Tristan Riley and Lillian Maddox are back in Rapture, the action-packed finale to the Teplo Trilogy! Through July 1st, you can start the series for FREE, and get the second book for .99c!
You can also now snag Halton (Vested Interest #6), NYT Bestselling Author Melanie Moreland's new release! He's growly. He's possessive. He is so freakin' hot!
Rapture Summary
All's fair in love and war…
Four months ago, DEA agent Tristan Riley nearly lost his life and the disabled ballerina who stole his heart. Now his relationship with Lillian Maddox is stronger than ever, and he wants nothing more than to put Teplo and the Vetrov case behind him. But when Elijah Noel and the deadly Vetrov drug appear in Los Angeles, Tristan is thrust right back into the middle of his worst nightmare.
In order to stop a vicious gang war and keep the drug out of Pedro Francisco's hands, the DEA agent finds himself wading into unfamiliar gang territory. The stakes are high, and the body count is even higher. Los Angeles is nothing like Seattle…and Francisco's people are a whole new level of terrifying.
When the DEA jeopardizes Lillian's safety and loses their one shot at finding the Vetrov drug, Tristan walks away from his job to save her life. With a rogue ATF agent and Michael Kincaid at his side, he will stop at nothing to bring her home safely.
Outnumbered, outgunned, and with his back against the wall, Tristan will find his resolve tested in ways he never could have imagined. Making a deal with the devil was never in his plans, but he'll do whatever it takes to save his ballerina one last time…even if he has to catapult the entire West Coast into a drug war unlike they've ever seen.
Ravished (The Teplo
Trilogy #1) is FREE through 7/1/19
Rhapsody (The Teplo
Trilogy #2) is .99c through 7/1/19
Amazon | Goodreads
Halton Summary
When love turns to hate—that’s where I come in.
I’m Halton Andrew Smithers, attorney. Hal to my clients and friends.
Messy divorces, deadbeat dads, runaway wives, cheating partners—I handle them all.
I know the seedy side of love, and it isn’t pretty. I avoid emotional attachments—I’ve seen all too often when hot passion turns to frozen tundra.
I satisfy myself with helping people behind the scenes. It gives me a sense of satisfaction that completes my life.
Until she enters it and everything I believe is turned upside down.
She fills a void I never knew existed, and I know without her, my life will never be the same again.
For the first time, I want to try.
For her.
But am I strong enough?
Rapture Excerpt
Roman strolled across
the barren waiting room, headed for the desk separated from the rest of the
room by bullet-proof glass. Tristan followed behind him, glancing around. Like
most jails, this one wasn't anything to write home about. The chairs were
bolted to the floor. A few grimy magazines were littered around, most torn and
illegible from heavy use. Large signs were posted throughout the room, warning
visitors of the strict rules and the consequences of violating them. Cameras
were positioned high up on the cinderblock walls, capturing every angle of the
room.
"Roman Gregory, ATF. And Tristan Riley, DEA. We're here to see Jesus
de Silva. They should be expecting us." Using one finger, Roman lifted the
chain around his neck for the visitation clerk to inspect his badge.
Her bored gaze flickered over his shield before she lifted her expectant
gaze to Tristan. He held his badge up for the same disinterested inspection.
"Any weapons?"
"Nope."
"Are you taking anything in with you?"
"Just the case file and my car key." Roman tapped the file on
the desk and then presented the key in question.
The clerk barely
glanced at it before sliding a sign-in sheet across the desk toward him.
"Sign in here. They're taking him to interview room three. Go through the
sally port, take a left, and it'll be the third room on the right."
Roman scrawled their names and the time across the visitation log before
sliding it back to the woman. "Thanks, Jessie."
"Mmhmm."
They walked in silence through the waiting room and then to their third
set of metal detectors for the day, dropping their badges, the case file, and
Roman's car key into a plastic bin. Tristan sighed loudly when the metal pins
in his arm set the damn thing off and he had to explain, yet again, why the
wand kept triggering on his arm.
The guard examined the
surgical scar carefully, like he expected Tristan to rip it open and pull out a
gun or drugs. Eventually, the man grunted wordlessly and waved him through.
"Son of a bitch," he muttered, yanking the sleeve of his shirt
back down.
"Makes you wonder exactly how many ways they've seen shit brought
inside, doesn't it?" Roman asked, waiting for the guard to buzz them into
the sally port.
"I don't even want
to know." Prisoners were nothing if not creative when it came to smuggling
contraband into jails. It wouldn't surprise him if one or two had tried to pull
some shit like that at some point.
Roman chuckled.
