April 23, 2015
WAITING FOR the elevator, Marshall Hunter brushed at his sleeve. String seemed to follow him around. Ever since his niece had moved into his condo: lint, hair ribbons, and odd bits of string were all over the place, multiplying like rabbits during breeding season.
Although parking in the garage was a nice perk of owning the company, having to wait for the elevator to cycle through ten floors before he reached his office got tiring every morning. Still, he refused to be one of those people who insisted on having his own executive elevator. His time wasn’t any more valuable than his employees’. Besides, it was good for employee morale to see the owner having to deal with daily irritations like everyone else.
He turned his attention to his phone while he stood there, hoping to decipher the e-mail his assistant sent him.
“Excuse me, sorry.”
Marshall scooted back to make room for a slim blond wearing a pair of dark jeans and a bright red T-shirt. He blinked at the color even though it was probably too late and had already burned onto his retinas.
The newcomer’s head came to Marshall’s shoulder, and he clutched a black binder. A smudge of bright blue dotted his right cheek, as if trying to call attention to the man’s natural beauty.
“You have a bit of paint on your face,” Marshall said.
The blond turned his head and gave Marshall the jolt of seeing his entire face. Damn, the man skipped handsome and went directly to breathtaking.
One golden eyebrow tilted up above a set of warm brown eyes. “I’m sorry?”
“Your cheek.” Marshall motioned to his own face to indicate placement. “You have some blue on it.”
“Crap,” the angel said. He tried to peer above the other occupants in the elevator to see his reflection on the doors, but he wasn’t tall enough.
“Here, let me.” Marshall pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped the gorgeous man’s face. It took a bit of rubbing, but after a minute or two, the paint came off, leaving a bit of red skin behind. “Sorry if I hurt you.”
“No, it’s fine. Thanks. I appreciate it. It was hard enough to find something to wear without stains.”
The man’s good-natured acceptance of being paint splattered charmed Marshall much more than his spotless date the other night. The tidy stockbroker he’d gone out with had spent the entire time pumping Marshall for information about his investment portfolio and giving him unneeded advice. Marshall owned an investment company; he didn’t need financial tips. Maybe the guy thought it would make them appear more compatible. All it did for Marshall was make him end the evening early.
Marshall had a feeling any date with the man beside him would end up dirty, messy, and thoroughly entertaining. His cock began to harden. The elevator bell dinged and several people got off, making it possible for the artist to step farther away. Marshall clamped his lips together to hold back his instinctive protest over the increased distance between them.
April 23, 2015
I know you’re imagining my day of eating bon bons and wearing silk jammies while petting my fluffy cat while waiting for literary inspiration. Or my husband’s view of drinking hard liquor while hunched over an old metal desk (he tells me repeatedly I’ll never be Hemingway without a lot more alcohol.) But truly my life is pretty dull. Here it is in all it’s glory.
6:00 wake up to hubby’s alarm, because who can sleep through that horrible noise.
6:30 blearily accept coffee from hubby as apology for waking me up.
7:00 hubby yells at oldest for not having shoes on
7:15 oldest yells at hubby about why they haven’t left yet. (Yes, they do this every…single…day)
8:00 I tell youngest to get dressed and brush his teeth while I do the same. (I get the easy child)
8:30 take youngest to school
9:00 sit down with more coffee and write
9:10 go tell dog to stop barking at people it isn’t HIS STREET!
9:30-2:30 writing and marketing with breaks for lunch, letting the dog in and out and shoving the whichever cat stole my computer chair when I stood up
2:30 get youngest from school
3:00 explain to older son who just came from school why I haven’t come up with a game plan for dinner
5:00 give up and order out
6:30 go back to writing for a bit before I go to bed.
April 23, 2015
RJ’s book kicked off the anthology with an adorable tale of two men and apples. Yeah, it’s not quite as dirty as that sound. *snicker*
Here’s the Dreamspinner buy link but you can get it at your favorite ebookstore.
“AT LEAST you tried, Robbie.” Doris patted my hand gently in her usual reassuring way. I didn’t need reassurance. I needed the damn cake to bloody work. I mean, how difficult could it be to not fuck up something when I had the recipe sitting in front of me?
I poked what was left of the applesauce cake with a fork. The mess let out an audible “bleurgh” as it collapsed in on itself around the massive hole that had somehow appeared during the cooking of it.
