Pirates, Puritans, & Princes—Whirlwind Romance

And the fourth installment in the increasingly mislabeled trilogy. Here’s something from my wild Caribbean romantic suspense novel Whirlwind Romance.

Pirates, Puritans, and princes—pieces of the puzzle in the whirlwind romance between a jelly maker and a castaway.

Paraiso, the island in Whirlwind Romance, is based on a real island in the western Caribbean that I discovered—how else?—mucking around on the internet. Called Providencia, it forms an archipelago with two other islands, San Andres and Santa Catalina, and five uninhabited atolls. Currently under the Colombian flag, it has been the ruled by an incredible variety of groups, from Henry Morgan the notorious buccaneer, to Spanish Conquistadors, Dutch traders, even English Puritans. Now part of the UN's Seaflower Biosphere, it sports the third largest coral reef in the world. To reach it isn't easy, which is why it's not well known in tourist circles.

Its rich and odd history made it an intriguing backdrop for my story, but please be aware that most of the cultural and geographic description of Paraiso in Whirlwind Romance, not to mention the characters, is purely fictional.

Blurb

In the aftermath of a hurricane, Lacey Delahaye finds herself marooned on an island on the Gulf coast of Florida with a mysterious man. They are immediately drawn to each other, but before Armand can confess his identity, they are kidnapped and taken to a tiny island in the western Caribbean. With the help of her son Crispin and a small, but fierce young boy, Inigo, she and Armand must face down pirates, power-mad ideologues, and palace intrigue, if they are to restore the once idyllic tropical island to its former glory.

Mangrove swamp near Lacey's house

In this excerpt, Lacey and Armand are only beginning to slip into what might be love.

Excerpt (PG): Slipping Briskly

The full moon shone through the window, illuminating Lacey’s nodding head. Armand touched her cheek. “I think it’s your bedtime.”

Stung, she shot back, “I’m taking care of you, remember?”

He held up a hand. “Sorry! I’d forgotten.” After a moment, he asked, his tone diffident, “Can you help me up?”

Lacey put an arm around his back and together they limped to Crispin’s room. She took his pants and shirt off and folded them neatly. As she turned to leave, he touched her arm. “Stay a minute?”

How could she admit she had to get out of there quickly or she wouldn’t be able to go at all? His handsome face—the strong chin covered with stubble, the pearly teeth contrasting with his tan skin, not to mention the long, graceful fingers he held out to her—all conspired to lure her closer. Her heart led the way, propelling her to his side. She sat down. “What is it?”

“Lacey…um.”

Her body tensed as desire fought to get out, and she fought just as hard to keep it in. I have to go. I have to…go. “What?”

His words came out in a rush. “Lacey, the other day—the first night—when you rescued me. When we…we…”

Don’t say it. Don’t say it. Christ.

“I…uh…want you to know I don’t do that on a regular basis.”

His air of shy ambivalence gave her courage. “I see. You don’t have sex on a regular basis?”

“No, no, it’s not that.” He stopped, flustered. “Er, I mean… I don’t sleep with women indiscriminately.”

Should she let him off the hook? Nah. “But you do sleep with a lot of women?”

“No! Lacey, you’re being difficult on purpose. I meant, that I didn’t mean to…you know. It just happened. Forgive me?”

“I—”

Armand interrupted her. “Not that it wasn’t enjoyable.” He seemed distracted, running a finger down her arm. “Wonderful. Fantastic. Too short.” He peered at her. “Lacey, you must know how beautiful you are. You have the most perfect cheekbones I’ve ever seen.”

“Cheekbones?” What the hell is he talking about?

“I’m an amateur photographer. Those cheekbones could belong to a supermodel. Perfectly sculpted. And your nose…” He tapped the tip. “A little pixie nose. It even turns up slightly. Your long, fine hair is the russet-gold of burnished copper pots I once saw piled high in a shop on Martinique. Your eyes…” He closed his. “Your eyes are the blue-green of a freshly mowed cricket field, of the emeralds that grow deep in the mountains, of the lagoon near my home on a blustery day.” He touched her hand. “Then there’s your body—as I remember it—a soft, comfortable, pillowy—”

“Hey!” Lacey shook her head to break the spell. “I think you’ve said enough. Get some sleep.”

