Mr.
Rook
Rook's Island #1
Rook's Island #1
By: Mimi Jean Pamfiloff
Releasing
June 13, 2017
Self-Published
Self-Published
Tour Host: Tasty Book Tours
Showing posts with label Mimi Jean Pamfiloff. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Mimi Jean Pamfiloff. Show all posts
Jun 16, 2017
Mar 3, 2017
Release Blast: Leather Pants by Mimi Jean Pamfiloff
Leather
Pants
Happy Pants #2
Happy Pants #2
By: Mimi Jean Pamfiloff
Releasing
March 3, 2017
Self-Published
Self-Published
Tour Host: Tasty Book Tours
From
New York Times Bestseller, Mimi Jean Pamfiloff, Comes Book #2 of The Happy
Pants Cafe Series...
It Only Takes One
Hot Rock Star To Ruin Your Life…
The youngest woman to ever sit on the bench, the
Honorable Sarah Rae Alma has busted her butt to get where she is. No fun. No
distractions. And definitely no bad boys. In fact, she takes a certain pleasure
in crushing their souls—yes, she has her reasons.
So when rock-n-roll’s most famous bad boy, the
legendary Colton Young, enters her court, looking hotter than sin and smugger
than hell, she’s just itching to serve a little justice.
But Sarah’s about to make the biggest mistake of
her life. And her fate will land squarely in the hands of the world’s most
notorious rock star rebel.
Will he crush her? Or will he tempt her to take a
walk on the wild side?
No. Fuck
no. Not this guy again. The Honorable Sarah Rae Alma of San Francisco County
Superior Court blinked at her trial schedule, hoping and praying with every
fiber of her being that her overworked eyes were playing tricks.
With
hesitation, she glanced at her paperwork again.
Dammit!
Someone must’ve switched her schedule at the last minute. She quickly went into
panic mode, resisting the urge to pinch her cheeks or reach into her robe for a
boob-perk, all to feel marginally hotter—the best a woman could hope for when
wearing a black muumuu—for the man, the god, the legend about to enter her
courtroom.
At least
I’m appropriately dressed for my own personal nightmare, she thought, vowing
not to think about what happened last time.
Career-cluster
to the F-th degree.
Sarah
straightened the pale-blue scarf around her neck and smoothed back the loose
strands of her frizzy ponytail, preparing for his entrance. An entrance that
melted panties, made women ovulate in triplicate, and sent any alpha males in
the vicinity scurrying for the closest rock.
Why didn’t
I put on makeup? Or touch up my roots? She was naturally a brunette, but had
decided on a whim last month to go redder, hoping it might bring out her blue
eyes and amp up her sex appeal.
Useless.
Men still
treated her like a bucket of crusty scabs. All because she had the power to put
them in jail for life. Losers. Like she’d ever do that unless they showed up in
her court, guilty of felony charges. But something about dating a woman with
that kind of power freaked men the hell out.
Speaking of
freaking out, why didn’t I shave this morning? She could never be at her
maximum confidence with hairy legs.
All right,
Sarah, enough. You don’t really care about looking hot. You can’t stand bad
boys. You crush them into tiny pieces and feed them to the legal system. You
make them cry for their mothe—
“Your
Honor?” snapped Maria Gomez, the bailiff, who was a five-foot-five, middle-aged
mother of two and one tough nut. Nobody messed with Maria. The beige uniform
made her look especially intimidating.
Sarah
whipped her head up to find the entire courtroom staring, including the jury,
while the closed-circuit camera rolled in the back.
With her
long black sleeve, Sarah mopped the sweat from her brow and then inched her
index finger at Maria.
“Me?” Maria
glanced side to side and pointed to herself.
“Yes, you,”
Sarah whispered.
Maria
hitched up her heavy belt that included mace and a revolver and approached the
bench.
“Why the
hell wasn’t I told that he’d be coming to my court again?” Sarah grinned
through clenched teeth.
Maria
shrugged. “I don’t know, Your Honor.”
“Don’t you
‘Your Honor’ me,” she hissed. “We had mojitos last night. And an entire jarra.”
Maria held the unique honor of being one of Sarah’s closest friends and her
landlord. About a year ago, Sarah had moved into the three-story Victorian,
renting the one-bedroom apartment on the top floor. It was a steal of a price,
close to the cable car line, and had a gorgeous view of the Marina District.
