Sample Sunday - JUNGLE OF DECEIT

An excerpt from JUNGLE OF DECEIT available on Kindle and Nook

Alex felt Mitch’s eyes trace her with a vivid indication that yesterday’s incident remained fresh in his mind. She cleared her throat and turned towards Chuck. “What are you two up to that’s got you looking so guilty?”

Chuck reached back and pushed aside a clump of balmy leaves. “See for yourself.”

Alex had no choice but to brush against Mitch as she stooped forward to peer through the foliage. That sensation was disregarded at the first glimpse of the disturbing tableau.

By relocating to this portion of the rain forest, she had intended to search for a temple, but this structure was not what she had in mind.

“I take it you weren’t aware of this four-star resort?” Mitch’s deep voice sounded beside her.

Letting the leaves fall back into place, Alex met his eyes. “No, I wasn’t.”

Outwardly, she strove for composure. Inside, her body trembled with the repercussions of her miscalculation. By all rights she should be at least forty miles away from the last reported missing persons case. A husband and wife team—private citizens who chose archeology as a hobby. Their journal had been discovered some fifty miles from here. It documented their trek through the Tikal, but nowhere did it infer any trouble or signs of a secreted compound.

The Pastorellis’ last contact with the outside world was nearly a year ago.

“Dare I state the obvious?” Chuck offered. “That this doesn’t look cool.”

Alex ignored the comment, and instead started back towards camp, hacking at branches with the methodic precision of a mad man.

“Hey!” Chuck charged ahead of her, his knife at the ready. “I was doing that.” He eyed the ineffective path. “Guess just not too well.”

Sensing her urgency, and perhaps her brief spiral into insanity, Chuck resumed his task, slicing through glutinous limbs until the jungle swallowed him in its deep green throat.

Mitch caught up with her. She felt his fingers secure her arm as he tugged her to a halt.

“Tell me,” he commanded.

In the deepest shadows of the rainforest, a chill overtook Alex as she stared helplessly at the hand on her arm.

“Tell you what?”

“You know what it is. That place. You know what it is.” 

Once again, in Mitch’s eyes Alex saw refuge. How much she longed to slip into these lagoons and engulf herself in their secret depths. But even her precious lagoons harbored crocodiles.

She did not want to hypothesize on the giant cement exclamation point that proved what a mistake she had made.

“No,” she answered.

“Alex.”

She could sense his frustration before she heard him add, “What are you going to do?”

He knew she was withholding something, and yet instead of pushing, he simply asked, what are you going to do? It nearly made her feel a connection with this man−as if he was an unexpected ally in a world where no one was trusted.

Her throat constricted. “I will protect them.”

***

It was an unconditional statement. Mitch watched the resolve on her face and realized that Alex would go to any length to assure the safety of her team, and the notion didn’t sit well with him.

“How?” he challenged. “Alex, my career has kept me in close quarters with places like that,” his arm swung back towards the underbrush. “They saw us. Trust me. You think we were discreet? Don’t anticipate that.”

There wasn’t even a flinch. Not a single indication that she was afraid. Calm eyes assessed him.

“I am not a fool,” she whispered. “Obviously that structure is not on any of our maps, but I’ve spent the better part of a year down here. I have my suspicions as to who inhabits it. It was a tactical mistake to be in this region. A mistake I am quickly going to resolve.” 

“Who do you think it is?”

She shrugged. “Guatemala hosts any number of denizens. Poachers, looters, drug runners. What am I supposed to do, curl up in the fetal position?  You don’t make historical discoveries in the fetal position.” She didn’t wait for a response. “When I had a home, I lived in Sarasota. I could go to the 7-Eleven and run into poachers, looters and drug runners in the parking lot.”

“But in that 7-Eleven parking lot you could scream for help.” Mitch looked up at the canopy of trees obscuring the sun. “Here in the jungle, no one is going to hear you.”

“Do you want me to say that I’m scared?” There was an edge to her voice. She glanced into the tunnel Chuck had forged. “Even if I were, I can’t let them see that. They’re depending on me to keep them safe.”

Mitch followed her line of vision through that channel and located the flash of red and gold charging through the brush far ahead.

He turned back to her. “Look at me.”

Alex stared into the jungle.

“Look at me,” he commanded.

Verdant irises slid in his direction.

