In the city of roses and ruins...

Remember that book I was writing back in the spring, about the timid librarian and the dashing FBI agent? The play-with-it-for-10-days-to-see-how-it-goes-book?

To refresh your memory, I wrote about it HERE and HERE.

Well, it's come full circle, back to me, and now it's coming to you!

Here's the lovely cover:

(And yes, I do think it's lovely. Some folks apparently feel the young man is a little "stiff" - someone even used the word "wooden," I'm sure quite innocently and with no intention of sexual innuendo - but I like it.)

As an aside, it can be very hard to find a royalty-free stock photo with two people who both look reasonably like the people in the book... because I do want them to look reasonably like the characters. It doesn't have to be exact, but if the girl's a blonde and the guy's dark-haired, I do prefer a blonde and a guy with dark hair on the cover. Maybe that's just me.

Carrying on: it's hard enough to find two people of the right age, with roughly the right attributes, but then they have to wear roughly the right clothes too - or clothes at all, really, since you'd be surprised how easy it is to find stock photos of naked people. This isn't that kind of book, though. There's a naked scene, sure, but it's really more a mystery or a suspense than it is a romance.

So they have to look right, they have to be dressed, and the whole atmosphere of the photograph has to be right. In this case, he's an FBI agent - hence the crisp white shirt and business slacks - and she's a librarian (with glasses), hence the timid look on her face. Finding stock photos of girls with glasses in the company of good-looking men is darn near impossible, FYI, so she's not wearing glasses, but they're in her hand. I swear.

And of course it's purple, and I love purple, so as far as I'm concerned, it's all good.

As for the story, it's 62,000 words of mystery, romance, and suspense. Here's the blurb:

A shy librarian and a dashing FBI agent must work together to catch a killer and recover a priceless silver treasure in this light and sweetly romantic suspense novel from the New York Times bestselling author of the Do It Yourself Home Renovation mysteries and the Cutthroat Business mysteries.

On the island of roses and ruins, love awaits and danger lurks.

When Annika Holst's father dies, it's up to the young librarian to carry out his last will: to take his ashes back to his hometown, medieval Visby on the Swedish island of Gotland in the Baltic Sea.

But no sooner does the plane touch down in Stockholm, than the bag with the cremains goes missing. A young American named Nick Costa comes to Annika's aid... but can she trust the handsome stranger? And what of Curt Gardiner, another young man from “back home,” also visiting his mother’s native Sweden?

To catch a murderer, recover her father’s ashes, and find a missing Viking treasure, Annika has to put her trust in one of them. But the wrong choice could mean not only the loss of her heart... but of her life as well.

Sounds good, yeah?

Just so you know, the FBI's Art Crime Team is real. This is their logo; innit pretty?

I'd have cribbed it if I could, and put it on the cover, but I didn't dare. I mean, they are the FBI, right? They probably wouldn't appreciate it. Bad enough that I've appropriated their organization; I don't have to appropriate their logo too. But this is the reason for the title, and also the series title, up there in the corner of the cover. ACT-1.

(Yes, there's a chance - a good chance - there'll be more than one ACT book. I just have to square away a few other commitments first. Like the second SFR, the seventh DIY mystery, and the sixth Cutthroat Business mystery, in roughly that order. Talk to me again in the spring.)

In the meantime, if you want to give Act of Redemption a try, you can get an eBook from Amazon, Barnes and Noble, Smashwords, or Kobo. Sony and the iBookstore will take a little longer, since they'll go through Smashwords and it can take a couple of weeks. But the book is coming there too. It's $2.99, FYI, and totally worth it, if I do say so myself.

(And yes, if enough people ask for a print version, I will absolutely put one together. Just as soon as I have a chance to breathe.)

Anyway, there you have it. If this sounds like something you'd enjoy, go forth and buy. I hope you'll like Nick and Annika!
 

#WriterWednesday - with Jamie Lee Scott

Welcome to another #WriterWednesday! 

I have a very special treat for you today, people: the wonderful Jamie Lee Scott - author, jewelry designer, horseowner, rodeo rider, restauranteur and screenwriter... and my very own critique partner!

No, I don't know how she does it all, either.

Jamie's new book, Textual Relations, second in the Gotcha Detective Agency series is just out. You can find it HERE.


Without further ado, here's Jamie:

Who Done It?

All my life I’ve loved mysteries. I read a novel in the third grade, called The Mysterious Blunder Bones, and I’ve been hooked ever since. So there was no doubt that when I became a writer, I’d write mysteries.

My process begins with an idea for a murder, the characters, and then I write an outline (fairly detailed) of the scenes that get me from beginning to the end. Herein lays the rub. Even though I have the victim, the plot, the outline, and I may even know who the killer is, the killer is never who I thought it was when I started.

Many people say they don’t outline because it kills creativity, but for me it’s just a roadmap for the story. I always make unscheduled pit stops along the way, because thoughts occur to me as I’m putting the words on the page, that didn’t occur as I was outlining.

I really hope people who read the books in my Gotcha Detective Agency Mystery series are surprised by the killer, because I usually change who it is at least three times as I’m writing. In my latest novel, Textual Relations, I changed my mind as to who the killer was just as I was writing the last chapter. Thank goodness there is such a thing as rewriting.

Yes, I know the plot, and the lay of the land, but I never know which way the characters will drag me. And it’s fun not knowing “who done it” until almost the end.

If you are a mystery writer, how do you plot your murders? As a reader, what do you expect from the mysteries you read?

* * *

A native of Northern California, Jamie was swept off her feet by a dashing farm boy and transplanted to Iowa 16 years ago. And after several years of running a restaurant with her husband, she felt the urge to kill people. I mean she decided to start writing mysteries. Let Us Prey is the first in her Gotcha Detective Agency Mysteries series, Textual Relations the second.

Jamie still lives in Iowa (though she visits California as often as possible) with her husband, 2 dogs, 2 cats and 2 horses. She writes with a view of her 6 acre farm.

Let Us Prey: Mimi Capurro is trying to put her life back together after the sudden death of her husband. Using the skills she learned as a secret service agent, she runs the Gotcha Detective Agency, along with her skilled computer forensics partner Charles Parks. Gotcha specializes in executive protection (bodyguards), and tailing cheating spouses.

Nick Christianson is running from the demons of his past, and that has put him back in his old stomping grounds in Salinas, CA. Nick has transferred from the San Francisco Homicide Division and is now adjusting to this new police department.

Mimi never expects to run into her old college flame Nick, when she takes on an executive protection case for New York Times bestselling author Lauren Silke. But when Lauren’s assistant is murdered, the homicide case, along with Mimi, land in Nick’s lap. Will Mimi and Nick be able to solve this murder without killing each other first?

Textual Relations: Mimi Capurro, owner of Gotcha Detective Agency, hasn’t seen her old college flame since they teamed up to find a killer several months earlier. Now, after breaking and entering into an alleged predator’s home, Mimi and Charles find a murder victim on the floor in his bedroom. When homicide detective Nick Christianson and his new partner, Piper Mason, arrive on the scene, this is not the way Mimi expected to see Nick again.
Even though it’s his job, Nick is loath to find the killer. That is until a teenage girl with ties to the victim disappears. Now Mimi, Nick and Charles race against the clock to find the killer and hopefully find the girl in the process.