Don’t forget the home-cooked meals. Another plus. Just last night, Maria and
her hubby, Franco, had made Sarah an early b-day dinner because they couldn’t
find a sitter for tonight’s official birthday outing. “We all know you’ll only
stay out for forty minutes, anyway,” Maria had said last night, poking fun at
Sarah’s stick-in-the-mudness. Sarah preferred the word responsible or focused.
And staying out all night drinking to celebrate one more year on the planet?
Waste of time. She had work to do, cases to review, bad guys to sentence.
Maria
leaned into the bench a little closer toward Sarah. “I heard that he pulled
some strings to get you.”
“Me?” Sarah
whispered. “I don’t believe that.” Defendants didn’t get to pick and choose
their judges. In any case, having him in her court again spelled danger for her
career. The last time he had been here for auto theft—where a
hundred-thousand-dollar Mercedes took a swim in a lake—resulted in three weeks
of tabloid torture. “Judge Alma-drool.” “Judge All-buttered-up.” “Judge
All-but-spread-her-legs.” The rag-mags had taken their teeth to her and
masticated hard.
Hold it
together, girl. You went to Harvard. You’re a judge. You. Are. Unshakable.
“I don’t
know why he’d push for you,” Maria replied. “Maybe he thinks you’re hot. But
Judge Wright will make sure you’re suspended if you lose it again, so stay
calm.”
“I did not
lose it!” she whispered. “The last time he was here I…” Sarah’s words faded as
the doors to the back of her courtroom flew open and everyone fell into a
deathlike hush.
“Wow,”
Maria gasped.
Forget
“wow.” Can I get a holy fuck?
Colton
Young’s epic man-bod stood smack in the center of the doorway, his long waves
of chestnut hair falling to his broad shoulders, his black leather pants slung
low around his hips, and his espresso-colored T-shirt just tight enough to show
off the lean hard body underneath. Colton’s arms didn’t have the requisite
shoulder-to-wrist musician tattoos, but the man had muscle. Lots and lots of
lean, hard muscle.
“He looks
like a god,” Sarah muttered under her breath, unable to contain the pinball
action in her stomach—pings and pops, little rubber flippers going crazy, and a
steel ball ricocheting all over.
Colton
whipped off his mirrored sunglasses, and his intense hazel eyes shot straight
to Sarah’s face like a wolf homing in on an object it had yet to decide what to
do with. Kill. Fuck. Ignore. Piss on.
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.
Dec 9, 2016
Release Blast: God of Wine by Mimi Jean Pamfiloff
By: Mimi Jean Pamfiloff
Released
Nov 25th, 2016
Self-Published
Self-Published
Tour Host: Tasty Book Tours
The God of Wine is lookin’ for love.
And he has absolutely no clue what he’s doing.
From New
York Times Bestseller Mimi Jean Pamfiloff…
Book #3 of the Immortal Matchmakers Inc. Series. (Standalone)
CAN ROCK-HARD ABS SAVE THE WORLD? HE
SURE THINKS SO
Acan, the God of
Wine and Intoxication, has been partying for over ten thousand years. And New
Year’s Eve, when humans around the world succumb to his naturally occurring
spike in powers, is his big night. Only this year, things are bit
different.
A plague is sweeping the immortal community, and he’s turning downright evil.
All those New Year’s bashes will turn into bloodbaths if he doesn’t stop it.
Sadly, the only known cure is finding a mate, and he is a giant, rude, beer-bellied
mess. Definitely not husband material.
But can a little gym-time and help from the pros at Immortal Matchmakers, Inc.
turn him into a divine sex-machine? Absolutely!
So watch out, ladies! The God of Wine
is lookin’ for love. And he has absolutely no clue what he’s doing.
“You did what?” The Goddess of Forgetfulness winced as she slid the uncapped
Corona across the narrow width of the bar into Acan’s awaiting hand.
He licked his lips, greedily
grabbing the ice-cold beer, and chugged it down, not spilling a precious drop.
He slammed the empty bottle on the counter and pushed it to the side with the
other ten he’d just guzzled. “I think you—” Hiccup!
“—heard me.”
Forgetty, as he liked to call her,
was a tall blonde who usually wore nightclub party clothes—white go-go boots,
miniskirts, or little tank dresses like she had on today—because, like him, her
life was all about the party. After all, nothing complimented a night of
getting hammered better than blacking out and forgetting all about the crazy
shit one did the previous night.
We are like peas and
carrots.
In any case, his “sister”—the gods
were not related by blood since they had no parents—DJ’d at their global chain
of successful nightclubs and bars they owned together. She also worked the
private parties for their immortal brethren while he bartended, which was his
gift. As God of Wine and Intoxication, he merely looked at a person and knew
what sort of drink to serve and the quantity they required to reach the ideal
state of jubilation. Between him and his sister, they served a vital function
that allowed humans—and the occasional immortal—to blow off steam.