“Who is going to keep you safe, Alexandra?”

Guest Author - Shirley Wells

Shirley Wells is a gifted mystery writer for Carina Press and I am absolutely delighted to have her here with us today. Take it, Miss Shirley!

Thank you so much for inviting me to your lovely home, Maureen. It’s looking lovely. You really shouldn’t have gone to so much trouble for me.

Is there an inspiration behind the Dylan Scott character?

It’s funny you should ask. *looks over shoulder* For years, I wrote romance, mainly short stories and serials for the UK magazine market. Then I married, changed my name and turned to crime (writing). I wonder if there’s a connection?

Let me tell you that my first reader, the poor man who has to tell me my story’s the best thing he’s ever read, is my husband. He’d enjoyed my other books which are more police procedural than mystery, and when reading PRESUMED DEAD, the first Dylan Scott mystery, he gave me an accusing look and said “Hey, I uttered those very words.” All innocent, I replied vaguely, “Did you? I knew I’d heard them somewhere.” As he read on, his frown deepened. He read the last page and said “Is Dylan Scott based on me?”. I wiped tears of laughter from my face and said, “Don’t be silly.”

My fantastic Carina Press editor, when describing Dylan Scott on a blog post, said: “Dylan’s a chauvinist and a terrible husband but I’ve never found myself rooting harder for a character”. My husband saw this and before he could utter a word, I laughed like a drain and said, “You see? Dylan Scott is a chauvinist. And a terrible husband. How could he possibly be based on you?”.

I’ll let you into a secret though. *looks over shoulder again* There are a few similarities between the two. And that’s all I’m prepared to say.

You have lived in many diverse locations. Tell us a little about your favorites and why.

I’m a hopeless swimmer and I refuse to go on any boat that has less than five emergency engines, but I love the sea. When I lived in Cyprus, I had sea and gorgeous weather. When I lived in Orkney, I had sea and horrendous weather. I have to say that my heart belongs to Orkney though. I love the islands, the people, the sea, the seals, the puffins, the storms - yes, I even love the weather. One day, I hope to return.

Meanwhile, I live in Lancashire and, although I’m not near the sea, this small corner of England has its own qualities. The people are warm - what you see is what you get - and the scenery is spectacular. Small towns are surrounded by sweeping hills. Tall mill chimneys serve as a reminder of the long-dead cotton industry. My house was built around 1875 from stone quarried less than a mile away and those disused quarries provide great places for hiding the odd body (we’re talking fiction here).

Tell us more about your ‘co-workers’ and how much they have contributed.

I couldn’t cope without them. I have Tilly and Muffet (I know, I know, but he was 9 when we rescued him and I thought it unfair to change his name. He’s known as Mister Magoo, Murphington and various other things.) They keep me company, lie under my desk to keep my feet warm (it gets cold in the UK) and remind me to take breaks from the computer. I do all my best work when I’m walking over the hills with them. I sort out plot problems or characterization niggles when we’re enjoying the fresh air together. If I could teach them to type and make the coffee, my life would be complete.

You are a master in the mystery genre. What is it that draws you to this subject matter?

A master? Oh, I like you. I guess it stems from staying up late as a kid to watch the detective shows my mom enjoyed like Kojak, Columbo or the classic Agatha Christie tales. We were both determined to guess whodunit before the other - or before the detective solved it. So the puzzle appeals to me. Also, I’m fascinated by the darker side of people. What drives respectable Mr. or Mrs Average to commit heinous crimes?

Who mows your lawn?

I’m so glad you asked because, coincidentally, there’s a vacancy for that particular job. There’s also one for cook and cleaner. The pay isn’t great but I’m happy to supply wine, whisky and song (well, maybe not song. Don’t want to put off prospective applicants).

Thank you so much for inviting me to your lovely home, Maureen!

--------------------

Having had several hundred short stories, ten serials and ten novels published, Shirley Wells is finally getting the hang of this writing lark. She’s lived in Orkney, Cyprus and the Cotswolds, and now lives in Lancashire where the Pennines, with their abundance of great places to hide bodies, provide the inspiration for her popular mystery novels. She shares her home with her husband, two dogs, two cats and any other stray animals that fancy being pampered.

For more information, visit her website, follow her on Twitter or find her on Facebook.