* * *

And finally, just for you, a special excerpt from Textual Relations:

           

When I finally got out of the car, Charles stood outside

the door hand-feeding Lola her treats. As I walked up the steps,

he put his finger to his lips.

            “Huge fight going on in there. If we’re quiet, maybe we can

catch the rest before they realize everyone can hear them.”

            Charles grabbed Lola’s collar and led her into my office.

            When he came back into the kitchen, we stood quiet and

still. I knew the voices, but I’d never heard them at this

level.

            “When you make enough money to pay the mortgage and buy

food, then you can do whatever you want. But until then, you

live under my roof, and it’s my rules.” Jackie, one of my

detectives and my best friend, screamed.

            “That’s so unfair. It’s my computer.” That whining voice

belonged to Jackie’s fourteen-year-old daughter, Catey.

            “Get over it. Life is unfair,” Jackie said. Then there was

a slamming noise. “And it’s not your computer, it’s mine. I paid

for it, and I let you use it. If you don’t give me the

passwords, then you won’t be using it anymore.”

            “Fine, I don’t care. I’ll just use Amanda’s computer. Her

mom lets her have her computer in her bedroom. She’s not a

control freak like you.”

            “Well, good for Amanda, and when she starts smoking dope in

her bedroom, maybe her mom can join her.” Jackie must have stood

quickly, because I heard her chair hit the wall. “We’re done

here, young lady. Not only are you not going to have your own

computer until I have all the passwords, you’re grounded until

further notice.”

            “Until further notice?” Catey sounded flabbergasted. “You

can’t do that. You have to give me a time.”

So what are you waiting for? Go buy a copy of Textual Relations! You know you want to!

Excerpt - Close to Home

From Chapter 1 of Close to Home:

“I have a problem,” I told Dix.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” my brother answered, his voice as clear in my ear as if he were sitting right next to me instead of a couple of counties over. “What’s your problem?”

The emphasis told me I wasn’t the only one with problems. Maybe our sister Catherine had called him to moan and groan. Or maybe Todd had. Dix’s best friend, assistant D.A. Todd Satterfield, had probably called to whine about me, and about the fact that I hadn’t yet accepted his proposal of marriage.

Or maybe something was going on with Dix himself. Although what kind of problem could Dix possibly have, with his perfect wife, his perfect children, and his perfect career?

Still, I’ve been trained well. I asked. Making sure my voice was sympathetic. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing you can help me with right now. Except maybe by giving me a distraction. What sort of problem, sis?”

“I’m...” I cleared my throat, “...pregnant.”

Dix was quiet for a second. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I could have sworn I heard you say you’re pregnant.”

I didn’t answer.

“You did say you’re pregnant.”

He waited. When I still didn’t speak, he added, “Well, that did it. I’m distracted. Are you sure?”

Of course I was sure. It wasn’t the kind of thing I’d toss around if I weren’t. I’d bought six different over-the-counter pregnancy tests, all different brands, two of each so as to safeguard myself against any mistakes, and all six had come out positive, one after the other. I was definitely pregnant.

“Well, are congratulations in order?” Dix asked. “If you don’t mind my saying so, you don’t sound happy.”

“I’m not sure how I feel.” Other than scared out of my mind.

“Because of the...” he lowered his voice, “miscarriage?”

I’d had a miscarriage some three years ago, while I’d been married to Bradley Ferguson. I had told Catherine about it, and she had told mom, and at some point I guess someone had told Dix. It wasn’t me. It’s not the sort of thing you discuss with your brother. “How do you know about that?”

“Catherine told Sheila.” His voice changed subtly on his wife’s name, but I didn’t pursue it. In retrospect I realize I should have, but at the time I had other things on my mind.

“That’s part of it,” I answered. “It was not a good experience.”

Understatement of the year. Bradley and I had lasted less than two years before we called it quits, so I guess it had been for the best really, but at the time it had been difficult.

“This’ll make Todd happy, anyway,” Dix said, trying to look on the bright side. “Now you’ll have to marry him.”

I didn’t answer. Couldn’t bring myself to come right out and say it. “It isn’t Todd’s baby.”

And then I didn’t have to. When I didn’t say anything, Dix read my silence. His voice changed. “Oh, sis. What have you done?”

“Something stupid?” I don’t know why I posed it as a question. I’d been stupid, no doubt about it.

“I’d say. You slept with him? And you didn’t make sure you were protected? What were you thinking?”

“That’s kind of the problem,” I muttered. “I wasn’t.”

I’d been feeling. Needing. Enjoying. But not thinking. Too wrapped up in the moment, I hadn’t given the possibility of getting pregnant a thought until I didn’t get my period on time. And Dix was right. I’d been an idiot. It had been bad enough to sleep with Rafe in the first place, when I knew we’d never have any kind of real relationship, but to do it withoutprotection...!

“That’s obvious,” Dix said.

My voice was tiny. “So what do I do now?”

“You’re asking me?” I could picture him, running his fingers through his sandy blond hair, making it stand straight up. Fisting his hands in it in frustration and yanking. “All right. You don’t have many options that I can see. There’s not much chance you can pass this kid off as Todd’s...”

“No.” Any baby Rafe and I made would have its father’s dark hair, dark eyes, and golden skin. My blonde and blue-eyed fairness might lighten things up a little, like a liberal dash of milk in coffee, but we’re still talking café au lait, not plain vanilla. And since Todd is as fair-haired and blue-eyed as I am, there was no way we’d be able to explain something like that away. Or like he’d want to.

“God, sis,” Dix said, as if he were looking at the picture in my mind and freaking out all over again, “what were you thinking?”

The thing is, the picture was beautiful. A little baby... girl? boy?... with big dark eyes, thick black lashes, and a big toothless smile, holding on to my finger—

“Obviously marrying him is out,” Dix said, popping the bubble.

I nodded. Yes, and not only because he hadn’t asked. He probably didn’t want to. No, scratch that—he definitely didn’t want to. He’d been upfront about it. He wanted me in his bed, but he didn’t want a relationship. Not that he’d said so, but surely if he had, I would have heard something from him at least once in the past six weeks. The whole experience must not have been as mind-blowing for him as it had been for me. He’d achieved his goal of bedding Savannah Martin, and now he was on to the next woman. While I was here, barefoot—I was painting my toenails—and pregnant. Damn him.

# # #

Close to Home, the 4th Cutthroat Business mystery, is available from the following fine establishments:

AMAZON

Barnes and Noble

Smashwords

#SampleSunday - Hot Property

Here's the last little tidbit from Hot Property; Savannah is sitting her first open house since her friend Lila was murdered, and she's a mite nervous that the Open House Bandits will pay her a visit:

I was still in the kitchen, looking at my list of names, when I heard the sound of an engine pulling up outside. The oven clock said 3:50 right on the dot, and my heart started beating faster. The rumbling was replaced by silence, and then I heard the sound of heavy boots on the flagstone steps. The door knob turned just as I hurried into the front foyer. The door opened and a man came in. He was tall and dark, with broad shoulders under a black leather jacket, and long legs encased in faded denim. His skin was the color of coffee with plenty of milk, a warm golden tan, and the eyes that scanned the room before landing on me, were as dark and melting as those on a Cocker Spaniel, and surrounded by a thick fringe of long, sooty lashes. They were also rimmed by a smudgy bruise of fatigue, a mute testament to a long and mostly sleepless night. When I didn’t say anything for a second, just stared at him, he flashed a grin. “Cat got your tongue, darlin’?”