Forgetty blinked her turquoise eyes
at him. “I did hear you, brother. I merely cannot believe you went into a gym.
At five in the morning. Are you absolutely certain you’re feeling all right?”
He tapped his index finger
demandingly on the bar.
Forgetty reached into the trough of
ice behind the counter, uncapped another cold one, and plunked it down in front
of him.
“Feeling great!” He grabbed his
frosty treat, saluted her with the bottle, and then threw it back.
“Belch, Belch, Belch.” She shook her
head with worry, using his nickname. “I mean this in the kindest way possible,
but you just called the elevator woman a cunt.”
He set down his empty bottle and
shrugged. “Correction. Fuzzy cunt. And so?”
She tipped her head to one side. “So
you called her a cunt.”
Where was Forgetty going with this?
He stared at her, hoping she’d open another beer.
His sister sighed and then rolled
her eyes. “Belch, don’t you find that just a tad bit abrasive? Even for you?”
“Fuck no! She was being a bitchy
shrew. I should rip out her throat and make a Bloody Mary out of it.”
Forgetty stepped back, cringing.
“What?” he snapped defensively.
“Belch,” she said softly, “you are
many things—a drunk, a flasher, a very loud snorer, and occasional arsonist.
But you are not an asshole.”
“I am an asshole!”
She slammed her fist down on the
counter. “No, Acan.” She used his real name. She never did that. “You’re nice,
and you’re fun, but you’re never cruel or so outrageously rude. Especially not to
women.”
He wasn’t? “Well, fuck that! Let the
bitches die. Burn them all.” Belch slapped his hands over his mouth. “What was
that?” he mumbled.
Forgetty’s face turned ghost white.
“I think—and please don’t panic and break out the absinth when I say this—bad,
bad things happen when you break out the absinth—but I think you’re flipping.”
Fuck. “Fuck.” Maybe he was.
She nodded. “Yes, brother. It is the
only reason I can think of for your recent change from happy drunk to mean
drunk. Which means—well, you know what it means.”
Fuck, I do. Acan sat there on the barstool,
staring into the empty bottle, his quickly sobering mind feeling far too lucid
for his taste because he actually understood the implications. He didn’t like
it one little bit. Cimil—world-renowned garage-sale huntress and Goddess of the
Underworld—announced almost a month ago that something had upset the order of
the Universe. No one was sure why, but the evidence was there: good immortals
were beginning to change into bad immortals and vice versa, the only remedy or
vaccination being a mate. Yep, a significant other. Having a special someone
seemed to act as a counterbalance of sorts to prevent the immortal from
“flipping,” as they now called it.
“Blahhhh!” Belch swiped his hand
through the air. “I don’t need a woman, I need women. Lots of them and a new one every night. And I need my mojito
tank.” Yes, it took a lot of upkeep, but the mojito tank was the highlight of
his day. An indoor two-person glass tank filled with mojito goodness was ideal for
total submersion, drinking games, or a very long straw.
“You’re acting too dense, even for
you,” she said.
“I am the party god. Density is my
immensity.”
“Acan, stop! If you’re turning evil,
think about what this will mean for humanity.” Her turquoise eyes—same color as
his and all of the fourteen gods—filled with intense emotion. “Everyone else
might underestimate your powers, but—” she tapped the side of her head “—I
know. We’ve been partying for ten millennia. You have the power to influence an
entire hemisphere. You do it every New Year’s.”
True. New Year’s Eve was all him, with
New York City being the epicenter. He influenced billions around the planet to
drink in excess and party hard. It was the equivalent of his Super Bowl.
“Brother,” said Forgetty worriedly,
“New Year’s is less than four weeks away.”
He looked up at his sister, who
stood on the other side of the counter, not
reaching for the tequila bottle behind her on the mirrored shelf like she
should.
“What are you waiting for?” he
scolded.
“I’m cutting you off, Belch.” She
crossed her arms over her chest.
“What?”
“You
heard me. No more cocktails. No more beer. No more flaming assholes or Jell-O
shots or even cough syrup.”
IMMORTAL MATCHMAKERS, INC.
(Book One) is FREE!
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.
Oct 11, 2016
Release Day Blast: It's a Fugly Life by Mimi Jean Pamfiloff
By: Mimi Jean Pamfiloff
Releasing
October 11, 2016
Self-Published
Self-Published
From New York
Times Bestseller Mimi Jean Pamfiloff, Comes a New Standalone Contemporary
Romance.
