Posts Tagged ‘mystery’

Walking into the past

What’s your favourite month in the place where you live? And why? I love September in my home town, the ancient university city of Cambridge, England. The trees are beginning to turn, the tourists are gone, and the students have not yet arrived. The place has a stillness about it and a sense of waiting. And September is the only time when the townsfolk, like me, almost have Cambridge to themselves. Almost. Have you ever felt that when you turn this next corner, you will have walked into the past? Wandering through the narrow Tudor streets and by the willow-fringed river Cam, I encounter those who lived here in years gone by, and they bombard me with their tales—maybe they know that Carina promises no great story will go untold!

That’s how I met Bryony, my heroine, and came to write Tainted Innocence, which is set in 1524. One early morning she persuaded me to walk barefoot across the fen still drenched with dew to Laundress Green, the bank where some 500 years ago the washerwomen met to do the Great Spring wash for the Cambridge colleges, and to exchange gossip. I hoicked up my skirt and slithered down the muddy bank to wade in the cool dark water, to imagine what it would have been like for her. I felt very foolish when I realised the people having breakfast in the posh hotel on the other side of the river were watching me!

Another day I followed the stream near my terraced cottage to its source—the quiet, magical wood where the Nine Wells bubble up from the earth. I discovered Luke Hobson was walking by my side, dark and troubled, a man who has learned from bitter experience to trust no one, and is angry to find himself attracted to a gypsy girl who is prepared to steal and lie in order to survive. What else, he wonders, is she prepared to do?

I arrived in Cambridge some years ago to teach on a short summer course. I never meant to stay. I haven’t yet managed to leave. Has that happened to you? My heroine, Bryony, flees to Cambridge hoping she will find a refuge, a place of safety—and a place she might learn to read and write. Instead she is accused of witchcraft and murder and is forced to accept that she must either find a man strong enough to protect her—or work out who the killer is herself. Sure—Bryony is feisty enough and should be independent! But imagine that you are trying to survive in the world of Henry VIII where men hold most of the power, and that you are illiterate, penniless, always hungry, and terrified of being drowned as a witch.

Do you always “get it right”? Bryony doesn’t. Me neither. I thought she would be attracted to one man. I hadn’t expected her to be attracted to two.

My life—and my novels!—rarely go to plan. That’s the fun of it.

 

Tainted Innocence

England, 1524

PhotobucketIn Cambridge, the College of the Young Princes brings together all manner of people—with all manner of secrets. Among them is Bryony, an illiterate laundress and a stranger to the town, who lives in constant fear that her unusual upbringing and lack
of friends will leave her vulnerable to accusations of witchcraft.

When Matthew Hobson, a scholar at the college, is found murdered and wrapped in linen that Bryony lost, she immediately becomes a suspect. But she is not the only one. Luke Hobson, a taciturn local tradesman who has sacrificed much for his charismatic but selfish brother, also has a motive for the murder.

With the university authorities eager to solve the crime, outsiders Bryony and Luke
are forced into a wary alliance, knowing they have to track down the killer if they are
to escape hanging. But can they trust in each other’s innocence in order
to uncover the truth?

About the author

Joss Alexander thought she’d spend her life gathering rosebuds but ended up picking rosehips, a somewhat thornier occupation that not many people have tried. She wonders why. Addicted to her keyboard, she can be dragged away to play tennis, climb mountains or go wild water swimming. It makes an excellent  change from the shoe-box study where she writes. Joss devours fantasy, romance, historical and crime fiction, but the authors she re-reads the most are Georgette Heyer, Robin Hobb and Will Shakespeare. Tainted Innocence is her first novel and is available from Carina Press. You can read an excerpt here and buy it here.

Find out more about Joss on Facebook, Twitter and her blog, Random Jossings.

Diamonds Are A Nerd Girl’s Best Friend

Take one nerdy gemologist heroine guarding a fabulous pink diamond, a James Bond-style hero, and a sneaky jewel thief known as The Chameleon and you’ve got the basis for GENTLEMEN PREFER NERDS.

I was describing my story to an editor at a conference once, saying, “It’s kind of a comedy/action/adventure/romance/mystery….”

She nodded wisely, and said, “Oh, a caper.”