She tried to rise, but he slipped his arms around her and drew her close. She wanted to struggle. She tried to struggle. It was no use. The long kiss filled her with a warmth that matched a fire on a cold night, a cup of cocoa, or a hot bath. When he lay back, the warmth turned to blazing passion. The power of it frightened her. I’ve got to go. She ran out of the room before he could stop her.

Paraiso

Whirlwind Romance

Wild Rose Press, 8/17/2016, Champagne Rose imprint
Contemporary romance/Action Adventure; M/F; 2 flames
Imprint: Champagne
Rating: Hot (R)
Ebook 89,905 words; Print: 358 p. 

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The Docent & the Stranger: The Mason's Mark: Love & Death in the Tower

The third installment of my all-books presentation to keep you amused during your unfortunate incarceration is the The Mason's Mark: Love and Death in the Tower.

The Mason's Mark: Love and Death in the Tower arose in part out of a true story. Starting in the 1940s an Italian named Licio Gelli embarked on a lifetime of bizarre scams and crimes. Alternately linked to rightists and leftists, he bilked or used people from Italian politicians, to the Nazis, the Communists, the CIA, even to Juan Peron, dictator of Argentina. His exploits cross the globe and spanned four decades. At last check, he was still alive, in his nineties and writing poetry from prison. In 1996 he was even nominated for the Nobel prize in literature.

Licio Gelli

Gelli is most famous for founding a Masonic lodge called Propaganda Due, a renegade group that was first dissolved, then reinstated, then erased by the Grand Orient de Italia. He had ensnared many prominent Italians into P2, which ultimately led to several huge scandals.  He is the model for the shadowy puppet master in my cozy mystery/ romantic suspense novel The Mason's Mark.

Blurb

In both the best and worst first day at work ever, docent Claire Wilding meets the man of her dreams, but her carefully rehearsed guided tour of the George Washington National Masonic Memorial collapses when she discovers a body and is drawn into a dark world of black ops and Italian renegade masons, of secret cabals and hidden treasure. Also cloaked in mystery is handsome Gideon Bliss, a George Washington expert who haunts the Memorial, his manner evasive. What is his secret? Claire fears she'll fall in love with him only to learn he's a thief or even a murderer. Juggling two eccentric mothers, an inquisitive sister, and an increasingly smitten detective, Claire must find answers to a complex web of intrigue, including who to trust and who to love.

George Washington Museum

Excerpt (PG):  First Meeting

“Next we’ll be visiting a museum devoted to George Washington. The Masonic Memorial houses an impressive collection of artifacts, some of which were donated by the Washington family and some rescued from the fire in 1871 that destroyed the first lodge. Please be sure to check out Dr. Elisha Cullen Dick’s pocket watch. He was George Washington’s close friend and presided over his death bed.”

As they filed out on the fourth floor and automatically turned right as all human flocks do, Claire surveyed the room. The black and white parquet floor sparkled. Around three sides ran a balcony, filled with small alcoves and paintings. The light from a porthole window flooded the room. As she headed toward a bust of George Washington, a shadow moved behind a column. She took a step toward it, but Mrs. Malloy’s voice stopped her. “Frank, Luther—you be good, hear? I’m gonna sit down for a bit.”

Claire watched, horror-struck, as the woman plunked down on the Chippendale chair Washington had used as Worshipful Master of the Lodge. The yellow tape meant to prevent access to it lay in tatters on the floor. She had lunged forward, one hand stretched out to grab the transgressor, when the shadow flitted across her vision again. Feeling like a spectator at a tennis match, she spun around. There. Shaking a finger at the woman and barking “No!” in her most imperious voice, she rounded a pillar. Sure enough, a man stood there by a small bookcase built into the wall.

During Claire’s training, Mr. Quinn had ground into her the absolute prohibition against unauthorized individuals wandering around in the Tower. Oh God, I hope I don’t have to call for backup. “Sir? Can I help you?”