Her latest Dylan Scott mystery, DEAD SILENT, is available from Carina Press, Amazon, Barnes & Noble and all good e-book retailers.

Guest Author - Bonnie R. Paulson

First for me  and most importantly, thank you, Miss Maureen, for having me on your blog.  I'm so excited to be an author at Carina Press, not only because of the amazing process and brand associated with a Harlequin imprint but also because of the amazing team of people there. This includes the awesome authors!

Breathe Again is a contemporary sweet romance I had a great time writing. I wrote it while I was pregnant with my fourth child and I have to say, the tears flowed.

Maggie Lachlan is struggling to get over the death of her husband. After being overcome by emotion during a shift in the E.R., she's suspended indefinitely. Making things worse, she needs a place to stay after the quick sale of the house she shared with her late husband.

Fortunately, her friend Ryan Stewart offers her a room while she gets her life in order, much to the chagrin of his brother and housemate, Brodan Steele. Brodan doesn't want to like Maggie, not when he questions Ryan’s feelings for her.. But it's hard to deny the attraction he feels for her when she's sleeping under the same roof.

Being so close to Brodan awakens something in Maggie, something she never felt during her marriage. But as long as she's haunted by the past, she can't open herself up to the future... 

The cover bowled me over! The Carina Press art team sent a questionnaire with all kinds of questions. I honestly didn't have any idea what to imagine (I'm not right brained at all) but I asked that they keep it sweet. I also emphasized that the story is based in Montana and the skyline of evergreens at dusk was just perfect. I couldn't be more pleased with the cover. Not ashamed to admit I cried a little bit - and I wasn't pregnant.

Given your medical background, have you ever inserted real-life experiences into your books?

The first scene of Breathe Again is derived from a real life experience - in fact, it's what catapulted the story through my fingers.

Acquiring my radiologic technologist degree required interning at local hospitals.  Following one particularly fun woman, I stopped in mid conversation when she received a page to rush to the ER for a trauma series. We ran down the stairs, one flight, two flights. A second call came on the radio telling her to redirect, she wasn't to take the call and that the Core (center of the department) would send someone else. When the RT I was with questioned the reason, the dispatcher indicated the person coming in had a self-inflicted gunshot wound to the head. My mentor was devastated. She stopped on the stairs and left me on the landing. I returned to the department and discovered her in the breakroom. She had found her son not long before with the same injuries.

From this encounter, Maggie was born.

That woman's pain truly touched my heart and I wish I could hug her again today. 

Does your passion for dirt biking make it into your books?

Oh, girl! Yes, In fact I have a trilogy I'm working on based around those luscious hunky chunks of metal. MMM. I swear a box of Ethel M's Chocolate lemon chifons and a Yamaha 230 would make me VERY happy any moment of any day. Thank you for mentioning dirt bikes. I love them.

You have a co-author now. How is that working out for you?

The co-author situation is working great.  She's a CP of mine and a good friend. We decided to work on a non-fiction piece a couple weeks ago, fit it in amongst our other projects, and we've been rolling ever since.

You write both contemporary romances and romantic suspense. Do you find it difficult switching between the genres?

No, I have to say, I came up with my motto based around this exact idea. Romance and Action and Kiss and suspense - There is so much action in romance, suspense or otherwise and so much suspense in kissing with life threatening danger or just anticipation, I love writing both and hence RomAction and KissPense.  Sometimes, the danger of the first kiss is the most lethal - and I know this is true after reading Endless Night.

What is next for the talented, Bonnie Paulson?

Talented, you're sweet! I am in the process of submitting another contemporary romance duo as well as slaying revisions and taking names on a trilogy I'm hugely in love with. 

I plan on shooting for RWA#12 in Anaheim, CA next year and can't wait to meet more author friends.  I've had a blast meeting you and so many others - can't wait to meet you in person, Maureen!

Thank you again so much for the chance to be here. I appreciate your support more than words can say.

I would like to offer a digital copy of Breathe Again to a randomly selected commenter.  And a promotional postcard with a discount to a Carina Press purchase to all of your commenters today.

If you're commenting, please include your email so I can email you for your address.  Maureen will let me know the winner and I will get that out to you!

Thank you so much again. I had a blast.

I'm so happy you joined us today, Bonnie, and I'm so proud of you and your wonderful novel, Breathe Again.

