Summary:
The world of writers, readers, and reviewers is a close-knit family of friends, fans, and fiction fanatics. That’s the world Milo Cook and Logan Hunter reside in—thriving on the give and take of creativity, the sharing of stories and ideas, and forever glorying in their boundless love of books and the words that make them breathe.
But sometimes words can cut too deep. And when they do, there is inevitably a price to pay.
What begins for Milo and Logan as a time of new love and gentle romantic discoveries, becomes before it’s over a race for their lives and for the lives of everyone they know.
Who would ever suspect that an entity as beautiful as the written word could become a catalyst for revenge? And ultimately—murder?
I'm sitting here trying to decide how to start my review for John Inman's WORDS and I realize that a book blogger reviewing a book about murdered book reviewers with authors as possible suspects, well it sounds like I'm about to tell a bad joke😉😉. Well, there's no bad joke here. WORDS is a brilliant blend of romance, danger, and mystery that I couldn't put down.
I haven't read any of the author's full-on romances yet, I'm sure they're brilliant and one of these days I'll check them out, but he does danger, death, and destruction just so beautifully that I'm slowly working my way through his backlist's darker side first. WORDS may not be as dark as John's The Boys on the Mountain or as creepy as The Hike or as disturbingly possible as Nightfall but it definitely kept me on the edge of my seat trying to figure out the killer of the trolls masquerading as reviewers. As a book review blogger I find it very disheartening that the trolls out there who claim to be reviewers have followers so I wasn't exactly crying over the victims in this book😉. That's okay though because sometimes a book is even better when the reader doesn't sympathize with the victim, that's not to say I was rooting for the killer.
As for the main players in this story of murder and mayhem, Milo and Logan. Author and reviewer. Is their connection too insta-love? Not for me, sometimes people just click and Milo and Logan definitely clicked. Neither one of them is probably in the best place to be looking for love, Milo still regrouping from a breakup and Logan still mourning his husband but fate always finds a way. There may be very little angsty drama in the way of their relationship but the murders bring enough to the table to make WORDS all twisty and turny.
When it comes to mysteries I'm even more cagey when it comes to spoilers so I won't say too much about this part of WORDS. I will mention that I was completely and totally unsure of who was doing the trolls in right up until a page or two before the big reveal. I've said it before and I'll say it again, mysteries have been a part of my life for nearly my whole 45+ years on this earth in either film or book form, it's always been my favorite genre of choice so there are very few that really knock me sideways as to the whos, whats, and whys. I'm not being immodest or saying I have great detective skills its just that I've read or watched pretty much every scenario out there. So when a mystery like WORDS comes around I relish it and don't soon forget the greatness of the build-up.
Once again John Inman has proven he is delightfully delicious when it comes to danger, death, and destruction, with just the right blend of mayhem and romance. WORDS is a definite must for mystery lovers.
RATING:
Summary:
Lindenshaw Mysteries #4
Detective Chief Inspector Robin Bright and his partner, deputy headteacher Adam Matthews, have just consigned their summer holiday to the photo album. It’s time to get back to the daily grind, and the biggest problem they’re expecting to face: their wedding plans. Then fate strikes—literally—with a bang.
Someone letting loose shots on the common, a murder designed to look like a suicide, and the return of a teacher who made Robin’s childhood hell all conspire to turn this into one of his trickiest cases yet.
Especially when somebody might be targeting their Newfoundland, Campbell. Robin is used to his and Adam’s lives being in danger, but this takes the—dog—biscuit.
NOTE: This title contains references to abuse and self-harm.
Original Review February 2019:
As Robrin Bright and Adam Matthews prepare to return to work after a much needed summer holiday, their hopes that it will be a low key transition back to the daily grind are dashed when a shot disrupts their Sunday morning walk with Campbell. Throw in a murder made to look like suicide, a decades old death, and a face from Robin's past and the couple find themselves longing for another holiday.
HOLY HANNAH BATMAN!!! I've said it before and I'll say it again, there is just something about a British written mystery that far surpasses any other. Perhaps its the blend of humor and murder with the added layer of love and friendship that make the macabre stand out above the rest. But whatever it is, Charlie Cochrane is one of the best when it comes to mixing murder, love, and humor.
I don't know what more I can say about the characters that I haven't already touched on with the other entries in the series other than Adam and Robin continue to delight, both in work and play, with each other as well as co-workers and friends. I can't forget about Campbell, a big bear of a dog but he is so much more to the couple and with this case we get to see just how much of a whole he would leave behind for the pair. I should mention that if you are looking for on page sexy times you may find yourself a little disappointed but don't think that means there is no chemistry between the pair or that the love is ever lacking because there is never any doubt what Adam and Robin feel for each other or the heat that is always surrounding them.
I won't touch on the mystery because I just refuse to give anything away but I will say that with Old Sins the author shows how cases of old never really leave, solved or not as the saying goes "Revenge is a dish best served cold". Lets just say Robin has his work cut out for him this time. I also want to say how I absolutely love the fact that the author doesn't use a too often used trope of cops'-partner-doing-amateur-sleuthing-causes-relationship-drama, in Old Sins Robin actually encourages Adam's help which I found to be incredibly endearing for the couple and even more incredibly grateful as a reader. The trust Charlie Cochrane has created between the pair was much appreciated.
Robin, Adam, and the Lindenshaw Mysteries may not quite even up to the author's Cambridge Fellows Mysteries with Jonty and Orlando for me but its a pretty close race and I wouldn't want to place a bet between them. Whether or not you love Lindenshaw Mysteries as much as I do really doesn't matter but if you love a well thought out, intriguingly written, and completely edge-of-your-seat who-done-it, than Old Sins is for you.
If you're wondering if you need to read Lindenshaw in order, my personal recommendation is yes because of the evolution of Adam and Robin's relationship but as each installment is a separate mystery than no, I guess you can start anywhere. The little details and some of the personal conversations flow better having read the series in order but you won't by any means be lost if you haven't read the first three entries prior.
HOLY HANNAH BATMAN!!! I've said it before and I'll say it again, there is just something about a British written mystery that far surpasses any other. Perhaps its the blend of humor and murder with the added layer of love and friendship that make the macabre stand out above the rest. But whatever it is, Charlie Cochrane is one of the best when it comes to mixing murder, love, and humor.
I don't know what more I can say about the characters that I haven't already touched on with the other entries in the series other than Adam and Robin continue to delight, both in work and play, with each other as well as co-workers and friends. I can't forget about Campbell, a big bear of a dog but he is so much more to the couple and with this case we get to see just how much of a whole he would leave behind for the pair. I should mention that if you are looking for on page sexy times you may find yourself a little disappointed but don't think that means there is no chemistry between the pair or that the love is ever lacking because there is never any doubt what Adam and Robin feel for each other or the heat that is always surrounding them.