I was writing a caper and I didn’t even know it! I love the word caper. It implies fun and mischief. It makes me think of old Cary Grant movies. In fact, there’s a fair bit of Cary Grant in my hero, Fabian. Sophisticated, handsome, witty, charming, intelligent with a cool head in times of danger. He just might be my ideal man. Sigh.

Maddie was such a fun heroine to write. I’m a bit of a nerd myself, I have to confess. Before I became a writer I was a marine biologist. I’ve spent many a long hour sitting behind a microscope and conducting experiments in the laboratory. A lot of that time I was dreaming of being swept away by a smoking hot–yet awesomely intelligent–hero. I didn’t know it then but I was already in training for my future profession as a romance writer.

I had a ton of fun writing Gentlemen Prefer Nerds and letting my imagination run wild with Fabian and Maddie’s escapades in search of the stolen pink diamond. But while NERDS is a teeny bit OTT there’s plenty of emotional depth in the characters and their relationships with each other and their families to satisfy readers.

Fun also describes researching fabulous pink diamonds on the Internet. I spent hours drooling over photos and wishing I was rich so I could buy one. Australia, where I live and where the book is set, is the major producer of pink diamonds in the world. An exceptionally large one was found recently and was in the news. It’s gorgeous but it’s not as big or as valuable as the one in the book. (I might have taken a bit of artistic license on that. Shh, don’t tell anyone.)

Fun, too, is Maddie’s transformation from a nerd to a glamazon. She’s an ordinary woman who is plucked from her ordinary world by an extraordinary man and taken on the wildest adventure of her life. In the process she’s transformed into the bravest, sexiest, smartest version of herself possible. Now that’s what I call a fantasy!

Back Cover:

Self-professed nerd Maddie Maloney is an expert on jewels. Jewel thieves are another matter entirely! So
when a mysterious Englishman warns her that a thief known as The Chameleon is after the rare pink
diamond on display in her aunt’s shop, she tells herself it’s just a joke. Even if she can’t get Mr. Tall, Dark
and Handsome out of her mind…

But Fabian Montgomery doesn’t give up easily. He’s everywhere she goes, convinced the thief will strike.
And when the diamond does go missing—and Maddie is suspected of stealing it—he whisks her away from
the police and together they pursue The Chameleon. Fabian plunges her into a glamorous world far from
her humble workshop and transforms geeky Maddie into a sophisticated siren capable of espionage. Her
mission: to seduce The Chameleon and steal back the diamond.

But Fabian isn’t telling her everything—like who he works for, and why he’s so interested in The
Chameleon…

86,000 words

About The Author:

Joan Kilby is the award-winning author of over twenty Harlequin books. She lives in Melbourne, Australia with her husband and three children. For more information check out her website . Follow Joan on Twitter and Facebook or look for her on GoodReads

Read an extended excerpt of GENTLEMEN PREFER NERDS

Buy the book at:
Carina Press, Amazon or Barnes and Noble

Dream On

(Read on for a chance to win a copy of my latest Dylan Scott mystery, Silent Witness.)

I’m thinking about dreams. Weird and wonderful things, aren’t they? I don’t dream often or, if I do, I’m too busy coping with my usual allergy to mornings to remember. I would love to dream about this:

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Oh, how I’d love to dream about Sean Bean. Or even this:

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No such luck. My dreams, or the ones I remember, take me to very dark places. Two stand out in my memory and, unfortunately, Sean Bean was nowhere to be seen in either.

In one, I was being chased along seemingly endless corridors by an armed killer. I’ve no idea why he was out to get me. All I remember is running as fast as I could and knowing that he was gaining on me. I opened a door, closed it behind me – and managed to trap myself in a tiny room from which there was no other exit. I heard his footsteps approaching. I curled into a tiny ball behind the door. My heart was pounding in my throat. I was terrified. And then I felt his hot breath through the keyhole…

I woke up in a state of pure terror.

In the other dream, an old, crowlike judge had given me a life sentence for murder. I was thrown into a filthy windowless cell. I don’t suffer from claustrophobia but I knew without any shadow of doubt that I would go mad if I had to spend a night, never mind 20 or 30 years, in that stinking room. The door slammed shut and I was alone in the darkness with my fears. Rats scurried across the floor. Bats swooped on me. I tried to dig my way out with my fingernails and, all the while, I was screaming that they had to set me free because I was innocent. But was I? I didn’t know. I had no idea if I’d committed murder.