How did 9/11 impact JUNGLE OF DECEIT?

 

You can always count on two things from me−romance and suspense.  I take a little turn with JUNGLE OF DECEIT, however. Mayan artifacts? Military compounds? Underground temples? Who stole Maureen and replaced her with Indiana Jones?

Inspiration is always an interesting topic. A few years after 9/11, I read an article that was not even a blip on the news radar−several paragraphs that drew very little attention.

"After being unearthed by grave-robbers in Guatemala, sold by black marketers and shipped in suitcases through Miami, confiscated by Customs and stored in a vault that survived the terrorist attack on the World Trade Center, two dozen pre-Colombian artifacts are finally headed home."

I thought that the historical path of these artifacts could make for a great novel. It began in 1998 as U.S. Customs agents at Miami International Airport searched the suitcases of two New York residents flying home from Guatemala City. In the suitcases they found the artifacts. The couple insisted they had bought them at an open Indian marketplace and the pieces were not valuable. To support their testimony, a few innocent pieces were thrown in which are believed to have acted as decoys.


An authenticating process revealed that many of the pieces were pre-Columbian and the couple lacked the documentation required to remove historically significant items from Guatemala. The artifacts were confiscated and eventually made their way to New York where they were stored in the heavy vault at Custom House, 6 World Trade Center, in the World Trade Center complex.


That is where they were on Sept. 11, 2001.


When the vault was unearthed by crews sifting through the rubble, the artifacts and other items were all intact. The legal battle against the man and woman smuggling in the artifacts collapsed as well, and several years later the artifacts were finally returned to the Guatemalan government.

This tale was stuck in my head while I was working on other books, but a story began to form in the land of fiction known as my brain. JUNGLE OF DECEIT was born. It bears no reference or similarity to the tale above, but sometimes as a writer, inspiration need only strike the tiniest spark and we’re off and running.

Guest Author - Cathy Pegau

Today we have with us, Cathy Pegau, Carina Press author extraordinaire! Let's get to learn more about this exciting woman.

Tell us about Rulebreaker. Is this a new genre for you, and if so, what attracted you to it?

Rulebreaker is a F/F Science Fiction Romance about a thief, Liv Braxton, who joins her ex husband and his crew on a job to blackmail a mining company. While looking for incriminating files on VP Zia Talbot’s computer, Liv discovers some nefarious deeds are occurring. Zia’s involvement isn’t a surprise, but the feelings Liv starts to have for her are.

This is my first SFR as well as my first F/F as a writer. Up until Rulebreaker, I was working on sword and sorcery-type fantasies and a paranormal women’s fiction. Always something with a little “otherness” to it J What attracts me to SFR, and speculative fiction in general, is the potential to travel out of the ordinary. And I like making my own world rules. Which I try not to break. People get cranky if you do that.

The F/F aspect came about when I was thinking of a love interest for Liv, someone to foil her adherence to the rules. Zia popped into my mind, almost fully formed, and she was exactly what I wanted. It felt right, so I went with it.

The cover is fantastic, can you tell us more about it?

I’m in complete awe of my cover! Croco Design is amazing. That’s absolutely Liv out front. Direct. A little cocky, perhaps. Behind her, it looks like Zia is about to kiss Liv’s shoulder, which happens in a rather sensual scene. On the page, Zia comes off as cool at first, but the artist captured her softer side. 

Alaska! Give us some insight into everyday life in Alaska? Do you suffer from long nights in the winter? Does that contribute to the art of writing?

Everyday life here is a lot like everyday life anywhere. Except maybe for the occasional bear. Our town, though not on an island, is only accessible by air or sea, making travel tricky. We can’t just hop in the car and go to the nearest mall or fast food joint, which is great for my bank account and my waistline.

The long, dark nights are beneficial, as are the cool, dreary days. Everyone tends to settle in a little earlier, so the quiet time is great for writing. If I’m not working (I sub at the schools as an aide or teacher), I try to get as much writing done during the day without the kids and husband around.  

What is next on your plate? We want more!

I’m prepping another book set on the same planet as Rulebreaker. It features one of the secondary characters who enlists the help of a former drug addict to help him rescue his sister. There’s a third book in my brain, but it needs plot work. Fingers crossed that they get picked up!

