Book: Fake

Series: The London Series

Author: D.Breeze

Genre: Erotic / Contemporary Romance

Hosted BY: Francessca’s Romance Reviews


Synopsis 

*Can be read as a standalone*

She never wanted for anything. Beautiful, spoilt, loved.
Lydia Romero thought she had a taste of the good life - but do you really know any different as a child?
Looks can be deceiving.
When her world changes and everything she thought she knew turns out to be a lie, she makes a decision that changes the course of her life for good. 

Ruben Brent is her soul-mate. 
He’s the envy of every guy he meets and the crush of every woman, but his heart only belongs to one – Lydia Romero. 
She’s the most beautiful girl he has ever laid eyes on, and he’s been in love with her since they were kids.
But it all started with a lie.
And now he can’t escape the web of deception he’s weaved. 

Two lives.
Two hearts.
One huge mistake.

Add To Goodreads - https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/24845014-fake?ac=1

 Purchase Links
Amazon UK – http://amzn.to/1czlNZp

Amazon USA – http://amzn.to/1IfTZol

 About The Author
 Danielle Breeze, twenty-five but some days I feel forty! I have two beautiful young children (makes finding the time to write challenging to say the least!) Born and raised in Coventry, England – don’t think I’d ever really have leave here because I'm a home-bird! I’m a romantic at heart, love a happy ending and I’ve been known to make up my own endings in my head to other books if I didn’t agree with theirs!

I have always read books, magazines...the back of the shampoo bottle...ANYTHING I could, since I’ve been able to form words! 
I wanted to write my own books for as long as I can remember, scribbling little pieces down when I was younger, anything to get my ideas out! I was at university when I decided I was going to stop wanting to do it, and actually do it! I have plenty of different works in the pipeline, so I hope you enjoy them as much as I do! X

 

Stalker Links:
Facebook – https://www.facebook.com/AuthorDBreeze?fref=ts

Twitter – https://twitter.com/AuthorDBreeze

Goodreads – https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/7215371.D_Breeze

Website - http://www.authordbreeze.com/about-me.html

 

Other Books in the Series

 Surreptitious (London Book 1)

Amazon UK – http://amzn.to/1FvZPPi

Amazon USA – http://amzn.to/1Fx29Ex

 Resist (London Book 2)

 Amazon UK – http://amzn.to/1APy87o

Amazon USA – http://amzn.to/1Fw00tK

What is a classic book? Usually, it is something assigned back when you were in school. Sometimes, it’s a currently banned book. Other times, it may be a well-loved favorite. It doesn’t matter if it is the well-known To Kill A Mockingbird or the lesser known, A Tree Grows in Brooklyn. A classic book allows us to enter a different time, a society very different from our own. For a few hours, we live in this foreign world, make friends with the residents, and learn their stories. We are changed from the experience. What happens when people decide the classic tales are no longer needed or appropriate?

Too often, we assume everyone is just like us or even that our grandparents live similar lives to ours. Books capture the culture of that time. Sister Carrie tells us the desperate plight of an Indiana farm girl who headed to the big city at the turn of the century.  While it is a depressing tale, it makes me understand why my grandmother would agree to an arranged marriage.

I grew up in a household with enough to eat and hunger never existed as part of my history. It would be difficult for me to understand the trial of gathering food for the day or the guilt of not being able to provide for their children. Angela’s Ashes, A Tree Grows in Brooklyn, and even to a lesser degree, Gone With The Wind provided me with scenarios where the lack of food propelled the female characters to desperate measures. It enlarged my sense of compassion past my small circle of friends and family.

One library I visited recently was throwing out The Little House on the Prairie series due to the father being prejudiced against Native Americans. Many people were in that time period. Would it be better to misrepresent the entire time period? I’m not sure how that would be beneficial to anyone.  I do understand teachers avoiding books that could be controversial in an effort not to offend anyone.

It reminded me a bit of the playground. The traditional playground had monkey bars, slides, swings and see-saws that children were sometimes hurt on. The merry-go-arounds, which were often the most fun, were the first casualty. The monkey bars came next, often replaced by a low climbing mound or a metal truck kids could pretend to drive. The see-saws saw a modulation that resulted in limited movement no matter how many kids weighted down each side. Even with all this caution, schools still somehow ended up being liable for any playground mishap. Children bore no personal responsibilty for their own actions. No wonder the librarian was so quick to remove books that might upset. 

Continuing my library visit, as I dug through the boxes of discarded books, I noticed many were new. Some were folktales from different lands, others dealt with difficult subjects such as dying or sickness. Others were classics such as White Fang and Call of the Wild. A few were Boxcar Children mysteries along with a few Hardy Boys, and Nancy Drew stories.

There were hundreds of books the librarian was discarding. She urged the children to pick one book, often they picked none. Most had never developed the habit of reading. Not sure, why they would when the librarian picked books meant to offend no one. These boringly bland books had no conflict or any entertainment value for that matter.

Along these lines, any book containing violence is often dismissed as appropriate reading material. Both the Grapes of Wrath and Of Mice and Men were dismissed from some school reading lists because of the violent and depressing nature of the tales. Neither story was as violent as popular video games or movies. The complex tales showed how human emotion was often manipulated by the savvier person. This information could benefit almost anyone. The stories often detailed struggles and the ability to overcome. This peek outside the land of entitlement would be mind broadening to say the least.

Often books are banned because someone doesn’t agree with the subject matter. I remember when in seventh grade, a book asserting females were just as good as males was pulled from the library shelves. Luckily, I had read it before it was removed.

Besides certain people not liking a book, standardized testing plays a big part in what books the school library stocks. Everyone knows that schools teach to the test, but few people realize library funds go to buy books appropriate for the test. Two hundred poetry books crowd the shelves because the test includes a poetry unit.  There are dozens of books on Greek Mythology because that too is on the test. Brand new books on Native American and Jewish mythology sit in the discarded book box.

When I ask about the books, I’m told they’re underused. That’s probably true. It would be hard for the students to know about books never mentioned by the librarian or shown in class. As for the classics, well, I guess that goes back to what the librarian prefers. While one primary school librarian is chucking folktales, another is showcasing them.

What is your feeling about reading the older classic novels?

Media Kit for Final Shifts Book 6 of the To Love a Wildcat Series by V.L. Locey

4 flames

Secret Cravings Publishing

Blurb:

The only constant in life is that things will change when you least expect it. On the day of Derrick Andersson`s retirement ceremony, a late-season tropical storm parks itself over the City of Brotherly Love. The women who love the Wildcats will not only have to deal with the deluge outside, they will have to struggle through some of the greatest personal storms they will ever weather.

Liz and Veikko receive devastating news, Maggie and Derrick face a shocking announcement, and Isabelle and Philip receive the verdict of Philip's court battle. Can Viviana and Alain work out the problems that have torn them apart? What has life dealt young lovers Petro and Margarite? The answers to those questions, as well as a surprise that will rock the Houseman, are revealed in this final book of the To Love a Wildcat series.


Buy Links:

Secret Cravings Store -http://store.secretcravingspublishing.com/index.php…

Amazon-http://tinyurl.com/nqvzarf

All Romance-https://www.allromanceebooks.com/product-finalshifts-176119…

Bookstrand-http://www.bookstrand.com/final-shifts

B&N-http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/books/1121378236?ean=2940151605953


Excerpts 

PG-

Maggie

 
“Don’t dis Granny Andersson,” he commented with a rather wry tone.