“I followed the recipe.” And I had followed it, to the letter. Every single cup of flour and tablespoon of butter, every teaspoon of nutmeg, and I’d even performed algebra to work out what two-thirds of a cup was compared to a whole cup. Doris patted my hand again and nodded in her most reassuring fashion.
“Maggie made this cake for nearly ninety years. You’re not supposed to be able to get it right the first time.”
My chest tightened in grief, which twisted in and around my heart. Maggie Simmons had been the reason I’d stayed in this village. When all my friends had left for the city or even the next town over, I was the one who had come home with a degree in art and no idea what to do with it, then stayed. Three years of study and a first in my degree and I was lost. Maggie had cornered me by the phone box one Monday morning, talking at me about her cairn terrier who had curled in and out of my legs as Maggie spoke, the leather of the lead wrapping around my legs. I can remember that day so clearly as the single moment when my life changed:
“I’ve bought the old station house,” she’d explained, and I must have said something very polite in return. I was always polite, and I liked Maggie. After all, not only was she a fixture in Burton Hartshorn, she was also an indomitable force of nature and had a mean throwing arm. If I was honest, she’d scared me just a little bit. I remember getting rotten fruit thrown at me with pinpoint accuracy when she caught me and two friends trying to steal apples from her small orchard. The phantom ache of an apple to the face had me pressing my fingers on my cheekbone and wincing inwardly.
“I’m building a library,” she added.
“Where?” Surely not here in Burton Hartshorn, population three hundred and off the beaten track? Why would we need a library when we could just as well get over to Buckingham to use the library there? I remembered the excitement of the library trip out with my dad in his shiny Ford Mondeo. Libraries are big sprawling rows of shelves of every conceivable book possible; they’re not tiny places in the back end of nowhere.
“Not really a library,” she confided to me on that summer’s day. “We could move the post office there when Silvia retires at Christmas, and there would be tables, with tea and coffee from a small counter, and a reading area with big comfy sofas. We could run a book-swap program and maybe advertise with the local school.” I recall the wistful expression on her face. Even then, ten years back, she was old. Well, as old as any person in their seventies and eighties appears to someone fresh out of university.
“Sounds lovely.” I felt then that I was damning her with faint praise, and maybe I was. What she proposed did sound lovely. I was never happier than with my nose in a book, tea next to me, and maybe a couple of chocolate chip cookies on a plate. Add in rain against the window and I was in heaven. Of course a boyfriend next to me, with his head in my lap, would be the icing on the cake. Abruptly whatever Maggie was saying to me mixed in with a recent break up of a university romance.
“Well, I wanted to talk to you,” she continued and punctuated each word with a tug on her dog’s leash until the tangling around my legs was enough so I would never be able to move. “You’re back now, and I need someone to run this place. Not much money, mind you, but there’s rooms on the top floor, and you could do what you wanted with them.”
“Pardon me?” I asked, stupefied.
“I like your mother,” she said, slightly impatient. “She said to me you were rootless, and that building something around books and history and family would be an excellent idea. She suggested a small gallery area for your paintings, which I think is a lovely idea.”
I wish I could have concentrated on the good parts in that sentence, but at the time all I could think was that I was angry my mum thought I was rootless. Just because I was lying longer in bed in the mornings and was becoming obsessed with daytime TV didn’t mean I was rootless. Just because I wasn’t painting at the moment didn’t mean I couldn’t if I wanted to. Right?
With a final tug of the leash, I was free from the leather confines, but I didn’t move. Maggie was teasing me about a job. She had to be. I glanced around me to see if anyone was watching. My gaze caught on the beautiful old station house. L-shaped, it sat close to the deep cutting where the Great Central Main Line used to run steam trains from London to Manchester. Mothballed in the sixties, the station house had fallen into disrepair until a brewery tried to turn it into a pub. How in the hell they thought they would have anything in the way of clientele given the Red Lion was at the other end of the village, I don’t know. It didn’t last long, and for the last ten years or so, the station house had been a rental property with a high turnover.
“It’s a beautiful place.” Maggie sounded wistful.
The thatched roof needed fixing, the white windows lacked new paint, and the dark blue door was three different shades in peeled-off layers. And the garden was wild. Not just wild with weeds, but with a glorious display of autumn greens and golds that never failed to make me stop and look. Not that I am into flowers so much, but the whole effect, with the thatch and the small leaded windows and the general air of neglect, somehow captured my imagination.
