PLEASE WELCOME KATY EETEN and her new release A STALKER TO DIE FOR .
Katy: Before I became a published author, I had many unfinished manuscripts saved on my computer just waiting to be finished and fully edited. A Stalker to Die For was one such manuscript. After publishing five contemporary Christian romances, I finally found the motivation and confidence to revisit this romantic suspense (my first attempt at that specific genre). It took longer than I care to admit, but I finally finished it!
For me, adding suspense to a romance is easier said than done. I admire those authors that can weave intense scenes and plot twists so naturally into their writing. To put someone on the edge of their seat through the written word alone takes incredible talent. I don’t claim to have that level of talent, but A Stalker to Die For takes readers through a variety of emotions while walking the line between romance, faith, and thrills. This book just released on April 10 and is available on Amazon. I hope you check it out and enjoy!
OUR STORY:
Ashley Morris thought the worst part of online dating was awkward small talk. She was wrong.
After one disastrous date, a man named Nick won’t take no for an answer. His calls and texts escalate into threats, break-ins, and a terror that shadows her every move. Desperate for safety, Ashley hires Jackson Russo— a talented painter with a kind heart and a protective streak— to renovate her home. But as their friendship deepens into something more, Nick’s obsession turns deadly.
Caught between a stalker’s rage and a love she never expected, Ashley must trust God’s protection and her own instincts to survive. With Jackson by her side, she’ll fight for her life— and for a future worth living.
A faith-filled romantic suspense with a slow-burn, closed-door romance and a guaranteed happily ever after. Perfect for fans of Lynette Eason, Dani Pettrey, and Dee Henderson.
Excerpt:
She glanced over at him, and they exchanged closed-mouth smiles before she leaned her head on his shoulder. A second later, he leaned his head on top of hers. She almost melted in the bliss of the moment.
This felt so right. And as much as she wanted to raise her head and kiss this incredible man, she wasn’t sure she’d be able to stop. Considering this was about as peaceful and cherished and loved as she’d ever felt—could ever hope to feel—she didn’t want to risk ruining it by muddying the innocence with a kiss. Though she certainly wouldn’t turn him away if he was offering up kisses. But she’d be patient. And grateful.
He lifted his head a few moments later, causing her to do the same as she flashed him an inquisitive look. He extended his arm behind her shoulders and pulled her close. “I just thought this might be more comfortable.”
As she leaned into his sturdy chest and closed her eyes, her dreamy sigh was audible. How had she gotten so blessed? God, thank You. As he stroked her upper arm, her cheeks radiated heat. Oh, how she wished time would stand still. Being with Jackson was the highlight of her weekend.
“Sorry again that the drawing idea didn’t work out. Here I thought this would be the most romantic night ever.” He let out a nervous chuckle.
Ashley’s eyes shot open at the absurdity of his words. Did he not consider their present situation romantic? “What do you mean?” She raised her head and turned to face him, their faces mere inches from each other. “This is the most romantic—”
A single loud popping sound pierced the air.
Ashley jumped. “What was that?”
Jackson sat up straight. “I’m not sure, but it sounded like a gunshot.”
When she was a kid, Katy Eeten filled notebooks and binders with poems and short stories. As an adult, she turned that love for the written word into Christian fiction. Between contemporary Christian romance novels and short, sweet Christmas novellas, she loves the feeling of creating characters, scenes, and plots that readers will enjoy.
She works full time in the corporate world, but she tries to find time for her passions—which include writing, reading, taking walks, playing board games, baking, and spending time with her family. She lives in southeast Wisconsin with her husband and their two teenage sons.
Since I joined the romance authors community, I’ve heard a lot about alpha heroes. Rugged but handsome features, broad shoulders, chiseled pectorals, powerful thighs that naturally invite musings about what lies sheltered between them – attributes like these apparently constitute the romance ideal. Our hero should also be physically strong, courageous, and generally the dominant type, though some sensitivity or a shameful secret will not be taken amiss. It helps, apparently, if the guy is also wealthy, suave and well-dressed.
Well, I don’t completely buy it. I mean, a nice bod and a pretty face are not to be sneezed at. But they’re not enough. Call me perverse, but I find intelligence to be the most essential aspect of a sexy hero. Furthermore, I’m willing to accept less than stellar physical qualities if my hero is a clever, imaginative, horny genius who can figure out how to get his heroine out of sticky situations and who understands what truly turns her on.