My vocal chords were galvanized into cooperating as my cheeks turned pink. “You took your time getting back to me.”

He quirked a brow. “I didn’t know you’d called.”

“I didn’t call,” I said. “I left word with Marquita.”

“I ain’t been over there for a while.” He wandered closer to me, assessing the O’Keeffe, the baby grand, and the antiques along the way. “Your kind of place, ain’t it? All this old stuff.”

I shook my head. “The house is too modern. When you grow up in an 1839 mansion on the Antebellum Trail, a brand new house, no matter how ostentatious, just doesn’t cut it.”

Rafe didn’t answer, but he smiled. I flushed, feeling stupid. He had spent his childhood in a trailer in the Bog, surrounded by leaning walls and a leaking roof, so this place probably looked like a palace.

Then again, Mrs. Jenkins’s house on Potsdam Street, where he lived now – at least from time to time – wasn’t anything to sneeze at, either. Circa 1889, it was a three-story Victorian with a ballroom on the third floor and a circular tower on the southeast corner. It needed a ton of work, some of which he had done, some which he hadn’t gotten around to yet, but it had all the personality this cookie-cutter McMansion lacked.

“So what’s been going on,” I asked, “that you haven’t been over to see your grandmother lately?”

“I spent the night with Tammy Grimaldi.” His voice was so even that it took a moment for the words to sink in. Just as the realization of what he’d said sucker-punched me in the stomach, he added, “So what is it you want, darlin’?”

“Want?” I repeated blankly.

“If you went toe to toe with Marquita, you gotta want something. What is it?”

“Oh. Right. Sorry.” I grimaced. “I wanted to tell you that Lila Vaughn was dead. But if you spent the night with Tamara Grimaldi, I guess you already know that.”

His eyes were opaque. “The subject came up, yeah.”

“Pillow talk?”

Try as I might – and I wasn’t trying that hard – my voice came out sounding snippier than I wanted it to. His lips curved.

“Never mind,” I added, with what little dignity I could muster. Goodness, how humiliating! I wouldn’t blame him for thinking I was jealous.

His voice was easy. “You’re giving me too much credit, darlin’. Women like Tammy Grimaldi don’t look twice at somebody like me.”

“You haven’t heard the way she asks questions about you,” I answered.

He laughed. “That ain’t cause she likes me, darlin’. She probably thinks I’m doing something I shouldn’t be.”

“And are you?” The words just fell out of my mouth without conscious thought, and Rafe chuckled.

“I’m sure I’m doing plenty of stuff I shouldn’t be.”

“Like what?”

“You sure you wanna know, darlin’?”

I hesitated. For just long enough to make it difficult to say yes. “You said you had things to do this afternoon,” I said instead. “What happened?”

He shrugged. “Change of plans.”

“Well, if you didn’t speak to Marquita and get my message, how did you know I wanted to talk to you?”

That was easy, he didn’t.

“So what are you doing here?” I asked.

“Maybe I just came by to pick up where we left off last week.” He grinned, and I took an immediate step back, fetching up against the nearest piece of antique furniture with a bump that sent the elegant console-table knocking against the wall. He laughed. “Relax, darlin’. After Tammy told me what’d happened to Lila, I wanted to make sure you were all right.”

“I see,” I said. “That’s really quite nice of you, to take time out to check on me. Do you want to go back to her, now that you’ve seen that I’m all right?”

He laughed. “What exactly d’you think we were doing, darlin’? I spent the night in jail. She hauled me in for questioning around 8 o’clock yesterday, kept at me till one in the morning, let me sleep for five hours, and came back to work at seven. Then we kept going in circles till one, when she finally let me leave. I had to tell her you were waiting for me before she’d let me out of her sight. She’s probably outside right now, making sure I’m doing what I said I was gonna do.”

“So you’re only here because you told her you would be?”

He shrugged, looking around. “You alone?”

“No, actually. There’s a young couple around somewhere. They went back that way, to look at the master suite...” I pointed, “it must be ten minutes ago now.”

And they hadn’t come back yet.

Maybe Gary Lee and Charlene had overheard our conversation and decided to make themselves scarce until we had finished. Or maybe they’d exited from the master suite out onto the deck, and had gone around the house to their car that way. Maybe I really was alone. Except for Rafe, who was making me feel just a touch apprehensive. “Why do you ask?”

“Just wondering. Busy day?”

“Not too bad. Seventeen visitors, eighteen with you. I’ve seen worse.”

“You sure you shouldn’t check up on your couple? If you ain’t heard a noise for ten minutes, they could be up to all sorts of trouble. Going through the medicine cabinets, pocketing the silverware, strangling one another...”

I shook my head. “They’re nice kids. Newlyweds looking for their first house. I met them two weeks ago at your grandmother’s open house, and I’ve shown them a couple of homes since then. They have another they want to see tomorrow. They’re not doing anything wrong.”

“It’s almost time to close up, though. You don’t wanna leave nobody behind.”

I glanced at my watch. “If they’re not out here in two minutes, I’ll go look for them. Just out of curiosity, why are you being so helpful? You don’t have a moving truck on standby outside, do you?”

“After what happened to Lila? No, darlin’. I ain’t that stupid.”

“Good to know,” I said, wondering whether he really had just admitted that he’d been involved in the open house robberies or if my imagination was running away with me.

“Course, if you’ve got a hankering for being tied up, I could oblige just to make you happy.”

“After what happened to Lila?” I said. “No, thanks. I’m not that stupid.”

“Good to know,” Rafe said with a grin.

# # # 

So there you have it. The last little tidbit of Hot Property, the second Cutthroat Business mystery. The book, as well as the other two, are available from Amazon, Barnes and Noble, and Smashwords for a mere $3.99. A steal, I assure you. What are you waiting for?   

Excerpt - Hot Property

From somewhere in chapter 8, I think... In the midst of sleuthing, Savannah meets a guy:

I was in the process of locking the front door of the French Chateau when a bright blue Mini Cooper with white racing stripes zipped into the driveway and stopped at the bottom of the stairs. A young man jumped out. He looked to be in his early twenties, and was devastatingly handsome, in that glossy way that soap opera actors and matinee idols (and gay Realtors) are. His skin was luminous and as poreless and smooth as a baby’s bottom, his soft, brown hair flopped over his forehead in shining waves, and his eyes were midnight blue bordering on black and surrounded by lashes almost as luxurious as Rafe’s. “Hel-lo, beautiful!” he caroled when he saw me, his teeth shining with the radiance of a toothpaste ad. I smiled politely.

“Hi.”

He stuck out a hand. “I’m Beau. The house boy.”

“The what?”

“House boy. Here.” He dug into the inside pocket of his leather jacket and pulled out a business card, which he handed to me. I caught quite a load of skin at the same time, because Beau – an awfully appropriate name, and one I doubted was legally his own; it was just too fitting – was bare-chested beneath. His jeans hung low on his hips, exposing a taut, tanned stomach and admirable musculature all the way around.

I looked away, down to the business card, blushing. Way to go, Savannah; ogle the gay guy, why don’t you?

Beau Riggins, the card said, House Cleaning, followed by a phone number. Feeling Dirty? the slogan underneath said, Call the House Boy!

“I’m sorry,” I apologized, “I’m sure you are who you say you are, but I really can’t let you into the house.”