“So, I inherited money and I bought it. You should know that. It’s mine, permanent, some small place that you could make a home.” She spoke so carefully and stared right at me with determination in her expression.
“You want me to run the post office?” Real life caught up with my wild imaginings in which I single-handedly restored the former station house into exactly what Maggie wanted. Large oaks shaded the garden to the rear, and ivy spread from the main house to a small seventies extension with roof lights. I imagined tearing back enough of the ivy to expose the beautiful original brickwork of the unique station house.
“Not just the post office,” she continued. “Stamps, parcels and post, and a small shop stocking the essentials. Like tea bags, milk, mustard, and marmite.”
I didn’t flinch at the strange combination of what Maggie thought were essentials. Although I did hate it when I ran out and my toast remained bereft of marmite. “Mustard. Marmite. Okay.”
“And the café,” she added. “With a small library, good books, and lots of romances. Maybe some DVDs. When could you start?”
I stood there for the longest time and even crouched down to pet the small dog just to give myself time to think. No one knew how much money Maggie had, but she clearly had enough to think of buying the old house that had once been the station on this old line. She wasn’t reclusive with money out of sight, but she wasn’t flashy either, and no one knew a lot about her. She was the very solid and focused backbone of this village while somehow remaining private. Her own cottage, the aptly named Apple Tree Cottage with its fruit orchard, was right at the center of village life just opposite the duck pond and the village green. The cottage itself dated back three hundred years, and when I was young, rumors said that Maggie was the same age.
“I have an interview at the hospital in patient records. Tomorrow.” I needed her to realize I had options.
She nodded. “Good, good. Not your thing, though, is it?”
Me? Stuck in an office with computers? No, it wasn’t my thing, but it was good money and there was a staff canteen with discounts. Rent to my mum, fuel in my car, enough money to buy beer and art supplies, and I would be happy. Apart from sacrificing eight hours a day, five days a week to the evil day job, that was.
What prompted me to agree I didn’t know. But the endless stretch of long summer days with no idea of what I wanted to do lay before me, and I didn’t really want to take the admin job. I wanted time to paint and live and do something special.
“No,” I answered then. “I can start now.” The small addition made her smile, and just making this decision was the best thing I’d ever done.
That was then, and now, nearly ten years had passed in which I had been the person in this special place. Pulling back ivy to reveal history was the easy part. Stocking, maintenance work, fundraising, those had been the difficult bits. And every Thursday morning, Maggie would come with her friends, all of whom she had known forever, and they would sit and talk and drink tea, and swap books, and make everything right in my world.
My art was good—I’d even sold some of the pieces and made enough to save some money after buying myself a car. What I was saving for, I don’t know. Probably that same nebulous future I had always been searching for.
Then last month happened. When the end came, it was sudden. Maggie didn’t come to her Thursday tea and cake meet-up, but she’d visited on Friday, told me point-blank her time was up, and that at ninety-one, she’d done her bit. After all, she’d left the station house and bequeathed it in some kind of weird estate contract for the future, and that legacy was just as important as her children.
I’d listened to her talk, and every word had knotted inside my heart in an impossible ball of grief, and that was exactly how it had remained. The day we laid Maggie Simmons to rest had been bright and sunny. The four weeks since had been the strangest of my life. I didn’t have a boyfriend at that moment. In fact, if I was really honest with myself, I hadn’t had a real boyfriend in over a year. The last of them, Josh, short, blond, and devious, had been the one who put me off men for the longest time. His ability to fuck up everything had left me wary and tired of the scene, of nights out, of drinking and dancing and being on view. I just wanted peace, I wanted my village in the Buckinghamshire countryside, and I wanted to lick my wounds and find Mr. Right.
“Are you okay?” Mrs. Patterson asked gently. I snapped back to the here and now and refocused my gaze on the cake. Applesauce cake was one of Maggie’s most requested bakes in the small café. Alongside an ancient whistling kettle and beautiful mismatched china cups and saucers, the cake was like part of Maggie and the shop. The cake was moist, flecks of apple and a vein of cinnamon in each bite—always perfect. She’d scrawled down a recipe for me from memory, but clearly something must’ve been wrong with it.
“I just wanted to do something nice.” This was the first Thursday since the funeral that everyone had met up again. Five instead of six now, there had been some tears and laughter over remembered times. This was the way that Maggie would want to be honored by the five women who called themselves friends.