So I’ve got a thing for nerds. I was hopelessly in love with Mr. Spock. Near the top of my sexy, romantic movie list is “Earth Girls are Easy”, featuring gangly, geeky Jeff Goldblum as a brilliant alien. It’s fairly easy to understand why I feel this way. Growing up, I was the egghead, the bookworm, the too-smart girl whom everyone made fun of. The only guys who could deal with me were the ones who were at least as smart as I was. They weren’t on the football squad; they weren’t voted Best Looking or Most Popular. But they had that something that could start my motors. It was intoxicating, yes, arousing, to have a conversation with some of these guys, especially when I got out of high school and into college. We understood each other, and I began to discover that despite their definite nerdish qualities, they were enthusiastic and innovative when it came to sex.
Actually, research has shown that in defiance of their public image as socially challenged losers, nerds are more successful than the general population in finding mates, staying with them, and producing children. Of course, that is not necessarily going to endear them to romance readers, but it’s something to consider.
Not all the heroes that I create are nerds, but many have some nerdish qualities. Harry Sanbourne in Her Secret Ingredient is a classic example. He’s fashion-challenged, with unruly, overlong hair. Seriously near-sighted, he wears clunky, dark-framed glasses. He’s easy going and informal, without a sophisticated bone in his body – a body that looks pretty ordinary in his baggy jeans and out-of-shape sweaters.
Once those clothes are off, though, Harry turns out to be an exceptionally talented and considerate lover. And unlike the suave and impeccably groomed master chef (and apparent alpha), Etienne Duvalier, Harry has an intuitive understanding of what Emily needs.
Stir in a pinch to stir up his passion.
When the Tastes of France food channel offers Mei Lee “Emily” Wong a series of guest spots, she jumps at the opportunity to take her culinary career to a whole new level. Ultimately, she wants a show of her own, but first she has to prove herself to Michelin-starred network founder and effective dictator, Etienne Duvalier. A legend in the world of classic French cuisine as well as a domineering perfectionist, Etienne is skeptical about the culinary abilities of a woman from Hong Kong. To make things more difficult, the master chef is also so gorgeous that Emily can’t help being attracted to him.
Emily tries to solve both problems by spiking her luscious profiteroles with an ancient Oriental aphrodisiac. Unfortunately, Harry Sanborne, the low-key, bespectacled producer for Emily’s show, samples the delicacies she intends for Etienne’s consumption. His powerful reaction to her secret ingredient comes as a pleasant surprise to them both. Harry turns out to be far more impressive in bed than on the set. However, he can’t do nearly as much to advance her ambitions as Etienne. Emily tries once more to tempt the exacting Monsieur Duvalier with her special cooking as well as her feminine charms. The outrageous results threaten to end her TV career forever—until Harry steps in to save her reputation and claim her heart.
Her Secret Ingredient was a great short story. I loved the unique plot, the realistically drawn characters and the writing style. ~Lucy Felthouse, Goodreads
I’ve always been a sucker for books set in the kitchen, and even as outlandishly over the top as this one is, it was a lot of fun…lighthearted and silly and sinfully sexy. ~ Steph, The Romance Reviews
EXCERPT:
“Here we are. Try a couple of these and let me know what you think.” I positioned the platter so that the augmented tidbits were within Etienne’s easy reach. He was sitting on one of the stools in front of the counter. His thigh muscles strained against the black leather of his pants. A lock of hair had overcome the gel to settle on his high forehead. His eyes sparkled, ocean-blue in this light. He looked good enough to eat—highly appropriate for a cooking show.
“Thank you. They look exquisite.” He positively oozed charm as he picked up a pastry round with his finger and thumb and placed it upon his tongue. I imagined all the women watching the show, eyes glued to his every sensual move.
“Oh, Mei Lee! These taste even better than they look!” He sipped his wine, then popped another pissaladière into his mouth and chewed with obvious enthusiasm.
“You’ll put the recipe on the channel website, won’t you?” He turned to the camera. “Ah, mes amis, this simple little dish provides a glorious mixture of flavors. And quite a straightforward process, I guarantee. Any one of you can make these in your own kitchen.”