Once they were through
the sally port and into the jail proper, the smell hit Tristan right in the
gut. He'd never understand how jails could smell like industrial strength
cleaner and stale urine at the same time, but somehow, they always managed to
do exactly that. The combination was worse than the noxious cloud of perfume,
body odor, and stale smoke that had permeated Teplo every night.
"Fair warning, de Silva doesn't like me much," Roman muttered
as they made their way down the hall to the interview room.
"Old friends?"
"I dislocated his dick, and broke his jaw and both of his legs a few
months ago." Roman shrugged, his expression completely stoic. "He's
still bitter."
"Not very sporting
of him," Tristan said. He'd already known that Roman and his former
partner, Brady Kaplan, had kicked the shit out of de Silva and a handful of his
buddies after Guerrero targeted Mila. From what Jason had told him, Roman was
suspended for a while and Brady resigned after everything went down. For
whatever reason, de Silva didn't pursue charges. The dick thing was new info
though.
"He had it coming."
"I didn't even know you could dislocate a dick," Tristan
muttered. The thought of de Silva's dick being out of commission for a while
made him happy. He hoped the fucker never worked properly again.
"I didn't either at the time."
Tristan laughed loudly at the hint of quiet surprise in Roman's voice.
"Agent Gregory?" A rotund man popped his head out of the
doorway, his gray eyes bouncing from Roman to Tristan and then back again. With
a few strands of hair badly combed over his balding head and sweat staining his
button down, he looked squirrely as fuck.
"That'd be me." Roman held up his shield.
"Tristan
Riley," Tristan muttered to the man, not bothering to add the whole
"agent" part. Over the years, he'd been called a lot of things, but
nothing pissed him off more than someone calling him Agent Riley. It grated on
his nerves for reasons he couldn't even explain to himself…perhaps because he'd
never felt particularly worthy of the Riley name to begin with. Oddly, that
wasn't the case any longer.
For once in his life,
he actually thought his parents would have been proud of the man he'd become.
That, he knew, was Lillian's doing. She made him see himself clearly…and he
wasn't as bad as he'd always believed.
He still hated being
called Agent Riley though.
"I'm William
Black, Mr. de Silva's lawyer." The man held out his hand, only to lower it
again when he realized neither Tristan nor Roman intended to shake it. He pursed
his lips, his expression souring. "You understand he's here of his own
volition to speak with you?"
"I'm sure the plea deal the D.A. offered him on the drug trafficking
and weapons charges has nothing to do with his willingness to speak to us today,"
Roman shot right back at him.
Black's lips compressed into an even tighter line, his face going red.
"Frankly, I don't give a fuck if he's here because God told him to
be here," Roman muttered, glaring down at the man. "We have
questions. He has answers. Let's get this shit over with."
Black huffed and then stepped aside, allowing Roman to duck into the
interview room. Tristan followed behind him, keeping as much distance between
himself and Black as possible. The man smelled like piss and stale sweat.
The nondescript
interview room didn't hold much. Paint peeled from the walls and an inch of
dirt and grime was visible in the corners. The four chairs in the small space
were bolted to the floor. So was the table in the center of the room. Two
guards stood at the door on the opposite side of the room, pretending to look
everywhere except at them.
The man handcuffed and shackled to the table had shaggy black hair and
gang tattoos all over his face and hands. Unless Tristan missed his guess,
Jesus de Silva was in his late twenties or early thirties. One of his front
teeth was missing in action. The permanent sneer on his face and those hard
brown eyes made him appear sullen. Intelligence shone in his eyes though,
making it clear he wasn't just another gangbanger. He was smart enough to have
made it damn near to the top of one of the most violent gangs in Los Angeles,
and that counted for something.
"Puto," he muttered,
his lips twisting into a sneer as he glared at Roman.
"Miss me, de Silva?" Roman asked, slapping the case file down
onto the table.
"Fuck you, homie."
"We both know I'm not your type, de Silva. You prefer innocent
teenagers, remember?" Hatred rolled through Roman's expression as he
stared at the gangbanger. "You sick fuck."
"If that's how you're going to speak to my client–"
"Settle down, Black. I know his fucking rights." Roman rolled
his eyes and dropped down into the chair across from de Silva. "Riley,
this is Jesus. Jesus, this is Riley. He likes you about as well as my last
partner did. You remember Brady, right?"
The gangbanger ignored him, his hard gaze flickering across Tristan's
face. He schooled his expression quickly, but not quickly enough to hide the
flare of recognition, followed by annoyance that flashed across his face.
When Black made his way around the table to take the seat beside his
client, Roman caught Tristan's eye and arched a brow. Tristan nodded back
before sliding into an empty chair, letting the ATF agent know he'd noticed it
too.
Somehow, de Silva knew who he was and wasn't thrilled to see him here.
Wasn't that just fucking lovely?
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