This is the second book in my Men of the Jungle series!


Galen Hall wakes in a Ecuadorian jail with a murderous headache, a murder
charge, and a memory gap where his alibi should be. How does the jungle guide
prove his innocence? His best friend comes to help, only to bring with him the
woman whose unplanned love sent him fleeing the Amazon to begin with.

One night of steamy jungle passion has botanist Dana Rutherford carrying a
stranger’s baby. While coming to terms with raising a child on her own, she
learns of the father’s captivity. In a town where corruption reigns, she
unknowingly initiates a jailbreak, and finds herself again face-to-face with the
hunky, green-eyed devil who has changed her life forever.


What the … Was he seeing things?
Galen Hall blinked, hoping the row of round metal rods running up into a bar
close to the ceiling would disappear. Dread seized him as he struggled to raise
onto his elbows to check out the rest of the room, his head pounding as if a
herd of gazelle had used it as a springboard.
“Oh, shit.” To his side and behind were three walls of solid concrete, a small
barred window casting the only light in the room.
A cell. He was in jail.
Why? He focused hard on an answer. Nothing came.
On his attempt to sit, a wave of nausea struck and with a moan, he dropped back
onto the lumpy pillow, swallowing convulsively.
Galen had to find out why he’d been thrown into this place.
He gathered his strength and forced himself to move, swinging his legs over the
side of the cot and planting his feet on the floor to ease himself upright.
Instantly the vertical position had his heart and head thrumming in tandem. To
calm the intensity, he pressed his fingertips to his temples and rubbed. Then,
with as much will as he could muster, he sucked in a fortifying breath and
stood, weaving sideways, right before barreling into the bars.
He clutched the cold steel in his hands to steady his balance and centered his
attention on the wooden door at the far end of a hallway where the police had to
be stationed. The only way they’d hear him call was if he’d holler, and he
couldn’t do that with the pain in his head.
A clanking sound and the door swinging wide had him on alert.
In walked a dark-complexioned man with a sweat-stained, khaki-colored uniform, a
sardonic sneer on his lips. “I see you have finally come to.”
“What happened? Why am I here?” Galen asked, his voice hoarse, his tongue
practically sticking to the roof of his mouth.
The man’s cold eyes narrowed. “You do not remember?”
Galen frowned. “Would I ask if I did?”
“Are you being smart with me, chico?”
Boy? Why would he call him that? It’d been twenty-plus years since he’d been
considered one, and frankly, he’d erased that time in his life.
“When can I get out of here?”
“I don’t think you will be going anywhere for some time. Murder is a serious