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Stephanie Plum may not be the best bounty hunter in beautiful downtown Trenton, but what she uncovers is far more sinister than anyone imagines and leads to a group of killers who give new meaning to the word hunter.
Stephanie Plum may not be the best bounty hunter in beautiful downtown Trenton, but she's pretty darn good at turning bad situations her way...and she always gets her man. In To the Nines, her cousin Vinnie (who's also her boss) has posted bail on Samuel Singh, an illegal immigrant. When the elusive Mr. Singh goes missing, Stephanie is on the case. But what she uncovers is far more sinister than anyone imagines and leads to a group of killers who give new meaning to the word hunter.
CHAPTER 1
My name is Stephanie Plum and I was born and raised in the Chambersburg section of Trenton where the top male activities are scarfing pastries and pork rinds and growing love handles. The pastry and pork rind scarfing I've seen first hand. The love handles are grown over time. Thank God for small favors.
The first guy I saw up close and personal was Joe Morelli. Morelli put an end to my virgin status and showed me a body that was masculine perfection ...smooth and muscular and sexy. Back then Morelli thought a long-term commitment was twenty minutes. I was one of thousands who got to admire Morelli's best parts as he pulled his pants up and headed for the door.
Morelli's been in and out of my life since then. He's currently in and he's improved with age, butt included.
So the sight of a naked man isn't exactly new to me, but the one I was presently watching took the cake. Punky Balog had an ass like Winnie the Pooh ...big and fat and furry. Sad to say, that was...
If you liked To The Nines, try these:
'A smashingly good, action-packed first novel....Benoit is a rare discovery, and one hopes that he plans to produce more adventure-oriented mysteries with the same skill and energy that propel this excellent debut' - Publishers Weekly
A powerful tale that explores the darkest corners of human nature, revealing the grievous injuries inflicted behind locked doors, the unseen wounds that bleed and destroy and never heal.
Common sense is genius dressed in its working clothes.
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