The man jumped and turned to her, his eyes wide, giving Claire the opportunity to admire two very large orbs tinted a luminous tourmaline green. His mobile face sported a Roman nose of reasonable proportion, a strong chin only slightly marred by a salt-and-pepper stubble, and the high cheekbones of an Aztec chief. His tan was not so deep as to seem artificial. Claire had raised her eyes to behold a head of wavy, chocolate brown hair when he began to speak. His sonorous baritone—a cross between Dean Martin and Elvis Presley—captivated her and she found herself humming “That’s Amore” under her breath.

“No, thank you…er…” He peered at her chest. Her hand went protectively to the bosom that drew most eligible bachelors’ attention until she realized he was trying to read her name badge.

“Um…Claire. Claire Wilding. I’m the docent here.” She indicated her troops, at least two of whom were attempting to wreak irreparable damage on each other with a wooden staff carved in the likeness of John the Baptist. “Who are you?”

He smiled suddenly, revealing brilliant white teeth. His whole face lit up, and Claire swallowed hard. “I’m Gideon Bliss. And in case you’re wondering whether I’m here lawfully, the answer is yes.” He stuck out a large hand, calluses prominent on his trigger finger. They reminded Claire of her father’s hands. “David—Mr. Comfrey—gave me permission to visit the museum.” His eyes glinted with little flecks of gold and humor.

Claire found herself at a loss for words and not just because he’d invoked the name of the Worshipful Master of the Alexandria-Washington Masonic Lodge. She sank into the depths of his verdant eyes, while the mellifluous voice rolled over her. Just before she nodded off, he stopped speaking. She shook herself. “Oh, I see. Well, I’ll leave you to it.” Sheesh, Claire, are you shooting for the most pitiful female in Washington award?

Bliss hadn’t moved. “You say you’re the docent here? Could you help me find something?”

Claire dropped her eyes and mumbled, “Uh…”

“I’m sorry, what did you say?”

“Um…this is my first day. I…I doubt if I can help you.”

He chuckled. “So you didn’t actually mean anything by your first question.”

“My first…Oh, well, you know, that was sort of…rhetorical. I mean, no one is supposed to be here. Other than me. And of course them.” She waved at the group, who had now begun to congregate by the elevator doors. All except for the two boys, who were nowhere to be seen, and their mother, who continued to sprawl blithely on the President’s priceless antique chair.

Her abrupt answer seemed to annoy Bliss. “I see.” He turned back to the bookcase and pulled a large, dusty leather tome off the shelf. Claire spent a painful second staring at his rigid back and finally tore herself away, visions of emerald eyes filled with admiration at her beauty quickly evaporating.

The Mason's Mark: Love and Death in the Tower (an Old Town Romance)

Wild Rose Press, May 6, 2016 (Crimson Rose imprint)
Mystery/Cozy Mystery, Romantic suspense
ebook 79,000 words; print 322 pp.

M/F;  3 flames

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Flotsam & Jetsam: the Amelia Island Affair on NetGalley for April

For all of you who review on Netgalley, drop by the site and check out my new cozy mystery romance Flotsam & Jetsam: the Amelia Island Affair:

https://www.netgalley.com/catalog/book/155307

Blurb:

Who's littering the park with corpses?

State Park Rangers Simon Ribault and Ellie Ironstone are used to dealing with messy campers and ravaging raccoons, but when three bodies wash up on the beach, they mobilize all their powers of deduction. Who are they and how did they get to the shore of Amelia Island? Are they connected to the secretive League of the Green Cross? Or linked to a mysterious Jamaican drug ring?

Ellie, new to Amelia Island, must penetrate a close-knit community if she wants to find answers to the mystery, all while deciding between two rivals for her affection: Thad, the handsome local idol, and Simon, the clever, quirky bookworm.

Simon, for his part, will have to call on his not-so-well-honed romantic prowess to lure Ellie away from Thad and at the same time use his wide-ranging research skills to solve the case.

It's up for review the entire month of April. I’d love to hear what you think!

