Friday, December 22, 2023

The Wishing Tree Featured at NN Light's 2023 Best Books of the Year!

 


I’m so excited to be a part of N. N. Light’s Book Heaven Best Books of ‘23 Bookish Event. Check out all the books released in 2023 and enter the giveaway to win a $45 Amazon gift card: https://www.nnlightsbookheaven.com/best-books-bookish-event

I’m featuring my latest release, The Wishing Tree: Love, Lies, and Spies on Chincoteague Island with a brand new excerpt. It will post Friday, December 22.


Will the wind whip her token from the Wishing Tree and make her wish come true?

Addison Steele dreams of the day her husband—lost at sea—returns to her. Instead, she meets Nick Savage, whose every word may be a lie. She is soon embroiled in mystery, all related to the top secret science station at Wallops Island, Virginia.

After a Belarusian scientist at Wallops is murdered, the questions multiply. Was it because he caught the person stealing classified documents or because he wanted to defect? Is Nick the spy—or is it his brother? How can she trust the man who is slowly claiming her heart when his story keeps shifting?

 

While you’re perusing the lovely books, enter to win a $45 Amazon gift card:

https://www.rafflecopter.com/rafl/display/92db7750244

Open Internationally. Runs December 18 – December 31, 2023. Winner will be drawn on January 2, 2024.

<a class="rcptr" href="http://www.rafflecopter.com/rafl/display/92db7750244/" rel="nofollow" data-raflid="92db7750244" data-theme="classic" data-template="" id="rcwidget_mo59yn41">a Rafflecopter giveaway</a>

<script src="https://widget-prime.rafflecopter.com/launch.js"></script>

 

Friday, December 15, 2023

Release date for In the Crosshairs!

 Mark it on your calendars: May 27, 2024

RELEASE DAY

For

In the Crosshairs: The Body on Leffis Key


Palmer Lind, recovering from the sudden death of her husband, embarks on a bird-watching trek to the Gulf Coast of Florida. One hot day on Leffis Key she comes upon—not the life bird she was hoping for—but a floating corpse. The handsome beach bum who appears on the scene at the same time seems to have even more secrets than the dead man.

His story begins to unravel as the pair search for answers to a growing pile of dead bodies. Spies, radical environmentalists, and wealthy businessmen circle around each other in a complex dance. Which one is lying? What do a seemingly random group of individuals have in common, other than being targeted by a crossbow?


Check back here for updates, buy links etc. 

Remember: Release day is May 27, 2024!


Friday, December 8, 2023

Backlist Surfing: Exotic Settings--Whirlwind Romance & Orion’s Foot

 Romance & Adventure in the Dusky Tropics

Since  my new release won’t grace the internet until next year, I thought I’d do a little backlist surfing. Today I’ll focus on two of my novels set in exotic locales—Whirlwind Romance, and Orion’s Foot: Myth, Mystery, and Romance in the Amazon.

Whirlwind Romance


Whirlwind Romance is romantic suspense at its best—complete with a mysterious royal hero and evil power-hungry usurpers. It’s set mainly in the Western Caribbean on a tiny island. Warning: it is one of my early, spicy (R-rated) novels.

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 cadre of loyal followers, 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.

The beach where they escape

Excerpt (G): The Escape

Lacey looked out again. “What’s the other castle, the one on the northern point?”

“It’s the ancestral estate of the Proctors. The first secretary has always come from their ranks. Edrigu is the current officeholder.”

“The first secretary is like what, a vizier?”

“Yes. And treasurer, chief steward, commander of the army—”

Lacey stifled a giggle. “An army of one?”

Armand looked down his nose at her. “For your information, our muskets still work, and both Stefan and Luis are well trained in hand-to-hand combat.”

“Should it ever be needed.”

He turned grave. “I hope to God it never will be.”

It reminded Lacey of their predicament. “Where is Ulisses, do you suppose?”

Almost as if he’d been listening, the door sprang open, and Traficant entered, carrying a coil of rope. “I have an appointment with a man named Damiano.” He put Lacey on the cot and tied her hands to the bedposts. Dragging a chair to the other side of the room, he lashed Armand to it. “Now stay put. I won’t be long.” He left.