“That’s OK, gorgeous. I’ve got my own key.” He pulled it out and dangled it in front of my face, something which necessitated another display of skin. “Mr. Givens will be here any minute himself, I’m sure. He always comes home for lunch on Mondays. To watch me work.” He winked.

“I see,” I said. “Um... not that it’s any of my business, but wouldn’t it be better to wear a uniform of some kind? What if you spill bleach on yourself or something?”

Beau ran a hand down his chest and stomach. It was as manicured as the rest of him. Whatever he was doing to the house, didn’t involve chapping his hands in hot water and ammonia. No calluses on Beau. “This is a bona fide, genuine tan, sweetie. The real thing; I was in Acapulco just two weeks ago, working on it. Bleach won’t take it off. And wearing a shirt would totally ruin everything. Nobody’s gonna pay me $100 an hour to vacuum the floors while I wear clothes.”

“You clean in the nude?” I said. “For $100 an hour?” Truthfully, I wasn’t entirely sure which was more shocking.

“I clean in a pair of Wonderjocks,” Beau corrected, unconcernedly pulling down his zipper to show them to me. They were bright blue, the same color as the car, and fit him like a second skin. The waistband identified them as Property of Australia in bright red and white letters. I stared in horrified fascination, although I still felt like I was missing something.

“I’m sorry. Wonder... what?”

“Wonderjocks,” Beau repeated, with a fond look down at them. Or himself. “They work the same way as that bra you’re wearing.” He demonstrated on his own well-developed pectorals. “The Wonderjock lifts and separates, too.”

“Lifts and separates what?” I asked. “No, don’t tell me. I don’t want to know.”

Beau grinned. “They’re wonderful, aren’t they? Boosts the appeal of even the smallest guy, and for those of us who are OK on our own, they take us out of the merely average and give us a little something extra. And $100 an hour is my starting price. It goes up from there.”

“Good Lord,” I said reverently, not quite sure whether I was reacting to Beau’s price or the briefs. They were the first pair of men’s undies I had seen since my divorce, and Bradley’s tighty whities sure hadn’t looked like this.

Beau chuckled. “I do just fine, darling. Nashville is full of rich gay men and bored housewives who’ll pay through the nose to watch me swing a feather duster. It’s a dirty job, but someone’s gotta do it.” He winked.

Just at that moment, a dark sedan pulled into the driveway and saved me the trouble of coming up with a response. A well-dressed, older man got out and came up the stairs. “Good afternoon, Beau.”

“Hi, Mr. Givens,” Beau grinned. Mr. Givens, Beau’s employer – and audience for the next hour or two – turned to me.

“Hello.” It was less a greeting than a request for me to explain who I was and what I was doing there, distracting his entertainment.

“Hi,” I said. “I’m Savannah Martin with Walker Lamont Realty. Previewing the house. I was just leaving.”

Mr. Givens nodded, but his gaze had already returned to the beautiful Beau. “Did you lose your key, Beau?”

“Not at all, Mr. Givens,” Beau said, brandishing it. Givens’s eyes glazed over at the display of skin, and Beau’s dimple made a brief appearance. “I was just shooting the breeze with Savannah. But now that you’re here, I guess I should get to work.”

Mr. Givens didn’t answer, just turned toward the front door. It was answer enough. Beau winked at me and followed.

# # #

 

There you go. The digital version of Hot Property is available from Amazon, Barnes and Noble, and Smashwords for $3.99. Enjoy!  

#SampleSunday - another tidbit from Hot Property

Here you go, a few pages from chapter 3:

3.


No sooner had I kicked my shoes off and padded into the kitchen in my stocking-feet, than there was a knock on the door. I reversed direction and unlocked the door again, wondering what Todd had forgotten to say. Had he decided to come out and propose, after all...?

“What did you...? Oh!”

“Evening, darlin’.”

The man outside lacked Todd’s all-American, clean-cut good looks, as well as his $500 suit and his impeccable manners. Instead of waiting for me to invite him in, he sauntered across the threshold, brushing against me on the way. Not by accident. I glanced out into the hallway – no sign of Todd – before I followed. “Come in. Make yourself at home.”

To my dismay, my heart was thumping a little faster than usual. I was nervous, and not looking forward to teasing answers to my questions out of him, although I can’t say I was terribly surprised to see him. I had called him, after all, and it wasn’t the first time he’d shown up unannounced on my doormat.

He stopped in the door to the living room and turned to face me. “Thought I already did. Hot date?”

“Dinner with Todd.”

Out of my customary high heels, he seemed even taller than usual. I folded my arms across my chest. It was a reflex, although in my more lucid moments I wasn’t entirely certain whether I was trying to prevent him from seeing into my cleavage or if it was more of a defense mechanism against the man in general, emotionally as well as physically.

He nodded. “Saw you drive up. Thought maybe he’d be staying the night.”

“I didn’t see you,” I said, diverted. He shrugged. “No, he won’t spend the night. I let him walk me to the door and I kissed him goodnight, but that’s it. My mother always told me a man won’t pay for the cow if he can get the milk for free.”

Rafe grinned, white teeth flashing. “So you’ll kiss Satterfield, but you won’t kiss me?”

So much for pretending last week’s kiss had never happened... “I kissed you. Or let you kiss me, which comes to the same thing.”

He shook his head. “No, it don’t. I’ll show you the difference, if you like.”

I stepped back, out of reach. “Some other time.”

He grinned, but let it go. “So what can I do for you, darlin’?”

“Oh. Um… Right. I called you, didn’t I? I’m never quite sure whether my messages are going to get to you or not. Sometimes you call back, sometimes you don’t, and whoever answers the phone – Wendell, isn’t it? – never answers it the same way twice. First it was a car lot, then a pawn shop, and today he said it was a storage place. The only consistent thing he says is that you’re not there.” I realized I was babbling, postponing the inevitable, and I reined myself in. “I wanted to ask you something. Do you want to sit down?”

He quirked a brow – usually I was trying to get him out, not in – but he didn’t comment. “Sure.”

“The living room is through there.” I pointed. “Can I get you anything? Milk, water, sweet tea?”

“Beer?”

“Sorry. Although I think I may have half a bottle of Chardonnay somewhere...” I looked around vaguely.

“I ain’t that big on wine. But I’ll take a glass of tea, if it ain’t too much trouble.”

“Coming right up.” I walked into the kitchen while he headed for the living room. A minute later, when I entered with two glasses of sweet – iced – tea on a tray, I found him not on the sofa, where I’d expected to see him, nor by the balcony doors, looking out at the view – my second guess – but lounging in the doorway to the bedroom, assessing my queen sized bed with an experienced eye. And why I had expected anything different, I don’t know. Nevertheless, I stopped as if I’d hit an invisible wall, and blushed. One corner of his mouth curled up, but he didn’t speak.

I prodded myself into moving, and put the tray down on the coffee table. “Here you go. It’s just instant; I didn’t have time to brew fresh.”

“You’re slipping, darlin’. What’d your mama say?” He removed himself from the door and came around the sofa to retrieve his glass. I did my best to avoid touching him when I handed it over, but without success. His fingertips brushed my knuckles, and I’m not willing to swear it wasn’t intentional. Rafe’s got the kind of in-your-face sex appeal that a lot of women – and Tim – seem to like, and although I’ve been brought up to value old-fashioned manners and decorum, I’m not entirely dead below the neck, either. Especially as he doesn’t scruple to turn the setting up to scorching hot every time he sees me.

