Love, Bullets, and
a Second Chance — Will They Survive the Crossfire?
Revenge
The FBI Tampa Mystery Series Book 1
by A.M. Holloway
Genre: Clean Romantic Suspense, Mystery Thriller
Love, Bullets, and a
Second Chance — Will They Survive the Crossfire?
When FBI Special Agent Micah French joins
a high-risk pursuit through the streets of Tampa, he never expects the day to
end with his partner shot and the woman he once loved holding his partner’s
life in her hands.
Finley Herald, the surgeon who broke his heart a decade ago, now lives in
Tampa. She’s saving lives at Tampa General and possibly risking her own when a
vengeful cartel leader wages war against the agents involved in his brother’s
death.
As bullets fly, allies fall, and a trail of revenge stretches from Mexico to
Florida, Micah must navigate a storm of violence, betrayal, and second chances.
Every decision could be his last, and Finley’s reappearance threatens to
shatter the emotional defenses he’s spent years building.
This book is a gripping blend of action,
faith, and romance, where love may be the deadliest risk of all.
A.M. Holloway is an author of clean murder mysteries where
crime and suspense take hold. Her catalog spans five series. A.M., who is
married, relies on her husband’s expertise in the CSI field to ensure accuracy
in her books. She was born and raised in Georgia but now lives in Central
Florida. When not writing, you will find her with her family, enjoying the
outdoors, or sitting in her favorite chair, daydreaming about her next book.
In REMNANTS OF FIRE, newspaper reporter Sara Woods is investigating a string of deaths that seem to involve the new-found, avant-garde medical facility she hopes can cure her chronic pain. Dr. Ruprei has taken such good care of Sara, that she is reluctant to believe it could be possible. But then, over dinner, she speaks with traditional-Western doctor Rick Paulsen, who suspects the clinic–and has evidence:
When the waiter brought the souvlaki and more bread. After he left, I leaned forward and put my elbows on the table. “So what’s going on here? Why did you call me?”
Rick’s blue eyes dissected me. “Because there’s something unusual about you.”
Oh, please. That was as bad as ‘What’s your sign, baby?’ “Do I seem naive enough to fall for that line?”
“Not really.” He speared a chunk of lamb and dipped it in the creamy cucumber sauce. “That doesn’t make it any less true. And I think you really care about Lily Kimball, and what happened to her.”
“Then you believe something ‘happened.’” Remembering his outburst at the hospital, I added, “You think she was killed by someone. You even know who.” I watched his face for reaction.
“I suspect. I don’t know.” He took a long drink of water, as if he were trying to swallow something unpalatable.
“But you haven’t gone to the police.” He shook his head. “Why not?”
He started to answer and then Athena swept over, wanting to make sure everything was to her dear doctor’s satisfaction. She effused with grand passion about how wonderful Rick Paulsen was, as a medical professional and as a man, her praise transparently designed to convince me, as his dinner partner and potential life mate, of his worth. He squirmed as she continued, but seemed loath to interrupt her. Once we had assured her that everything was delightful, she withdrew at last, to observe from behind the cash register.
When he didn’t answer my last question, I asked again. “Why haven’t you gone to the police?”
“You don’t understand. The police won’t be any help in this matter.”
“They’re investigating her death—”
“They’re not investigating her death! They’re just going through the motions until everyone forgets about her and they can toss her file in a cabinet, never to be seen again!” He slapped his fork onto the table, a flush of anger suffusing his face, all the way to the tips of his ears. “Just like the others.”
*****
REMNANTS OF FIRE has recently been named a finalist in the 2025 National Excellence in Story Telling (NEST) Contest! Time to check it out at one of the following sales points or order it at your local indie bookstore.
BLURB: Looking for a fresh start, Sara Woods takes a job as a news reporter in a small town. Her first assignment is to investigate a string of deaths, all young women her age linked to a local healing center with a strange reputation. The deeper she digs into the clinic, the harder it is to deny links to the paranormal. Can she figure out what is going on and who to trust before it’s too late?