They heard the splash of the anchor. A little later, the sound of oars dipping into the water told them their captor had taken the dinghy. Spread-eagled on the bed, her arms stretched painfully, a familiar panic smothered Lacey’s senses. She had never been able to stand having her arms pinioned. She laid her head back and tried to relax, but her breathing quickened and hysteria washed over her. She concentrated on the gentle rolling and pitching of the boat.

“Here, let me.” Warm breath misted the back of her head.

She tried to jerk upright, but the ropes pulled her back down. Her eyes wild, she opened her mouth to scream, but a rough hand went over it. “Shhh, quiet, Lacey! You’ll wake the dead.”

“Armand! You’re…you’re free! I thought…I thought…”

“Now if you will kindly wiggle your fingers.”

Lacey did so and soon felt a loosening of the bonds around her wrists. “How did you manage it?”

Armand held up his hands, free of rope. “Unlike American prep schools, Eton teaches useful skills such as fencing and lock-picking.”

“I bet you’re a big hit at parties.”

“As a matter of fact…” He picked up her hand and kissed the tips of her fingers.

Lacey took a deep breath, and peace flooded back into her body. “So, your degree is in escape artistry?”

“Among other things.”

She rubbed her wrists. “What do we do now?”

“We get off this boat.”

“You mean, swim?”

“If we have to.” He stood up and paced the cabin.

She stopped him, hand to his chest. “You can walk!”

“What?” He looked down as though discovering his feet for the first time. “Oh, yes. The ankle is nearly healed.”

“But you were limping heavily only last night when Ulisses took you.”

“That was for his benefit. If he thinks I’m still lame, he won’t worry about our getting away.”

“I see.” She went to the door and tried the handle. “Locked.”

Armand held up what looked like a needle. “Standard school supplies.” He fiddled with the lock until the door sprang open.

“Why didn’t you use that before?”

“And go where?” 

Books2Read

Wild Rose Press 

Amazon

Bookstrand

Barnes & Noble

Kobo

Google

ITunes

Walmart

Indigo

Overdrive

 

Orion’s Foot: Myth, Mystery, & Romance in the Amazon


Orion’s Foot is wild—it’s set deep in the Amazon at a research station, where a mysterious cryptid may be attacking the scientists. A cryptid can be a creature from myth and legend, a supernatural or paranormal entity, an extinct animal who may still inhabit a specific area. It’s often of unusual size or appearance—like the yeti, the sasquatch, or the Loch Ness monster.

Blurb:

Petra Steele is wallowing in self-pity after being dumped at the altar, when her brother Nick invites her to come to the Peruvian Amazon. Before she even sets her suitcase down, she's confronted with a murder victim. In a research station peopled with a quirky assortment of scientists, she is drawn to Emory Andrews, a gruff, big man with a secret past. That is, until his beautiful ex-wife shows up. More murders, more secrets, more mysteries ensue, all in the deeply romantic, sizzling jungle.

The Mapinguari

Excerpt: The Mapinguari

They went back down the path they’d come, surveying the ground and vegetation for any trace of a large animal. They had reached the mahogany tree when Petra checked her watch. “Winston’s been gone half an hour. Maybe we should—” Her words were cut off by a low snarl. “Emory? Is that you?” She whirled around. “Where are you?”

For answer, the growl grew deeper and more menacing. Sounds like a gorilla—but they don’t live here, do they? She whispered, “Emory?”

Shh.” She looked up. Emory clung to a low branch of the mahogany tree. He held a hand out. “Quickly.”

She grabbed a liana, hoping fervently it wasn’t a Strychnos vine, and scrambled up. The growl came again, closer. They climbed higher. Something crashed through the woods, puffing. Whatever it was entered the clearing, and the noise stopped. Petra held her breath and Emory’s hand. It must be looking for us. After a lengthy pause that left her feeling chilled to the bone in the torrid heat, the puffing started again, gradually diminishing into the distance. She waited five more minutes to be sure it was gone before whispering, “Did you get a look at it?”

“No, the foliage was in the way, but it sounded awfully big. And grouchy. I’m going to—” As he started to climb down, a twig snapped below them. They froze.

Something’s being dragged through the underbrush. They waited another five minutes. Finally, she ventured, “Do you think it’s gone?”