I was extremely relieved to wake up but the memory stayed with me and I knew it was a story waiting to be written. The story became Silent Witness.

This is from the back cover:

After his ex-wife bled to death in a bathtub covered in his fingerprints, the case against Aleksander Kaminski seemed open and shut. Though sentenced to life in prison, he swears he’s innocent, a claim supported by his current wife.

Private investigator Dylan Scott finds himself drawn back to dreary Lancashire in a search for justice. The evidence against Kaminski is damning, but having been unjustly jailed himself, Dylan is compelled to pursue the case; if there’s even a small chance the man is innocent, he has to help. The other obvious suspect—the victim’s second husband—has a watertight alibi. But Dylan has a strong hunch that as usual, there’s more going on than meets the eye in Dawson’s Clough.

The deeper Dylan digs, the more secrets he unearths. The question remains: If Kaminski didn’t murder his childhood sweetheart, who did?

I’m grateful that, occasionally, my dreams provide material for my mysteries, but I’d prefer to dream about Sean Bean or cute puppies. My husband’s dreams are wonderful epic affairs that make The Lord of the Rings seem average. What about you? Do you dream often? Are your dreams more likely to feature Sean Bean or knife-wielding maniacs? Do share – I’m curious. (And I promise faithfully, hand on heart, not to put your dreams in my next book … Aw, come on, you can trust me!)

For a chance to win an epub version of Silent Witness, simply leave a comment below. I’ll pick the winner on Friday 9th March. Good luck!

Check out Silent Witness here.

Shirley Wells lives in Lancashire in the UK with her husband and a selection of deranged pets. You can find Shirley at her website, on her blog, on Facebook or Twitter.

A Random Post About T-shirts @ShelleyMunro

As I sit here writing this post, I’m wearing a T-shirt (purchased at Head-Smashed-In-Buffalo-Jump in Canada) and shorts. My favorite summer outfit. When the days grow shorter and the temperatures become cooler, my uniform changes to a T-shirt and jeans. I love T-shirts.

T-shirts have existed for a long time, although the exact origins remain a little murky. There are two schools of thought about the birth of the T-shirt. According to Ask Jeeves, the men who worked on docks in Maryland during the 1600s unloaded lots of tea. They wore simply designed shirts, known as tea shirts, and this was later shortened to T-shirt.

Another school of thought says T-shirts originated in England. The sailors in the Navy wore singlets (tank tops), which offended the royal family. They didn’t like seeing bare shoulders and arm pits, so someone designed a shirt to correct the problem. The T-shirt was born.

I’ve also read that US soldiers during the Second World War wore T-shirts beneath their shirts. They took to wearing them without the overshirt and the idea caught on.

According to Wikipedia, T-shirts became extra popular after Marlon Brandon wore one in the movie A Streetcar Named Desire. More recently, actor Don Johnson made them a fashion item when he wore a T-shirt beneath an Armani suit in Miami Vice.

Whatever the origin of T-shirts, I’m glad of their invention! Not only are they comfortable and easy to wash, but they say a lot about their owners.

What do mine say about me, you ask?

They say I like animals.

Hawaii

Alpaca

I enjoy sports and like to make fun of Australian teams. LOL

Sport

I enjoy the odd glass of wine.

Wine

I have a life philosophy.

Travel

And that I adore travel.

China

Africa

Eve Fawkner, the heroine in my new release, CAT BURGLAR IN TRAINING spends a lot of time wearing designer dresses because she attends lots of society balls. When she’s not dressed to the nines, she chooses to wear form-fitting black that allows her to blend with the shadows. She needs to sneak while she’s in cat burglar mode!

Cat Burglar in TrainingHere’s the blurb:

Eve Fawkner had no intention of following in her father’s footsteps. But when the thugs harassing him to repay his gambling debts threaten her young daughter, Eve is forced to assume the role of London’s most notorious cat burglar, The Shadow. The plan is simple: pull off a couple of heists, pay back the goons and go into permanent retirement. But things get messy during her first job when Eve witnesses a murder, stumbles across a clue that sheds some light on her past and, worst of all, falls for a cop.