I won't touch on the mystery because I just refuse to give anything away but I will say that with Old Sins the author shows how cases of old never really leave, solved or not as the saying goes "Revenge is a dish best served cold". Lets just say Robin has his work cut out for him this time. I also want to say how I absolutely love the fact that the author doesn't use a too often used trope of cops'-partner-doing-amateur-sleuthing-causes-relationship-drama, in Old Sins Robin actually encourages Adam's help which I found to be incredibly endearing for the couple and even more incredibly grateful as a reader. The trust Charlie Cochrane has created between the pair was much appreciated.
Robin, Adam, and the Lindenshaw Mysteries may not quite even up to the author's Cambridge Fellows Mysteries with Jonty and Orlando for me but its a pretty close race and I wouldn't want to place a bet between them. Whether or not you love Lindenshaw Mysteries as much as I do really doesn't matter but if you love a well thought out, intriguingly written, and completely edge-of-your-seat who-done-it, than Old Sins is for you.
If you're wondering if you need to read Lindenshaw in order, my personal recommendation is yes because of the evolution of Adam and Robin's relationship but as each installment is a separate mystery than no, I guess you can start anywhere. The little details and some of the personal conversations flow better having read the series in order but you won't by any means be lost if you haven't read the first three entries prior.
RATING: 
Summary:
Haven Hart #5
The city of Haven Hart rests under the heel of Christopher Manos. He reigns over the most dangerous and deadliest citizens as the most powerful crime boss the city has seen in generations. Yet, for the last five years, the harshest edges of his nature have been tempered by the loving devotion of his husband, Snow, and the nephew Christopher adores like a son. His life is a balance of darkness and light until a birthday trip for his nephew, Simon, is interrupted by a hail of bullets and explosions, threatening to destroy it all.
Snow has found a home, a family, and the love of one of Haven Hart’s most powerful men. When Christopher and Simon are kidnapped, Snow risks everything to find his family. Utilizing specialized skills he learned on the streets and the finer points of running a city from his crime boss husband, Snow takes on roles he never dreamed he would--protector, leader, and avenger. No one threatens his family and lives. Experienced enough to know he can’t do this alone, Snow calls in every favor he is owed, risking his life promising favors in return, all to save his family and the man he loves.
The sins of the Manos crime family are escaping the dark recesses of the past and threatening the bright future of everything Snow and Christopher have built. Yet, even with the help of some unlikely and uniquely dangerous people, Snow finds himself wondering if their efforts will be enough to save the two most important people in his life. Will the loving family Snow has finally found be taken from him forever?
Never underestimate Snow. The mother nature kind looks light and fluffy but can be anything but, well Davidson King's Snow on the surface is light, fluffy, and a bit of pushover(at least what a certain bad guy thinks) but just like Mother Nature's white stuff, Snow Manos can be deadly. Let's be honest, there are times when its best if we get underestimated and Snow Storm is a prime example of just that. Never threaten the Manos family, Snow may not be the head of the family but he is the head's husband and that makes him even more of a danger to cross.
Not sure which factor I loved most: Snow being underestimated or that Christopher knows his husband so perfectly he knew exactly what to say to him on the phone to get the ball rolling? Talk about a perfect pair and its this knowledge and chemistry that will always put Snow and Christopher on the top of my favorite Haven Hart couples.
Snow is such an amazingly creative fun, flirty, and fabulous character which in my honest opinion defines exactly what Haven Hart is all about, both the city and the series. Don't get me wrong, Haven Hart Universe is not all rainbows and unicorns kind of rom-com happy happy. Oh no, it is anything but because there is danger always lurking and Snow Storm is the best example of that because Snow Manos brings happiness to everyone he meets but its not all he brings to the table. With this series entry you realize that he really is what brings everyone together, he is the cement that makes the bricks into a home, he is the Force that binds the Jedi together, and he is the love that makes the Manos and Black Organizations family(even if neither Christopher nor Black want to admit that is what they've become since meeting Snow😉😉).
Speaking of Christopher, he is just as dangerously yummy as always. His love for his nephew, Simon, has been blatantly obvious from the very minute Simon brought Snow home with him way back in book 1, Snow Falling, and if you hadn't already noticed that Christopher has become more than just a father figure you will clearly see he(and Snow) have become dads to the growing boy. I already mentioned how perfectly attuned Christopher is with Snow by knowing what clues to give his husband to help find them so I'll just add that they may be well established couple but their passion for each other is still off the charts that will fry your e-reader if you're not careful.
As for the secondary characters, well has there ever really been any "secondary" characters in this series? No because they all serve a purpose whether they get their own story or not, not a single one can be labeled "page filler", each one brings a needed element to the journey. It is always nice to see where other couples are once they've had their story begun, the author letting her readers know there is still life after they get their HEA.
Snow Storm once again showcases Davidson King's knack for storytelling, not just a writer but a true storyteller. She creates not only characters to read and plots to unravel but a whole community to discover and experience. If you haven't been reading Haven Hart Universe yet, I highly recommend doing so because you are certainly missing out on quite a ride.
One final note: if you are wondering if this is a series best read in order than I have to say yes. Sure each one features a new couple, well Snow Storm revisits Snow & Christopher from book 1 but each entry does have its own central plot so I suppose technically each one is a standalone but I have to recommend reading in order. The characters, the friendships, the favors Snow cashes in, these factors just flow better knowing each pairings' journey. If reading 5 books seems daunting, don't worry because the time will fly by and before you know it, you'll be kicking yourself for not savoring the moments but you just get so sucked in that you can't put them down. I should probably add that for the first time EVER, I did a re-read in less than 2 weeks after my initial read and if that doesn't express how amazing Snow Storm is then I'm not sure what does.
RATING:
Summary:
A wild and dangerous ride takes two lonely men into uncharted territory…
1943 Montana. Returning home to Montana after being wounded in the Pacific, Police Chief Robert Garrett was hoping for a little much needed Peace on Earth and Goodwill Toward Man. Instead, he finds himself chasing after a cold-blooded killer on Christmas Day aided—whether he likes it or not—by eager young reporter Jamie Jameson.
Jamie has idolized Police Chief Garrett most of his life. Despite a stolen birthday kiss three years earlier, he knows his feelings are unreturned. Even if Rob felt the same, there’s no room in their world for such feelings between men. But while Jamie can accept Robert not sharing his feelings, he won’t put up with being treated like a troublesome kid brother. He too has a job to do and he intends on traveling this bloody and twisted road with Robert Garrett—no matter where it leads.