“You’re far too old to be using the term dis, my good man.”

“Yah? Well, last night you weren’t dissing me,” he countered quickly. I held up my hairbrush in a sign of defeat. He was right. There was no dissing last night. There was some moaning, gyrating, and pillow thumping, but nary a dis. “Ha! That got you good, eh?”

I nodded to give the man his due. His face split into a wide grin, white teeth brilliant against the dark brown of his beard.

“Yah, that’s right. Who is the man?” he asked, puffing out his chest like a proud bantam rooster. Cocky bugger.

“You are.” I sighed with proper defeatism in my tone.

He dropped his face to my neck, smooched my ear loudly, and then whistled gleefully while he finished shaving. I cleaned shaving cream out of my ear with the corner of a hand towel. Ever since we moved in with Derrick, my mornings have been so much more enjoyable. We wake up curled around each other, we play as we shower. Sometimes we play in the shower! The man makes me smile. He warms my heart when I awaken more than the sun that creeps into our window bright and early. I simply cannot imagine not having these precious few moments every morning now. After he had stepped into the shower, I thought to ask. Mascara wand in my right hand I turned to stare at his large form behind smoked glass. The query was lingering on the tip of my tongue. I swallowed it down. I’d let him broach the subject of his retirement ceremony tonight. Things with the team were dicey to say the least. Not a player or person in management wasn’t walking on eggshells. I turned back to the mirror to finish my makeup as Derrick hummed something by Blake Shelton as he lathered and rinsed.

We emerged from our room about twenty minutes later, Derrick in the suit and tie all NHL players and staff are required to wear into and leaving the stadium. His tie was loose yet, and his dark brown jacket lay over his left arm. I had pulled on a rather somber looking navy dress, as I would be accompanying Isabelle to court yet again. Just thinking about my duties made me nervous. There was so much to handle being the personal assistant to a woman that owns a hockey team, as well as several other multimillion-dollar businesses. Thank God I was only tasked with making sure Isabelle’s day ran like clockwork. My boss worried me. Her blood pressure was skyrocketing, her sugar count was high, and her OB/GYN had given her strict dietary guidelines to follow. I feared if she went back next Monday at nine, and her BP and sugar weren’t any lower, her doctor would be forced to put her on strict bed rest until her son was born. Knowing Isabelle that would last exactly four hours. Then she would be up doing something. What if Philip were found guilty? She would be forced to fire him. The Commissioner was already riding her like Secretariat about the Wildcats. First Petro and now Philip. And this mess surrounding last year's Stanley Cup winners? The commissioner was not happy. Not at all.

“Hey, you need to put them there grinds into the filter and not the pot, Mags.”

I shook off the spiraling dark thoughts. There I stood, in my kitchen, the coffee pot filled with coffee, and the filter resting inside the basket empty.

Author Bio:

V.L. Locey loves worn jeans, belly laughs, reading and writing lusty tales, Greek mythology, the New York Rangers, comic books, and coffee. (Not necessarily in that order.) She shares her life with her husband, her daughter, one dog, two cats, a flock of assorted goofy domestic fowl, and three steers.

When not writing spicy romances, she enjoys spending her day with her menagerie in the rolling hills of Pennsylvania with a cup of fresh java in hand. She can also be found online on Facebook, Twitter, Pinterest, tsú, and GoodReads.

I love to meet new friends and fans! You can find me at-


Facebook- https://www.facebook.com/pages/VL-Locey/124405447678452

Twitter- https://twitter.com/vllocey

Pinterest-http://www.pinterest.com/vllocey/

Goodreads- http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/5807700.V_L_Locey

My blog- http://thoughtsfromayodelinggoatherder.blogspot.com/

tsú - https://www.tsu.co/vllocey

 

Secret Cravings Backlist Books and Upcoming Releases

Pink Pucks & Power Plays (Book One of the To Love a Wildcat Series)

A Most Unlikely Countess (Book Two of the To Love a Wildcat Series)

O Captain! My Captain! (Book Three of the To Love a Wildcat Series)

Reality Check (Book Four of the To Love a Wildcat Series)

Language of Love (Book Five of the To Love a Wildcat Series)

Tumble Dry

Coming in August of 2015 only from Secret Cravings . . .  Clean Sweep (Book One of The Venom erotic hockey romance series)

Torquere Press Backlist and Upcoming Releases

Two Guys Walk Into an Apocalypse (Part of the He Loves Me For My Brainssss anthology)

Two Guys Walk Into an Apocalypse 2: It Came From Birmingham

Two Guys Walk Into an Apocalypse 3" He's a Lumberjack and He`s Undead

Love of the Hunter

Goaltender`s Penalty

All I Want for Christmas

 Every Sunday at One (Part of the 2013 Charity Sip Anthology)

 Night of the Jackal

An Erie Halloween

An Erie Operetta

Coming 4/1/15 exclusively from Torquere Press . . . Early to Rise - A Toms & Tabbies Tale.

From the immortal kingdom of the Samurai, Imperial Leader Yokami Sukani and his wife Tomoe Gazen yearn for the child they know they will never birth. Tomoe’s Katana keens bereft, for the next Daughter of the Sword. Meanwhile, Bishamon, the God of War, and his Katana, wreak havoc in his endless pursuit of pain and suffering.

Bishamon’s Sword of War must disappear, forever.

The battle of Culloden Moor is forty-eight hours away. Epona, Goddess of horses, dogs, healing springs and crops, prays for the coming of the girl child prophesized to be born with the Sight for the magnificent Friesian horses.

Yokami’s Katana recognises Marie MacDonald.

A bargain is struck.

In modern Australia, the awaited one, Connor MacDonald is birthed, awakening the ancient Scottish Horsemen from their three-century slumber.

Brutality finds her.

Bishamon, mad with rage, hunts for his blade.

Will he regain his instrument of destruction?

Born of the blood of the ancient Scots, named Daughter by the immortal Samurai, doubly blessed or doubly cursed, will Connor MacDonald be Bishamon’s instrument of revenge?



 Amazon  http://www.amazon.com/Warrior-Born-Katana-Kathrine-Leannan/dp/163105273X/ref=sr_1_1_twi_2?ie=UTF8&qid=1425328355&sr=8-1&keywords=kathrine+leannan
 

Kobo  https://store.kobobooks.com/en-US/ebook/warrior-born

Smashwords https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/469229

Goodreads http://www.goodreads.com/book/show/23044088-warrior-born#other_reviews

iTunes https://itunes.apple.com/au/book/warrior-born/id911813059?mt=11\


Barnes & Noble http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/warrior-born-kathrine-leannan/1120200772?ean=2940150433809

Social Media:

Facebook https://www.facebook.com/kathrine.leannan

Twitter Kathrine Leannan (@Kathrine Leannan)

LinkedIn https://www.linkedin.com/profile/view?id=184891742&trk=hp-identity

Google Plus https://plus.google.com/118167193525202175439/posts

Website:Kathrineleannan.com

 

Chapter Two

The detective placed a hand on her elbow and guided her to a non-descript sedan. The male hand on her arm was about as close to a date she had in the last three years.  Odd thought to have when a murdered man had just been removed from her future inn. He opened the passenger door releasing the odor of stale smoke. Donna balked at the scent. It would be like sitting in an ashtray. Why did she want to sit again?