Inspector Kahu Williams would be the perfect man, if Eve were looking, and if there wasn’t the little matter of their career conflict. The man is seriously hot—and hot on the trail of a murderer. A trail that keeps leading him back to Eve…

Check out Cat Burglar in Training

Shelley Munro lives in New Zealand with her husband and a rambunctious puppy. You can learn more about Shelley and her books at her website and blog. You might also find her lurking on Twitter or Facebook.

Do you like/wear T-shirts? What do your T-shirts say about you? Do you have any favorite T-shirt slogans?

The Genesis of a Book, or Adventures with the Plot-Pixies

Where does a story begin? A novel is created out of thin air and the writer’s brain, but there has to be something that sparks it, some inciting incident or picture or whatever. Perhaps it’s something so small that the writer’s conscious mind doesn’t even notice, but the brain keeps chewing on it until one day the idea simply pops out and drags the poor writer along willy-nilly. Or maybe it’s just the plot-pixies.

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I honestly can’t say where the idea for THE HOLLOW HOUSE originated. As strange as it sounds, one day I was just writing away on it. Of course, from that moment it grew and changed until it was a complete novel, but as for the original genesis – I have no idea. Sort of like walking out into your back yard one morning and finding a three-foot high sapling that wasn’t there the night before.

The period and location sort of surprised me too. I knew little about World War I –the Great War, the War to End All Wars – and nothing about the Great Flu Epidemic of 1918-19 other than my grandmother’s sister died in it. Though I have been to Denver once or twice, I couldn’t say it was familiar. Being sensible, I decided to change the story time/location to something I knew and felt comfortable with.

Unfortunately, what is sensible is not always practical. And the plot-pixies didn’t like my trying to change it. I attempted two or three time periods and locations, ones that I knew, and each time the story died. It simply stopped, the magic ended, and the whole thing lay there like a leaden lump while the plot-pixies laughed and stuck out their tongues.

I know when I’m beaten. I started studying up on 1919, Denver and (even though it doesn’t appear in the story itself) Boston. All the historical facts in THE HOLLOW HOUSE are real, including the spectacular and almost unbelievable Great Molasses Flood in January of 1919. I am a fanatical stickler for historical accuracy.

On my last trip to Denver several years ago The Husband and I toured the Molly Brown House. Yes, that Molly Brown – reputedly unsinkable and a survivor of the Titanic. After many incarnations, the last as a shabby boarding house, and much neglect, the Molly Brown house was revived and made into a museum. I don’t remember if the furnishings were from the Brown family or not, but they are of the correct period. It was to this house that my mind flew when I created the Stubbs mansion. Now I have no legal right to use or even mention the Molly Brown House, but it is of the correct time and socio-economic viewpoint and was a great springboard to my imagination. There are a few changes in the Stubbs mansion, but they are also correct to period.

Sometimes being an historical purist can be difficult. I needed a weapon that was distinctive enough to be identified easily, something that was unique. Now I know something about modern guns – and am a crack shot – but am clueless as to historical weapons. Luckily, though, The Husband has an extensive knowledge of weaponry and, after a little thinking, came up with the perfect gun for the situation and the time frame – the Mauser Pistol-Rifle. He even arranged for me to see and hold (though not shoot – they are antiques) one. Another gift from the plot-pixies – the history of the gun’s sporadic distribution in Colorado fit perfectly into the story.

Another true fact that fit right into what THE HOLLOW HOUSE needed was the Great Molasses Flood in Boston. I wasn’t looking for an historical fact when I found that – I was looking in an old cookbook for an authentic menu from the time and there was a short mention of the 1919 Great Molasses Flood. (A gift from the plot-pixies?) I’d long ago accepted the year 1919 and Boston was already part of the backstory, so it seemed that it was meant to be.

So who can say where an idea for a book comes from? I have no idea. I do know there’s no ‘one’ idea – there are hundreds, all needing to mesh seamlessly together to create a story. One leads to another to another to another…

And I will say it again, all history should be accurate. If it isn’t, you’re writing revisionist history, which is perfectly fine as long as it is labeled as such. To do less is to insult both your readers and those who lived before. Can you tell this is one of my hot buttons?

Back to THE HOLLOW HOUSE. This is my first straight mystery in a long time, and it was an unbelievable amount of fun to write. The plot-pixies were right; 1919 Denver was the perfect setting for the book.