Once again Josh Lanyon does not disappoint. She has blended suspense and romance perfectly as well as set the scene for the WW2 era homefront. Robert having been wounded and discharged is now sheriff and Jamie, 4F who is disappointed not to serve. One of my dad's uncles was unable to serve and was told his services were needed here as he was a farmer. The disappointment Jamie feels is spot on, not that I expected anything less from the author. As with her other historicals, it is pretty obvious that she has a healthy respect for the past with the little details she includes in the story and yet the accuracies are never so strong that it reads as a history lesson. I know that is why some steer clear of the historical sub-genre so if you are one who lets stories of the past go unread because you don't want to be "taught a lesson" then this is the book for you. You definitely get a feel for the era but it never overshadows the entertainment factor.
As for Robert and Jamie, they have this push and pull dance of attraction balanced with the fear of being discovered. You just want to tell them it will be okay but in 1943, that isn't a guarantee and Josh Lanyon balances that scale with flirty danger that kept me glued to my seat. Throw in a layer of suspense which I won't spoil and you have a must read for Lanyon fans as well as historical and mystery fans.
Now, I should mention that I actually loved the way the author "finished it off" off-page. I know some might not like that and will feel a little cheated not to "see" all the action but if you are a fan of classic films of the 40s then you know you often didn't get to see the big payoff. Of course in old Hollywood they had the censor board they had to adhere to but as Slay Ride is set in 1943, I found it quite fitting to finish the way it did and I not only can't imagine it ending with a big "onscreen bloody shootout", I would have been disappointed if it had. I guess what I'm saying is the way the author wrote the ending is, in my opinion, just another example of the respect she has for the past that makes this story wonderfully entertaining.
RATING:
Eleventh Hour by Elin GregorySummary:
Carstairs Affairs #1
Borrowed from the Secret Intelligence Service cipher department to assist Briers Allerdale - a field agent returning to 1920s London with news of a dangerous anarchist plot - Miles Siward moves into a 'couples only' boarding house, posing as Allerdale’s 'wife'. Miles relishes the opportunity to allow his alter ego, Millie, to spread her wings but if Miles wants the other agent’s respect he can never betray how much he enjoys being Millie nor how attractive he finds Allerdale.
Pursuing a ruthless enemy who wants to throw Europe back into the horrors of the Great War, Briers and Miles are helped and hindered by nosy landladies, water board officials, suave gentlemen representing foreign powers and their own increasing attraction to each other.
Will they catch their quarry? Will they find love? Could they hope for both?
The clock is ticking.
I just want to start by saying, how this book sat in my kindle library for over two-and-a-half years before I read it is unknown to me, I suppose it just kept getting slid lower and lower on the shelf 😉😉. Well, whether you are like me and a little late to the party I can highly recommend giving Eleventh Hour a looksee. I haven't read everything by Elin Gregory but what I have read has always been a treat and Eleventh is no different.
Set in one of my favorite eras to read, the 1920s just made this extra special(which also makes me wonder how I let it go so long without reading it😉). As in her other books I've read, it is pretty obvious that the author has a healthy respect for history and that she takes time to get the small details right, sure there are probably a few liberties taken in the name of fiction but I can honestly say nothing really stood out in that area.
I won't say anything in regards to the case other than it is an attention grabber. When situations occur that I might have seen coming, I was still on the edge of my seat wanting to know what the next page and the page after that and the page after that was going to reveal. Spies, hidden agendas, undercover agents, Eleventh Hour has it all and you throw in some romance and what you're reading is true storytelling that is not to be missed.
As for the characters, whether it's as Briers and Miles or Brian and Millie, this pair's chemistry is off the charts both in early frustrations and later passions, the connection is undeniable. A powerful case of what you see is not necessarily what you get. Miles Siward may be a clerk from the cipher department with no field experience but don't let his lack of experience or his cover as Millie fool you, he may not be James Bond but he's no wilting flower either.
Eleventh Hour is a true gem that should not be missed.
WORDS by John Inman
Chapter One
MILO COOK sat behind a long wooden table inside the doors of the Andiron Bookstore in Coronado, California, hoping to snag each and every book shopper as they strolled in off the street. The problem was, there was no one strolling in.
Granted, Coronado, California, was a Navy town, but it was also a touristy resort mecca, known for its pristine beaches. Situated across the bay from San Diego with its back to the ocean, Coronado sat upon a tied island, connected to the mainland by a tombolo known as the Silver Strand. Despite its beauty, however, Milo was beginning to believe the city was populated by illiterates. Didn’t anybody read in this town? Didn’t anybody like a good story to wrest them away from their humdrum lives? They were gobbling up tons of gelato from the shop down the block. Didn’t any of them crave something a little more cerebral and a little less fattening? Like fiction, for Christ’s sake?
That was Milo’s stock in trade. Stories. Fiction. And if nobody wanted to read such things, Milo might end up living in a cardboard box behind a dumpster somewhere in pretty short order. Not a pleasing prospect by anyone’s definition. Milo enjoyed his comforts. Like, say, a roof over his head and food on the table, not to mention an occasional bag of Dog Chow for his mongrel, Spanky, who was undoubtedly sitting back in Milo’s San Diego home right this minute, twiddling his thumbs (well, assuming he had any), waiting for his lonely, miserable day to end just as much as Milo was.
The scarred oak table Milo sat behind (on a chair so hard it felt like it was made of granite and squeaked rather alarmingly every time he moved) held unsold copies of Milo’s latest novel. Alongside the books stood a placard with Milo’s picture and name and a few scattered excerpts from complimentary reviews his newest book had gleaned. For writers, there was no such thing as modesty when it came to foisting one’s books onto an unsuspecting public, thereby ratchetting up their sales. It had occurred to Milo in a moment of morbid whimsy that authors work on the same principal as serial killers. The higher the body count, the more famous they become. After all, there are only so many readers scattered around the planet, while there are writers everywhere, dangling copies of their latest masterpieces in front of each and every reader they run across.
A woman stepped in off the street, and Milo immediately molded his lips into his patented author’s smile—welcoming, humble, wise. The woman’s gaze skipped over him like he was merely another parking meter, or fire hydrant, or any of a thousand other inanimate objects, and peered off into the store’s interior. A discerning reader? Looking for the latest Grisham, Brown, or, please God, Cook? But his silent question was instantly answered when the woman barked, “Aha!” and bustled off toward the bathroom in the back of the store.
Milo kept his smile intact until she returned some minutes later. Once again her eyes skimmed over him like he didn’t exist as she headed straight out the door. She did look considerably relieved to have found a public toilet, however, and for that Milo was happy for her. He was also pleased as punch to see she was dragging a three-foot streamer of toilet paper that had stuck to her shoe.