“And we love you for that,” Mrs. Patterson said. “Maggie would have laughed,” she added with a cheeky wink. Mrs. Patterson was definitely one for the whole flirting business. One or two of the knots inside me unraveled gently, and I relaxed the breath that had caught in my chest. They were here talking about Maggie, remembering her, and even though my attempt at doing the same had failed miserably, it didn’t matter. Somehow during the making of a damn apple cake, I had crossed over from grief to acceptance for the loss of the woman I looked on as fondly as my own grandmother.
“Yes.” I poked at it again, and it deflated even further. “She would have.”
When they left it was nearly five, and I cleared up and washed the crockery and cutlery. Each piece of china had its place in the small kitchen, and only when everything was put away did I actually relax. I probably needed to get out of the house for the evening. Make my way over to Northampton maybe, meet up with Tim or Jack, friends from uni, or even Anna from the village, who had been my partner in crime when we were young kids with the freedom of every day after school to be filled with fun.
I tipped away the water remaining in the kettle and placed it back on the stove. Somehow I misjudged it and the edge of it clanked on the iron of the hob, the vibration of the clash traveling up my arm.
“Fuck it,” I snapped, because that is what a person did when inanimate objects screwed around with them. No one asked what was wrong, no one would. “Sad fucking bastard, talking to yourself,” I muttered.
Then with conviction that this evening would improve with beer and friends, I climbed up to my large open bedroom with its views over acres of green fields. I was going out, and I was going to celebrate Maggie’s life my way: by getting completely pissed and talking crap with anyone who would listen.
By the time I’d showered, had exchanged numerous texts with Jack about which pub was better, and had decided what to wear, it was nearly seven. Wallet and keys found, I locked up the station house and crossed to my car, noting that some bastard of a bird had seen fit to christen the polished silver doors.
“Story of my life.”
April 23, 2015
Yeah it has nothing to do with Cookies for Courting but I couldn’t resist giving away a few of my dragons. If you haven’t won one and aren’t going to a conference this year, enter to win. To win mention your favorite Dreamspinner Book. I need to beef up my reading list
April 23, 2015
If you haven’t had a chance to purchase you copy of Cookies for Courting…here is a little bit. *sigh* every time I see this cover I want a cookie. LOL
* * * *
PACE BARLOW slathered his brush with thick acrylic paint. Swiping his hand sideways, he drew a fat crimson line across the canvas. He stepped back to examine it for a minute before doing the same thing again, intersecting the two marks. Biting his lip, he considered the large, still mostly white, space. He’d already finished his piece for the auction, but this one had pulled him out of bed and insisted he do another painting. Sometimes art was a bitchy mistress.
“I need blue.” He turned to locate his tube of cobalt paint. Scanning the pile on his side table, he groaned. He really needed to pick up his studio. He’d been in an artistic cloud for the past few days and hadn’t paid much attention to his surroundings. A hurricane could’ve hit the room and it wouldn’t have made a difference in the overall tidiness of his workspace.
His cell phone rang. The sound of crickets chirping distracted him from his search. He’d chosen that ringtone because it was just irritating enough to pull him out of his art. Normally, he ignored the phone, but on the off chance it could be a customer, he decided to answer it.
His checking account was becoming perilously low—again. If this kept up, he’d have to dip into his trust fund. He hated to do that. It dented his pride when he had to fall back upon the money his grandfather had left him.
Pace preferred to live a life of meaning and donate his time and interest income to various charities around town. Instead of lounging around a big house or working on his tan like his trust-fund friends.
After placing his brush and palette on a paint-spattered crate, Pace grabbed his phone from its safety zone on top of a high shelf.
Pace didn’t recognize the number but pressed to connect anyway. “Hello?”
“Is this Pace Barlow?” a woman asked in a no-nonsense voice.
Pace’s money senses tingled. “Yes.”
“I’m Joyce Smith, Marshall Hunter’s assistant. He’s asked me to find an artist to paint a mural for his niece’s bedroom. You were highly recommended by Mrs. Breverton. Would you be interested in coming in and interviewing with Mr. Hunter about the job?”
Pace cleared his throat. “I’d be happy to.”
“Would tomorrow at ten work for you? We’re trying to get this project started as soon as possible.”
“That would be fine.” Pace struggled to keep his voice steady and not screech with excitement. He loved doing murals. Mrs. Breverton had been a bitchy, demanding client, but she’d paid really well and he’d received two other jobs from her recommendations. He might not want to live off his inheritance, but he didn’t mind using his connections. A guy had to eat.