“I don’t know. Let me go first.” He ducked and touched the top of his head. “Uh-oh. I hope that’s not monkey scat.”

She raised her face to the canopy. “It’s rain.”

“Just a drizzle. No problem. We…shit.”

The downpour came suddenly, drenching them. They sat, huddled under the canopy of leaves, waiting it out. Petra tasted a drop on her forearm. “They don’t have acid rain here, do they?”

“No—they have a lot of poisonous species here, but no industrial pollution that I know of.” He shielded his face and looked up. “We can only hope manchineel trees don’t grow here. We’ll have to ask Aguirre when we get back.”

“Manchineel?”

“Small trees of the swamp. Their sap is extremely toxic. If it drips on you, it burns and blisters the skin. Enough exposure can kill you.”

“But if the poison is only in the sap, we’re safe unless we tap into the tree, right?”

“I wish. It’s a particularly vicious plant—even runoff from the leaves in a rainstorm can sluice the poison onto your skin.”

“Great.” She began to shiver, mainly due to nerves. The rain stopped.

They heard a shout. Winston came tumbling into the clearing. “Up here!”

He looked up. “What are you doing up there?”

“We heard something.”

“Never mind. I have news!” He panted. “My…my…son…he saw it.”

“What?”

“The Mapinguari.”

Emory started to climb down but paused. He stretched out an arm and grabbed at the hair, stuffing a hank in his pocket. “We should study it when we get back.”

Petra followed him. When she reached the ground, she found Winston, his face aglow with feverish excitement. “Your son saw a Mapinguari? Is he sure?”

“It was running through the scrub. Acarapi followed it, but in his hurry he stepped on a snake. He pulled up and it got away, but he says it was very tall and hairy.”

“Where was he when he saw it?”

“Only a few yards from here. He was picking herbs for the shaman. When the snake bit him, he went home for help.”

They crossed the clearing on the way to the boats. Winston slipped but caught himself. “What’s this? Were you people hungry? There is food in your backpacks.” He picked up a peel. “You shouldn’t have eaten Francisco’s bananas. You will have to pay him.”

A stalk of bananas had been stripped from the tree and dozens of empty peels lay about. Petra shook her head. “It wasn’t us.”

 

Books2Read

Wild Rose Press

Amazon

Barnes and Noble

ITunes

KOBO

Google Play

Indigo

Indie-bound

Scribd

Bookbub

Goodreads

 

 

 

Sunday, November 26, 2023

Crossbows to come

 In preparation for my upcoming release: In the Crosshairs: the Body on Leffis Key, here's a Zelda poem*

*Zelda is an alter-alter-alter ego.

Crossbow mercy


Zelda has moved in
Little bottles everywhere
 
Books and papers and needlepoint
In the living room
On every surface
 
In the bedroom
Pillows on the floor
Clothes on the bed
 
It’s her way
Of distracting me.
Won’t work.
Wish it would.
 
She watches me
A long look
 
Picks up the crossbow
And puts me out of my misery.
 
Bless you Zelda.


Saturday, November 25, 2023

Free Read for Christmas: Che Gelida Manina--an unlooked-for love story

Che Gelida Manina (What a cold hand) is an beautiful aria from Puccini's opera La Bohème, in which Rodolfo introduces himself to Mimi as they sit on the steps of their cold rooming house. This story is about opening your heart to new love.

Rodolfo sings Che Gelida Manina to Mimi
M. S. Spencer© 2014

 

Che Gelida Manina

                                                By M. S. Spencer

 

"I don't want to stay here, Amelia."

"But Mother, you love Sarasota! You love the sun, the people, the beach. Why this sudden desire to move to Morocco?"

"It's always been a dream of mine." Grace knew her daughter wouldn't buy it, but didn't want to tell her how desperately she needed to get away from Florida. Since Jack died nine months before on Christmas Eve, she couldn't bear to go to the Gulf…or listen to his favorite opera, La Bohème…or even light candles at dinner.  Jack had been the most romantic man in the world and the love of her life. Now that he was gone, all desire for romance had gone with him. It was only because of her promise to him to stay through one last Christmas that she had remained.  I'll keep my promise, but I'll be out of here by Boxing Day.