He dug into his sport-coat pocket and plucked out a piece of Juicy Fruit gum, quietly peeled it from its wrapper, and popped it into his mouth. He settled in again to wait, avoiding the eyes of the sales clerk, who kept glancing his way, either in pity that the poor writer was getting so few nibbles, or in annoyance that the writer was taking up so much space for nothing. Milo couldn’t quite be sure which.
There are few things more exciting for a writer, Milo mused, than to be parked in a bookstore, offering himself to the masses for slavering admiration and the chance to buy one of his books and cop a free autograph. And there are few things more humiliating than when the masses have better things to do with their time and clearly wouldn’t recognize a decent book—or a world-renowned writer—if one leaped up and bit them on the ass.
Milo Cook had been writing for years, although he was only twenty-eight. His first book had done all right. His second book had done a little better. The sales of his third book had topped the other two by a considerable amount. It was too early to judge the numbers on his latest endeavor, although so far the reviewers had been kind. Not effusive perhaps, but kind. And for that Milo was grateful. Nothing can kill a writer deader than a bad review. And in some cases literally. Milo knew one poor soul who drank a bottle of Drano after a particularly cruel review, which even in Milo’s eyes was taking artistic sensitivity a bit too far.
Milo glanced at his watch. He had been sitting at this table for three hours now, and during that time he had signed two books. Those books had been purchased elsewhere and, by the looks of them, none too recently. In fact, both books had probably been tossed in the trunk of a car, forgotten, and quite possibly never even read, until the owners saw the sign touting Milo Cook’s presence for the sake of signing books and thought, well, why the hell not? I’ve got nothing better to do. Might as well get the scribbler’s autograph while I’m here. Maybe it will up the book’s resale value on eBay.
Milo poked another piece of gum into his mouth to augment the first. The reek of Juicy Fruit wafted around his head like swamp gas. He pattered his toes underneath the table, doing a little impromptu tap-dance routine to kill the time—keeping it quiet, of course, so he wouldn’t look like a fool. He stared out through the bookstore’s plate-glass window at the multitudes passing by on this gorgeous Southern California afternoon. None of the passersby glanced his way or had the slightest inkling he existed at all. At one point in the day, he heaved a sigh and rose from his chair to snag a book off the shelf across the aisle. He had been staring at that book for the last two hours. Lugging it to the front desk, he tossed it and his credit card onto the counter. The clerk tried not to smile as she rang up the sale but was not entirely successful.
Finally, her own wit got the better of her, and as she slipped his purchase into a bookstore bag and returned his credit card, said congenially and with infinite pity, “I think you’re missing the point. People are supposed to be buying your books, not you buying theirs.”
“Funny,” Milo answered with a tooth-grinding smile and returned to his lonely table by the front door to continue his exercise in abject humiliation.
He settled back down at the oak table he was quickly beginning to hate and let his gaze wander once again through the bookstore’s front window. There was a print shop across the street. He might have just enough time to jog over and have a ten-foot banner printed up. A banner to be splayed across the front of the bookstore reading, quite possibly, “Fine, then! Don’t come and meet the author!” Or would that be petty? He snickered and stuffed a third stick of Juicy Fruit into his mouth.
Oddly enough, it was at this point in the day when things started looking up.
A shadow fell over the bookstore’s front door. The little bell over the door jingled merrily, signaling a live one entering the premises. Milo looked up and saw a handsome man of perhaps as many summers as himself blinking away the sun’s glare and focusing instantly on the hapless writer sitting all alone at the tacky wooden table.
Since the hapless writer was himself, Milo sat up a little straighter, resurrected his patented author’s smile, and instantly regretted he had a wad of Juicy Fruit in his mouth big enough to choke a hippo.
Being an aficionado of tall men—holy cow, was he ever—Milo sat speechless with admiration when the guy had to duck his head to step through the shop door. He had clearly been banged in the forehead a few times in the past when navigating doorways and had no intention of doing it again. How sexy was that? Once inside, the man reached up and pushed his thick, dark hair out of his eyes. The hair was chestnutty in the sun’s light and curled around his ears. It was long enough down the back of his neck to be perpetually mussed by the movement of his collar. His face was lean but inviting, with a very sexy five-o’clock shadow darkening the cheeks. He appeared a likable sort. He wore an uncontrived smile on his face. It looked at home, that smile, as if it were a permanent fixture. His eyes were hazel, his lips full and expressive, his body trim. He wore tennis clothes—white polo shirt, white shorts, white tennies and socks—and all that white played up his tanned arms and legs, and a smidgeon of bronze chest at the base of his throat to perfection. He also wore a Pride bracelet on his left wrist, a simple braid of varicolored wire.
Put simply, the guy was a hunk, and judging by the bracelet, gay. Being a gay man himself, and single, and sort of horny, and being always attracted to long, hairy, suntanned legs and the men they come attached to, Milo was instantly fascinated.
The stranger’s gaze swiveled around the store before returning to land yet again on Milo’s face. When they did, his expressive lips spread wide in a smile that exposed an array of snow-white choppers. The man slid his hands down his shirtfront, smoothing the fabric as if trying to present himself in the best possible light—as if he could do otherwise looking the way he did—and it was that simple display of insecurity that truly captured Milo’s interest. Like the guy’s movie-star looks hadn’t done that already.
Those beautiful, long legs carried the man directly to Milo’s table, and Milo’s neck creaked when he looked all the way up the guy’s towering frame to return a smile.
Trying not to choke on his gum, Milo asked, “Six four?” And instantly regretted it. Damn. Why do I always start blabbing before I engage my cerebral cortex? It was a question he had asked himself on numerous occasions. Especially when coming face-to-face with particularly sexy males, and this guy certainly qualified as that.
The sexy male in question blushed but didn’t seem to mind the question. “Six five actually. Maybe even a little over.”
“Well, you carry it well. A fan of tennis too, I see.”
“Yes. Are you?”
“Well, I watch men’s tennis on TV.” But only for the legs. That last thought remained mute. Milo wasn’t a complete fool.
The man’s blush deepened. He trailed his fingers over one of the copies of Milo’s latest book adorning the table in front of him. Tearing his eyes from Milo, he lifted the book to stare down at the cover. He flipped it over, gazed at the picture of Milo on the back, then shifted his gaze back to Milo’s living face, which he was sure to notice was not nearly as photoshopped into gossamer perfection.
“I’ll take it,” the man said.
“You mean the book?”
“Yes. The book.”
Milo was astonishingly pleased. He wasn’t sure why. Believe it or not, he had actually sold books before, although by the swell of gratitude that instantly infused his heart one would never have known it. “Wonderful,” he said around the wad of Juicy Fruit. “Would you like me to sign it for you?”