Oh, yeah, the realization that the murderer may have still been in the house when she entered. Her top teeth came down on her bottom lip as she slid into the seat. Tabor moved to close the door, but she put out a flat palm to stop the swing of the door. “I’d like it open.”

The eyebrows moved again questioning her actions, but he left the door open as he moved to the driver’s side.  Daniel followed them and stood about six feet from the car. His concern clearly etched on his face. Close enough to keep her in view, but not close enough to attract the detective’s ire.

Tabor slammed his door, evidently having no issue with the cigarette stench. He was probably immune to it, smoked for years, she’d bet. “Sorry for the smoke smell. Don’t usually have people in my car.”

Well, she was aware of it. “I understand.” She mumbled the words, not really understanding why people smoked, but willing to accept his apology. Her hips shifted on the textured upholstery, not feeling it through her clothes, but uncomfortable all the same for her reason for sitting in a police car, make that a detective car.

“You thought of something, back there on the grass. I noticed it on your face.” The detective’s words sounded so normal. A simple comment that her brother might have made.

“I did. Yep, I’ve been told I’d never make a good poker player, or criminal.” She added the last part for good measure, just in case. His actions didn’t resemble any police dramas she’d watched. No roughing her up, or getting her to drink huge amount of liquids and then denying her the right to the restroom.

The scent of coffee penetrated the smoke scent as Tabor opened up a thermos and pulled the fragrant liquid into the plastic lid. He held it out to her.

His thermos, his cup, which his lips touched, maybe recently. No telling how many bacteria danced on the rim of the cup. Still, it was coffee. Her right hand wrapped around the warm cup bringing it up to her lips for a large gulp. Black, not unexpected, but strangely sweet, indicating the detective went heavy on the sugar. “Ahh,” the deep appreciative sigh acknowledged that java was her drug of choice. She even forgave him his nasty habit of smoking brought on by seeing the worst of human nature.

She took another appreciative sip before handing it back to Tabor, who drank after her, not even bothering to wipe the rim of the cup. Her earlier charitable thought died a quick death at the man’s stupidity. She could have a communicable disease. Her inner tirade came to an abrupt halt when she realized she had done the very same thing. Still, that was different; stress from finding a murdered guy caused her to shortly abandon her hygienic principles.

She watched the detective with half-hooded eyes as he finished the cup with two gulps wondering if that was the last of the coffee. As if hearing her thoughts, he tilted the thermos allowing the brown liquid to splash into the cup, tantalizing her. Instead of offering it, he held it close to his torso.

“Tell me what you’re thinking first. Then coffee.”

Oh my goodness, he was as devious as the television actors were. She swallowed hard. Her intentions were to tell him anyhow, but she didn’t like being manipulated. A slight sniff clearly announced how she felt about his actions. “I told you I took his pulse.  The man was cool, not cold. I’ve taken pulses on colder, living people. He also had on a Rolex.”

“Good information. Excellent observation on the watch.” He moved the cup away from his chest, as if he’d offer to her, but kept his fingers wrapped around the cup even as her fingers touched the plastic exterior. “There’s more.”

His grip held firm on the cup. Her fingers crowded, his trying to find purchase. Her eyes met his over the steaming brew. “Coffee first.” Her words were low and couched in an ominous tone that usually had student nurses scrambling.

Tabor laughed and loosened his fingers. “Ok. Remind me to never get between you and your caffeine. I may have encountered someone worse than me. No wonder you were so anxious to get your abandoned coffee inside.”

She gulped the coffee half ignoring his comments. Sure, she liked coffee, who didn’t? The coffee flowed down her throat and into her body, thawing out portions that had frozen at the site of the dead man. She’d have to talk eventually and if any danger existed with a murderer lurking nearby, then the detective would simply eliminate it and put things back to the way they used to be.

Her lips tilted up in an appreciative smile as she handed the empty cup back.

He peered inside the cup as if looking for leftover coffee, and then he whistled. “Definitely a coffee hound. You wanted to tell me what?”

The prompt, she recognized it. “I didn’t know the man was murdered. Didn’t know he was dead until I took his pulse. I heard some noises as I walked upstairs. My goal was to see the view from the top, trying to see it as a potential guest at my B & B might.”

She stopped, wondering how to frame her words. Tabor motioned with his hand for her to continue.  “At first, I thought it was a rat, a large one.  I could hear the floorboards squeak the way they do when something or someone steps on them.  Since I was cataloguing what I needed to do to the house, I was talking as I went up the stairs.  Whoever was there could have just completed the murder and left minutes before the police arrived.”

Tabor’s hazel eyes flicked over her shoulders to the house. He grabbed his cell phone and hit a number. “Tabor here, home owner has reason to believe perp was in home when she arrived. Check back entrance for footprints.”

He listened to whomever was at the other end. He grunted his agreement a few times, but then added, “No, no I don’t think so. Not the hysterical type at all. I believe her.”

It didn’t take a stretch of the imagination for her to realize she was the topic of conversation. He believed her. He didn’t think she was a hysterical female. Of course, she wasn’t. Her appreciation for the man grew. It took some doctors months to get to that point, others never did. Pompous fools. Her eyes moved over him as he spoke. He had a grizzled, weathered look. His thick hair, liberally laced with silver, had appeal but her eyes drifted to the overflowing ashtray, the habit of smoking cancelling it all out.

Flopping back into her seat, she tabled her observation. Too much was happening for her to develop an inappropriate attraction to a man who offered her coffee. He could be married. No wedding ring on his left hand, but the lack of ring didn’t necessarily equal no commitment. In the end, there could be nothing between them. Romance had given her the boot long ago. Certain women ended up in happily ever after tales with the mandatory two children of each sex, complete with a minivan, and the annual pilgrimage to Disneyworld. Her lips twisted to one side as she considered the path she hadn’t traveled. Not her rodeo, and much too late to get a ticket.

More neighbors emerged from their houses. Obviously they were over their shyness at being caught staring at the unfolding scene. Most were dressed in regular clothes, what she considered shyness was simply a rush to get dressed. A handsome male couple dressed in coordinating sweats casually sauntered by with a standard size poodle pretending to walk their pet. The dog pulled constantly on the leash indicating its impatience at the owners’ leisurely space.

Two children spilled out of a nearby house clutching baseball mitts with their father following behind them attired in a sweatshirt, ball cap, plaid pajama pants, and slippers. He took his position facing her inn while tossing the ball to his children who missed catching the easy lobs that arced high in the air as if waiting for the child to center underneath it. The car clock registered 8:15. Yeah, most men would be outside on a frosty Sunday morning to play catch with the kids. Her snort emphasized her disbelief. The returned ball bounced off the man’s mitt hitting him in face. Looked like no one in the family was athletically inclined. Made her wonder why they bought the mitts in the first place.

Tabor pocketed his cell phone, glanced out the window, before motioning to Daniel. “That man staring hard at us. Is that your husband or boyfriend?”

 A tired laugh escaped her lips. It wasn’t the first time someone had made the same assumption. It confirmed her belief that they looked nothing alike. People never assumed they were siblings. He’d be the prince in a fairy tale while she’d be the sister of an ogre since she topped five nine easily. “No, that’s my brother. I asked him to meet me here.”