Thanks so much Alana, for allowing me to tell your readers about my new mystery, Railroad Ties: the Marmion Grove Murders. I hope they enjoy the excerpt and long to read more!
Blurb
When Sophie Childress discovers a letter written in 1920 by the witness to a murder, she enlists Noah Pennyman—owner of the house where it took place—to investigate. Who was the victim? What did the killer do with the body—not to mention a carpetbag full of money? Together they expose a complex web of family ties and lies that has persisted through four generations in the historic village of Marmion Grove. When two more corpses are unearthed, Noah and Sophie are faced with too many victims and not enough murderers.
390 pp; 89,900 words Ebook: $5.99; Print $22.99 Theme(s): Small Town, Mystery, Humorous/Comedy, Cozy Mystery Railroad Ties: the Marmion Grove Murders opens with the discovery of a letter from a witness to a murder. The letter fell out of a copy of Agatha Christie’s first published book, The Mysterious Affair at Styles. The heroine, Sophie Childress, volunteers for the Vassar Book Sale. Now closed down, for forty years it was one of the largest and most successful used book sales in the country, raking in an average of $100,000 for scholarships. Sophie is learning to price rare books, so she recognizes the Christie volume as a first edition, and discovers that the first printing of the first edition was actually in New York, and not London. The famous London edition of her book was released a full year after the New York one.
The letter was written in 1920, the same year as the New York release, sending Sophie and her hero, Noah, on a search for possible connections between the two events.
Excerpt: The Letter
“What’s this?” She lifted out a heavy polyethylene bag. She knew from Eudora’s instruction that the bag was archival quality. Now why was this one protected when the others weren’t? She slid the book out. “Agatha Christie. The Mysterious Affair at Styles.” Christies were a dime a dozen. Most of her works had millions of copies in print. It was unlikely this was valuable, even though it was a hardback. Maybe it was a gift. There could be an inscription or note inside. She checked the flyleaf. Nothing. She turned to the copyright page. “First edition, first printing.” Okay. New York: John Lane Publishing Company, 1920. Wait a minute. She set it down, puzzled. New York? Christie’s books were published in England. It must be the first American edition. Still, sometimes those fetched surprisingly good prices. Another thing to research at the center. As she reinserted it in its plastic bag, an envelope fell out. Yellowed and stained, it was addressed to Constable Bustwick, Montgomery County Police. No return address or stamp. She opened it.
Inside was a scrap of butcher’s brown wrapping paper. It’s a letter. The handwriting was shaky. An older person? A child? Though the date was obscured by a streak of dried ink, she could make out “April” and “1920.” The same year the book was published. She sat down to read.
Dear Constable Bustwick,
I write to you in great distress. I believe I may have witnessed a horrible act. However, I do not know if it was truly a crime, so I am begging you to investigate quietly. If I speak out publicly, I risk my position.
The event occurred two nights ago. The master and mistress had retired. I had closed up the house and returned to my room when a thunderstorm barreled through. For a time the thunder was quite loud. Lightning struck one of our cherry trees with a great CRACK. I had finally dozed off when a noise outside woke me. It was perhaps an hour past midnight. We have had problems with raccoons in the garbage pit lately, so I took my broom and went out to frighten the creatures off. It was very dark after the storm, with only the feeble light from the hitching post lantern to see by. A figure came around the side of the carriage house. He had a large bundle slung over his shoulder. Mr. Constable, I think it was a body! As I watched, he toppled it into the back seat of an automobile parked on the gravel. When he tried to close the door, a man’s hat fell out. He picked the hat up, threw it inside, and drove away.
I was terrified, but the master had left strict orders not to disturb them, so I went back to my quarters. The next morning the master and mistress had breakfast as usual. Neither mentioned a late night visitor. The stable held only their Ford Model T and the carriage. The car in the driveway had been much larger and fancier. I remember the lamplight glinting on a chrome hood ornament that resembled a flying bird.