See for yourself – THE HOLLOW HOUSE is available at Carina Press.

Janis Patterson is a seventh-generation Texan and a third-generation wordsmith who writes mysteries as Janis Patterson, romances and other things as Janis Susan May, children’s books as Janis Susan Patterson and scholarly works as J.S.M. Patterson.
Formerly an actress and singer, a talent agent and Supervisor of Accessioning for a bio-genetic DNA testing lab, Janis has also been editor-in-chief of two multi-magazine publishing groups as well as many other things, including an enthusiastic amateur Egyptologist.
Janis married for the first time when most of her contemporaries were becoming grandmothers. Her husband, also an Egyptophile, even proposed in a moonlit garden near the Pyramids of Giza. Janis and her husband live in Texas with an assortment of rescued furbabies.

Read more about Janis at her website.

No One To Trust – Want a Laugh?

I love books that make me laugh. If a writer can elicit a smile, chuckle or make me giggle out loud, I rate the book as a winner. Laughing makes me feel good and I like leaving a story with a smile on my face.

For those of us who write humor, I warn you, it is not an easy task. We rely solely on the power of our words. Visual cues and sound tracks are not available. We must craft the situations and reactions using just the right language and dialogue. Sometimes it works and other times the scene goes out the window.

I know I won’t always be able to make everyone laugh. After all, we each have a different idea of what’s funny. There are even people who are humor-challenged. So I just have to go with what feels right. How do I use humor in my writing? I look for the humor in everyday life. People would rather laugh than cry when faced with difficult life experiences such as death, disease or hardship. I play off experiences I’ve had, nearly had, or have happened to a friend. Most importantly, I’m not afraid to laugh at myself. I find the best humor comes from within, an honest, hair-brained moment I can share with others through the eyes of my fictional characters.

In NO ONE TO TRUST, the second book in my Lexi Carmichael mystery series, Lexi is very much like you and me. She’s trying to make a living, get a love life and cultivate friendships. But her life is far from normal. That’s what happens when you put an ordinary young woman into extraordinary situations. Sometimes she saves the day. Sometimes not so much.

So tell me, what are some novels that have made you laugh out loud?

Now, to whet your appetite, I’m offering up an excerpt from NO ONE TO TRUST:

When I was seven, my older brother Rock gave me a camera for Christmas. The science of photography fascinated me—the angles, depth and lighting. But I was more interested in how the camera worked than in what I was pointing it at. Fast-forward a few years and here I am, a twenty-five-year-old, single, white, geek girl who can’t take a decent picture of anything.

I’m also a semi-reformed computer hacker, a numbers whiz and a girl with a photographic memory. The whole photographic memory thing is totally overrated, though. Every human has the physiological capability. Most people just don’t have the film.

Lucky for me, I’ve got the film, but I’m also stuck with a geeky reputation. Counter to the stereotypical image, I don’t wear thick glasses held together by duct tape and I no longer own a pair of high-water pants. On the other hand, I’m no Miss America—just your basic tall, skinny girl with no curves and long brown hair. I double-majored in mathematics and computer science and have zero social skills. These days I’m employed by X-Corp Global Intelligence and Security, as Director of Information Security or InfoSec for short. It sounds impressive and maybe it is, but I’m so fresh in the job, I can’t be sure yet.

Buy NO ONE TO TRUST

Buy NO ONE LIVES TWICE

Buy NO ONE LIVES TWICE (audio book)

Julie Moffett is a bestselling author and writes in the genres of historical romance, paranormal romance and mystery. She has won numerous awards, including the prestigious PRISM Award for Best Romantic Time-Travel and Best of the Best Paranormal Books of 2002. She has also garnered several nominations for the Daphne du Maurier Award and the Holt Medallion.

Feel free to keep up with her at the following social media outlets:
Facebook
eHarlequin
Julie’s website
Julie’s blog

The Shoeless Kid and the Lonely Highway

So, you’re driving along on the Alaska Highway in that long twilight that is the summer “night” in the Yukon, and you see a shoe on the side of the road. Just one. It’s a sneaker. And as you drive past, you find yourself wondering, “How the heck do you lose just one shoe? Wouldn’t you notice?”