“Please,” the man said, dutifully handing the book over.
While Milo jotted “Tennis anyone?” on the book’s title page, prior to extravagantly swirling his signature below like a pompous ass, the man reached across the table and tapped the sign Milo had placed on the table showing excerpts of his new release’s best reviews.
“That’s me,” the man said. “BookHunter. That’s quoted from my review in the Huffington Post.”
Milo stopped scribbling and stared at where the man was pointing. Then he lifted his eyes again to the man’s face. He tried to shift the wad of gum around in his mouth to a spot that wouldn’t interfere with what he was about to say, because this was important.
“You’re BookHunter.com?” Milo asked. “The reviewer?”
The hunk gave a shrug. “In the flesh.”
Milo stared down at the book he had just signed. “But you must already own a copy of this. Why would you buy another? And by the way, I’m honored to meet you. Honest.”
He scooted his squeaky chair back and stood up, sticking his hand out across the table. As they shook, Milo couldn’t help noticing that his hand fit quite neatly inside the other’s.
“I’m at a bit of a loss,” Milo said, reluctantly pulling his hand away. “You know my name, but I don’t know yours.”
The man blinked. “I’m Logan Hunter,” he said, his ears glowing red now as well as his cheeks. Again he tapped the placard. “BookHunter.com, like I said. I founded the review site a couple of years ago.”
“And you reviewed my book.”
Again his blush deepened. “I did. I love your writing.”
Milo blinked. Compliments to his writing always caught him smack in the heart. “Thank you, uh—”
“Call me Logan.”
“Logan.” He gasped when the wad of Juicy Fruit tried to slide down his throat.
Logan Hunter’s smile went from embarrassed to teasing in the thump of a heartbeat. “You should spit that out before you choke to death.”
Milo nodded as his eyes watered up. He gazed around for a place to deposit the gum. There wasn’t a wastebasket in sight.
Logan pulled a slip of paper from his back pocket. “Here. Use this.”
“Oh, no, I couldn’t. That’s probably important.”
Logan flapped it in his face. “It’s a note I wrote to myself to stop by and see you. Now that I’m here, I don’t need it anymore. Take it.”
So Milo did. With the gigantic lump of gum out of his mouth, he found it immensely easier to talk. While he was setting the paper-wrapped wad of gum aside, still not sure exactly what the hell to do with it, Logan had slipped the book from his hand and began reading what Milo had scribbled. His grin told Milo the inscription was acceptable.
“Why are you buying this book if you already own it?” Milo asked again.
“I only own the e-book, and that was an ARC from your publisher,” Logan said. “Advanced Reader’s Copies rendered digitally are well and good for reviewing, but for the books I love, I want hard copies to keep on my shelf.”
Milo blinked in surprise yet again. “Gotcha. So do I, actually.” His gaze skittered to the book in Logan’s hand. He hated asking, but he couldn’t stop himself. “So you really loved it?”
Logan’s gentle gaze settled over Milo like a warm blanket. “Did you read my full review?”
“Y-yes.”
“Then you know I loved it. I’ve loved all your books. I reviewed them too, you know.”
“Yes. I know. And thank you again.”
This time when Logan shrugged, it was quaintly self-deprecating. “Reviewing books is what I do. You don’t have to thank me. It’s my job.”
A reasonably comfortable silence settled around them. Milo sat back down in his chair. He felt a little guilty about it since there wasn’t a chair available for Logan. Still, it once again put his head on a level with the guy’s crotch, so he couldn’t complain too much.
God, I’m a slut.
“How about a bite to eat?” Logan asked, smiling down at Milo. “Somewhere casual. I’m not exactly dressed for the Ritz.”
“Really? You want me to go out to dinner with you?”
“If you want to call it dinner, sure. You eat, right?”
“Well, yeah.”
“Then what’s the problem?”
Milo’s eyes dipped to take in the Pride bracelet on Logan’s wrist.
Logan caught the glance and grinned. “Don’t let your writer’s imagination get the better of you. It’s not a date. Just a bite to eat.”
“No, I—I know….”
“If you’re up for a little social interaction, we can talk about your writing. I’ve never met a writer yet who would turn down that invitation.”
“And you still haven’t,” Milo said, making them both laugh. “But should you really be asking me out to dinner? How do you know I’m not in a relationship?”
Logan’s dimples deepened. “In the first place, I’m asking you out to eat, not make love. And in the second place, according to your bio, you live with a dog named Spanky. If you had a significant other at home, one that’s human, I mean, you probably would have mentioned it.”
“Oh.” Milo gave an almost audible gulp. He was a bit mesmerized by how incredibly sexy it was to hear this man utter the words “make love.” It really kicked his writer’s imagination into high gear. With bells and whistles and the whole nine yards. Yowza.
Totally unaware of the weird thoughts rampaging through Milo’s head, thank God, Logan glanced around the store, looking for the clerk. “I’m going to go pay for this book, then maybe we can leave. It’s almost five o’clock, and I would imagine you’re bored enough by now. It doesn’t look like there have been many readers lining up to bask in your glory.”
Milo barked out a little laugh. As laughs go, it wasn’t a happy one. “No, you’re my first sale.”
“In that case, I’ll buy two.” He snatched up another book, opened it to the title page, and slid it over to Milo to autograph. “Say something generically literary. It’ll be a Christmas gift for my mom.”
Milo did as commanded, jotting “Happy reading!” above his signature.
Logan glanced at it and tucked the book under his arm with the first. “Good, then. I’ll pay for these while you pack up. Is that acceptable to you?”
Without an ounce of shyness, Milo said, “It’s the best offer I’ve had all day. Give me two minutes.”
He watched as Logan Hunter, aka BookHunter.com, aka hunk extraordinaire, aka loving son to his dear old mother (and how sweet was that?), strode off down the aisle toward the cash register at the back of the store. As soon as Milo could wrest his eyes away from the long, hairy legs Logan strode away on, he started packing up his stuff.
He didn’t even try to hide the smile on his face as he tossed his unsold books haphazardly back into the boxes they came in. True to his word, in two minutes flat he was packed up and ready to go.
Old Sins by Charlie Cochrane
Chapter One
Adam Matthews yawned, stretched, and wriggled back down into the bed. If he’d been able to purr, he’d have sounded like a contented moggy, which would have annoyed his dog but summed up his feelings perfectly. Summer holidays, having the best part of six weeks without pupils to teach: bliss. Even if reality meant he still had lesson planning and the like to do, he didn’t mind. Not having to listen to the constant drone of ten-year-olds meant he could let his brain go through its annual recovery process. His partner, Robin Bright, was enjoying his fortnight or so of holiday as well, although in his case the break was from chasing villains and listening to the prattle of his constables.