“Oh, I guess that explains why he looks so worried.”

Worried. Daniel? The way he rocked side to side, varying his weight on each foot, gave suggested anxiety unlike his usual all is right with the world mien. Of course, all wasn’t right with the world. At least, her world.

“Yeah, I was wondering how soon we could get this tied up. Daniel and I were going to go over the house and…” The detective’s long whistle interrupted her question.

“You are one cool cucumber. You’re going back into the house after finding a dead man?”

Was this a trick question? She sucked her lips in wondering if there was a correct answer. “Yes, today is my day off and I need to decide what needs to be done to order materials.”

He shook his head slowly side to side as if in disbelief. “Donna,” he stopped and arched his eyebrows, “can I call you that?”

It seemed like a moot point since he already did. “Yes.”  Her glance swept downward to her fingers woven together. Their tight hold confirmed her own mental state.

“Most women would be in hysterics by now.”

A possible lecture on the fragility of the fair sex took form as the dashboard clock ticked off the seconds. It wouldn’t be her first, but she could skip this one. “Please, this isn’t the 1960’s. Women aren’t delicate creatures. Many are doing the same jobs as men. I imagine you have a few women on your staff.”

The detective stopped whatever he was going to say. He retrieved the coffee cup and screwed the lid back on the thermos while muttering in a sotto tone. “None as tough as you.”

Not sure if the words were supposed to be a compliment, she chose to take them that way. Her shoulders went back as she pasted her I Will Not Be Moved expression on her face. Her babe days were over; although she wasn’t overly sure she had had any.  Any phrase that pointed out her strength, intelligence, calmness in the face of adversity, and even rightness she’d take. “Can I get back in? Half my morning is already gone. I have things to do.”

The detective’s lips twisted to one side as his brow bunched then smoothed, as thoughts chased across his face. To think he called her transparent, when his emotions broadcasted as clear as a flashing beacon. “Ah,” he opened his mouth wide holding the one word as if warming up for a choral performance.

The urge to tell him to get on with it was overwhelming; she just barely managed to keep behind her teeth. Her lack of theatrics could somehow incriminate her. Nah, it didn’t make sense since she’d never met the man stretched out in the bird aerie. Each room bore a name she considered evocative. Of course, now it might be renamed murder site or dead man hideaway.  The possibility of her rooms needing renaming caused her to shake her head violently in denial.

“Hey, you don’t even know what I was going to say. No reason for you to be shaking your head at me.” Tabor complained as he pulled out his pack of smokes. His long fingers carefully turned the box over, but returned it to his pocket noticing Donna’s attention.

Did she need to explain?  The uniformed police gathered outside her house still talking. Another officer walked toward the huddled group with a long flat box with the familiar colors of a popular donut shop. Seriously, donuts? Could they be any more stereotypical? Worse, if they brought breakfast, then they weren’t leaving soon. The town’s finest resembled a blue blot on her frosted lawn. A cancerous tumor signaling the demise of her modest dream.

“It’s not what you were going to say. It’s all this.” She flung her arm out the door indicating the whole assembly of people, including her nosy neighbors. “How can I ever expect to get The Flowered Tea Pot Inn off the ground with all this notoriety attached to it?”

“Is that all?” His bent index finger rubbed the line at the bridge of his nose

The incredulousness in his voice indicated his ignorance of B & B ambiance. People wanted comfort, indulgence, something different from their normal routine. No one ever mentioned going to a murder scene. Donna’s nose wrinkled as if she scented something repugnant beside the stale smoke. Oh yeah, there were people who flocked to murder scenes, but they were not the types to pay $140 a night for a room in a restored Victorian. “Well, yes it is. Considering that, my entire premise of opening a B & B involved paying customers. It’s not enough that people drive by it slowly to gawk.”

His closed eyes made her doubt he’d even heard her. His eyelids shot up as he pinned her with a direct gaze.  He held out his index finger while folding the other three down. “It may not be as bad as you think. My sister is all into these legends and ghost stories. Travels the country to stay in some iffy places just because she heard some contrived story. You could make up some story about a ghost inhabiting your house. It’s bound to draw folks. Tack on a disclaimer that the story may not be true; it’s just what you heard.”

The idea had merit. Can’t say she ever wanted to stay anywhere haunted. “Did your sister ever see a ghost?”

“No, much to her disappointment.  She tried to convince me that strange things happened on her last trip. Things moved around. The items were not in the place she put them, but my sister had a lifelong habit of losing stuff. Not exactly convincing evidence. “

“No reason to call out the ghost hunters then.” She readily agreed, discounting the allure of having her own ghost. “Besides, people like romantic ghosts. Maybe a jilted lover who waited on her beloved to return or threw herself off the widow walk when he didn’t.”

“Yeah, that sounds real pleasant, better than some unknown rich dude killed in an abandoned house.” His crows’ feet showed in the early morning light as he grinned at her. Macabre humor, but probably par for the course in his line of work.

“Yes, it does. Most of the ghost stories are probably not true. People can accept a melancholy spirit; they don’t want a spectral mass murderer hovering over them as they sleep.” The ghost angle lost more and more appeal the more she examined it. Not the type of tidbit you’d type up in a brochure, beside claw foot tubs, and period accurate furnishings.

“You got me there. How long before you expect to open the Inn?”  His thumb and index finger casually stroked his chain as if he realized his failure to shave this morning. It was hard to say if his stubble tickled his fingertips, or if he tried to hide the beginning of a beard.

“Good question. The original home inspector told me there were some roofing issues and dry rot. New windows and a heating system would be a must. The interior needs paint, wallpapering, and refinishing the wood floors. Exterior needs a new porch, paint, and a rebricked chimney. Spent my small inheritance buying the place. That’s why I asked my brother to look it over. How long will it take?”

She removed her hat without thinking about it and shot both hands through her shoulder length chin length blond bob. “Well, I was planning on a year. Anything I’m doing will be done in the evenings and on my time off. It might take more than a year.”

“A year, huh? No problems, then.” He shrugged his shoulders, his left hand rested on the car door handle.

It looked like the man would bail on her without even answering when she couldn’t go in the house. “Wait. Why’s a year good?”

His fingers stilled on the handle. “Things happen every day. New scandals, murders, this will be old within a month. No one will remember, except your neighbors who’ll be more concerned about property value. Keep the place up and they’ll forget also.”

“Hmft.” It sounded so easily when he said it. Pretty up the front yard with azalea bushes and tubs of colorful plants and her neighbors would forgive her for anything as long as resale prices stayed high. “You’re right. So when do I get back in the house?”

He expelled a long sigh. “You’re a regular terrier once you get your teeth into something. It’s not going to be today.”

Not today? Her mouth fell open with his declaration. That would set the timetable back. A wasted day. Still, the image of the stranger stretched across the floorboards in need of varnishing would not leave her mind soon. “Okay.” She managed a breathy reply, stunned by the sudden barrier between her and her dream. Not forever, she mentally reminded herself, just a detour, that’s all.

“You look like someone killed your best friend.” His brows lowered as his eyes rolled up. “Forget I said that. I meant someone stole your favorite toy.”