When the day had almost passed and the master had not altered his normal routine, I began to feel that I’d dreamed the whole thing. Then late that afternoon I was sweeping the carriage house floor and found the glass bottle we keep the rat poison in. It lay in the floor drain, shattered. Constable Bustwick, I do not know if the broken bottle has anything to do with the body, but I fear it does. I beg you to look into it, but please, please don’t contact my master or mention my name. I pray there is a simple explanation for all this.
Sincerely, Agnes Reilly.
The letter fell out of Sophie’s hand. My God. Did this Agnes really witness a murder? And why didn’t she mail the letter? Did she mean to hand carry it, or perhaps she couldn’t find a stamp? And how did it end up in the book? She sat, fanning herself with the envelope. Hefting the volume, she quickly slipped the letter between its pages and dropped it back in the box.
I have to return to Marmion Grove anyway. I’ll ask Noah about the letter. She was ashamed to realize the thought gave her pleasure
Librarian, anthropologist, research assistant, Congressional aide, speechwriter, nonprofit director—M. S. Spencer has lived or traveled in five of the seven continents and holds degrees in Anthropology, Middle East Studies, and Library Science. In June 2025 she will have published eighteen mystery or romantic suspense novels. She has two children, an exuberant granddaughter, and currently divides her time between the Gulf Coast of Florida and a tiny village in Maine.
How can I tell the love of my life we’re having a baby if he doesn’t even remember having had sex?
After a passionate, unforgettable night with my best friend, a tragic accident leaves him with no memory of our fiery connection. As I navigate the complexities of our altered relationship, I’m grappling with an unexpected pregnancy. Going back to being best friends now is impossible. Can I reignite the spark in his heart before he learns of the baby and feels obligated to stay?
Dive into the enthralling world of Knocked Up by Her Mountain Man—a tale brimming with small-town charm and a gentle touch of steam. Experience an emotional journey towards a happily ever after in this standalone installment of the Elken Grove Mountain Men series.
♥ surprise baby ♥ friends to lovers ♥ mountain man ♥ Appalachia ♥ amnesia ♥ small town ♥
Review quotes
This is so sweet it hurts.
You will love what happens with these two and the wild love they have for each other.
This is a friends to lovers, second chance love story….but with a twist.
Excerpt of Knocked Up by Her Mountain Man
Everybody in this town is in on the big, fat secret: I’ve had sex with Finn Winslow, and he’s forgotten all about it.
As a result, they are awkward around me. I can’t even blame them. In most places, I guess, I’d be the victim of lewd comments, judging glances, and sexual innuendo. But not in Elken Grove. Here, the townsfolk offer clumsy side-glances and full-on pity.
Take this morning, for example. As usual, I write the special on the board behind the cash register. Stretching my plump, short frame, I carefully chalk today’s special. It’s peanut bar day, a favorite of our customers. Can’t blame them. Together with the sprinkles of dark chocolate and gooey salted caramel, it’s a slice of heaven.
Mr. and Mrs. Hartley, regulars for their daily coffee and pastry, come in. Mrs. Hartley stares at the board as if seeing it for the first time. She opens and closes her mouth a couple of times, reminding me of a carp. I’ve never seen a carp in real life, but this is how it must look. Mr. Hartley gently touches her arm and says to me, in a soothing voice, “We’ll have red velvet muffins, please, dear.”
There is nothing wrong with our red velvet muffins. But since when don’t the Hartleys jump at a chance to get the peanut bar?
Robin, the coffee shop’s owner, looks on, and once the Hartleys are at their usual table by the corner window, takes a closer look at the board. And that’s when I see it, too. “Peenut bar w/dark chocolate and caramel.”
Much less than missing out on a peanut bar, Mr. Hartley would miss a chance for a stupid sexual joke. Instead, he called me “dear” and almost patted my hand. That’s how the folks of Elken Grove treat me now. I know it’s meant to be considerate, but it’s wearing thin.