Milo Finds a Body: Artful Dodging: the Torpedo Factory Murders

Since we are all sheltering in place, I thought I'd take the opportunity to regale you with excerpts from all my books. This is the second installment.

What would you do if you found a body in a dark, empty, warehouse and you’re all alone? Panic? Find out what intrepid needlepoint artist Milo Everhart does in Artful Dodging: the Torpedo Factory Murders.

Artful Dodging brings together a cast of eccentric characters, from Milo the heroine needlepoint artist, to Tekla, ebony-tressed Russian sculptress, to Jacob, the fanatic environmentalist, to Archie who literally lives in the art center, to handsome lawyer Tristram, to the statuesque Ursula. The plot revolves around the discovery of two bodies who seem to bear no relation to each other or to anyone else. They are found in the tower room of the Torpedo Factory Art Center, an old munitions factory turned art studio center on the waterfront of Old Town Alexandria. Since the city is considering proposals to close the art center, Milo and her friends have their hands full trying to save it, at the same time trying to solve the murders. Her budding romance with Tristram is complicated by both her continued grief at the loss of her husband and Tristram’s involvement in a plan to turn the torpedo factory into a box store.

The Torpedo Factory

The Torpedo Factory Art Center in Old Town Alexandria, Virginia, is a hulking former munitions factory right on the waterfront. Since the 1970s it has been host to art studios, a museum, and an art school. It’s never been renovated and is still a vast open central space surrounded by meandering corridors and rooms tucked away here and there. It is topped by a tower reached by hidden stairs. So you can imagine how our heroine, Milo Everhart, felt when she had to traverse the narrow stairs, open fire doors, and walk through a huge dark hall, to let the police in.

Excerpt (G): The Body

“Hello! Hello? 911?”

“Please state the nature of your emergency.”

“A body. There’s a b…b…body.” The word came out as a gurgle.

“Yes, ma’am. Now tell me where you are.”

Milo looked wildly around the darkened corridor. “Second floor. No lights.”

“Ma’am? Second floor of what?”

“Oh, er, the Torpedo Factory. I ran downstairs. I…”

“The Torpedo Factory? You mean the building at 105 North Union Street?”

Milo almost snapped, “How many torpedo factories do you know?” but thought better of it. “Yes.”

“All right, ma’am. Now, you say you’ve found a body? Is it dead?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Of course it’s dead. Dead. A dead body. In the office.”

“The office?”

“The tower. Look, can you send the police? I’m all alone in the building. Except for the body, of course. I mean, it’s pitch black in here. Please?” She knew she sounded less than rational, but weren’t 911 operators trained to weed out the gibberish and cut to the chase?

“I’ve already sent out a call. The police should be arriving any minute. Now, will they be able to enter the building?”

“Oh! Er. I don’t know. Archie’s already locked up.”

“Archie?”

“The super. He’s long gone, though.”

“Can you get to a door to let them in?”

Milo’s shoes must have found bubble gum on the floor all by themselves, since they appeared to be stuck. “I…uh…I can’t get to the doors.” Nothing but silence on the other end. She must think I’m lazy. Or a coward. I’ll bet she knows how to wait people out, to force them to do her bidding. “I’m not lazy, miss. I’m just…I’m wondering. What if the murderer is hiding somewhere, still in the building?”

“Murderer? You think the victim was murdered?”

Every CSI show she’d ever watched, plus a couple of X Files, fast-forwarded through her brain. Somewhere in the reruns she found the answer. “I don’t know. That’s for the experts to decide.” Thank you, Gil Grissom.

“Okay, ma’am. Listen to me carefully. If the building is locked, the police will have to break the door down, but first they’ll have to go to a judge and get a search warrant. So you see, the quickest way they can help you is if you let them in. Now, do you think you can go down the stairs to the door?”

Milo drew in a long, ragged breath, holding it until her head began to spin. As she let it out, she managed, “Yes. I’m on the landing. Can you stay on the line with me in case I’m attacked?”

“I sure will.”