I helped myself to a pissaladière of my own, carefully choosing from the unadulterated side of the tray. They were good—the pastry light and crisp as spun cloud, the topping complex and savory, thyme, garlic and pepper lingering on the tongue long after swallowing. I took a second hors d’oeuvres. Etienne gobbled down two more, licking his long, elegant fingers after each one. The audience must be dying, watching that pink tongue clean away every crumb of pastry, every fragment of olive. I nursed my burgundy and smiled for the camera as he consumed a fifth pissaladière. Low-level lust hummed through me, too, though I’d been careful this time to avoid ingesting any of the aphrodisiac.
He wiped his forehead with his sleeve and drained his wine glass. “Ms. Wong—” he began. A wild light blazed in his face. “I want to ask your pardon—I want—oh, please…” The smooth, urbane voice sounded confused, ravaged by uncertainty. What was going on?
Etienne slipped from the stool to the floor and knelt at my feet. The next thing I knew, he was pressing his lips to the gilt leather of my high-heeled shoes. “Ms. Wong—Mistress Wong—please, let me serve you…”
“Etienne? Monsieur Duvalier? What are you doing?”
He trailed kisses up the inside of my ankle. “I adore you, Mistress.”
“Etienne!” I snatched my foot away in alarm. He gazed up at me, a mix of disappointment and reverence shining in his face. “Stand up. Remember we’re on camera,” I added, sotto voce.
“Yes, yes, but that doesn’t matter now,” he continued in the same crazy vein, though he obeyed my order and rose to his feet. “I am your willing slave. Let me please you, Mistress. Let me suckle your sweet, hard nipples. Raise your skirt and allow me to worship you with my mouth, the way you deserve…”
“Ssh!” I hissed. “Do you want to get us thrown in jail?” I peered through the glare of the lights, trying to signal to someone to stop the transmission. There was no flurry of activity there, however. No one seemed to notice anything out of the ordinary.
“I don’t care, as long as you are satisfied.” He paused a moment, then unknotted his scarlet cravat and handed it to me. He held out his wrists. “Bind me, Mistress, if you wish. Torture me. I’ll bear any amount of pain for you. Test me—test my devotion.”
He had the same rich voice as before, the same handsome features, the same lithe, muscular body—but this was a different man entirely. I searched his face, yearning for the arrogant, self-involved chef who’d been bossing me around half an hour before.
There was no trace of him. Instead, I had to deal with this—this eager, self-effacing slave boy.
I’d created a monster.
About Lisabet
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.
These 55 stories share the collective wisdom of these women learned from life. Ms. Fowler recommends this book for book clubs, and in senior living facilities, and is willing to do ZOOM meetings with the clubs to discuss all the delightful tales.
ABOUT THE EDITOR:
Anne Fowler, only child of Audrey and Stewart Hamilton, was raised in Toronto where she attended Leaside High School and Toronto Western Hospital School of Nursing. In 1962 American Airlines beckoned her to Dallas, Texas and life in the sky as a flight attendant. Twice divorced, Anne first married a young minister from Louisiana and then long-time best friend Dr. Bob Fowler of Toronto. They raised a daughter and son who later produced a grandson and granddaughter. In 2001, Anne retired, closed her company, Hamilton Enterprises, and left behind a thirty year career in Human Resources. She relocated to El Progreso, Honduras to volunteer at a clinic where care is provided for patients who lack the funds to be treated elsewhere. During this time, Anne developed the Visiting Doctor program for international ophthalmologists, started the Healthy Living Education project in local elementary schools, and helped with a variety of clinic and community activities. In 2006, after purchasing property in the small north coast village of El Porvenir, she built Hamilton Benest House, a home providing accommodation for visiting dentists, doctors, teachers, and other volunteers. Her major program in 2021 is Phase Two of the Healthy Living Program. This annual dental program, conducted by two Canadian dental teams, provides dental care for over 1,000 elementary school students in the area. Anne’s programs continue to thrive and she has continued to develop community initiatives designed to improve the lives of Hondurans. Anne divides her year between El Porvenir and her Haliburton cottage north of Toronto. https://anne.honduranhope.net/
REVIEWS FOR THE TRUTHS WE’VE CARRIED:
I just finished this book. The stories were great, happening to both ordinary and extraordinary folks and often occurring around world or national events and involving brushes with famous people. I read all of the stories in one sitting on a very cold day in the Midwest, a good day to snuggle up and devour a book.