I have a few older manuscripts I’d love to revisit and hopefully sell. The aforementioned sword and sorcery fantasies, the paranormal women’s fiction, a shape shifter romance set in Alaska, and there’s a paranormal western that’s been floating in my brain for a bit.

Give us some personal insight into Cathy Pegau. What would you be most afraid of to find in the house, a spider, a snake, a scorpion, a mouse or an aardvark?

The snake or scorpion would be equally terrifying for me. Well, depending on the size/danger of the spider. We have normal-sized spiders here that I tolerate. But snakes and scorpions??? There’s a reason I live in Alaska.

Coffee or Tea?

Coffee first thing, or I’m cranky and useless. I do like a nice cup of tea later in the day. Some Earl Grey, a good book and a storm lashing at the windows while a fire blazes in our wood stove is my idea of a fine afternoon.

Which would drive you crazier, the sound of dripping water, the tapping of a tree on a windowsill or snoring?

Where do you come up with these? J I live in a temperate rainforest, so dripping water and trees smacking into things are standard background noises. The snoring would likely bother me, but I’m a snorer myself so I feel kind of bad saying that. Pot, meet kettle, and all.

Favorite writing companion, animate or inanimate.

I usually have a cup of something at hand and a dog or two at my feet when I’m writing. The cup gives me something to fiddle with as I mull scenes—get up, pour more coffee, sip and think. The dogs tend to interrupt with the burning need to go out or play fetch just as I hit a groove.

I'm so happy Cathy stopped by today. And I'm so excited for her with the release of RULEBREAKER. Please sample a little excerpt of her work below and let her know what a great job she's doing!!

RULEBREAKER Excerpt from Chapter One: 

Liv and her partner went in to rob a bank, but were caught up with the rest of the customers when a second gang burst in. Now, they are on the floor with the others…

The gunman didn’t speak. His palm skimmed the length of my leather jacket from shoulder to just above my buttocks. He pressed down, jabbing my pistol into my spine, then moved the tails of the jacket and shirt aside, exposing the waist of my trousers. And the gun. Like he knew it would be there.

My gut quivered. Shit! If he took me for a lawman, I was dead.

“Tsk tsk tsk,” he whispered close to my ear. He eased the gun out, resting it on the bared skin of my back. His gloved fingers slid under my trousers. My muscles stiffened when he tickled my tailbone just below the waistband of my bikini panties. “Got anything else there?”

His hand trailed back up to my gun, and its weight disappeared. The barrel of his rifle nudged the back of my hands. “You’re quite lucky today, amante. Quite lucky.”

Amante. Lover.

Only one person used that word with me, and he’d lost the privilege three years ago.

Tonio Calderon.

Over the indignation and disbelief buzzing in my head, activity from near the vault told me the job was done.

The bastard leaned closer. His breath warmed my ear. “Gotta go, darlin’.”

He dragged a finger up my spine then was gone.

My body shivered in memory of his touch while my mind screamed. No! No no no, double damn the void, NO! This went beyond poor timing.

My ex-husband had just felt me up, taken my gun and spoiled my hit.

Where to find Cathy!

http://www.CathyPegau.com

http://CathyPegau.blogspot.com

Jungle Of Deceit

Just released!!

JUNGLE OF DECEIT

        Mitch Hasslet, a war photojournalist relegated to a desk job, is the sole witness to a heist of Mayan artifacts. Recruited by the enigmatic director of the Museum of Art and Antiquities, Mitch is sent to Guatemala, the last location the shipment was tracked to. Acting as the museum staff photographer, Mitch joins a group of archaeologists. His goal is to locate the artifacts as swiftly as possible so that he can collect his compensation and get the hell out of the jungle.

         Alexandra Langley is about to run out of funds. She has yet to discover the lost Mayan civilization she knows lurks in the rainforest. To achieve her grant, she will accept the museum's latest nuisance, Mitch Hasslet, and any other obstacle that is sent her way. 
         Unsuccessful and desperate, Alex has decided to move the group to a portion of the jungle referred to as, “No Man’s Land”−a sector where archaeological teams have ventured but never returned.

         As Mitch and Alex discover romance, will their bond protect them in a jungle filled with deceit? 