Donna managed a slight smile for the detective. Sticking her foot in her mouth was something she did at least monthly. Usually, it was due to her intolerance of tiptoeing around a person’s ego. No time for playing nice when you were dealing with human lives. A fellow nurse described her abrupt manner as masculine. She recognized the insult, but decided to accept it as praise since it implied she didn’t engage in small talk or the inferences women often used as opposed to naming the issue.

“I know what you meant.”

He rolled upon his left hip allowing his fingers to pluck out his wallet from his pants. The stress lines across the worn leather demonstrated the wallet might be as old as its owner. Tabor plucked out a dog-eared business card.

“It’s a little worse for wear. I’ve being meaning to get new ones, but these will do until I run out.”

She reached for the card, but Tabor pulled it slightly out of reach. “I want to put my cell number on it. It only has my desk number on it and I’m seldom at my desk.”  He rested the card against the dusty dashboard and clicked a pen before writing.

“Feel free to call me tomorrow to see when you can return to work on your B & B. I’ll need the keys, of course.” He pocketed the pen and held out the card to her.

Needed her keys. She didn’t like the sound of that. Everyone and his brother would be tromping through her house. It wasn’t as if she had anything to steal. “My keys are still inside with my purse, recorder, and coffee.”

“The recorder,” he said the words more to himself than to her. “That could be helpful. Maybe some of those sounds might be on it.”

Who knows what was on the recorder? All her rambling comments with a side commentary on how she hated rodents. It wasn’t exactly something she wanted to share, but in the end, she probably didn’t have a choice. If it helped find a killer that’s all that mattered. “Yeah. Okay.” She agreed with a slight sigh that somehow didn’t convey the frustration she felt at a dream circling the drain before being sucked down.

A flash blinded her momentarily. Her vision cleared enough for her to view a camera-wielding teenager with some card clipped to his puffy vest. An officer scurried up to him, but not before, he aimed the camera at her inn for a shot.  The open car door allowed her to hear the exchange.

The uniformed officer pointed away from the scene as he spoke. “Sir, you need to leave, this is a police matter.”

“I know that.” He snarled, not even trying to soften his disdain. The same arrogance some of the new doctors displayed, proving that the attitude must be inherent as opposed to developed. The kid with the camera had it in spades. “That’s why I’m here. “ His thumb motioned back to the white card on vest. “I’m press. Here to cover the story.”

Seriously. A kid who should be worried about being arrested for trespassing on her property. Instead, he had the stupidity to argue with a police officer.  She leaned forward, narrowing her eyes, trying to focus on the miniscule writing on the white card. Blurry. Still, it might be nothing more than something he copied and pasted from an Internet search.

The officer managed to stay calm while insisting that the teen leave. Instead, the boy crossed his arms while angling his head back toward the car. “Is that old woman the murderer?”

Old woman! She had just turned fifty. Most of her fellow nurses insisted she looked great for her age. A few merited the absence of a husband and kids for this. Unwilling to confess to her nightly ritual of facial tightening exercises, she usually agreed with their initial conclusion. Her lips firmed as she regarded her nemesis. Obviously, the officer didn’t know how to deal with his ilk.

She scooted across the seat, ignored Tabor’s inquiry about where she was going and stood. For a second, she stared at the offensive creature, locking onto him, as if she were a hitting seeking missile. In some ways, she was.

Her muscles tensed for action as she marched toward the two males engaged in a battle of wills. “You there!” Her index finger stabbed in the direction of Clueless and Offensive. “You are on my property. Get off.” Her menacing tone often sent lab technicians scurrying for cover. The officer straightened a little recognizing the ring of authority. The boy child sent her a dubious glance, and then shrugged his shoulders.

“Haven’t you heard of freedom of the press, lady?”

Was he really going to play that card? Murdered man in her house, neighbors gossiping on the lawn, barred from her own house she just purchased with every penny of her inheritance, and now this. Anger raced through her body with liberal amounts of endorphins in the mix.  A right hook would bloody  the curled lip, but all the police milling about would get her jailed for assault, and they might actually consider her unstable enough to be a suspect.

“Yeah, I‘ve also heard of little boys who print off fake press passes, doing 2-5 years in prison for fraud.” She gave him a long considering look from the top of his stylish haircut to the bottom of his expensive athletic shoes. “Lots of guys would appreciate some sweet, young thing like you to brighten up their dull days. In fact, I imagine they’d be standing in line.”

Donna watched as his eyes enlarged and wondered how much she’d have to elaborate before she rattled him. His one hand felt for his vest pocket, pulling out a phone.

“Got a call I have to take.” His long legs carried him across the street and into a nearby house. The purple and pink home stood out like a bleeding wound among the more sedate Victorian mansions. No problem remembering that home or its occupants.

“Two to five years for fraud?” The statement rattled her and she turned to find Tabor standing with the officer with his hands in pants pockets as he gave her a knowing smile. The officer nodded and pivoted, showing former military experience in the one simple move, either that or he was a member of a marching band.  

 “Okay. I made it up. Figured from his ‘I’m King of the World’ attitude that intelligence wasn’t his strong point.”

“Hmmm.”  His murmur served as an answer. “I could do with a real bulldog like you on my team. I bet I’d get a lot more answers from dodgy witnesses.”

Bulldog now, was that any better than old woman? The men that inhabited her piece of the world today were full of compliments. Normally, the bulldog statement would please her. Normally, she wanted people to view her as determined, confident, competent, and unwilling to take attitude off anyone. Sounded somewhat like a bulldog.

“Plain as day the kid was lying. I’m not sure why the officer didn’t call him on it.” Her grumbling covered the goulash of emotions crowding into her body.  Did every emotion she owned decide to make its presence known in the pace of a few hours? “All air and attitude. I know the type.”

“Haynes, the officer, has to be very careful, especially in this neighborhood. Every other home is owned by a lawyer and the rest are owned by people who know lawyers and aren’t afraid to use them. The woman three houses down from you called the police because she could hear the neighbor boy bouncing a basketball in his backyard court. Even sued because of it.”

A chill passed over her body that had nothing to do with the frosty temps.  The auction ad never mentioned anything about litigious neighbors, only that the zoning would accommodate a bed and breakfast. What if that wasn’t even true?

“Did she win?” She forced the words out, afraid of the answer.

“Of course not, the judge threw it out as a waste of time. Frivolous lawsuit. However, it hasn’t stopped the woman from calling the police on her neighbors or filing lawsuits. She has time and money to do both.” The detective grinned as if he found the whole topic amusing somehow.

“What type of lawsuits?” Better to know and be prepared.

“All stupid stuff. Parking mainly. She’s always out front measuring if her neighbors’ cars or guest cars park too close to her area. Even had one towed away.”

Visions of her guests parking in the wrong place and having their expensive vehicles manhandled while they searched for the Inn terrified her. Originally, she thought a large sign would mess with the ambience of the neighborhood. Neon had merit, suddenly. “Isn’t that illegal?”

“Technically yes, since it’s a public street and there’s no signage designating towing is a possibility. In the end, she not only had to pay the tow driver, but the legal fees of the case sworn out against her. No parking complaints have resulted lately. She did recently accuse one of her neighbor’s male dogs of getting into her yard and becoming friendly with her prized poodle.” He moved his eyebrows up and down in a comical fashion making her laugh and she forget about her initial fears for a second.

If the man wasn’t a smoker and didn’t consider her a bulldog, he might have potential. Unfortunately, he was both and served only as a reminder of the dead stranger murdered in her topmost parlor.