Robin, taller than me, swiftly erases the offending E.
“Gimme that,” I say. “Your handwriting should not be on promotional boards.”
Robin sighs in mock relief. “She’s talking.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Lately, you’ve seemed unfocused and unusually quiet. Don’t lose your spunk, girl.”
I huff. My spunk has long since faded. For months now, everybody in this town has felt entitled to discuss intensely private matters with me. Like how sad it was that the night both of Finn’s brothers got married ended this tragically: I finally got together with the man I’ve loved for years, and that’s when the thrift store under my apartment caught fire and the building burned down. We had to jump from the second-floor window, stark naked. Finn badly injured his leg and was whisked away to the hospital and rehab. I haven’t seen him since, haven’t even gotten in touch with him. He’s got memory issues, and the doctor insisted on complete rest and no contact unless he initiates it. Which he hasn’t, but for a few texts. I know he hates writing, and his texts showed that he cared about me, but were disappointingly friendly. He is his usual carefree self, only he doesn’t remember anything about the night of his accident. Which includes having had sex with me.
But Robin is right, I’m letting myself go. I suppress a sigh and resolve to fake it until I make it. I snatch the chalk. “I’m sorry, I’ll just redo the board.”
Robin looks unconvinced. That’s what you get when you’re friends with your boss: well-meant meddling.
Meghan comes in and rattles off her order for the hardware store. As I make her coffees, and we chat about the unusually mild, but rainy March weather, I feel almost normal. When she leaves, she passes a grinning Patty Winslow in the door. My heart starts beating like a drum. I haven’t seen Finn’s mother this happy since before the night of the fire, so maybe she’s bringing good news. Perhaps I finally will be able to talk to Finn.
Patty comes straight for me. She takes my hands in hers and, with tears in her eyes, announces, “He’s coming home. He just called from the road.” A sob escapes her. “He’ll be home this afternoon.”
My knees weaken and tears well up, but my face breaks into the biggest grin ever. He’s coming home!
Patty looks around at the customers present. The Hartleys are here, and Mr. Vance is—they are the biggest gossips in town. Soon everyone will know that Finn is returning.
With a loud voice to make sure everybody hears, she declares, “I spoke with the doctor again, and he stressed how crucial it is for Finn to remember that night on his own. No one is to tell him. He needs to remember by himself.”
I’ve never understood that. Don’t doctors usually encourage patients meeting their friends and family? Talking about what happened? This feels wrong, but my formal education ended when I left high school, so I wouldn’t know anything about amnesia but for what I’ve read about since that night.
Patty turns back to me. “I’m sorry, dear. You’ll have to be patient a little longer. But the doctor is confident that, if you really matter to him, Finn will remember sooner or later.”
What if he doesn’t? Am I not important enough to be remembered?
How can I possibly tell him we’re having a baby when I’m not allowed to remind him we’ve had sex?
Ella writes sweet’n’steamy romances that are meant to provide short vacations from your everyday life. She loves to read, mostly romances, of course, and to putter around in her backyard, forever trying to turn it into a blooming garden. She’s got a dog who is helping greatly with all the garden work by supervising everything Ella does and—for the most part—not digging up her flowers.
Lately, I confess I’ve fallen into a hole of creating pictures of characters from my stories with AI. Granted, I am in a tenuous position with this confession, because I am obviously not happy that some authors are creating whole books with AI that are now in competition with my own. But I will say that there are no competitions in play here–I already have a cover for the book and won’t use these pictures commercially, other than to occasionally bring attention to my little twaddles.
For example, in TENDER MISDEMEANORS, a romantic suspense from The Wild Rose Press, my heroine is an officer with the Bureau of Land Management, which gets her into all sorts of trouble with the less-than-law-abiding characters in the story. But–fun fact–she is a full time RVer, living in an RV with her pet iguana at the edge of a national park in Montana. Here’s the story the book tells:
Caryn Orlane has law enforcement in her blood; her father was a cop, and his father, too. She’s a federal agent in northwest Montana, protecting the old forests and keeping the peace.