The Truths We’ve Carried is the perfect book for readers who say “I’m too busy to read.” A fascinating collection of true stories recounted by the women who experienced the events. However, I dare you to stop reading after one or two of them! One evening I picked up the book and started reading, thinking, I’ll just read a couple of stories. It was after midnight when I finished the book! Well done ladies.”
I read The Truths We’ve Carried…some tears, some smiles…and have talked about the book with others. A wonderful idea! An outlet for women to vent.”
Burro racing is the official Colorado Heritage Sport. Right now you may be envisioning a bunch of tiny jockeys riding tiny burros around a dirt track, but if so, you’re wrong. Burro racing is meant to recreate the frontier experience of prospectors and burros running down the trail to the nearest town to register a gold claim before another prospector could beat them to it. The race courses are long (29 miles for the Fairplay race) and rugged (up to 8600 feet for the Buena Vista race and 13,000 feet over Mosquito Pass for Fairplay). According to those who take part, the burros have a better time racing than their human companions since they like running and often enjoy the company of other burros. People, on the other hand, may fall apart.
As soon as I read about burro racing and saw the videos on YouTube, I knew I had to include it in my Luscious Delights cozy mystery series. Thus my newest Luscious Delights mystery, The Tomato Jam Murder, includes all the info on the sport and the people who run it. My heroine, Roxy Constantine, is a jam maker by trade, but she lives in the Colorado mountains in prime burro racing country. Roxy does a couple of training runs with a friend, but on the second of those runs, she stumbles across a body and a fugitive burro.
Here’s a quick excerpt:
“Hello?” I called again.
“Hello yourself,” a male voice called. I put a hand to my hammering heart then stepped back and peered up the trail. Silas and his burro were on the switchback above us. “What’s going on?” he asked.
“I don’t know. I found this little guy wandering around, and I’m trying to find his handler. I think there might be somebody in this clump of trees.”
“Okay,” Silas said when he was level with me. “Give me the lead rope. I’ll hold onto him while you see if his owner is around.”
I handed over the rope gratefully enough and stepped into the evergreen grove. The dense thatch of branches blotted out a lot of the light.
A man was lying face down in the center of the grove. On the trail, I’d seen the bright red of the bandanna he had knotted around his neck. “Um…hi?” I said, tentatively. When he didn’t move, or give any sign that he’d heard me, I stepped closer. “Mister? Are you okay?”
Something about the stillness of that body made my throat tighten. I’d seen a few dead bodies in my time, but most of them had been clearly and thoroughly dead. This guy was just lying there. Very quiet.
You’ve got to check. You know that. I did know it, but I didn’t like it. I leaned forward and put my hand on his shoulder. I felt the cool dead flesh through his thin cotton shirt. Yanking my hand away, I stumbled to the trail where Silas waited.
“Call 911,” I gasped. “There’s a dead guy in there.”
I had a great time writing about burro racing and learning about burros in general: for example, there are guard burros who sound the alarm if approach a goat herd. And I managed to work a lot of that information into the book. If you’d like to find out more about burro racing, murder investigating, and, yes, tomato jam in The Tomato Jam Murder, check it out now. It’s available on Amazon October 20, 2025. Amazon buy link: https://amzn.to/4oj93e5
Tagline:
Roxy’s spending her summer with burros and jam, but there’s a murderer in the mountains.
Our story:
It’s burro racing season in the Rockies, and Roxy Constantine is all for it. Now if she can come up with a good recipe for tomato jam, her summer will be complete. But when Roxy finds a body on the burro race course, she’s suddenly plunged into a murder investigation. And when her innocent friend is accused of killing her ex, Roxy must challenge a corrupt police chief who wants to shut her up. Now she needs to find the real killer and save a neighboring town from a plot to ruin its mountain magic.
Meg Benjamin is an award-winning author of romance and cozy mysteries. Meg’s cozy mystery series, Luscious Delights from Wild Rose Press, concerns a jam-making sleuth based in the mythical small town of Shavano, Colorado. Her Konigsburg series is set in the Texas Hill Country and her Salt Box and Brewing Love trilogies are set in the Colorado Rockies (all are available from Entangled Publishing and from Meg’s indie line). Along with romance and cozies, Meg is also the author of the paranormal Ramos Family trilogy from Berkley InterMix and the Folk trilogy from Meg’s indie line. Meg’s books have won numerous awards, including an EPIC Award, a Romantic Times Reviewers’ Choice Award, the Holt Medallion from Virginia Romance Writers, the Beanpot Award from the New England Romance Writers, the Carly Crown Jewel of Books from the Mid-America Romance Authors, and the Award of Excellence from Colorado Romance Writers.