Then, with the shoe rapidly shrinking in your rearview mirror, you find yourself coming up with scenarios. Maybe the driver stopped to get something in the back seat and the shoe fell out of the over-packed car, unnoticed. Maybe a hitchhiker tied his spare sneakers to the outside of his backpack and one fell off when he ran to catch a ride. Maybe a panel truck with a load of stolen shoes hit a bump and a box fell out…

Anyway. That was the germ for The Shoeless Kid, my latest mystery with Carina Press. Idle speculation on a long summer evening in the Yukon. From there I came up with Josh, the kid, and Kate, the new Chief of Police in Mendenhall, a small town in Manitoba. I had a blast writing about Kate trying to make a detachment of resentful police officers work for her and not against her. I’ve grown fond of her and of Marco, the very young, very good looking rookie who ends up being her only back up in that oh-so-tense police detachment.

~CONTEST~ Now I find myself wondering what other scenarios I could have come up with for that lonely shoe abandoned on the highway. What do you think? Any ideas how shoes end up on roadways, alone and pathetic? Share your ideas in the comments section for a chance to win a copy of The Shoeless Kid. I’ll draw a name on Friday, May 20, so you have until then!

Come visit Kate Williams, my tough-and-none-too-patient heroine in The Shoeless Kid, as she tries to unravel the mystery surrounding a missing child. And don’t forget to check out my Carina colleagues who are also releasing books this week: Jennifer Greene’s Sweets to the Sweet and Maureen Miller’s Endless Night.

Marcelle

www.marcelledube.com

THE SHOELESS KID

The shoe appeared on her desk, gently deposited on top of the pile of occurrence reports from the last week.

It was a kid’s high-top—left foot—and it was red and grubby, but not worn.

Kate automatically picked it up, more to keep it from dirtying her paperwork than out of curiosity. It was damp. On the inside of the tongue, in red marker, was written “Josh H.” She flipped the shoe over to look at the underside. A size four. It would fit a…what? A four- or five-year-old?

Bobby MacAllister’s age.

She slowly looked up. Marco Trepalli, youngest and newest member of the Mendenhall police force—and too handsome for his own good—smiled down at her. The morning sun gilded his tanned cheek and added a twinkle to his eye. Kate stifled a sigh. Marco had the makings of a good cop, if he ever learned to get over himself.

Buy THE SHOELESS KID here

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Marcelle Dubé grew up near Montreal but now lives in the Yukon, where people outnumber the carnivores, but not by much. She writes science fiction, fantasy and mainstream short stories and novels, and has been featured in magazines and an award-winning anthology. The Shoeless Kid is her second novel with Carina Press. Her first, On Her Trail, was published in 2010.

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Turn Left at the Mean Streets

width= I was watching the 1946 version of The Big Sleep for about the millionth time the other day, and it occurred to me that, in a weird way, black and white movies seem more real than color. Not just movies, come to think of it. Stills too. There’s something about the play of shadows and light, the almost textured quality of the film that seems to offer a new perspective, capture a reality that reality itself can’t quite pin down.

Or possibly I’m finally losing it.

I do realize that not everyone shares this black and white view. In fact, back when I was teaching, one of the hardest things was to persuade kids to watch movies that weren’t in color. It was akin to trying to get them to read non-fiction. Ah, but there’s that reality factor again.

Anyway, it could be something much simpler, like the fact that I’m a nut for all things vintage. Me and eBay? We go way back. From fading lithographs to fragile crystal martini glasses, I seem to be on a quest to recapture a world I never experienced. So naturally I like black and white movies — and film noir in particular — because, ultra-reality not withstanding, there’s nothing more vintage than B&W.

This being the case, it’s inevitable that I’d eventually want to write my own “vintage” mysteries. Snowball in Hell, the first book in the Doyle and Spain series, is my homage to film noir and the pulp novels I read as a kid. Frankly, it’s darker than a lot of my work, but in a strange way, I think it’s one of my most romantic efforts.

In that romantic spirit, I decided to give away a little something to celebrate the novella’s re-release through Carina Press. I’m giving away a copy of the Film Noir Classic Collection, Vol. 1 (The Asphalt Jungle / Gun Crazy / Murder My Sweet / Out of the Past / The Set-Up) .