Levi Bradshaw also believes in protecting the forests, but has a very different MO. He’s the leader of a group of eco-warriors, determined to save the trees of the Bitterroot by legal—and illegal—means.
When they meet in the woods at gunpoint, their encounter ignites a spark of interest, despite operating on opposite sides of the law. When their worlds turn on them, they only grow closer. If they don’t work together, can either survive?
I’ve been waiting to release this in all the hoopla, reviews and great press for the new book–but here it is! Enjoy!! (get ready to dance in your chair! 🙂 )
If you like a good legal thriller with an engaging protagonist, you will enjoy Cruel Charade. In this latest offering in the lady lawyer series by Alana Lorens, Bettina Lenard wakes up in a Florida swamp and tries to figure out how she got there and who wants her dead. Unfortunately, there are many possibilities. It could be one of several former clients, a drug kingpin she has crossed, or maybe her ex-husband.
This book is fun, but it’s instructive, too. In addition to the mystery, Cruel Charade is also an accurate description of the journey to diagnosis for a woman with an autoimmune disease, from her husband assuming she is faking pain to cover a drinking problem, to a line of doctors who have no clue how to help her and little interest in trying. The reader has sympathy for Bet but doesn’t pity her. She is a strong, capable woman dealing with an illness that she doesn’t let define her.
The story skips around in time, which can be a bit confusing at first, but stick with it because you will get into the rhythm as you read on. Cruel Charade is a page-turner with a great twist. It’s the perfect book for a weekend at the beach or a me-time treat.
Reviewed in the United States on July 10, 2024
The Everglades
CRUEL CHARADE by Alana Lorens is exciting with plot twists and turns that will keep you reading through the night. The story revolves around the murder attempt of attorney Bet Lenard who has lost everything in a bitter divorce. She finds comfort with her dearest friend and a new therapist. Written by juxtaposing the past with the present is intriguing and makes you really think when putting the story line together. It boils down to, can Bet figure out who tried to kill her before they try again? A great read all the way to the unique and surprising end. I highly recommend this book.
There is a lot going on in this story. It’s all about Bet Lenard, and the story is in her POV, but it goes back and forth from present time to her past so you get all the reasons behind what’s happening in the back story. Bet is nearly killed in the Everglades in a car fire. She barely gets back from that before other things start happening. As a criminal lawyer, she’s often worked with dangerous people, but she’s not sure who is doing this to her—and there are a lot of possibilities, including her ex-husband.
There’s enough going on in this story that you definitely will not get bored – right up to the last page! Just when you think everything is solved, you turn the page and… it’s not! Nicely done. The only thing that kept me from giving this five stars was the back-and-forth in past/present. Not one of my favorite types of writing, but overall, the story is excellent.
I really enjoyed my review copy of Cruel Charade, a crime thriller by Alana Lorens. The story begins when Miami attorney Bettina (Bet) Lenard, wakes up in a spectacular WTF situation. Someone is out to kill Bet and, given the criminal element she and her not-so-ethical attorney ex-husband have represented over the years, that would-be killer could be anyone. Bet has to stay one step ahead of the killer’s attacks; while battling debilitating pain from an undiagnosable illness, keeping her estranged kids safe, and eluding a mob boss intent on forcing her to work for him. This unusual protagonist is one reason Cruel Charade kept me interested. Bet is a flawed person who doesn’t have all the answers, but she’s doing her best to navigate personal relationships while solving the case. I really loved Bet’s deadpan sense of humor, fashion sense, and foodie sensibilities. I enjoyed the inventive way she got herself out of jams. Cruel Charade is an engaging story with characters that feel real, in a setting that came alive in a sensory way (I really want to try that Cuban coffee). The action kept me hooked. The end satisfied and left me smiling.
Miami attorney Bet Lenard has had a rough year. She’s battling an unknown illness that drives her to drink to cope with her pain. Her lawyer husband has divorced her and taken the best part of their business, their home and their children.