“Excellent. Don’t forget to bring your portfolio.”
“Will do.” Pace said his good-byes, then disconnected and spun in a circle, pumping his fist. “Yes!”
The day was looking up after all. His phone rang again. Pace stopped jumping around long enough to answer.
“Pace, where are you? You were supposed to be here like an hour ago,” a hard Russian-accented voice demanded.
He’d completely forgotten he was supposed to meet his friend at the new nightclub that had opened a few streets from his studio.
“Sandy? Sorry, man. I got involved in my painting. I’m not going to make it. I might have a job lined up, and I need to bring my portfolio to an interview tomorrow. I haven’t updated it in a few months.”
Sandlova Aliev, nephew of Boris Aliev, head of the Russian mob, made a rude, annoyed sound. “How am I going to attract the right man if you aren’t here to be bait?”
“Sandy, I might get to do a mural.” Pace couldn’t help the whine in his voice. He knew he was in the wrong, but he needed a new art project.
Sandy sighed. “Fine, but if I don’t get sex tonight I’m blaming you.”
Pace could sympathize. It had been a while since he’d had sex, but in a
April 23, 2015
Everyone has a favorite cookie recipe or should. No seriously I don’t want to hear how you don’t like sweets go get yourself a savory no-sugar tNo-aste one if you want but you need a cookie!!!
My favorite one to make is my husband’s favorite. I got it from an old Sunset Magazine recipe which I don’t have any more but I found a link of one here. I do a few things differently, I take out half the raisins and add cranberries and I only use a 1/4 cup instead of a half cup which reduces the cooking time in half. And whatever you do DON’T use margarine instead of butter it completely ruins them. (my mother-in-law learned that the hard way)
Now to enter the contest you need to post a link to your favorite online cookie recipe. That one everyone craves. Now if you don’t bake feel free to cheat and post one someone else makes for you. Not everyone has the time to bake.
Winner will be randomly chosen and sent a $10.00 Amazon GC for their awesomeness.
April 23, 2015
Some people might wonder: How do anthologies come about? In some cases publishers put out a call and collect stories they think will match well together, or editors recruit their favorite authors, or in my case there was wine.
Once upon a time an author (we’ll call her Amber) sat down in the lobby at a conference with an author friend (We’ll call her Marie Sexton) and drank several glasses of overpriced white wine. During our conversations about our latest projects and writing deadlines we threw out ideas about what collection of stories we could write. Being a lightweight conference drinker myself, let’s just say not all of my ideas were plausible or even moderately good. Then Marie commented on a family recipe and the idea sprung from there.
Being at a conference among several amazing authors we cast about for people we liked working with and whose writing style we enjoyed. So Marie texted Amy Lane, and her and Mary Calmes soon joined our little conference group and began plotting. We decided another author would be useful so I recruited RJ Scott without her permission because that’s what good friends do, rope their friends unknowingly into projects *snicker*
Now you’re probably wondering why a book based on a cookbook doesn’t have any recipes? Well, recipes are tricky things. What you think is your Aunt Mae’s best gingerbread pancake recipes could’ve come from an old Betty Crocker cookbook the she tore out and has been using for the past twenty years. So to avoid any claims of copyright infringement we decided to keep the concept of a cookbook without the specifics that might get us into trouble. Not because after a couple of glasses of wine we were feeling lazy…I don’t care what you heard.
I hope you get a chance to read all of the stories but I will be mostly talking about Cookies for Courting because that one has my name on it but they are all fun tales and I would recommend each one!
April 23, 2015
Hello All,Dreamspinner Press put me in charge today! BWAHAHAHAHAHAH. Yes the rush of power is strumming through my veins…whatever will I do with it all???
I’ll spend several hours hopping in and out of the blog posting things about my book, my anthology co-authors books and whatever else sticks in my head and Dreamspinner isn’t fast enough to delete. *snicker*
Hang around, there will be posts, prizes and peeks into my latest book. If you have any questions feel free to post them at any time and I will try and reply to them all!!!
April 23, 2015
Well, it’s almost time for me to turn the reins back over to DSP.
Congratulations to Trix for being the winner of the giveaway. Cookie Monster was always my favorite!
I hope everyone will enjoy Arik and Donovan’s story, A Midsummer Dream. I would love to hear from you! You keep reading and I’ll keep writing!