“Cheers.” He lifted his glass. I did the same, without thinking. “To us.”

He drank. I hesitated, and then took a small sip from my own glass. It was just a toast, and joining in it didn’t mean that I acknowledged that there would ever be an ‘us.’

“So what do you need?” He put the glass down on the table and himself on the sofa, where he leaned back comfortably. He was wearing jeans tonight, and a black T-shirt that molded to his chest and upper arms. I turned away to sit down in a chair, before he could catch me looking. He added, with a grin, “You got someplace you need me to break into for you? Or somebody I can beat some answers out of?”

Recently, we had broken into a storage unit together, in the process of trying to discover who had murdered my two coworkers Brenda Puckett and Clarice Webb, and we had also persuaded a young man to come clean about finding Brenda’s dead body and not calling the authorities. Rafe hadn’t had to do any actual beating, but the way he had loomed over the youth, cowing him with his six feet three inches and 195 pounds of solid muscle, not to mention the demeanor he had developed in two years behind bars, hadn’t hurt. Nineteen-year-old Maurice Washington had sung like the proverbial nightingale.

I shook my head. “I know how much you enjoy doing that sort of thing, but this time, you can give me the answers I need yourself.”

“Shoot.” He lifted the glass and took another long draught of iced tea, throat moving smoothly as he swallowed. I wasn’t sure whether the word was an invitation to ask what I wanted, or a reaction to hearing that there was nothing macho and illegal for him to do.

“Do you know anything about these open house robberies that have been going on for the past two weekends?”

He put the glass down, and I thought there was a watchful look in the depths of his eyes, but it was hard to be sure. They’re so dark as to be almost black, and he’s learned to hide his feelings and reactions almost too well. “Why?”

“Tim has asked me to host an open house for him this Sunday.”

“Yeah? Where?”

I shrugged. I hadn’t been paying attention when Tim went over the details on Monday. “Some million-dollar McMansion in Brentwood somewhere.”

“Better be careful then, darlin’.” Rafe picked the glass up and took another swig. The ice cubes jingled when he put it down on the table again, empty. “So you want me to get you some protection? Gun? Knife? Something untraceable, in case you have to use it?”

“Lord, no!” I moderated my voice. “I’m not going to walk around with a gun in my handbag, thanks all the same. I thought about it after Walker tried to kill me, yes, but I’ve decided I’m just not comfortable carrying a weapon. More tea?”

“Not right now. You’d be more comfortable once you got used to using it.”

“What makes you think I’d want to be comfortable using it? Deliberately shooting someone, or sticking a knife into them? No, thanks. I don’t think I have it in me.”

“If you had to, you could,” Rafe said, in a weird echo of Detective Grimaldi’s statement from earlier in the week.

I shrugged. “I appreciate the offer, but no. I don’t suppose you’d be willing to give me some... um... personal protection? Stay with me during the open house, just to make sure nothing happens?”

“Guard your body?” He grinned, letting his eyes wander over it. I compressed my lips and willed the incipient blush to stay where it was. “You sure your body’d be safe with me, darlin’?”

I hesitated. “I’d trust you to protect it from someone else coming at it with a knife or a gun.” Although not necessarily from himself. But if we were in someone else’s house, surely I’d be safe. “And I’d be happy to pay you for your time, if you’d like.”

“With your body?”

“No! Don’t you ever think about anything else?”

“I’m a man,” Rafe said, as if that was an explanation. Maybe it was. “It’s a tempting offer, darlin’, but I’ve got plans for Sunday afternoon.”

I’d been afraid he’d say that.

# # #

 

So there you have it. the electronic version of Hot Property is available for sale from Amazon, from Barnes and Noble, and from Smashwords, for $3.99. A steal, I assure you!

#SampleSunday - Hot Property

Here you go: the first four pages of Hot Property, Cutthroat Business mystery #2, for your enjoyment:

1.

The first open house robbery took place on the second Sunday in August, just at the time I was busy apprehending a murderer.

Before I go any further, I guess I should make it clear that I’m not actually in the business of law enforcement. Walker Lamont was the first, and I sincerely hope the last, murderer I’ll encounter.

My name is Savannah Martin, and what I am, is a Realtor. Walker was my boss. Up until the moment I happened to be standing next to him when he came face to face with someone who could put him in the wrong place at the wrong time, we’d had a very good relationship, and I’m sure he meant it sincerely when he apologized for having to kill me.

But I digress. As I was pushing the business end of a lipstick into Walker’s back, trying to make him believe it was a gun, another Realtor – Kieran Greene with RE/MAX – was being gagged and tied to a chair on the other side of town. After he was safely trussed, four masked men proceeded to strip the house of anything of value and cart it off in a rented moving van, leaving Kieran sitting in the kitchen waiting to be rescued.

The incident made the news, but was treated as sort of a sidebar to Walker’s arrest. Violence against Realtors, Part II. Poor Kieran’s ordeal was buried on page 4 of the Nashville Banner and received scant attention from anyone. It wasn’t until the next Sunday, when the same thing happened again, that the real estate community sat up and took notice.

The first I heard of this second robbery was at the weekly staff meeting on Monday morning. With Walker in jail, Timothy Briggs had taken over as managing broker of Walker Lamont Realty, and he was the one who brought it up. “Before we talk about holding open houses next weekend,” he said, leaning back in Walker’s leather chair and folding his manicured hands across his flat stomach, “I guess we should discuss what happened yesterday. I assume you’ve all heard the news?”

He looked around the table, his baby-blue eyes bright.

I raised my hand. “I haven’t. What happened yesterday?”

“Oh, Savannah, it was just awful!” Heidi Hoppenfeldt was busy chomping her way through the three dozen donuts Tim had brought in for us to share, and when she spoke, a fine spray of crumbs arched out of her mouth and landed on her ample bosom. She was on the other side of the table from me, so I wasn’t hit, but the people on either side of her leaned away.

“What’s awful?” I said. And added, mentally, “apart from Heidi’s table manners.”

Tim smirked. “Didn’t you catch the news last night, darling? My goodness, you must have had a busy day. It was on the five o’clock, six o’clock, nine o’clock and ten o’clock news!”

“I was in Sweetwater this weekend,” I said. Sweetwater is my hometown, a small place an hour or so south of Nashville. My mother and my two siblings live there, along with their spouses and children, my aunt Regina, and various old friends and acquaintances. “I had dinner with a friend before I drove back, so I didn’t get home until after eleven. And I didn’t listen to the radio in the car.”

Tim smacked his lips appreciatively. “And how is the scrumptious Mr. Collier?”

A few of the girls and the other (gay) guys tittered. Tim has an outspoken and unrequited crush on Rafael Collier, who’s an old acquaintance of mine, also from Sweetwater. Rafe isn’t gay – not by any stretch of the imagination – but Tim likes to dream.

“He’s fine,” I said repressively.

“He certainly is,” Tim agreed, with a saucy grin.

I rolled my eyes. “You know what I mean. I haven’t seen him for a few days, but he seemed all right on Thursday. And we’re not dating.”