They’d had ten days in a villa on the Med, enjoying sea, sand, Sangria, Spanish food, and a smattering of the pleasures of the double bed. Now they were home, with a few more days to make the most of before Robin had to report back for duty. The house was neat as a new pin, Sandra—the miracle worker who came into their house daily to clean, wash, iron, care for Campbell’s needs, and sometimes provide cake—having been in to keep everything in order, garden included.
So they’d nothing planned other than being lazy and making it up to Campbell for their cruelty in abandoning him into the care of Adam’s mother. Despite the fact that he’d been spoiled rotten, the dog would take a while to forgive his two masters for not taking him with them. A while being, in Campbell’s terms, until he’d had sufficient quantity of treats to compensate for the extreme mental hardship his facial expressions would suggest he’d undergone.
“Are you awake?” a bleary voice sounded at Adam’s side.
“No. I’m fast asleep.”
“Pillock.” Robin turned, laying his right arm over Adam’s stomach. “Am I dreaming it or did you volunteer to cook breakfast today?”
“Yes. It’s my turn.” Which was why Adam had been lying in bed thinking, putting off the inevitable. “Although I can’t do so unless you let go of me.”
“Shame.” Robin kissed Adam’s shoulder. “I need to clone you so you can be cooking breakfast and romping about here with me at the same time.”
“If I were a woman, I’d accuse you of being a sexist pig. As it is, I’ll call you a lazy sod.” Adam threw off Robin’s arm, rolled him over, and slapped his backside. “Don’t lie here too long or I’ll give all your bacon to Campbell.”
“I’d fight him for it.”
They both got out of bed, Adam heading to the bathroom for a quick relieving visit before his partner got in there. On a work day, Robin showered and shaved speedily, but on occasions like this when he had the opportunity to take his leisure, he enjoyed lingering over his ablutions. And why not? He worked hard, so he should have the chance to enjoy life’s simple pleasures. As long as he didn’t linger too much and risk being presented with an incinerated sausage.
When Adam got down to the kitchen, Campbell greeted him with a rub against his legs, followed by a dash for the kitchen door. Lie-ins were great for the workers in the household, but not helpful for canine bladders. Opening that door took precedence over everything else first thing in the morning. Once that was done, Adam could get the kettle on, fish out the bacon—always best done while Campbell was otherwise occupied—put on some music, and potter about the kitchen content in the knowledge that the two creatures he loved best were happy. And long might that state of affairs continue.
Over breakfast, talk turned—inevitably—to their imminent return to work, although Robin insisted that shouldn’t be discussed for at least another twenty-four hours. He’d even banned them from watching crime shows over the holiday period, so as not to remind him of what awaited at Abbotston station.
Adam changed the subject to their regular discussion topic. “Am I allowed to mention work in the context of moving house to somewhere slightly more convenient for commuting?”
Given that both of them had relocated to new jobs since they started living together, the comfortable little cottage in Lindenshaw—that had once belonged to Adam’s grandparents, as had the infant Campbell—wasn’t quite as well located as it had been.
“Campbell says you can mention that all you want.” Robin grinned. “He wants a bigger garden to lumber about in. And he keeps reminding me we can afford it, maintenance and all.”
“That dog should get a job as an estate agent.” Or maybe a registrar. There was also the small matter of a civil partnership to sort out, which they’d decided on earlier in the year but not got any further in terms of planning.
“Mum was asking again,” Robin said when he’d finished the last bit of bacon.
Great minds were clearly thinking alike again. “Asking about what?”
Robin gently tapped Adam’s arm with the back of his hand. “Don’t pretend you don’t know. Have we set a date? Will she need her passport? Should she buy a winter hat or a spring one?”
“What did you tell her?”
“That what with the demands of school life and the unpredictable villains of Abbotston, it wasn’t easy to fix a weekend.”
All of which was true, but wouldn’t have mollified Mrs. Bright one bit. “And what did she say in response?”
Robin shrugged. “That she understood the predicament we were in, which I suspect was a lie because she then pointed out that other policemen and teachers manage to tie the knot.”
That was also true, although their case was complicated by having feet in both camps.
The real reason they were making no progress was the simple, prosaic one that they were struggling to sort out what type of do they wanted and who they’d invite. They’d both have preferred something small, discreet, classy, and a guest list limited to their mothers, an aunt or two, and Campbell. But was that going to cause ructions among family and friends? Should they invite their cousins, and how could they not include some of their friends and colleagues? And if they invited only one or two each, whose nose would be put out of joint that they’d not been included?
When they’d sat down to do a theoretical-maximum guest list, they’d given up when it hit one hundred, and had then parked the matter entirely. One day they’d have to start it up again, although at present the real desire they felt for entering into that partnership, the official statement that they were a couple and intended to be until death they did part, kept being destroyed by the stress surrounding making arrangements.
“Let’s not spoil today thinking about it,” Adam said. “We’ll grab our diaries later, and set a date—not for the event, so don’t look so panicked, but for sitting down and deciding what we want to do. Once and for all and no arguments from anyone not already living in this household. Does that work?”
“Yeah. Got to bite the bullet sometime.” Robin grinned. “And I can relate that progress to Mum the next time she rings. She’ll make sure we actually do it and don’t renege at the last moment.”
“Deal.” Adam pushed aside his plate and mug. “Right, let’s not waste the rest of Sunday. What are we going to do with today?”
“The weather forecast is good. We should get some fresh air.”
“Sounds spot on.”
“Where do you fancy getting said air?” Robin asked, en route to putting his dirty crockery in the washing-up bowl. “And I assume we’re taking himself?”
“We wouldn’t dare leave him behind. He’s still not happy about us going away to that villa.”
“He can lump it. He’s on holiday all year round.”
Holiday time or not, Sunday morning was their favourite time to walk the dog, weather and jobs permitting. Campbell could run off some of his energy, Adam and Robin had the chance to talk, and they could all work up a healthy appetite for lunch. Today they were having beef casserole, which Adam had already got out of the freezer to defrost. The Yorkshire puddings needed no such preparation, being able to go from freezer to stomach via a hot oven in a matter of minutes. Accompany that with a beer and follow it with some sport on the telly—what more could a man want?
“What about going somewhere different today?” Robin asked. “There’s the towpath along the old canal. We’ve not been there for ages, and Campbell loves the smells.”
“He loves getting smelly, you mean, which is why we avoid it. Remember last time?” Campbell, being a Newfoundland and thereby convinced that water was his second home, had found the most disgusting stretch of canal to go swimming in. He’d needed hosing down and the car had required a professional valeting to get rid of the stench. “Anyway, isn’t there an event on at Rutherclere Castle?”