Of course, we have to have a little contest, but it’s pretty simple: name two romantic pairings from any of my novels EXCLUDING Adrien & Jake, Kit & JX, Elliot & Tucker and Nathan & Matt. That still leaves PLENTY of guys who found their happy endings in my stories. Just enter your two romantic pairings in the comment section below and then the randomizer will pick a lucky winner for an Amazon gift certificate of the collection. I own the collection, by the way, and it’s a great one.

While you’re racking your brains, I’ll leave you with a brief excerpt from Snowball in Hell — a scene that happens to be one of my favorites.

Spain proffered a pack of Camels. Nathan took one, and Spain leaned forward to light it for him. Spain’s hands were large and well-shaped. His lashes made dark crescents against his cheekbones. As though he felt Nathan’s stare, he raised his eyes — and Nathan couldn’t look away.

He stared into Mathew Spain’s long-lashed hazel eyes, and he realized with sudden terrible clarity that Spain knew all about him. Knew exactly what he was. Knew it as surely as though Nathan’s ugly history were an open file on his Spain’s tidy desk. In fact…Nathan glanced at Spain’s desktop as though somehow the explanation could be found there, because how did Spain know? How? Had it become that obvious? Like a scarlet letter branded into his skin — or the mark of Cain?

Hot blood flushed Nathan’s face, and just as quickly drained away, leaving him feeling light-headed. He drew back, drawing sharply on his cigarette. He sat very straight.

Spain flicked his lighter closed, put it away. He seemed to be in no hurry.

“Why am I here?” Nathan asked, blowing out a stream of blue smoke. His voice was just about steady.

Spain watched him, eyes very direct between his straight, black eyebrows.

“Why didn’t you mention you were with the Arlen kid on Saturday night?”

“I wasn’t with him,” Nathan said. “I ran into him at the Las Palmas Club. We had a drink together.” He shrugged.

Spain leaned back in his swivel chair and rubbed his chin. “Listen, Sir Galahad, it might interest you to know that the lady in question didn’t mind throwing you to the wolves. She said it looked to her like you were pretty angry with Philip yourself. Like you were mad enough to kill.”

“She doesn’t know me very well.” Nathan studied the ashes on his cigarette.

“Did she threaten to kill her husband and Pearl Jarvis?”

“She might have.” Nathan smiled wryly. “I wasn’t listening that carefully to tell you the truth.”

“Why’s that?”

Nathan said slowly, “I went there for a few drinks and some laughs, but after I got there…I realized that really wasn’t what I needed.”

“What did you need?” Spain asked — and Nathan, for the life of him, couldn’t think of how to answer.

Neither of them spoke. Neither of them looked away.

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Twitter: @JoshLanyon

Another Dinner: an excerpt from The Spurned Viscountess

The Spurned ViscountessTo finish up today I have an excerpt from The Spurned Viscountess—a dinner scene. Rosalind has recently arrived at Castle St. Clare and she’s learned Viscount Hastings isn’t very keen on marriage to her. She’s feeling a little lost and frustrated at the same time.

Rosalind pushed a slice of stringy roast beef around her plate and wished the night was over, that the wedding was over and all the guests had left Castle St. Clare. A sharp prod of a mystery lump with her fork did little to disperse her resentment, so she scowled down the table at Hastings, but he never looked in her direction. To lull her agitation, she picked up her glass of French wine and stared into the depths of the ruby liquid, only to set it down again with a soft sigh.

Lady Pascoe laughed without warning. Rosalind glanced up in time to catch the speculative look in the older woman’s eyes. “The gel won’t survive the marriage bed,” she declared. “Doesn’t eat enough to keep a bird alive. Doesn’t drink much either. Get some of that good smuggler’s wine inside you, gel.”

Heat stung Rosalind’s cheeks when she intercepted the amused glances from those seated within hearing distance. She speared a morsel of jugged hare, placed it in her mouth, and chewed stoically.

“Enough, Elizabeth,” Lady Augusta snapped. “That’s hardly a proper topic for dinner conversation.”

“It’s true.” Lady Pascoe directed a query farther down the table. “What do you say, Charles? This latest batch of wine from the smugglers should build the gel’s strength.”

Her rusty cackle set Rosalind’s nerves even more on edge. The pounding in her head intensified, and she gave up all pretence of eating.