HE’S PERFECT FOR HER IN EVERY WAY,
EXCEPT FOR ONE SMALL ISSUE. HE’S TOO LATE.
My name is
Lily Snow. And I was once the kind of ugly that turned heads and made people
stare. The worst part was how I let it ruin my life and destroy my relationship
with the love of my life—Maxwell Cole, one of the sexiest, wealthiest,
enigmatic men on the planet. All because
I felt ugly and certainly not good enough for a man’s love.
But not
anymore.
One car
wreck, three reconstructive surgeries, and some unexpected money have changed
my life.
I’ve
started my own company, I’ve finally learned to like myself—not love, but like
(hey, it’s a journey)—and I’ve met a wonderful new man who’s helped me put Max
in the past where he belongs.
There’s
only one problem: After six long months, Maxwell Cole is back, asking for the
one thing I can’t give him. And he’s not taking no for an answer.
NOTE:
This is a continuation of the story FUGLY, but is a standalone.
Rafflecopter
Giveaway (12 winners.
2 Mimi Contemporary Romance packs (Fugly, Fug2, HPC, Tailored+ SWAG) and 10
paperbacks)
Six Weeks Earlier
Today was huge. Huger than huge. Okay, it wasn’t
really, but I needed to remind myself that the little milestones in life were
as important as the champagne-worthy events. For example, just three months
ago, I’d opened my very own boutique in downtown Santa Barbara. Think eclectic,
handmade clothing and accessories, sort of like that one aisle at Whole Foods
with the mishmash of tie-dyed scarves and hemp bracelets. Not my lifelong
dream, but my products were made by women, for women, and I loved the idea of
making money while helping people. After three months, I’d gotten the helping
part down, but not the making-money part. Sales were the pits, and I’d already
received notice of a rent increase at the end of the year.
You’ll figure it out, Lily. You always do. I drew a
happy face on the puppies and kittens calendar stuck to the wall behind the
register. It was important to stay positive and focused.
My smile faded as it dawned on me that today also
marked another event. Six months. Six months since I’d seen Maxwell Cole—cocky,
SOB billionaire and quite possibly the most hypnotically sexy and complex man
in the world—and asked him to forgive me for some pretty awful things I had
done.
He hadn’t.
And it had been the roughest time of my life. Rougher
than working for the man. Rougher than falling in love with him—my boss—a man
so far out of my league that I hadn’t been able to believe he wanted me back.
And certainly rougher than the day I effectively tanked his multibillion-dollar
company. An edgy, cosmetics juggernaut he’d built with his own two hands.
And I fucked it up.
Yep.
With my own two lips, aka my big fat mouth. All
because I believed—erroneously—that he didn’t have feelings for me.
Crap, Lily. I blew out a breath and ran a hand over
the top of my hair, smoothing back the loose strands of my ponytail. “Stop it.
Just stop it.” I’d already decided months ago to be done with the
self-flagellation. I couldn’t go back. I couldn’t undo the past. And either
way, I’d moved on.
“Every journey starts with one step,” I muttered to
myself and put another smiley face on my calendar. And as of today, I’d made it
six months. I’d put my life back together and was even dati—
The cluster of silver bells above the front door to my
tiny shop jingled to welcome the first customer of the day.
“Welcome to Lily’s Pad. Let me know if I can help y…”
I glanced up from behind the register and lost my grip on the pen in my hand.
“Max?”
“Hello, Lily.” His deep, exquisitely masculine voice
washed over me like a tsunami of emotional shock.
“Max, what are you doing here?” My eyes stuck on his
face, drinking in every virile detail. Maxwell Cole wasn’t what people would
call a handsome man. Handsome implied someone who might be nice looking or
pleasing to look at. This infamous, thirty-four-year-old billionaire was so
much more. Women saw him and couldn’t look away from his six-three frame,
underwear model physique, hazel eyes and chiseled jawline that gave him a
godlike appearance. It was the same stunning good looks he’d used to build his
multibillion-dollar cosmetics company. He used to model in his ads. Semi-nude.
Yes, total eye candy for women of every age.
“I heard you’re hiring a part-time assistant.” He
pointed to the sign in the window with one of those muscular arms I used to enjoy
wrapped around my midriff when he took me from behind with his substantial co—
Don’t torture yourself. He dumped you hard. Obviously,
the man was here for a reason, although I couldn’t fathom what that reason
might be.