“You were dating last weekend at Fidelio’s,” Tim pointed out. A whisper, like a breath of wind through stiff grass, spread around the table. Fidelio’s is one of the nicest (and most expensive) restaurants in Nashville; the sort of place where country music stars dine and normal people can only afford to go on special occasions. It’s not the kind of place one takes a casual acquaintance, unless one has serious designs on her. Which Rafe does. (He wants to sleep with me. And he hasn’t made any secret of it, so I don’t see why I should.) But if he had thought that wining and dining me at Fidelio’s would make me give in to his predatory charms, he must have been disappointed. He didn’t get so much as a goodnight kiss when he brought me home, although I’d wager that my near-faint when he suggested it may have been almost as gratifying to his undeniable ego.

“It was a business dinner,” I said firmly. “And it’s none of your concern. Yesterday I had dinner with someone else. Someone you haven’t met.”

“You get around, don’t you, darling?” Tim smirked.

I narrowed my eyes. Tim added, “Well, since you missed the news... There was another open house robbery yesterday.”

I blinked. “Like the one last week? When the owners came home and found their Realtor bound and gagged in the kitchen?”

Tim nodded. “Poor Kieran. He’ll never be the same.” He clicked his tongue sympathetically and then brightened. “This time the Realtor was Lila Vaughn, with Worthington Properties.”

I must have made a noise, for he added, “Do you know her?”

I nodded. “I took real estate classes with Lila Vaughn. We got together for lunch less than two weeks ago.” Just after the ordeal with Walker, in fact. She’d wanted to hear the scoop.

“I saw her on the news yesterday,” Heidi mumbled, spraying another shower of crumbs across the table. The donut box was slowly emptying out.

“They interviewed her?” That sounded like Lila. She was an aggressive go-getter, willing to do pretty much whatever it took to get ahead, and she probably considered the news coverage free advertising. I could easily see her pushing through any fear or discomfort she was feeling to get her face on TV. She’d exhorted me to do the same thing last time we spoke, and to take advantage of the media circus surrounding Walker’s arrest.

Heidi nodded. “Black girl, pretty, with long, curly hair.”

“That’s her. What happened?” I looked around the table.

“The same thing as last time,” Tim said. “Just before the open house was over, a group of men showed up. They tied Lila to a chair and spent twenty or thirty minutes carrying everything of value out of the house. Electronics, jewelry, rugs, paintings. The house was full and they got it all.”

“Was Lila hurt?”

Tim shrugged. “The news didn’t say. The owners found her when they came home later.”

“Gosh,” I said, “she must have been terrified.”

We all thought about Lila’s ordeal and – I’m sure – thanked God it had happened to her and not to us.

“In light of all this,” Tim broke the silence, “those of you with open houses scheduled for this weekend may want to take some extra precautions. Get a friend to come with you so you don’t have to be alone. Keep the doors locked between visitors, or stay on the porch or outside in the yard where people can see you. Arrange to call a friend every fifteen minutes. You know, all the usual things.”

“The same things my daddy told me when I was sixteen and started dating,” one of the women said with a grin.

Tim nodded. “And that reminds me... Savannah, I can usually count on you to host an open house for me, but if you’d rather not, under the circumstances...” He let the sentence trail off suggestively. I grimaced. At the last open house I hosted, someone had tried to kill me, which didn’t make me particularly eager to try again. Until the open house robbers were caught, I’d just as soon not tempt fate.

However, I couldn’t in good conscience say no. Tim was, for all intents and purposes, my boss, now that Walker was languishing in jail, and although he couldn’t really order me to do anything – like all Realtors, I’m an independent contractor and responsible only to myself – I didn’t think it would go over very well to refuse. In my roughly eight weeks on the job, I hadn’t brought in so much as a dime in commissions.

“Sure. I’m happy to help.” I don’t think I sounded happy, but I got the words out.

“Excellent.” Tim showed all his capped teeth in a blinding smile. The conversation went on to the houses he and the others wanted to hold open next weekend, and I tuned out while I let my mind wander.

Poor Lila, what a horrible thing to have happen. She wasn’t the most delicate of women, bless her heart – not by a long shot – but still, surely something like this would be enough to put the wind up anyone. I’d had to deal with some scary stuff myself in the past few weeks, and I was becoming quite an expert on heart-stopping terror. I should definitely give her a call to commiserate, once the meeting was over. IfI scraped the bottom of my purse, I could come up with enough change to pay for lunch.

“Does that sound OK, Savannah?” Tim’s voice said. I nodded vaguely. “I’ll put you down for that, then. Thank you.”

“No problem.” I had no idea what I’d just agreed to do, but I wasn’t willing to admit I hadn’t been paying attention by asking him to repeat it. I’d figure it out later.

Tim giggled. “If you’re worried, maybe you should ask Mr. Collier to keep you company. He looks like he’d be able to handle any number of robbers.”

Rafe would be more likely to be aiding and abetting them, but I didn’t say so. “I’ll keep the suggestion in mind,” I said instead, cooly.

“Do that, darling. And if you don’t, maybe I’ll ask him to guard my body instead.” Tim tittered.

I rolled my eyes. “Don’t be surprised if you find yourself tied to a chair, in that case.”

“Darling!” Tim bleated, seemingly overcome with emotion. He fanned himself with a limp hand as the rest of the room laughed. I blushed.

# # #

 

Look for Hot Property at an e-book retailer near you in the next few days. It should be available on Amazon, B&N and Smashwords around the 1st of June.  

#SampleSunday - A Cutthroat Business

Last year sometime, I went to a book club meeting with a bunch of ladies from Hillwood Presbyterian Church, who had been reading A Cutthroat Business for their selection that month. (Thanks again, Carmen!) One of them, a sweet little blue-hair in her sixties, made me mark this section of her book and autograph it, since she thought the sexual tension in this certain paragraph (below) was the best part of the entire story. Enjoy!


Rafe shrugged. “Can’t fault a man for looking.”

“I can,” I said.

He grinned. “That why you’re wearing those clothes? So I wouldn’t look?”

I opened my mouth, but before I could deny that such a thought had crossed my mind, the waiter appeared. He whisked Rafe’s plate away. I gave him mine, too. I’d eaten as much as I decently could without looking like a glutton.

“Would sir and madam like some dessert?”

He looked from one to the other of us. Rafe turned to me, questioningly. I shook my head. “None for me, thanks. Though you may want to try the chocolate raspberry cheesecake. Todd had it yesterday, and it looked good.”

He nodded. “One of them, then.”

I added, “And some coffee, please. Black.”

The waiter took himself and our used plates off, and Rafe returned his attention to me. An arched brow invited me to pick up where I’d left off. I said, reluctantly, “As a matter of fact, Todd asked me not to wear anything revealing.”

“You told him about tonight? Afraid you wouldn’t make it back home again?”

I shook my head. “It was yesterday. Last night, after you left. He said he didn’t like the way you looked at me, and would I please not wear anything provocative in front of you again.“

“You think he’d approve of that getup?” His eyes wandered over me, what he could see above the table.

“It’s not provocative,” I said.

He grinned. “That depends, darlin’.”

“On what?” What was provocative about a long sleeved, primly buttoned blouse and a chignon so severe my eyebrows were elevated, for goodness’ sake?

“I s’pose on what’s underneath. And what it’d take for someone to get to it.”

He smiled, but the eyes that met mine were intent. I opened my mouth, but found I had no words. Rafe didn’t speak, either. Leisurely, his gaze snagged on my lips for a moment before moving south. As the seconds ticked by, the curve of his mouth softened and his eyes turned hot. I had a hard time catching my breath. I felt the way you do when you jump into cool lakewater and all the air gets slammed out of your lungs. I couldn’t breathe, I couldn’t think, and for the life of me, I couldn’t look away. The sounds around me receded, until all I could hear was a faint buzzing, as if from a bumblebee trapped in a jam-jar. The drumming of my own heartbeat sounded uncomfortably loud in my ears.