On the night of May 16, 1996, Bet finds herself in the Everglades in the middle of the night, drugged, lost and next to a burned car with a dead body in it. Hoping she’s hit bottom, Bet must drag herself out of her living hell and discover who tried to kill her. Was it her ex-husband, not satisfied with stealing everything that mattered? An angry client, unhappy with the outcome of their case? Her best friend’s husband, livid that Bet’s restraining order kicked him out of her life forever? Police officers fuming that Bet helped a client convict a dirty cop who was their friend? She has no idea.
As she tries to sort out the motives behind her would-be killer, even more suspects come to light. The only thing keeping Bet sane is her relationship with her therapist, who encourages her to struggle and survive, despite everything that’s gone wrong. How will Bet discover the truth and bring her enemy to justice before they strike again and, this time, succeed?
Yes, today’s the day! CRUEL CHARADE is out from The Wild Rose Press– and its five-stars future looks good. Do you have your copy yet?
May 13, 1995
One year before The Incident
Bettina stumbled out the side door of the Barracuda Taphouse, straining to focus fuzzy eyes. Leaning against the side of the building, she muttered to herself.
I only took my attention off that pina colada for a minute. Someone dosed it. I’ve got to get straight. Now.
But she couldn’t. Her knees threatened to mutiny and drop her on the pavement. Music pulsed through the wall behind her. She started to spin out of control.
Five things. “Street lights. Blue Lexus. Palm trees.
Lady with a purse. Man with a purse.” Should it bother me that his is nicer?
She straightened her back against the bricks, her fingers scrabbling in the grooves for a handhold. Her eyes closed and the spinning got worse. She forced them open again.
Four things. “Bricks. Space between bricks.” She tapped her expensive shoe on the ground. “Sidewalk.” She didn’t dare let go to touch anything else. Her arm rubbed against hard plastic discs down her side. “Midnight blue sequins.” Her new blouse that screamed take me home to bed, stranger.
Three things. “Um…traffic. Drums. Horns beeping.”
Was her breathing easier? She thought so.
Two things. “Cigarette smoke.” She cast an envious glance at the couple standing half a block up with cancer sticks in hand. “Diesel fuel.”
One thing. She couldn’t taste anything at first. Whatever was in her system had taken over. Then bile swirled in her stomach and rose to the back of her throat. Burning, it made its way out as she vomited into a potted plant.
Now isn’t that a lovely picture. Up-and-coming criminal defense attorney ralphing al fresco like a common street drunk.
She wiped her mouth and faced the wall, drooping against it, one hand propping her up.
The door she’d come out of flew open. “Bet? Oh my God, what are you doing?” Mela grabbed her arm. “Are you all right?”
“Nope,” Bet replied. “I surely am not. Someone dosed me. I think it was that suave Nicaraguan.” Her stomach roiled and she threw up again.
“The one with the haircut? You think so?” Mela rubbed Bet’s back. “Come on, let’s get out of here before a Herald reporter shows up. That’s all you need is for Rich to have proof you’re unfit.”
Bet reared upward with a scowl. “I’m not unfit. I don’t have the children in my custody, do I? He won that round, damn it.”
What the story’s about: Miami attorney Bet Lenard has had a rough year. She’s battling an unknown illness that drives her to drink to cope with her pain. Her lawyer husband has divorced her and taken the best part of their business, their home and their children.
On the night of May 16, 1996, Bet finds herself in the Everglades in the middle of the night, drugged, lost and next to a burned car with a dead body in it. Hoping she’s hit bottom, Bet must drag herself out of her living hell and discover who tried to kill her. Was it her ex-husband, not satisfied with stealing everything that mattered? An angry client, unhappy with the outcome of their case? Her best friend’s husband, livid that Bet’s restraining order kicked him out of her life forever? Police officers fuming that Bet helped a client convict a dirty cop who was their friend? She has no idea.