He continued, “I also heard you might be looking for a
husband. But I don’t have any experience. Think you might consider me anyway?”
He shoved a hand in his jeans pocket and looked at me with a wickedly sexy
grin.
Huh? My mind couldn’t quite absorb his words or their
meaning. I was far too busy realizing how much I’d missed him and how fucking
delicious he looked. He wore these expensive sexy jeans that hung just right on
his hips and a dark gray button-down shirt that said, “Yeah, I’ve got money.
Yeah, my body is a temple of male perfection. No, you can’t have me—I’m for
looking only, ladies.” In other words, everything about the man screamed
unattainable. His dark messy hair, his overgrown stubble—not quite a beard—his
full kissable lips and jaw and chin and everything about him was…perfect.
I swear, that man could wear a neon yellow jockstrap
and orange traffic cone on his head and still look like he’d strolled off a
runway.
Wait. He just asked me to marry him?
Nope. Nope. I’m dreaming. I have fallen and hit my
head, and any moment I’m going to wake up with a splitting headache.
I suddenly realized that Max’s mouth kept moving, but
I hadn’t heard a word.
“Sorry? Could you repeat that?” I blinked some more.
He stepped forward, putting himself on the other side
of the counter, opposite me. “I know I should’ve called. I wanted to a million
times. But I needed time to sort out a few things.” His smile faded, and the
look in his hazel eyes hardened.
Did he mean he needed time to forgive me? I didn’t
know, but clearly he had, and I felt a huge weight lift from my soul. I hadn’t
even realized I’d been carrying it around.
I nodded my head. “I understand. I did ruin your
company.”
“Fuck the company. I was going to let it all go
anyway. You and I both know my mother needed to be gone from my life.” His
mother, the cruelest piece of sadistic human-shit on the planet, had owned
fifty-one percent of his company, making it difficult for him to keep a
distance. Still, I had to believe that if not for me, things would’ve gone down
differently. Maybe he could’ve found an investor to buy her out or something.
But because of me, he’d been forced to sell Cole Cosmetics to a Canadian
competitor for half its original value. I hated thinking about all that. It
made my stomach knot with guilt.
“You’re only saying that to make me feel less crappy,”
I said softly. “That company was everything to you.”
“No. You were everything to me and you still are. I
realized it when I watched them pry your bloody body from your car with a
crowbar. Do you have any idea what that did to me?”
Oh. That. It wasn’t that I’d forgotten, but I rarely
thought of that day anymore. Mostly because losing Max overshadowed all of the
surrounding drama. But seven months ago, right as everything blew up with his
company, a news van chased me on the highway near Chicago, hoping to get a
story about my relationship with my infamous boss. I plowed my convertible Mini
into the center divider and made mincemeat out of my face.
Now, before you start thinking that it must’ve left me
with a horrible disfigurement, I’ll have you know two things. One, I was born
with an extremely ugly face. I mean nose from hell, an unusually large chin,
and—well, let’s just say that small children often cried when they looked at
me. “Mommy! It’s a monster.” Think Chaka from Land of the Lost but with a very
petite body, nice teeth, and long wavy blonde hair. That was me.
Now are you seeing why I couldn’t quite believe my
international sex symbol of a boss loved me?
Moving on to point number two: The accident did leave
me scarred—forehead, chin, and one side of my nose—the place where the side
mirror of my car broke off and impacted. But by then I had already made up my
mind to fix my ugly face against Max’s wishes. Long story short, when the
accident happened, Max—despite being furious with me for what I did to his
company—still made sure I was put back together by the best. Now people stared
but they didn’t retch, and with a little makeup, I could cover most of the
scars.
“I’m so sorry, Max. I can’t say it enough times.” Yes,
I had apologized to him already—after my accident, after he’d made sure I was
put back together, after he had to sell his company, and after I’d made a mess
of our relationship. But my plea for forgiveness fell on cold ears. He could
hardly look me in the eyes that day.
“I’m the one who is sorry.” Max planted his arms on
the counter and leaned in, his eyes filled with a sternness that meant he
wasn’t messing around. “None of those events would’ve happened if I’d simply
told you how much I love you and asked you to marry me. I should’ve been
stronger, but I wasn’t.”
He was taking the blame? Him? “But…but…I…you…you were
so angry and…” I shook my head. I was the one who messed it all up.
He grabbed my hand from across the counter and
squeezed it. “I was hurt because you didn’t trust me, Lily. You didn’t believe
in us—fuck.” He drew a breath. “I didn’t come here to rehash this crap.”
“Remind me again; why are you here?”
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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