The return of the waiter broke the spell, and I accepted my cup of coffee with hands that weren’t entirely steady. My voice wasn’t, either. “I don’t know why I ordered this. Could I have a glass of water, please? With ice?”

The waiter didn’t react, but of course Rafe did. “Have the cheesecake, too, darlin’. You look hungry.”

A choking noise came from the table next to us, and one of the women buried her face in her napkin. I opened my mouth to protest, but the waiter was already lowering the plate, and I didn’t want to argue in front of him. I waited until he was out of earshot before I hissed, “I told you I didn’t want any dessert.”

“That was before,” Rafe said.

“Before what?”

“Before I got you so hot and bothered you ordered ice water to cool down.”

“I am not hot and bothered!” I denied. “And I don’t want any cheesecake.” I pushed the plate away. For what might have been the first time in my life, cheesecake held absolutely no appeal.

# # #

 

So there you have it. A #SampleSunday excerpt from A Cutthroat Business. How did you like the super-sexy paragraph? (If that guy was looking at me, I might feel the need for a little ice water myself. Just sayin'...)

 

Check back next week for another #SampleSunday snippet. I think I might throw up a little teaser for Hot Property, Cutthroat Business Mystery #2, coming soon to a Kindle (or Nook) near you!

Folk Victorian

Pale green in color, with gleaming white gingerbread trim, and surrounded by velvety grass and masses and masses of flowers, the house we were visiting was another impressive Victorian confection, such as I envisioned Aunt Inga’s house might one day look like. The doorbell rang with a somber, tolling sound that reverberated in the recesses of the house. A few seconds later the heavy door opened.


Waterfield’s doctor was a good-looking older man, with graying hair cut short, and a friendly, open face with round glasses. He was casually dressed, in wrinkled khakis and a faded blue golf shirt with a crocodile on the pocket. A napkin tucked under his collar was stained with yellow. He had a fork in one hand, and when he saw us, his brows crawled up his high forehead like caterpillars. “Derek. Good morning, son. What’s going on?”

“Morning, sir,” Derek said, not waiting for an invitation, but walking right in. “This is Avery Baker. I’m helping her renovate her Aunt Inga’s house over on Bayberry. I found her looking like this when I came to work this morning.”

“Oh, dear.” The doctor looked around for somewhere to deposit his fork, and ended up putting it on what was either an outstanding reproduction or a genuine mahogany veneered Hepplewhite sideboard standing in the hallway. Philippe would have been drooling. “You’d better put her in the parlor.”

He stepped out of the way. Derek headed into a room on the left with the doctor following. “On the couch, please.”

The ‘couch’ was a pristine example of a 1770s Federal style straight-back sofa upholstered in yellow damask. It might even have been a Sheraton. Again, Philippe’s mouth would have watered, and he would surely not have approved of the way Derek unceremoniously dropped me onto the old seat. The doctor, whose sofa it was, didn’t turn a hair.

# # #

That's Avery's first meeting with Dr. Ben Ellis, Derek's dad, and his Folk Victorian cottage.

The Folk Victorian has a much simpler design than the ornate Second Empire Victorian or the Queen Anne. The classic Victorian styles (Gothic Revival, Italianate, Second Empire, Stick Style, Romanesque Revival, and Shingle Style) were created by professional architects, and were built mostly by the well-to-do. But the lower reaches of the middle class shared the same Victorian urge to live in a fashionable house, and if they couldn't afford a professional architect, they could design the house themselves, or have a local carpenter do it. The design was likely to be an unprofessional but possibly still charming pastiche, including elements of styles that were still currently fashionable among the upper crust, and elements of styles that definitely were not. Also, the house would naturally tend to be smaller and plainer than what the wealthy could afford.

Many Folk Victorian houses were adorned with flat, jigsaw cut trim in a variety of patterns, or with spindles and gingerbread trim borrowed from the Carpenter Gothic. Some Folk Victorian homes may suggest Queen Anne architecture.

The exact division between Queen Anne and Folk Victorian is fuzzy, considering how many of the smaller Queen Annes were hodge-podged together by local carpenters, rather than designed by architects. But Folk Victorians were being built long before the Queen Anne style appeared on the scene, and in any case, it is still useful to make a rough distinction between the more expensive, very elaborate, architect-designed Victorians (Queen Anne) and their less-expensive, plainer, carpenter-designed cousins (Folk Victorian).

So there you have it, folks. Folk Victorian 101.

Till next time. Cheers!

Excerpt - A Cutthroat Business

For your delectation, here are a few words from Chapter 4 of A Cutthroat Business:

Rafe had been correct when he told me that I probably hadn’t come down his way a lot growing up. I’d never been to the area known as the Bog, but I knew where to find it: on the other side of Sweetwater from the Martin plantation. We’re on the north, or Columbia side; they’re on the southern road to Pulaski. And if the town of Pulaski sounds familiar to anyone, it’s probably because it was the birthplace of the Ku Klux Klan. We have so much to be proud of here in middle Tennessee.

I’d driven past the Bog before, looking through the windows of dad’s Cadillac, but this was the first time I’d turned off from the highway onto the rutted one-lane track leading down through the trees.

For all that it’s in the South, Tennessee is not like Louisiana or Mississippi. We’re a rocky state, for the most part. Even in the flatter areas, there isn’t much in the way of wetlands. The Bog was not actually a bog, just a rather dank and dismal place. A small creek — or crick, as we say in these parts — ran through it, a tiny branch of the Duck River. But where it could have been picturesque and pretty, it was just sluggish and muddy brown. It looked unhealthy, like it was carrying disease. A half dozen rusted trailers — mobile homes in my new, professional lingo — were scattered through the spindly trees, and a few shacks squatted here and there among them. Clapboard shacks, low-slung and dilapidated, with leaking roofs and leaning walls. The few cars were American, old and rusted; some had missing parts or sat on cinderblocks, and none looked like they had been driven in the last few years. My immaculate Volvo — the only thing I had gotten in settlement after my short-lived marriage to Bradley Ferguson, aside from the chunk of change that was currently evaporating out of my savings account with every month that went by — was as out of place here as a prize brood mare among mules.

I turned off the engine and got out. The slam of the car door sounded very loud in the silence. And it was very silent here. No birds singing, no children playing, no conversations or music. The brook didn’t even babble. Very quiet.

Maybe too quiet, as they say in the movies. But I was here, so I looked around anyway. There were no names or numbers anywhere, or for that matter any mailboxes. Nothing to indicate in which of these depressing shacks LaDonna Collier had lived and died. If these people ever got mail, it must all arrive together in the big box up on the main road, and be distributed once someone had carried it all down here. Every place looked deserted, and just as neglected and derelict as the next. There was no sign of life, and no one I could ask directions of.

Just for kicks, since I was here anyway, I made my way over to the nearest of the shacks and peered through its dirty window. The interior was empty, save for some debris on the floor. Wire-hangers, crumpled papers, roach motels. It didn’t look as if anyone had lived there for a while.

Stepping carefully around broken bottles, crumpled beer cans and twigs, I moved to the next home. It was empty, too. Mother was right; people had been deserting the Bog like rats fleeing a sinking ship. There was nothing for me to do here but to go home. I turned on my heel to go back to the car, and stopped with a gasp.