As she tries to sort out the motives behind her would-be killer, even more suspects come to light. The only thing keeping Bet sane is her relationship with her therapist, who encourages her to struggle and survive, despite everything that’s gone wrong. How will Bet discover the truth and bring her enemy to justice before they strike again and, this time, succeed?
My bio says that I’ve been writing all my life, and that’s pretty much true. I was penning stories and poems when I was in early elementary school. By high school I’d branched out to novels and plays. Though I’ve also done drawing and painting, sculpture and dance, words have always been my preferred instrument for creation. And to be honest, I grew up believing that I had significant writing talent.
The more I write, though, the more I realize how much I still have to learn.
Total-E-Bound, an English indie publisher focused on erotic romance, brought out the first edition of Getaway Girl way back in 2008. This was only my third or fourth tale written specifically for a romance audience. At that time, I knew almost nothing about the genre and its conventions. (Until I signed with TEB, I’d considered myself an author of erotica.) I spent quite a bit of time reading the work of my fellow TEB authors, trying to grasp the essence of this new category of fiction and to translate that into my own stories. My editors also did not hesitate to point out areas where common aspects of erotica just wouldn’t work for romance readers.
By 2008 I’d concluded that in every romance: 1) there had to be a sense of inevitability to the connection between the hero and heroine, an attraction that might seem to make no sense but which could not be denied; 2) the couple had to at least discuss commitment; 3) the sex (this was erotic romance after all) had to be more than just casual – there should be a sense of fitting or rightness, a connection that transcended the physical.
I tried to implement these conclusions in writing of Getaway Girl. The story was accepted and published, but was never particularly popular. I went on to write a lot more romance, getting better at it over time.
Last year I reclaimed the rights to the story so that I could self-publish it, and a few months ago I set myself the task of re-editing the piece in preparation. I really hadn’t looked at it for more than a decade.
I was appalled by how clumsy and stereotyped it seemed.
Inconsistencies in character and in plot were only part of the problem. There were also long passages of purple prose, most especially in the sex scenes. I posted the tale in my critique group and discovered there were also plentiful anachronisms and inaccuracies related to its historical period (contemporary) and British setting. (The story was originally targeted for an anthology entitled Bound Brits, so it had to take place in the U.K.)
I subjected the story to possibly the most thorough revision I’ve ever done on any of my work. I won’t say that it’s unrecognizable, but I probably modified at least 25% of the text. In the fourteen years since the first revision I’ve learned a lot, both about romance and about writing in general. Practice does make perfect; I’ve published nearly one hundred titles since that early attempt, both romance and erotica. This second edition of Getaway Girl is orders of magnitude better than the original.
But maybe I shouldn’t use the word “perfect”, because in truth, as long as we authors are writing, we are learning all the time. I’m about to revisit my first novel, preparing an expanded twenty-fifth anniversary edition for release sometime this year. This will be the fifth version of Raw Silk. I have no doubt it will be the best.
Our story:
Be careful what you wish for
All Peg wants is a break, a bit of adventure, a relief from her mundane existence in the bucolic but boring Yorkshire hamlet of Kirkby Malzeard. When dashing, sophisticated journalist Lionel Hayes saunters into the pub where she’s tending bar, Peg suspects that he was just the sort of man to fulfill her fantasies of escape.
The seductive Lionel, however, is not what he seems. Before she knows it, Peg is a hostage, roped and gagged, speeding away from the scene of a daring crime. Lionel is armed and dangerous, but somehow Peg still wants him – regardless of the consequences.
Note: This book was originally published in 2015 by Totally Bound. This second edition has been substantially revised and has a new ending.
EXCERPT:
“What are you doing here, if I might ask?”
“Me? Oh, I’m a journalist. I’m doing a story on the find and its historical implications.”
Peg felt a twinge of suspicion. “The press conference was yesterday.”
“My car broke down halfway from London. I spent last night in a town even tinier than this one.” His smile was charming, apologetic. Peg’s uneasiness melted away.