Milo felt her way with one hand toward the middle stairwell. “I’m on the stairs now. Now I’m walking down the stairs.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

The central staircase of the factory only had a single metal railing and thus was exposed to the entire main hall. If anyone still lurked in the building he could easily see (and hear) her. She stopped halfway down and looked across the main lobby to the front entrance, a set of doublewide, glass-paned sliding doors. “There are flashing lights and sirens coming from Union Street.”

“Yes, ma’am. That would be the police.”

Well, duh.

Artful Dodging: the Torpedo Factory Murders

Wild Rose Press, 7/20/2016; Imprint Crimson Rose 

Theme(s): Mystery/Cozy Mystery
Contemporary romantic Suspense, M/F, 2 flames

Ebook, 66,830 words; Print 268 p. 

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Jailhouse Blues--The Pit & the Passion: an Excerpt

Since we are all sheltering in place, I thought I'd take the opportunity to regale you with excerpts from all my books. Today's offering is the Pit and the Passion: Murder at the Ghost Hotel.

Jailhouse Blues

Come listen to Rancor whine (he’s so good at that!) from a Paris jail in an excerpt from my cozy mystery romance The Pit and the Passion: Murder at the Ghost Hotel . Set on Longboat Key, Florida, the Pit and the Passion takes place on the spot where John Ringling began building a luxurious hotel in the 1920s. Left to slowly disintegrate over the decades, it inevitably came to be called the Ghost Hotel.

Blurb

At midnight, in the darkness of a deserted hotel, comes a scream and a splash. Eighty-five years later, workmen uncover a skeleton in an old elevator shaft. Who is it, and how did it get there? To find out, Charity Snow, ace reporter for the Longboat Key Planet, teams up with Rancor Bass, best-selling author. A college ring they find at the dig site may prove to be their best clue.

Although his arrogance nearly exceeds his talent, Charity soon discovers a warm heart beating under Rancor’s handsome exterior. While dealing with a drop-dead gorgeous editor who may or may not be a villain, a publisher with a dark secret, and an irascible forensic specialist, Charity and Rancor unearth an unexpected link to the most famous circus family in the world.

Paris

Paris is featured in many of my books because I have a soft spot for it. In The Pit and the Passion: Murder at the Ghost Hotel, I contrive to send my hero Rancor Bass off to Paris in pursuit of his editor. He lands himself in jail, which gives our heroine Charity Snow a chance to see Paris for the first time. In fact, due to his misadventures, Charity—who’s never been out of Florida—gets to travel a LOT.

Excerpt (G): April in a Paris Jail

Charity dropped the phone. After picking it up and waiting for the panicky breaths to slow, she said as calmly as she could, “Before I shell out any more money, you need to answer a few questions, mister.”

“Fire away. It’s funny—here in France I’m allowed not one but two phone calls.”

“I presume your first one was to the American embassy.”

“That’s next on my list. This may come as a surprise to you, but I so longed to hear your voice that I decided to check in with you first. Get the money ball rolling, as it were.”

“It’s always about money, isn’t it?”

“Well, in this case, it’s pretty crucial. The French police may be enlightened as to telephone communications, but not so much about accommodations. So what do you say?”

“I say, get on the horn to the embassy without ado.”

He was silent for a minute. Finally, he said gently, “Don’t you want to hear what happened?”

“Let me guess. You were caught in flagrante delicto with a beautiful fugitive from justice.”

“Not at all. My heart is true. I’ve been faithful to you even if you don’t deserve it.”

Charity decided to let that pass—and maybe revisit it later at her leisure. “Tell me then.”

“Well, said beautiful fugitive managed to turn the tables on me. I found her, but instead of consenting to come along quietly, she screamed bloody murder. In a performance worthy of Sarah Bernhardt—you know who she was, don’t you? The greatest actress of her age. The Divine Sarah. Why, her Tosca was emulated by thousands of would-be swans. I—”

“What did she claim?”

“Who? Oh, Isabella? That I—Rancor Bass, author of eleven wildly acclaimed books—had stolen her manuscript! The gall of the woman.” He subsided into incoherent rumblings.

“And?”