The young officer tying the yellow crime scene tape to the rusty metal railing leading up to the porch reminded Donna of her nephew, who was all of fourteen. Her eyes narrowed as she considered the leaning rickety handrail. Definitely would have to go. Not only an eyesore, but also a legal liability if someone should stumble, grab the railing, which could snap off, and send the would be customer hurtling to the hard cement. Not good. Mental note to self: Unscrew the liability suit waiting to happen. Whenever a banister wasn’t present, she made an effort to be more careful. With any luck, others would do so too.

 The front door swung open, drawing attention. A few of her new neighbors stood bundled up in coats with their pajama legs and slippers peeking out the bottom.  The others she’d bet hid behind lace curtains watching the scene unfold, unwilling to chance the brisk winter morning air or the possibility of looking rude. Politeness served as a prerequisite in the restored Victorian neighborhood. Manners and money, that’s why she had jumped on the foreclosed home.  It would be the perfect place for her dream Bed and Breakfast.

A medic backed out of her front door guiding a gurney, which held a filled black body bag. The second medic handled the back end.  The series of steps leading away from the door made it difficult for the initial medic, a slender male, to handle. A couple of times, he lost his grip. The front end of the gurney bounced down the steps while the muscular woman on the back end chastised him.

“Come on Barney. Grab the bar and lift. Give the man some dignity.”

The medic reached for the metal bar, gaining control over the plummeting stretcher. Her new neighbors now knew a dead man resided under the black covering. Not good. Time to salvage her reputation and The Painted Lady Inn’s also.  Her father’s old pea coat, with obvious pilling across the wool material paired with a promotional drug ball cap some rep had given her on his last visit, made her look more homeless than actual business owner. Suck it up, Donna. Go do what you need to do. Damage control.

Her lips lifted up in a parody of a smile as she crunched across the frosted lawn. An elderly woman glanced up at her husband and took a step back. Seriously, did she look that bad? Okay, no makeup, but her reaction didn’t make sense. “Hello. I bet you’re wondering what’s going on.” She held out her hand to the man since the woman’s pinched mouth and panicked eyes didn’t encourage neighborliness.

The man hesitated for a brief second before taking her hand and giving a brief, firm shake. “Stan Whitaker. Yes, I did wonder what was happening. The sirens interrupted our breakfast.”

Ah yes, a complaint. Somehow she had ruined their breakfast. Finding a dead man in her newly purchased home put her off her cereal too, especially considering there wasn’t one there yesterday when she did the walk through with the realtor. “Um, sorry about that. I came over early to start on the renovations.”

The man’s bushy eyebrows lifted with the word renovation. Yeah, she knew the type. They didn’t think a woman could do anything besides cook and clean. Forever single, she had termed herself after being left at the altar at twenty-two. However, it gave her the opportunity to do many things most would consider man’s work, including renovating the neglected Victorian. Ignoring his attitude, she plowed on. “Wanted to get a rough feel for what I need to do first.”

She nodded her head as if she were considering ripping out walls as opposed to holding up paint chips and looking for mouse droppings. Her brother, Daniel, a construction supervisor, agreed to give his professional opinion and should be arriving any time now.

A car door slammed. “Hey Donna!” Her sibling’s voice cut across the chaos ensuing on her front lawn. Her hand went up to acknowledge the greeting. She wished the man didn’t have to yell everything, but probably the natural result of working with power tools.

“My brother,” she explained, noticing the frightened woman had no trouble peering around her for a look at her brother. Geez seriously. The octogenarian was checking out her brother in front of her husband, causing Donna to roll her eyes. The animated look on the woman’s face demonstrated her brother’s proximity. “I’m Donna, if you couldn’t tell.” She forced out a little chuckle as if commenting on her brother calling her by name was humorous. It wasn’t.

She spoke faster knowing any chance at meaningful conversation disappeared with Daniel’s appearance. Not only did the Universe bless him with the wicked good looks of a fallen angel with blonde hair and dark thick eyelashes all women envied, but he had charisma. Women, men, children, even dogs loved him.  It would be normal for her to hate him, but his constant concern for his older, single sister cancelled out the uncharitable emotion. Well, at least most of the time. Her new neighbor grew more interested, stepping forward, earning a dark look from her husband.

Ignoring the interplay, she spoke Yankee fast. “Anyhow, in the upstairs room, the attic really. Thinking about making that into a parlor. Great view. Went up to check the view again in the winter with all the leaves off the trees and found the dead man.“ A backward glance revealed her brother about two feet away and a man in a sports coat clutching a cellphone to his ear, stolling behind him. Great. Who could that be? Don’t let it be the local news.

“How do you know he was dead?” The woman managed to tear her eyes away from Daniel’s wide shoulders long enough to ask.

She inhaled  deeply. These people don’t know me. Be patient. I need their good will. “I’m a nurse. Have been for the last thirty years.”

The husband and wife looked at each other and smiled. The man met her eyes first.“ A nurse would be handy as a neighbor. My Hilda has spells.”

Oh great, another couple who expected free medical services. It was a common reaction when she announced her profession.  At least it wasn’t as bad as the men who announced they’d like to play doctor. That nonsense ended about the time she turned fifty.

“Glad to help,” she offered, not really meaning it, knowing she’d be saddled with a hypochondriac all hours of the day and night. Give a little to get what you want. Her father’s famous words about getting along with others, but it always seemed like she gave a great deal and got very little in return.

The scent of tobacco rode the air, causing her to pivot, searching the crowd for the offender. The man behind Daniel let out a puff of smoke as he returned her glance. At least he wasn’t polluting her inn with his vile smoke. Her window of opportunity would slam shut in about thirty seconds. “I was wondering if you knew the man. Why he might be in my house?”

They shook their heads in unison, although the man was the one who replied.  “Absentee owner. I heard he resided in another state. No one ever came around the last couple of years except for the realtor and the lawn service. “

Lawn service. A possible lead, but there was little to do in the dead of winter. “Hey,” Daniel called out, turning all attention on him as he usually did. Well, at least she had seven years of having her parents’ sole attention before her baby brother showed up.

“Oh,” she added, knowing the window named Daniel would slam down on her inquiries. “Good looking man with brown hair, expensive haircut. Preppy clothes, oxford shirt, khakis, and one of those club windbreakers. The ones that have the name of the club stenciled on the right side.  Probably in his late thirties.”

Hilda looked away from Daniel briefly, her mouth partly open, ready to answer, when Stan did it for her. “Nope. Don’t know anyone like that.”

Daniel nodded to the couple, giving them an easy smile that had them beaming back as if he’d just told them they were sweepstakes winners. Presenting his hand he shook both theirs. Hilda had no trouble shaking his hand. Donna stepped back, realizing her time was done, but she needed her brother, who engaged in chatter about the weather. 

Mr. Smoky eased up next to her. “I heard what you said about the dead man.”

Her eyes cut to the man beside her whose skin, upon closer examination, appeared weathered and wrinkled, not at all the appearance of a reporter. Too old, too rough, not one of the pretty boys who ended up in front of the camera. His tweed sports coat sported wide lapels, indicating the man was no slave to fashion or he was cheap, or possibly both.