"Well, it makes no sense." Amelia switched gears. "Just yesterday Brad was saying you should come up here to Portland—"

"Not on your life. I may be a doting grandmother but I don't think I could handle twin toddlers twenty-four-seven."

The woman at the other end of the phone sniffed. "Hmmph. Well, we don't want you alone on Christmas Eve, Mother. Brad would be happy to book a flight for you."

"You know I can't, dear."

"Oh, bother the promise. Dad would understand."

Grace thought of Jack's last whispered request. "No, he wouldn't."

"Okay, okay." Amelia paused. "Did you sign up for Friends.com yet?"

"No, and stop badgering me."

"All I ask is that you think about it. It's about time you got out of the house. The site's supposed to have a ninety-percent success rate in matching people."

"I doubt that. Gotta go, dear." Grace hung up and stared at the website on her computer screen. She hesitated, then clicked "Your Friends.com Profile." She wrote quickly and furiously, tossing her thoughts out before she lost her nerve.

   Recently widowed woman, 60, seeking companion for excursions—bird watching and sightseeing. Not interested in romance or personal confidences. No moonlit beach walkers please. No candlelight dinners. Love of opera a deal-breaker.

She typed in her credit card number and clicked 'Submit,' then returned to her profile and reread it.  "Oh dear, that sounds awfully negative…"

Her finger hovered over the 'Delete Post' button when a message popped up. "Edward Harper has emailed you." She opened it.

Widower, 62, happy to oblige. Coffee today?

Next to the message was a man's photograph. She studied it, trying to plumb its secrets—a broad face, the planes of the cheeks flat and tanned. Little crinkles of skin at each temple hinted at a quiet sense of humor. His bright hazel eyes under a thatch of brown hair smiled at her, as if willing her to say hello.  She pressed 'Reply' and typed in, "Yes."

An hour later she sat in a booth in the Gray Dolphin Café, wondering if she'd recognize him. A tall man came through the automatic doors and strode resolutely toward her. "Are you Grace?"

I can deny it. I can get up and walk out right now. The eyes held her. Cheerful, calm, intelligent. "Yes. Won't you join me?"

He slid onto the seat and ordered coffee for the two of them. Grace, used to dealing with the world on her own, found it refreshing. He had a way of making her feel comfortable and pampered at the same time. Two hours later they parted at the café door.

She didn't hear from him that day, or the next, or the next. Exactly one week later, an email popped up. "Coffee today?"

Fingers scampering quickly over the keys, she typed, "Yes."

They met at the café, but Edward drew her outside. "How about a walk through Robinson Preserve? I brought binoculars. And coffee."

"Sure."

Two hours later he left her at the café entrance. She almost asked if he'd like to see her again, but didn't.

Precisely a week later, he called. "Coffee?"

This time she was ready. "Would you care to go to Spanish Point with me? It's an historic site."

"Certainly—I was going to suggest something similar. I'll pick you up at the café."

And so it went for two months. The two of them met every Wednesday and toured local sights like Marie Selby Gardens, Ringling's Ca D'zan, and Ybor City. Edward proved a perfect escort—knowledgeable, funny, interested in everything. Grace's life came to revolve around the weekly dates. She'd find herself thinking about him every day, wondering more and more often how he felt about her. After all, he never asked her personal questions. If she inquired about his past, he would demur. "We are but fellow travelers. That was the deal, wasn't it?"

Whenever his reticence grated on her, she would reread her Friends.com profile.  You asked for this, Grace. In fact, you insisted upon it. Then she would pour herself a drink and watch another re-run of Love Boat.

As the weeks passed, Grace sank deeper and deeper into a funk. Edward was careful to keep his distance—the occasional touch on the hand or squeeze of the elbow meant only that he wanted to draw her attention to something. She began to covet the delicate brush of his fingers across her skin. Sometimes she would even bump into him, pretending to be absorbed in a painting or view.

She had said goodbye to him one Wednesday, facing the emptiness of the week ahead. Sitting in her car, it suddenly struck her as unfair. Is this all he can give? One afternoon a week for the rest of my life? She checked her face in the rear view mirror. Wrinkles spiraled through the once blooming cheeks. Her hair had begun the gradual but depressing transformation to pure white, and her once cobalt blue eyes had faded to the cerulean of a misty morning sky. She started the engine. "I've got to do something."