“And since this is France, the gendarmes refrained from asking any searing questions for fear of injuring the nymphette’s fragile sensibilities. They swallowed her line without so much as a tittle of qualm and arrested me. It’s appalling, really. These chaps are totally sexist. Chauvinist dinosaurs…”

“What do you want me to do?”

“Well, I’d love the money as soon as you can send it. How’s that done nowadays? They used to say ‘I’ll wire it,’ but I’m pretty sure technology has moved on. No matter, that was five hundred if you recall. I guess I can exchange it here—ooh, I just thought of something. It’s euros, isn’t it? Not francs. What a shame…this Eurozone crap has got to stop. It’s ruining all the color and spice of Europe. Did you know French farmers can’t sell cheese that isn’t pasteurized? Criminal.”

“Rancor? Have you by any chance not eaten in a while?”

“What? No, la bonne femme—that’s ‘wife’ to you Yankees—of Monsieur le Brigadier Dumont provided me with a cheese omelet and a Picardie glass of a refreshing Sancerre. Her name is Antoinette. A very warmhearted woman.”

I’ll bet she is. “All right, then why are you babbling?”

“I think it’s the cell walls—so close, so confining. They’re beginning to get to me. Did I ever mention I have claustrophobia? I’m trying to fend it off with logorrhea.”

“Logo…what?”

“Logorrhea. It’s like diarrhea except with words rather than…well, you know.”

Let’s just skip on ahead. “All right, I’ll see about the money. Who do I send it to?”

“My lawyer—a Monsieur Carotte. Hang on, let me find his email address…here it is. CarotteatAubergineCarotteAsperge-dot-com. That’s all one word. Do you want me to spell it?”

“No, I’ve got it. Wait—you have a lawyer? Why do you need me?”

“He was assigned by the judge. He doesn’t care about me the way you do, Charity. In fact, he actually hooted when I suggested he bail me out. Like a hyena, not like an owl. Most unsettling.”

“How do you know he won’t keep the money?”

“Oh dear, I hadn’t thought of that. Just a minute.” From a distance, she heard a dialogue in rapid French. Rancor came back on the line. “The officer has kindly offered to take custody of the funds. Send it to Brigadier Raoul Dumont, in care of the Commissariat de Police, eighth arrondissement, one Avenue du General Eisenhower, Paris, 75008. Got it?”

“All right. I’ll do it first thing tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow! Can’t you do it tonight? It’s not exactly Shangri-La here.”

What time is it there?”

More French. “Dumont informs me it is three o’clock in the morning. So it’s tomorrow.”

“Well, it isn’t tomorrow here. You’ll get the money when you get it.” When he didn’t answer, she said sweetly, “Do call me when you get out.”

“Will do,” he whispered his voice tight. “You’re a saint. I’ll be at l’Hôtel Paris, 13 rue des Beaux Arts, Paris 75006. Number is 33-1-44-41-99-55.”

“Hotel Paris? Where’s that? By the train station?”

“No, dear. That’s Hôtel de la Gare. It’s always Hôtel de la Gare. L’Hôtel Paris is one of the most famous of all French hostelries. I’m shocked you don’t know this.”

“Rancor, I’ve never been to France. I’ve never even been to New York.”

“Why, you sad, pathetic creature. While I still have you on the line, I shall tell you more. All kinds of famous people have rested their weary heads on the silken sheets of l’Hôtel, the most eminent being Oscar Wilde. I believe he breathed his last bon mot there. So naturally, it’s the most suitable hotel for a wielder of clever phrases such as I, don’t you think? Plus, it’s a five-star and really rather special. Did you know its rooms are classified Mignon and Bijou? That tells you how precious it is.”

Not having any response to this little speech, she said goodbye and hung up.

An hour later, money having been sent and receipt confirmed, she went to bed, resolved to force the little reptile to confess just how he managed to bunk in a five-star hotel and yet still had to borrow bail money.

The Pit and the Passion: Murder at the Ghost Hotel

The Wild Rose Press, January 22, 2018 (Crimson Rose)

Mystery, Humorous/Romantic Comedy

Rating: PG13

418 p.; 97370 words

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