                                   Excerpt

Port Newark, NJ – April 22^nd

From a hundred yards away, Mitch Hasslet lifted his lens to the aft of the ship and narrowed the viewfinder on the cracked white letters.

Dorian Gray.

Christ, he hoped there was a portrait stored somewhere that flattered this old bucket of bolts. Perhaps in its heyday, the freighter shined with fresh black paint and gleaming brass fixtures−but now it looked like a ghost ship ready to embark on a voyage to a prehistoric island.

On deck, crewmen were busy preparing for their valuable cargo as Mitch swung his camera in the direction of two police cars entering the barricade. In their wake, a trio of armored trucks stamped with the Museum of Historical Art and Antiquities insignia were flanked by two additional patrol units. The entire convoy pulled up idle at the foot of a ramp that led into the bowels of the Dorian Gray.

Mitch’s curiosity flared at the sight of wooden crates towed on mobile skids by the armed security representatives of the HAA Museum. Some of the fanfare in the papers came to mind.

Rare Mayan artifacts. Brutal pieces of art that stirred up controversy and even warranted a disclaimer at the entrance of the museum.

Not for the faint of heart.

Systematically, the shutter clicked as Mitch captured images of the wooden crates hauled like behemoth creatures into a cage.

When four Apache helicopters descended on the pier, Mitch’s camera continued to snap. As if a beehive had split open, a battalion of camouflaged uniforms erupted from the choppers and flooded the dock, encircling the comparatively small police force. Men he had presumed were part of the ship’s crew now drew weapons of their own and joined in the invasion as the explosive percussion of AK-47’s pierced the brackish air.

It happened so fast. Outnumbered, and with only futile attempts to fight back, the police and museum force were circled to the tune of more shots. Mitch flinched at the sudden blare of violence—a sound that plagued him often in his sleep. He searched in vain for a way to stop this madness, and this preoccupation prevented him from detecting the figure behind him.

At the last second he turned and came face to face with a dark complected man with a scar on the corner of his lips. The disfigurement elongated them into a macabre smile.

That Cheshire grin was the last thing Mitch Hasslet saw as the butt of a rifle cracked into his jaw.

***

Waking up on the hot tarmac with a swollen eye and a faulty chin, Mitch lumbered to his car. The guerillas, or whatever the hell they were, were long gone, as well as the shipment from the museum.

He needed to call for an ambulance. Men were down.

Before he could even get his scraped knuckles to cooperate, a black stretch limousine pulled up alongside his car. He jerked back a step, startled to have not heard the motor.

A tinted window slid down with a hiss as the driver, indiscernible behind sunglasses and cap, inquired in a deep voice, “Mr. Hasslet?  Mitchell Hasslet from the Chronicle?”

Mitch nodded and rubbed at his jaw.

“Please get in, sir.”

Staring at the sleek limo as if it were an alien craft, Mitch managed a gruff, “Excuse me?”

“Please get in, sir. Mr. Nicholson would like to have a word with you.”

The crazed expression of Jack Nicholson in The Shining flashed in his mind.

“I don’t know a Mr. Nicholson.” Mitch’s voice was hoarse. “But if you have a cell phone in there, can you call 911?”

Sunlight reflected off the driver’s glasses.

“It’s been taken care of, sir. Please get in.”

“Hey, look,” Mitch’s fingers began to work their way around his door handle, “I don’t know how you know my name, but I need to get to the authorities now. There are men that have been shot, there’s no time for this bull—”

The rear window of the limousine rolled down with a soft purr. An indistinct silhouette filled its frame and a disembodied voice called, “Mr. Hasslet, I am Phillip Nicholson, the Director of the Museum of Historical Art and Antiquities. I would really appreciate a moment of your time.”

He paused and added with the benevolence of a holy man, “trust me, the police and ambulances are on their way.”

On cue, sirens could be heard in the distance. Mitch felt his jawbone throb and winced at the glare from the driver’s sunglasses.

The car door opened in silent invitation, and the blast of air conditioning felt like an ice pack against his swollen cheek.

“Please, Mr. Hasslet. We need your help.”

A headache struck with the force of a two-by-four, and inside the limo the sound of ice cubes cascading into a glass posed a greater temptation than Delilah.

Mitch cast one last look across the deserted dock.

Son of a bitch.

With a slight limp, he climbed into the back seat.