Blessed Be and Sleep Sweet!
April 22, 2015
Cookies for Courting by Amber Kell
Will Marshall have to give up his relationship with Pace for the sake of the niece he’s raising? An old-fashioned recipe might help.
After his sister’s death, businessman Marshall Hunter gains custody of his niece. Unused to children, Marshall struggles to connect with her. In an effort to make her more comfortable in her new home, he hires professional muralist Pace Barlow to personalize her room.
Pace is intrigued by his tiny client, and even more interested in her handsome uncle, but Pace isn’t certain he’s ready for the commitment of an instant family.
When Marshall decides to move for the sake of his niece, will he be able to keep his relationship with his young artist, or will he have to give up love to become a good father for a lonely little girl?
The love baked into an old-fashioned recipe might bring the two men together, but some things take more than magical cookies to fix.
Length: Novella (68p.) | Genre: Contemporary | Release Date: April 22, 2015
Buy as eBook ($3.99 ISBN: 978-1-63216-894-8)
Eivissa by A.J. Llewellyn
When a handsome stranger washes ashore on Spain’s sun-kissed island of Eivissa, Demetrio thinks he’s finally found the one… or has he?
When a handsome, comatose stranger washes ashore in a tiny boat on the sands of Spain’s sun-kissed island of Eivissa, bar owner Demetrio Reyes thinks he’s finally found his someone… or has he?
Demetrio lives the good life, putting his devastating past behind him and investing his money into a gay bar on the island of Ibiza, or as the locals insist on calling it, Eivissa. With celebrities and stunning, beautiful men in abundance on the hot-spot island, Demetrio is certain he’s found a slice of heaven.
Despite having no memory of his name or life, the rescued man seems attracted to Demetrio. After choosing the name Océano, the Spanish word for “the sea”, he and Demetrio begin an impassioned affair that soon turns disastrous. Océano may not be amnesiac. He may not be the good guy he seems to be, and… he may not even be gay.
1st Edition published by Extasy Books, 2011.
Length: Novella (99p.) | Genre: Contemporary | Release Date: April 22, 2015
Buy as eBook ($4.99 ISBN: 978-1-63216-572-5)
A Midsummer Dream by E.T. Malinowski
During an erotic performance of A Midsummer Night’s Dream, Donavan must fight Arik’s past to win the love of his life.
Arik Blackbourne has a talent for wringing emotions from his audience. He can make them believe in anything, including love, although he detest plays about love even more than love itself. When his best friend and director decides to do an erotic adaptation of A Midsummer Night’s Dream, Arik bows out. Yet Arik’s past rears its head unexpectedly, forcing him to return to the play and take on the role of Helenus, the spurned suitor of Demetrius. Despite his dislike of the play, it might be tolerable if it weren’t for the man slated to play Demetrius.
Donovan Montgomery is an amicable man, but Arik Blackbourne tests the limits of his patience. When Arik leaves them high and dry, Donovan decides to get answers. While he still doesn’t care for Arik’s standoffish attitude, Donovan has to admit the man is smoking hot and seriously talented. What starts out as just a love scene soon becomes much more, and Donovan must fight Arik’s past to win the love of his life.
Length: Novella (84p.) | Genre: Contemporary | Release Date: April 22, 2015
Buy as eBook ($3.99 ISBN: 978-1-63216-864-1)
Purify by Etienne
Reporter Clint Buchalla and his partner, Lucien’s, investigation of a corrupt senator might put their lives at risk.
The Ivory Solution: Volume Three; The Chronicles of Old Town
Reporter Clint Buchalla has been tasked by his editor with delving into the activities of a sitting Senator, who is rumored to have been caught in bed with a dead girl and a live boy. Clint begins what he suspects will be a months’ long investigation. Instead, things quickly come to a head, and he and his partner, Lucien, find themselves in mortal danger.
The search for the rent boy leads to dinner with an older couple, one of whom worked as a rent boy in DC for twenty years, until he was paid two million dollars by the Senator’s aide and ordered to disappear. The rent boy wants something in return for his testimony, though. He wants Clint to help him get his memoirs published.
In the midst of everything else, new information comes to light regarding Clint’s previous investigations into the activities of people who seem determined to lower the birth rates of certain groups. It might take an attempt on their lives before all the pieces start falling into place.
Length: Novel (346p.) | Genre: Mystery/Suspense | Release Date: April 22, 2015