Rutherclere was a large stately home, the pride of the county, which was said to house a remarkable—highly eclectic—collection of items which various owners had accumulated, mainly during Victorian times. The route from Lindenshaw to the canal would pass close to the grounds.
“Oh, yeah. The one day a year they deign to open the estate to the public.”
“You old cynic. It was supposed to be a cracking affair last summer. Everyone at school was raving about it. People say the first year wasn’t so great, but they’ve got the hang of it now, maybe?”
“Whatever they’ve done, it’s grown bigger than anyone anticipated. Every special constable in the county’s been drafted in. Please God it’ll only be for traffic duties.” Robin shuddered. “What did you do when you were little and didn’t want something to happen? Go out of the room and turn three times?”
“We were far too civilised to do that, but if performing that action, or anything equally daft, stops you getting called in, it would be worth a go.” Robin had only dealt with one murder case so far this year, which was one too many for all involved. If it was time for another serious crime to come along, the damn thing should wait until he was officially back in the office. “Those specials will have their work cut out with the traffic. Last year they only avoided gridlock by the skin of their teeth. The road near the canal’s a standard rat run, so we’d be better off away from the place.”
“So where can we go to avoid the traffic? All the best walks are over that way.”
“What about Pratt’s Common?” Adam suggested. “That’s nowhere near Rutherclere.”
The common was a large area west of Lindenshaw, much beloved of dog walkers, courting couples, and anybody else who wanted fresh air, space, and some trees to either climb in or indulge in less wholesome activities. Adam hadn’t been there for years, but today seemed the ideal day—with the piercing blue sky, bright sunshine, and likelihood of dry ground beneath the feet—to become reacquainted.
“Ah, hold on.” Robin frowned. “Am I dreaming this, that they have cattle grazing there? Ones with dirty great horns?”
“So I’ve always assumed, which is why I’ve avoided taking himself there, but one of the learning support assistants at the school told me they were taken off and relocated last year.” And if one of that redoubtable group of ladies stated the fact, it had to be true. “Done their job for the environment, whatever that might have been.”
“Probably related to grazing or fertilizing. One end or the other.” Robin chuckled. “Let’s give it a whirl, then. Campbell can run about to his heart’s content.”
The drive over to the common was pleasant enough, especially when the radio kept cutting in with extra travel news bulletins warning locals to avoid the Rutherclere area. The big event must have been proving a bigger attraction than the police had predicted, although apparently it wasn’t simply the volume of traffic causing problems. There had been a three-car shunt on one of the approach roads and rumour of the air ambulance having to be sent in. Adam tried not to feel smug at having made the right decision—pride goeth before fall and all that—although he was grateful when they reached the car park to find it almost empty rather than stocked with people who’d come there to avoid the traffic. There was another parking area on the Lower Chipton side, and if that was equally quiet they’d have the common pretty much to themselves.
This parking area, previously little more than a muddy patch of grass, had been properly surfaced since Adam had last visited, and the space available for vehicles had been expanded. The two cars already present were at either end of the tarmacked area—very British behaviour to be as far distant from other people as possible—so Adam slotted his car slap bang in the middle. As he opened the driver’s door, he caught sight of the distinctive yellow air ambulance flying over, and sent up a silent prayer that nothing else would go wrong at Rutherclere and Robin wouldn’t have to be called in.
Campbell sniffed the air tentatively as they let him out of the back of the car. He would know this wasn’t his usual stomping ground and he’d be naturally wary about what delights or disappointments it would hold in store for him. It didn’t take long for him to decide he liked the place, though, and begin to bounce about enthusiastically. They managed to get the lead on him and would keep it on until they could, quite literally, get the lie of the land, then they’d be able to let him romp where he wanted. He was a well-behaved dog, not one to approach strangers, whether canine or human, and generally he’d not stray outside of shouting distance. Clearly, he believed that part of his role was to keep half an eye on his owners while he let them have a walk.
Once off his lead, he initially walked no farther than a few paces ahead, although as soon as they started throwing his ball for him to fetch, his confidence and need for exploration both grew. Adam and Robin eventually found a fallen tree to perch on, sun warming their backs, where they could repeatedly hoick the ball over the scrubby grass, watch the dog go scrambling after it, then see him return triumphant with his treasure.
Adam shook his head. “Next time I say that Campbell’s an extremely intelligent animal, remind me how he takes such pleasure in performing the same actions time and again.”
“I can never work out if he’s really bright or really thick,” Robin observed. “Or maybe he flips between the two.”
Adam grinned “I’d say he’s good in a crisis. That brings out the best of his limited mental resources. Otherwise he can’t process anything other than food, pat, or favourite toy.”
He’d proved his worth in a crisis at least three times, though—and in two of them he’d probably saved a life. Despite the reputations of Newfoundlands, none of these crises had involved water, but death by gunshot or blunt instrument was as definitive as death by drowning.
“That’s typical of dogs, though, isn’t it?” Robin picked up the ball Campbell had deposited at his feet and lobbed it in the direction they’d come, for variety. “Wow, a ball! That’s my favourite thing. Wow, a biscuit! That’s my favourite thing. Wow! You get the picture.”
“Yeah. And that’s himself to a T. Look at the idiot.”
The Newfoundland had retrieved the ball and was carrying it back in his slobbery jaws like he was carrying the crown jewels. He dropped it in the same place he kept placing it in front of Robin, who’d only just finished wiping dog saliva off his hand from the last time he’d handled the thing.
“He’s a disgusting idiot, to boot.” Adam grabbed the ball, stood up, and ran to the ridge to fling the thing as far as he could and give them a bit of respite from continual throw and fetch. The ground fell away sharply before levelling onto a plain, so the ball would roll farther than on the flat where they were seated. He lobbed the ball, then plonked himself down next to Robin, taking a deep breath of the bracingly pleasant air. “I’d forgotten how nice it is here. Better than that place with the goats.”
“The cells at Abbotston are better than the place with the goats.” While holidaying, they’d gone on an expedition to a supposed beauty spot that had been anything but. They spent the next few minutes reminiscing about how ghastly the experience had been, until they risked depressing themselves. “We’ll come here again. It’s so peace—” A sharp report cut Robin off, and sent rooks and pigeons into the air from the nearby trees.
“What’s that?” Adam jumped up, a sickening tingle flying up his spine.
“A rifle, by the sound of it. Not that I can tell much from gunfire.” Robin scanned from side to side as he got up, then they both broke into a run. “Where’s Campbell?”
