Zac!” She
slammed the driver-side door shut and zoomed out of the parking lot.
“Humans,” Zac grumbled. “So
damned uppity! You know what I mean?” Zac looked at Tommaso, fishing for
validation.
Tommaso frowned up at the
deity, whose face was becoming a mishmash of swirls. I’m losing my mind. “Sure. Yeah. Wearing clothes is so last year.”
“I know, right?” Zac grabbed
Tommaso’s arm to steady him as he began falling sideways. “All right, let’s get
you off to jail.”
“You’re taking me to jail?”
Tommaso stumbled along toward the Mustang, without a hope or a prayer of
getting free. Not in my condition.
“Well, I’m really taking you
to Cimil’s basement until we can get you moved to our real prison. But where
else would I take an evil, bloodthirsty Maaskab to rot for eternity?”
Rot? Eternity? Oh hell.
Maybe Zac was right; that was where he needed to go. Because if Tommaso had
harmed a hair on his mate’s head, he deserved to putrefy in a dark dungeon for
all time.
But what if she’s not dead? He had seen an image of him untying her and of her
running away. Gods be damned. I have to
find out what I did… He needed to know she was all right. Okay, and his
heart demanded to see her again and beg her forgiveness.
But who was she? He’d only
seen her for a moment in passing as she left the mixer—that part was clear. As
for how would he go looking for her when he could barely see straight? Not to mention you’re going off to immortal
jail.
There was only one person he
could turn to.
Gods help me…
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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