Surreal. Everything had shifted at some point in time to left of normal. It could have happened while she slept. The man puffed away on his cigarette, getting the last drag before he dropped it and ground it underneath his loafer. Good thing they were standing in the neighbor’s yard and not hers. “Yeah, what about it?” She tried for the world-weary voice of a sexy 1940’s silver screen siren. The scratchy tone of her coffee-less voice grated.  Somewhere, between finding a deceased trespasser and calling the police, she’d put down her hazelnut coffee.

Her eyes remained on Daniel as he effortlessly charmed the older couple. Why couldn’t she do that? It would be a useful skill for running a bed and breakfast, but her practical nature saw small talk as a waste. She had considered making her brother a partner, but his wife Shelly quickly put the kibosh on that plan.  The man spoke, reminding him of her presence by her side.

“You have a good eye. You remembered a great deal while only seeing the man briefly before you called the police.”

Yeah. True, she  tended to remember things. Was he complementing her or accusing her? “When a dead stranger shows up in a newly purchased house, it makes a big impression.”

“Understandable.” The man agreed, patting  down his jacket. Finding a box-like bulge, he pulled out his cigarettes. “Do you mind?”

“Yes.” Her quick answer stopped him in the middle of shaking out a new smoke. He pushed it back in with his index finger, and replaced the pack back into his interior jacket pocket. He shrugged his shoulders.

“Need to quit. Nasty habit.”

Her top teeth rested on her bottom lip keeping her from agreeing as much as she wanted to. She didn’t know who the man was. It would be rude behavior anyhow. As an innkeeper, she’d have to learn to hold her tongue. Critical B & B owners probably earned very few return customers.

“Name’s Mark Taber, detective.”

“I’m Donna -” She never got to finish her introduction before the man finished it for her.

“Tollhouse, the owner, I know.”

Her top teeth clamped down on her lip again. While she could use some lessons on the art of small talk and social etiquette, Detective Taber could benefit from an extensive four-year course. At one time, she played with the idea of naming the inn, The Tollhouse Inn. Her best friend, Barb, discouraged her by pointing out most people didn’t associate the words Tollhouse and cookies together. They’d think there would be some hidden charge if the word toll appeared in the name.

The detective reached back into his jacket, despite the significant look she gave him. His fingers withdrew a long narrow tablet instead of the dreaded smokes.  Her gaze dropped to the ground as her cheeks reddened at her bold action. “Ms. Tollhouse, can you run me through your day?”

Naturally, he assumed she was single. Was it the man’s coat she doned, or the ball cap? Did he think she was playing for the other team? Then it hit her. Oh yeah, Ms.. The outdated term identified women whose marital status was uncertain or those who became bristly when asked. Hard to say which one applied to her.

She cleared her throat. “I left my coffee in the house. Could I go get it?” If she was going to do recite her morning of feeding her dog, grabbing the paint chips, and her short wait at Great Awakenings coffee shop, then she need something to soothe her throat.

“No.”

No, really? It was her coffee. She was the one who had overpaid for the meager paper cup of the sweetened brew she used to jumpstart her day. “Why?”

He furrowed his forehead, allowing his eyebrows to meet. Sure, he measured a few inches taller than she did, but definitely not a giant. If he thought to intimidate her, the man needed some work. She had the dubious privilege of working with numerous doctors who considered themselves gods, not to mention dozens of truly arrogant patients. Eyebrows in need of grooming did not do it.

“It’s a crime scene.” He said the words slowly, enunciating them as if she were either deaf or stupid.

“I know that. I called 911 when I found the dead trespasser.” Donna’s nose crinkled in response to his condescending tone. Someone might have considered her tone abrupt also. Her brother glanced at her, turning away from his enraptured audience, and mouthed the words watch it.

“Trespasser?” The detective pushed his jacket aside and placed his hand on his hip, exposing his holstered weapon.

Was the move supposed to scare her? To prove he was a big bad cop who carried a gun? Somehow that made him better, smarter than her. Not happening though. “That’s what you call somebody who is on your property without permission. The fact he’s dead just makes it more mysterious.”

“Dead. Yeah, he’s dead alright. Murdered.”

Hilda gasped and grabbed her husband’s arm at the detective’s overloud words. The tiny woman directed a baleful glance Donna’s way as if she had something to do with the dead man. Home values in the neighborhood immediately plummeted with Tabor’s pronouncement. Everyone looked at her, including her brother.

“Hey, I didn’t know he was murdered.” She held up her hands waist high, but dropped then when she realized it looked too much like she was surrendering. “I checked his pulse and called the police. There wasn’t any blood that I could see.”

“That’s because,“ The detective halted his words, noticing everyone’s intent stares. “Never mind. Forget about it.”

EXCERPT

Rain started by the time she pulled into the grocery store parking lot. Her planned sprint turned into a walk as dizziness swept over her. Great, all she needed was to pass out. Making it into the store foyer, she shook to rid herself of the excess moisture, no doubt resembling a dog. The store cranked up the air conditioning normally, but today with damp clothing, it was frigid.

She rushed through the store as her arms goose pimpled from the chill. A quick glance down at her wet shirt explained why the man stocking sodas stared at her, well at her chest anyhow. Pulling the wet shirt away from her skin, she headed for the grinder. Pouring the coffee beans into the grinder, she mentally calculated how long it would take her to return to the sanctuary of her house. So far, so good.  No one she knew had seen her. Just as well, she didn’t want to make polite with anyone. Her bed called out to her. She could hear its siren call over the sound of the coffee grinder.

Inhaling the aroma of fresh ground beans deeply, she thought the heavenly scent by itself might heal her. Taking her coffee, ginger ale, and snatching up some yogurt, she headed for the self-check scanner. She was ready to explain to the cashier who monitored the aisles she’d brought the coffee in with her, but the woman never looked up from her perusal of a gossip magazine.

Her purchases bagged, she headed for the car. All she had to do was reach her car without any human interaction, when a man walking in spoke to her.

“Your coffee smells wonderful. Is it a Sumatran blend?”

She looked up into the face of a smiling man with curling damp hair and water spotted glasses. Her brain went dead. The absolute worse time to meet anyone. She managed to mumble her reply. “I think it is.” She walked away hoping he wasn’t watching her. Why couldn’t she run into men like that when she was dressed for work?

Unlocking her car, she slipped on the smooth leather seat since her legs were wet. Could she look any worse? Men didn’t normally try to strike up conversations with her in the grocery store, with the exception of the butcher who tried to convince her to buy a more expensive cut of meat. Twisting the key into the ignition, she drove home. The brief flash of the man who talked to her came to mind. He was taller than she was, a little on the lanky side, curly hair with a few threads of silver, glasses, and brown eyes. Her foot stomped on the brakes. Oh my God, it was her soul mate!

Blurb:
Dr. Alex Campbell has an agenda—finish his contract to provide medical services in Maine, pay off his medical school debt, and head back to his real life in San Diego. But when he meets Julia, all his carefully laid plans are put in jeopardy.

Julia Stewart, Lobster Cove’s high school principal, swears she’ll never let another man drag her away from the home she loves. Her aging parents need her, and the Cove is where she wants to raise her daughter. When her mother’s illness brings her and the big city doctor closer together, panic sets in. Her marriage taught her men don’t stay.

Can she put aside the heartaches of the past and trust Alex enough to accept the love he’s offering? Or will her fear of abandonment mean she’ll send him away forever?