What huge irony–after 30 years of being a divorce lawyer, now I write romance novels.
Am I trying to atone for all those homes I “wrecked?”
Not really. The writing actually came first. I wrote my first full-length novel at 14, a dark time travel Gothic about a girl from the present who appeared as a governess in the past, yada, yada. It was pretty terrible. I wrote two more before I got out of college. Not great, but I’d learned a few things. I became a journalist and worked at a newspaper in deep South Florida for five years or so, so I wrote a lot more, and learned a few more things.
Then I went to law school. A single mom of two girls under 5, I had my work cut out for me, and the writing went by the wayside. Then the law practice, hours and hours each week to keep those girls in shoes.
But finally, I got comfortable in my mid-40s, remarried, with a new family, and I thought I’d try my hand at it again. I came up with three stories, all starring a heroine who lived and worked as an attorney in the nearest big city, Pittsburgh. The first became CONVICTION OF THE HEART, the second, SECOND CHANCES, and the third, VOODOO DREAMS: the Pittsburgh Lady Lawyer Series.
SECOND CHANCES tells the story of Inessa Regan, a 42-year-old attorney who is fired from her job as a long-time associate working divorce cases at a small firm. This is not because of anything she’s done, but because the wife of one of the partners is threatened by any female attorney in her husband’s office, even one with thick thighs who consoles herself with Ben and Jerry’s—a lot. Suddenly on her own, she doesn’t know what to do or how to begin again.
When her well-meaning neighbor brings her a client to make a will, a young veteran of the Iraq War. Inessa is desperate for the income, so she says yes. But Kurt Lowdon brings her a lot more than the $75 the paperwork costs. His courage and confidence in her helps her move past the devastating hit her life has taken, and she moves on to become a solo practitioner.
She also falls in love with him, which becomes a risky business as secrets from his past threaten them both.
BLURB:
When Inessa Regan gets a pink slip, laid off from her law firm at the age of 42, without prospects she’s sure her life is over. She hides from the world, until her neighbor brings her a client, a young Iraq war veteran dying of cancer.
Kurt Lowdon only wants to make sure his affairs are in order should the worst happen, but meeting Inessa gives him encouragement on the road to recovery. His quest to help her realize her self-worth leads them into dangers they never expected, as horrors from the war and long-hidden family secrets come back to haunt them.
Inessa had visited the Pittsburgh IKEA store half a dozen times before, addicted to the simple, classic furniture designs and colorful décor items, but none of those experiences had ever been like this.
Perhaps the difference was because Kurt was a man, maybe it was the purpose of the visit, but she had fun. Negotiating the departments along the store’s one-way dictated path became an adventure different from any she’d had with a girlfriend.
The things that attracted Kurt’s attention! Forget the Swedish meatballs. He raved about a cushy pillow in shades of spring green and chocolate. He bought new towels in bright red and orange. Every gadget fascinated him, and he dug a sample out of the bins to test each one.
When they passed one bedroom set-up, the downy beige and green comforter was softly rumpled, as if the owner had just climbed out seconds before. “That looks comfortable.” he exclaimed, and he scrambled right in.
“Kurt!” She’d looked around, mortified. Several young couples passing by in madras Dockers and khakis stopped to stare; some smiled.
“What? This is a display bed. You’re supposed to try it out. Come on.” He held up the covers for her to join him. The mischievous expression on his face broke her up, embarrassed as she was. “I don’t think so. You rest. I’ll be looking at office supplies.”
“Spoilsport. No one will care if you romp in the bedroom department at IKEA. Look, now everyone else is, too.” He gestured to several displays around them as other customers climbed onto neighboring beds, laughing and teasing each other. When she still held back, he affected a pout and pushed himself out, smoothing the bedspread again. “All right. Business first. Let’s go.”