He leaned towards her across the bar, putting his hand over hers. “That’s why I appreciate your help, in giving me the information I need.”
His skin was warm and smooth, none of the calluses of a manual labourer. Not like the farmers Peg had occasionally dated here, before she gave up on finding a man in her home village. He ran one fingertip up and down in the sensitive crease between Peg’s thumb and forefinger. The light touch was enough to turn her nipples to aching knots and trigger a throbbing between her legs.
She caught a hint of his scent, a balsam-laced aftershave or cologne that simultaneously conveyed masculinity and refinement. His forefinger ventured higher, stroking the back of her wrist, a gesture both delicate and bold. Her pussy clenched as though he were massaging her down there, instead of merely brushing a casual finger across her hand.
She stared at the bar, blushing, angry with herself for being so susceptible. Finally, she managed to raise her head and meet his eyes, which were a stormy hazel colour.
“What paper are you from?”
“Oh, I write for an upmarket travel rag. I doubt that you would’ve heard of it. This story should enhance the romance and mystery of your already delightful village. I expect you’ll see a surge in tourists after publication.”
“You should interview Peter Lofthouse. He’s been mayor for the last dozen years.”
“I have the feeling that I’m talking to a real authority right now. Lived here a long time, haven’t you?”
She bristled. How did he know that? Maybe because she seemed such a country bumpkin. “I spent some time in London, but I had to come back. Family problems.”
“Sorry to hear that…” He scanned her chest, seeking a name tag. Peg felt as though he were fondling her breasts instead of just looking at them. Could he see the swollen tips, pushing up through her soft green jumper?
“I’m Peg,” she said, snatching her hand from his and reaching for the bar rag. “And you?”
He bowed slightly. “Lionel Hayes, at your service. But I’ll bet you’re really Margaret, right? It’s much more musical, more sophisticated. It suits you.”
He was clearly trying to flatter her. She didn’t really mind. “Lionel—sounds like an aristocratic playboy from the nineteen twenties. Nobody’s named Lionel anymore.”
The journalist laughed again, soft and intimate, sending the blood rushing again to Peg’s cheeks as well as to other body parts. He drained the last of his pint, then reclaimed her hand. “I’ve got to go. But it’s been pleasure to meet you, Margaret. Perhaps I’ll mention you in my article.”
Lisabet Sarai became addicted to words at an early age. She began reading when she was four. She wrote her first story at five years old and her first poem at seven. Since then, she has written plays, tutorials, scholarly articles, marketing brochures, software specifications, self-help books, press releases, a five-hundred page dissertation, and lots of erotica and erotic romance – over one hundred titles, and counting, in nearly every sub-genre—paranormal, scifi, ménage, BDSM, LGBTQ, and more. Regardless of the genre, every one of her stories illustrates her motto: Imagination is the ultimate aphrodisiac.
Got the final galley from The Wild Rose Press for Cruel Charade today…probably means a summer release. Been working on this one for four years. *sigh*
But COMING SOON.
Miami attorney Bet Lenard has had a rough year. She’s battling an unknown illness that drives her to drink to cope with her pain. Her lawyer husband has divorced her and taken the best part of their business, their home and their children. On the night of May 16, 1996, Bet finds herself in the Everglades in the middle of the night, drugged, lost and next to a burned car with a dead body in it.
Hoping she’s hit bottom, Bet must drag herself out of her living hell and discover who tried to kill her. Was it her ex-husband, not satisfied with stealing everything that mattered? An angry client, unhappy with the outcome of their case? Her best friend’s husband, livid that Bet’s restraining order kicked him out of her life forever? Police officers fuming that Bet helped a client convict a dirty cop who was their friend? She has no idea.
As she tries to sort out the motives behind her would-be killer, even more suspects come to light. The only thing keeping Bet sane is her relationship with her therapist, who encourages her to struggle and survive, despite everything that’s gone wrong. How will Bet discover the truth and bring her enemy to justice before they strike again and, this time, succeed?
Alana Lorens, author 