Excerpt #1: (If you decide to use an excerpt, please choose just one)

“What did the x-ray find?” she asked.

“A spiral fracture of the right arm.” He paused for a moment and took a deep breath as if trying to control his emotions. “I’ve seen this kind of injury before. A fracture like this can be the result of a fall, but it can also be an indication of child abuse. An arm as small as Ava’s will break like a twig if it’s twisted hard enough. I’m obligated to contact the authorities if I suspect abuse.”

Julia stared at him in mute shock, her brain struggling to process his words, as if trying to translate some unintelligible language. The words child abuse rang in her ears. Finally she found her voice.

“You think someone deliberately hurt her?”

“Her injuries are consistent with abuse.”

“I don’t give a damn what they’re consistent with. Ava has not been mistreated. My mother said she fell down the stairs, and if that’s what she said, then that’s what happened.”

“I believe there’s more to the story than a simple fall.”

“If it comes down to believing you or believing my mother, I’m going with my mother.”

“Perhaps you don’t know your mother as well as you think you do.”

Julia sucked in a breath and stared into Dr. Campbell’s dark, accusing eyes. The idea that her mother would hurt Ava was ridiculous. She adored Ava, would do anything for her…

She blinked and looked away, remembering an incident the other day. She’d heard her yelling at Ava about the milk she’d spilled on the kitchen floor, making such a huge deal of it that Ava had cried. It had struck her as strange, since she couldn’t remember her mother yelling at anyone, ever. She wasn’t as patient as she used to be. And how did she explain her strange phone call telling her Ava had been hurt? Of course she’d been upset, but her mother had been nearly incoherent with distress. Was something going on she wasn’t aware of? She was seventy-one now. Maybe looking after a rambunctious five-year-old was too much for her.

No. She shook her head to reject the disloyal thought. Dr. Campbell was the one who was wrong.

“I know my mother. She didn’t do this. It was an accident.”

“We’ll soon find out. Sharon is questioning Ava now.”

Julia stared at the door. “She’ll be scared, all by herself.”

“Sharon’s very good at what she does. She has a way of making kids feel comfortable.”

Julia turned on him, the anger and despair she’d been holding inside spilling out. “And you? Do you enjoy upsetting five-year-olds and turning families’ lives upside down? Does it make you feel powerful to sic the authorities on us?”

“Look, Mrs. Stewart, I take no pleasure in bringing in the authorities. But I’ve seen child abuse, up close and personal, and I can tell you it’s damn ugly. The things parents and caregivers are capable of doing to defenseless children…”

He stopped abruptly, his chest heaving. Closing his eyes, he averted his face and took a deep breath. When he turned back to her, his steely control was back in place. “So yeah, if I have even the smallest suspicion that a child has been abused, I’m going to ask questions. And I’m not going to apologize for it.”

Bio:
When Jana Richards read her first romance novel, she immediately knew two things: she had to commit the stories running through her head to paper, and they had to end with a happily ever after. She also knew she’d found what she was meant to do. Since then she’s never met a romance genre she didn’t like. She writes contemporary romance, romantic suspense, and historical romance set in World War Two, in lengths ranging from short story to full length novel. Just for fun, she throws in generous helpings of humor, and the occasional dash of the paranormal. Her paranormal romantic suspense “Seeing Things” was a 2008 EPPIE finalist.

In her life away from writing, Jana is an accountant/admin assistant, a mother to two grown daughters, and a wife to her husband Warren. She enjoys golf, yoga, movies, concerts, travel and reading, not necessarily in that order. She and her husband live in Winnipeg, Canada with their Pug/Terrier cross Lou and several unnamed goldfish. She loves to hear from readers and can be reached through her website at www.janarichards.com

 
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I was on my own site recently and it has a pull down menu of keywords. Book titles, genres, and authors who have visited Wrter Wonderland fill the side box. I was commenting on a recent tour when I noticed a familiar name in the menu, Teresa Gallagher.

Where had I heard that name before? Was it from a tour in the past? Maybe I met her at a conference. Then it hit me. She’s the heroine from Incognito, one of my favorite novels. It took some time to create the passionate redhead who hid behind business frump attire.

My first thought was how could I forget her? My second thought was I thought she was a real person. Technically, she is. Book characters can sometimes be more real to readers than co-workers can.

I was working on interviews for an upcoming tour when I stalled at the favorite book question. That is the equivalent of asking a mother, which child is her favorite.  If you have more than one child, there is no way you can answer this. There is something special and remarkable about each child. The same goes for books.

The book that changed me the most was Gone with the Wind. As an eighth grader, I felt a bit intimidated by the oversized novel I checked out of the school library. I opened the book one Friday evening. Scarlet O’Hara captured me as she allowed men to battle for the honor of waiting on her. It didn’t take long to discover that this protagonist was petty, mean, vain, and ambitious.  Her marriage decisions tended to be on the impulsive side too.

Here was a heroine who didn’t exemplify all that was good. In fact, she could have been a template for a mean girl of her time. I’m betting she may have been top mean girl. Her flaws kept me turning pages. Her obsession with Ashley, an archetype of the noble Southern gentleman, made her somewhat sympathetic. Even at the young age of thirteen, I’d already had a few Ashleys in my life. Usually, they were celebrities who didn’t know I existed. All the same, they were not for me just as Ashley wasn’t a good fit for the fiery Scarlett.

Gone with the Wind was the first book I’d read with realistic characters. Middle grade authors wrote books with perfect kids who had great manners as they solved mysteries. Parents didn’t want books about out of control children. These stories always felt false because I didn’t know any kids like them. There may have been different types of books, but my mother made sure they never reached my hands.

The villains weren’t simply bad or a wrong choice. They were evil from the start to make sure the reader never mistook them for an ordinary person. That was the difference with Gone with the Wind. There were no bad people. There were bad decisions and the consequences of those decisions.

It was an adult view I’d never had the privilege of seeing until Margaret Mitchell pulled the curtain back. Suddenly, I saw a world where decent people made wrong decisions that resulted in hurry up marriages, abandonment, death, and even war.

On some level, I knew I should despise the gutsy Scarlett who grabbed for whatever she wanted, but on the other hand, I admired her courage. At times, I wanted to slap her upside the head because she didn’t understand that Rhett was twice the man Ashley was.

In the end, Margaret Mitchell made Scarlett pay for her headstrong ways.  Most viewed the ending as unhappy and demanded a new one. Margaret Mitchell never complied. Years later, a new book named Scarlett appeared.

It was a response to the lingering question about what happened to Scarlett.  In the original book, she returned to Tara to start again when her daughter dies and Rhett leaves her. The ending actually showed some growth for Scarlett as a character. Alone back at Tara, she grabs a handful of clay soil and echoes her father’s words about the land mattering. She’s very aware of her mistakes, but is willing to work with what she has.

People brought up with the belief system that everything should be tied up with a nice bow could not accept this ending. Scarlett didn’t self-destruct. All she did was reap the consequences of her actions. The majority of marriages do break up or at least crack over the death of a child, especially when one parent blames the other as Scarlett did.

  The follow up novel felt wrong. It was rather like hearing your parents indulge in salacious gossip, but when they realized you overheard, a hasty tale is born to cover the original, more interesting one.

Considering Scarlett’s impact, it isn’t that strange that I thought Teresa Gallagher was someone I met once.