A feminine titter at the other end of the table made her wince. It was bad enough that Lady Pascoe shouted loud enough for those in the neighboring village to heed, but for Lady Sophia, daughter of the Earl of Radford, to hear and giggle was beyond embarrassing. Rosalind studied them furtively. The tilt of Lady Sophia’s head as she fluttered her eyelashes at Hastings made it obvious she was avoiding direct eye contact with his scar. Despite her coquettish behavior, the imperfection bothered her. Lady Sophia placed her hand on Hastings’s arm. Rosalind’s eyes narrowed at the familiar action. That was her betrothed Lady Sophia was flirting with.

Rosalind bit back a nasty word, one she’d overheard the coachman use during the journey to St. Clare. Naively, she’d presumed her betrothal would be a time of celebration, of giddy happiness. Not for an instant had she thought her betrothed would ignore her or suggest she cry off. She shuddered inwardly at the idea of returning to live with her uncle and aunt. No, it was unthinkable.

Dinner continued. The footmen removed the tablecloth to serve dessert.

Finally the meal ended and Lady Augusta stood. “We will leave the men to their port and pipes.”

Rosalind trailed after the rest of the women as they wandered through to the Chinese Drawing Room. She chose an upright chair, as far away from the roaring fire as she could, and tried to look inconspicuous. Lady Augusta waited for the ladies to settle before glancing around the expectant faces. “Rosalind, you may entertain us while I pour tea.”

Rosalind wanted to refuse. She hated to play the harpsichord and always had. She hesitated, hoping one of the other women would offer, releasing her from obligation.

But Lady Pascoe shooed her toward the harpsichord. “Go on, gel. Play. Something lively. Augusta, I hope you purchased some tea from the latest shipment. The last lot you served tasted like straw dipped in water.”

Several of the ladies tittered, and Lady Augusta’s gloved hand tightened around the teapot.

“I serve nothing but the best at Castle St. Clare,” Lady Augusta said in an icy tone. “Rosalind, music, if you please.”

Bowing to the inevitable, she settled behind the harpsichord, drew off her gloves and cast them aside. At least they hadn’t demanded she sing.

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Shelley Munro lives in New Zealand and enjoys cooking and experimenting with new recipes of all types. You can visit Shelley’s website at www.shelleymunro.com or follow her on Facebook or Twitter. To keep up with all Shelley’s current news and to enter subscriber only contests subscribe to Shelley’s newsletter.

An Invitation to Dinner

When I wrote The Spurned Viscountess one of the things I researched was eighteenth century food and kitchens so I could flesh out my dinner scene and another one I’d set in the castle kitchen. This research was no hardship since I enjoy anything food related. I collected lots of interesting facts, too many to use in my story, much to my disappointment.

The Spurned ViscountessUnwilling to waste anything, I thought I’d inflict them on you. :grin: Here are a few of the facts about eighteenth century food and kitchens I couldn’t use:

1. Kitchen walls were white-washed or painted shades of blue to repel flies.

2. Cooks commanded high wages and good cooks were scarce.

3. It was fashionable to hire a French chef and their wages were double those of an English cook. A French chef earned around sixty pounds per year.

4. Many of the French chefs were temperamental and had huge egos.

5. Each kitchen contained a clock for the cook’s benefit. If the meals were running late sometimes the cook would put the clock back to make it appear there was nothing amiss with her timing.

6. White tablecloths were used to cover the dining tables. The English often used the cloths as serviettes as well, much to the disgust of foreign visitors. Servants removed the tablecloths before the serving of dessert.

7. After dessert, the ladies retired to the drawing room for tea and entertainment.

8. The men remained in the dining room to drink port or brandy. Chamber pots were left on the sideboard for the men to use to relieve themselves. They did this without any sort of concealment.

My favorite research book for anything food-related during historical times is The Art of Dining – a history of cooking and eating by Sara Paston-Williams. I used it as a source for the above facts.

What do you think about eighteenth century dining? Would you like to time travel back to cook in a kitchen or dine with the gentry, given the above info?

Note: everyone who comments on my posts today will go into my quarterly draw to win a $25 Amazon voucher. The winner will be announced at my blog during the first week of October.

Shelley Munro lives in New Zealand and enjoys cooking and experimenting with new recipes. You can visit Shelley’s website at www.shelleymunro.com or follow her on Facebook or Twitter. To keep up with all Shelley’s current news and to enter subscriber only contests subscribe to Shelley’s newsletter.