But as the days dragged by, she did nothing. Time and again she would click on Edward's address, only to hesitate.  I'm not ready.

That Sunday Amelia called.  "I hope you'll reconsider and come for Christmas, Mother."

Christmas. Christ. In her preoccupation with Edward, she had lost track of the date. In three weeks her vow to Jack would be discharged. What difference would it make if I left a few days early? Unexpectedly, Edward's smiling face flashed before her. Yearning vied with terror, threatening to rip her heart apart.  I'm not ready. I need to get out of here. She finally managed, "Perhaps I will."

"Wonderful! Come a week early—that way we'll have plenty of time to catch up."

"All right."

As her departure approached, Grace put off informing Edward. I know him. He'll nod silently. He won't even ask if I need a ride to the airport. She stifled the stab of pain.

The day before she was to leave, she finally confessed. His eyes, for once, did not smile, but he said nothing. She waved him off at the café and went home to finish packing. As she locked the suitcase, cold reality sluiced like ice water down her back. I guess this is it. She looked around the cozy bungalow Edward had never entered. And yet he seemed so much a part of it, of her life now. The longing she'd felt for him—longing that she refused to acknowledge—exploded into desire. I want him. I want to hold him. And I want to talk—really talk—pour out all my thoughts and my childhood dreams, my needs, my fears.

To silence the pleas, she did something she hadn't done since Jack died—she took the shell path to the water. The beach was empty and she walked until her feet hurt—a mile, two miles, three. As she walked, the sun began to descend in one of those glorious Florida sunsets that make you wonder if you've landed on another planet. The white powdery sand crunched between her toes.  How I've missed this! Maybe I was wrong to cut myself off from the things I loved.

By the time she arrived back at the shell path it was nearly dark. She turned for one last look at the moon and stars. A beach chair sat forlornly on the shore, waves lapping at its legs. Something fluttered from it. Oh, right, I left my towel there.

As she approached, a silvery tenor began to croon Jack's favorite aria from La Bohème. In it, Rodolfo sings to his new love Mimi, 'Che gelida manina—What a cold little hand you have!'

She rounded on the chair. "Edward?"

He sat up. "Grace?"

She wanted to run into his arms. She wanted to kiss his lips, his forehead, his hands. Instead, she stood quietly, her arms at her sides. "Edward, what are you doing here? I thought you hated the beach."

His eyes bored into her. "Not me. You. You didn't want romance. You didn't want to hold my hand, or light a candle, or hear my music. I respected your wishes."

She ached to cry out, "I was wrong! Edward, I want to be with you!" but fear clogged her throat. I'm not ready. All she could manage was, "Yes."

His lips twisted. "Yes." Then he stood up and walked away across the sand. Grace watched helplessly as the second love of her life left her.

She went to bed, but the hours ticked by as she lay awake, by turns angry and despondent. The next morning she called Amelia. "I've decided to stay here for Christmas."

"Mother? Why? You'll be so lonely!"

"No! No, I'll be fine. I have a promise to keep."

She checked the calendar. Four days to go to Christmas Eve. She had to find Edward before she left. I can't leave without telling him about Jack—without explaining my aversion to romance. She turned on the laptop and typed his name in the search box.

The first list turned up three dozen Edward Harpers, ten of whom lived in the Sarasota area. She spent two days tracking them down, leaving messages at the most promising leads. Then she sat down to wait.

Christmas Eve arrived without any word from Edward. Her suitcase stood ready by the door. As the light faded, she went outside to her patio. La Bohème played softly from inside. I can't lose him. Why didn't I tell him? What was I afraid of? The pain? You fool, the pain found you anyway. At least she had the beach and the music back. Only one more thing to do. She rose, found some matches, and lit the Christmas candle. As she watched the flame flicker in the evening breeze, she savored an uneasy peace. Perhaps it's for the best. I'll leave tomorrow and forget all about him.

Someone moved from the darkness into the light. She sprang up to find bright hazel eyes smiling into hers. He touched her hand and sang softly, "Che gelida manina. What a cold little hand you have, my dear. May I warm it?"

She gave it to him, then led him down the path to the beach.