He had moved so quietly through the dry grass that I hadn’t heard him, and now he stood between me and the Volvo. For a second, with the sun in my eyes, all I could see was a tall, dark figure, and I recoiled.

He didn’t move. Not when I stumbled back, not when the heel of my insensible shoe got caught in a snake hole, and not when I ended up on my derriere on the dusty ground, with my skirt twisted around my hips and my thighs on display. The only thing that moved was his eyes, from my face to my feet and back, with insolent appreciation.

“Didn’t your mama teach you better manners?” I inquired coldly, in spite of my burning cheeks. The tiny smile on his lips transformed into a full fledged, dangerous grin.

“Hell, no. My mama always said, grab what you can get, ‘cause it’ll be gone afore you know it.”

He held out a hand. I hesitated, trying to remember whether anyone had ever said anything about Rafe Collier being in the habit of forcing himself on women.

“Or you can stay there,” he added, pointedly. I took the hand and let him haul me to my feet. We stood contemplating one another in silence for a moment.

“Are you following me?” I asked, finally.

“Why’d I be following you? This is my place.”

“I thought you were in Nashville,” I said.

“I thought you were in Nashville.”

“It’s my mother’s birthday. I came down for the party.”

He didn’t answer. After a second I added, awkwardly, “I heard about what happened to your mother. I’m sorry.”

“So you came to offer your condolences?” His voice was dry.

I shrugged. It wasn’t as if I could tell him that I had come to the Bog out of idle curiosity, because I wondered if there might be a connection between LaDonna’s death and Brenda Puckett’s murder.

In the silence that followed, the sound of a car engine, backfiring badly, came closer. Turning, I could see an older model Chevy come bumping down the track. It stopped a few feet away, and the driver’s side door opened with a screech. An African-American woman shoehorned herself out from behind the steering wheel and waddled toward us.

She was about my height and age, and approximately three times my weight. Her breasts were the size of watermelons and she had a behind you could have left a tray of drinks on, with no worries that they’d spill. All of her was poured into a hot pink spandex dress with spaghetti straps, which must have been made for a woman half her size. Her hair was bleached yellow and curled into big, fat sausage curls, and her lips were painted a deep cherry red. She looked like a black drag-queen parody of Shirley Temple. Her eyes were small and half buried in fat, but she managed to give me a dirty look anyway, before turning to Rafe. “Who she?”

He opened his mouth, but I intercepted him. “I’m Savannah Martin. Who are you?”

She didn’t answer, nor give any indication of having heard me. “What you bring her here for?”

“He didn’t bring me,” I said. “I came on my own.”

“What you want with a skinny white chick like that? When you can have Marquita?”

She balanced her weight precariously on one foot and thrust the other ample hip out.

I hid a smile. “You know, I’m going to go. I can see you’ve got your hands full here, Rafe.”

I gave him a patronizing pat on the arm. The muscles under the golden skin were as hard as granite. He cut his eyes to me, but didn’t say a word. Marquita growled deep in her throat, like a Rottweiler. I found myself moving a little faster than usual as I headed for my car.

# # #

 

If this sounds like something you'd like, the ebook is available from the following outlets:

 

AMAZON

 

Barnes and Noble

 

Smashwords

Houses, Hunks, and Whodunit - Part 2

Since I talked about houses last time - specifically, Aunt Inga's house, or more accurately, the Second Empire Victorian - I guess it's time for hunks. Or more specifically, one hunk. This one:

I know. Yum, right?

His name is O.T. Fagbenle - also known as OT or O-T - and he's a British-Nigerian actor. In addition to acting, he sings, and he also writes music. And did I mention yummy?

Anyway, he can do an American accent. I saw him in Masterpiece Theatre's Miss Marple, By the Pricking of My Thumbs, and he played an American GI. And I have decided that if anyone ever - or in the next two years or so, before he gets too old - decides to make a movie out of A Cutthroat Business, he's who I want to play Rafe. Just check it out:

It took me four minutes longer than the fifteen I had promised before I could pull my pale-blue Volvo — the safest car on the road — to a stop behind the sleek, black Harley-Davidson waiting in the circular driveway. The man straddling the seat matched the motorcycle: dark, muscular, and more than a little dangerous. The T-shirt might as well have been painted on for all that it left to the imagination, and the tattoo peeking from under the left sleeve looked like the tail end of a viper curled around his bicep.

I hesitated before I opened the car door. Real estate can be a scary business on occasion. Those of us who are involved in it advertise our faces and phone numbers all over town, then agree to meet total strangers who call, claiming to want to see an empty house somewhere. Often in an area that isn’t the best, like the one I found myself in now. Sometimes — rarely, but it happens — one of us gets attacked. And there was something about this man that suggested that I ought to step carefully. So I did, both because it seemed prudent and because the gravel was difficult to navigate on three inch heels. “Sorry I’m late. I’m Savannah Martin..."

And then I stopped — dead, if you’ll pardon the pun — when he removed the mirrored sunglasses and I met his eyes.

They were as dark as those on a Jersey cow, and surrounded by long, thick, curving eyelashes. There’s nothing wrong with my lashes — nothing a liberal application of make-up can’t correct, at any rate — but I would have sold my soul to possess his. He could hawk mascara for Maybelline with those lashes. Not that that was the reason I was staring.

“Struck speechless by my good looks, darlin’?” His voice was amused.

“Sorry,” I managed, fighting back a blush. How mortifying, to be caught staring! “For a second there you looked familiar, but...”

“You ain’t never forgotten me?” He grinned. White teeth flashed against golden skin, and a ghostly memory stirred, like an alligator in a swamp, but it subsided without breaking the surface.

“Um...” I said, distracted. The grin widened wickedly.

When a few seconds passed while I didn’t say anything else, he added, “Been back to Sweetwater lately?”

So he was from back home. Well, it made sense. The drawl, slow as molasses, was pure South, and he wasn’t someone I had met recently, or I would have remembered.

“A few weeks ago,” I said slowly, running mental mug shots past my inner eye. “You?”

“That’d be telling.” Another grin curved his lips and the alligator stirred again. I concentrated, and almost had it, but just as I was about to reach out and grasp it, it slipped through my fingers once more.

You couldn’t give me a hint, could you?”

I smiled hopefully. He contemplated me in silence for a few seconds before he said accommodatingly, “Sure. Columbia High.”

I nodded. Of course. He was someone I had gone to high school with. That explained it. Long enough ago that I wouldn’t necessarily remember him right off; not so long ago that I had forgotten entirely. But there had been hundreds of students in my high school, from all over Maury County and beyond. How in the world did he expect me to recognize him after all this time...?

And then the brick dropped, or the alligator reared, or whatever. I jumped back. “Oh, my God! Rafael Collier. You’re...”

“Guilty as charged.” He made a little mocking half-bow. His voice was pleasant, but his eyes were anything but. They had turned as black as the motorcycle he’d been riding, and approximately twice as hard. I swallowed and opened my mouth. And put my foot in it.

“I thought you went to prison.”

He lifted an eyebrow. Just one; the other didn’t move so much as a fraction of an inch. “That was twelve years ago, darlin’. I got out.”

Obviously. I swallowed again and took another step back.

# # #

 

So what do you think? Does he look like Rafe or not? And if you don't think so, who do you think would do a better job?