Over the next couple of hours and the seeming miles of displays, he thoughtfully helped her select what she needed—a desk, comfortable chairs for her consulting clients, bookshelves for her legal research materials—but also remained playful. He had to experiment with every one of the wheeled desk chairs, spinning them around until he found the one with the least traction. “Try this one. It’s better than Kennywood.”
She laughed and checked the growing list of items on the small screen of her Blackberry, and the total she’d be spending. The thought of invading her cushion money sent little electric quivers through her midsection, but now that she was committed to this, it had to be done. “I think that does it.”
“Pick-up downstairs.”
They went down to the first floor and traversed the long rows of cardboard boxes, loading the ones they’d chosen onto a flatbed cart. He grabbed a new desktop set in green and blue. “You need this.”
“I need it? For what?”
“Just for fun.”
“Fun? It’s for work. Work’s not about fun.”
“Every moment should be about fun, counselor. Every moment.”
Author Bio: Alana Lorens has been a published writer for more than forty years. Currently a resident of Asheville, North Carolina, she loves her time in the smoky Blue Ridge mountains. One of her novellas, THAT GIRL’S THE ONE I LOVE, is set in the city of Asheville during the old Bele Chere festival. She lives with her daughter, who is the youngest of her seven children, two crotchety old cats, and five kittens of various ages.
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.
Have you read these? Check out this recent review of CRUEL CHARADE:
Cruel Charade — One of the best books I’ve read in a looong time!
I came across your book Cruel Charade and man… the way you pulled me into Bet’s descent was brutal in the best way possible. It’s raw, emotional, claustrophobic in all the right places — and you layered the mystery with just enough venom that I had to know what was coming next. The tension didn’t let up for a second.
The way you wrote her pain — physical, emotional, psychological — it wasn’t just there, it lingered. Like smoke after a fire. And the Everglades scene? That felt like waking up in a nightmare with no map out.
You didn’t go for cheap drama — you made it earn its weight. And damn, you made me feel every step she took trying to climb back out.
It’s been a while since I got that can’t-put-this-book-down feeling. Thank you!!!
The depth, the emotion, the rhythm of the story… it was all so vivid, it practically directed itself in my head.
Thanks so much, James Timothy!
He was so inspired, he even made a video script:
CINEMATIC TRAILER SCRIPT: Cruel Charade by Alana Lorens
[0:00 – 0:10] [Dark swamp visuals. A flickering fire glows in the distance. Low rumble of thunder. Slow fade-in of smoke rising from a burned car.] NARRATOR (calm, haunting): May 16th, 1996. The Everglades. Midnight. One woman wakes up next to a corpse… …and can’t remember how she got there.
[0:11 – 0:22] [Visuals: A woman stumbling through the swamp, barefoot, dazed. A flash of city lights. A courtroom fades in. A divorce decree lands on a desk.] NARRATOR: Bet Lenard had already lost everything—her career, her family, her health. But someone decided that wasn’t enough.
[0:23 – 0:35] [Quick cuts: a man screaming in a courtroom, a photo of her children ripped in half, bottles of pills scattered on the floor.] NARRATOR: Now she’s being framed for a murder she doesn’t remember…and every person in her life might want her dead.
[0:36 – 0:47] [Visuals: A therapist’s office. Bet sits on a couch, broken. The room flickers to scenes of shadows following her, flashing sirens, a judge slamming a gavel.] NARRATOR: Her only anchor is the voice of her therapist— …but even sanity comes with a price.
[0:48 – 1:00] [Montage: A man loading a gun. A car speeding through rain. Bet clutching her chest, staring at old photos. A courtroom sketch burns in flames.] NARRATOR: Was it her bitter ex-husband? A dangerous client? A jealous friend’s revenge? Or someone hiding behind a badge?
[1:01 – 1:15] [Visuals: Bet standing at the edge of a cliff at dawn. Flashbacks overlap: gunshots, betrayal, tears. Slow-motion: a key slips from her hand.] NARRATOR: Every clue pulls her deeper into a charade of lies, …and there’s no escape unless she finds the truth— before it finds her.
[1:16 – 1:30] [Final scene: Bet walks through a dark hallway. Light breaks in at the end. Slow fade to black. Book cover appears.] NARRATOR: Cruel Charade by Alana Lorens. A psychological descent into survival, suspicion… and the savage price of truth. AVAILABLE NOW.
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.
Alana Lorens, author 