“He went off after his ball.” Don’t panic. That shot and Campbell’s nonappearance is a coincidence. “Maybe it’s only somebody shooting rabbits in the woods?”
“If they are, they shouldn’t be doing it so damn close to where the public are. I should have a word.”
“You can take Campbell to help ‘persuade’ them. Where the hell has he—” Adam stopped, sick to the stomach. He had kept his eyes down once they’d got onto the slope, aware of how easy it would be to take a tumble. Now he’d looked up again, the flat western part of the common came into full view and—lying a hundred yards off—a large, black, furry mound. “Campbell?”
Adam sprinted, scared witless. The closer he got, the more the mound resembled an animal, the size of a big dog. One that might be a Newfoundland.
“Hold on.” Robin, voice tight, grabbed his arm. “Let me go and see. It looks like Campbell’s hurt himself.”
“No. It should be me that checks.” Adam slowed his pace, though, eyes drawn to the thick black coat that had to be the Newfoundland’s, surely. And that shot they’d heard could only mean one thing. “He was my dog before he was ours.”
“I know. Sorry.”
“I can’t believe this is happening.” Adam could barely control his voice. Whichever bastard had done this, they were going to pay. He knelt down, tears blurring his eyes as he laid his hand on the dog’s flanks. “He’s gone.”
Robin squatted beside him. “I’m so sorry.”
“I . . . It’s so unfair. He wasn’t an old dog. He should have— Oof!” Adam jolted as something heavy smacked into his back, almost going headfirst into the dead dog.
“Not as dead as we thought he was, then.” Robin’s voice was shaky, somewhere between tears and laughter. “Where have you been, boy, scaring us like that?”
Not chasing his ball, given that the thing was nowhere to be seen. Campbell had probably heard the shot and either taken fright or gone to investigate; they’d have to solve that puzzle later, though, there being a more urgent matter to hand. Adam wiped his eyes, then properly examined the corpse. Shock must have deluded him, because this wasn’t even the same breed of dog. This was a Saint Bernard, one that was still warm, and bleeding, so the chances were that the shot they’d heard was the one which had killed it. He’d certainly not been aware of another discharge.
“What happens next?” Adam asked. “This isn’t a case for calling in Grace, is it?” She was Robin’s favourite crime-scene investigator and would no doubt quickly work out—or get somebody else to work out—how long the dog had been dead, what weapon had been used, what he’d had for breakfast, and whether his owners loved him with the passion Campbell’s owners had for him.
Robin, already getting his phone out, replied with, “What happens next is ringing in to report there’s a nutter on the loose with a gun. And we’ll do that while we get back to the car, as quick as we can.”
“Good thinking. Heel, boy.” Adam speedily clipped on Campbell’s lead, ensuring the dog would keep close by. “Nothing we can do for the Saint Bernard, and it’ll upset this lad to hang around a corpse.”
“That’s the least of my worries,” Robin said, picking up the pace.
Adam shivered. Of course. Campbell was a potential target. “Ah, yeah. We don’t want two dead dogs on our hands.”
“I wasn’t just thinking about Campbell. He’s not the only sitting duck out here.”
Adam gulped and broke into a trot, eyes and ears alert for any untoward movement or noise. Arriving at the car park couldn’t come soon enough.
Snow Storm by Davidson King
Christopher
“You settled that perfectly.” His voice was like a purr, and suddenly, I realized I was going to be very late for my meeting. “It’s like you’re some boss or something, making the hard calls.” He said the word hard with a moan and I knew if I turned around, he’d be stripping off his clothes.
“Snow…” I tried for a warning tone, but it was Snow. He couldn’t be deterred.
“You’re already going to be late.” His hands pressed against my back. “And you’re already going to be naked in a second.” He reached around my waist and began pulling my belt buckle.
“What’s a little more lateness, hmm?”
Resistance was futile, so I turned in his arms and smiled at the cheeky, adorable man I loved more than the air I breathed.
“You argue a good case, Mr. Manos, so make me later.”
He chuckled as he pushed me onto the bed, straddling me in all his flour and sugar-covered glory.
I relished in the feel of his mouth over my heated skin, his tongue gliding along my flesh like a paint brush. With my shirt open and my cock freed from the confines of my pants, I moaned as he made me later.
Slay Ride by Josh Lanyon
Chapter One
Eleventh Hour by Elin Gregory
Siward picked up a small leather bag and led Briers out of the back of the building into a cobbled court.
"Nice car," Briers said, admiring the vehicle's powerful lines. "Armstrong-Siddeley?"
Siward opened the dickey seat and crammed his bag down into it. "Four-Fourteen Tourer, Mendip model. It was George's," he said as he got into his seat. "He only drove it twice. I'm keeping it in tune while he's convalescing."
Briers waited until Siward had turned the car and driven it out onto Buckingham Gate before he spoke again.
"How is your brother?" he asked.
"As well as can be expected." Siward drove carefully, without much dash, content to follow a coster's cart until sure it was safe to pass it. He glanced at Briers and smiled – a polite but unconvincing grimace. "Thank you for asking. He's walking now, at least, and is his cheerful self, but we don't know how long it will be before he can get back to work. He misses it."
Briers expected he did. He didn't know the details – all very hush-hush – and hesitated to embarrass Siward by asking. "Your brother's a brave man. He could have cut and run. He didn't owe his informant anything."
"Yes, he did." Siward's reply was sharp. "The man was risking just as much as George was, if not more. And he got George to the border, injured though he was. I hope ... I hope if ever I'm in a similar situation, I have half the courage. In comparison with that, anyone should be proud to do what they can, even if it's not what they expected to be asked to do."
"I see," Briers said. Once Siward had taken the turn into Victoria Street he broke their silence again. "So – this business. Mildred?"
"Dear God in Heaven." Siward sighed. "Don't think I'm doing it because I like it. I just happen to be very, very good at it."
"And how did you discover that?" Briers asked. "No, honestly. I'm genuinely curious, not poking fun." He turned a little on the broad seat and studied Siward's profile. "We're going to be in close quarters for a while and I like to know a bit about the people I work with. Was it at school?"
Siward's flush was immediate. Even the narrow strips of skin visible between his cuffs and his driving gloves went pink. "I didn't go to school. I had rheumatic fever when I was six and again when I was nine, so I stayed with my parents and we hired a local tutor wherever we happened to be. Hence all the different languages, I suppose. No, it was when I went up to Cambridge. I read English and wasn't doing too well. My supervisor – dear me, even he was a war hero – suggested I join the Shakespeare performance society. He felt it might give me more insight. I'm not sure it worked as he intended but, over my time there, I think I played all the main female leads – Viola, Ophelia, Rosalind, Beatrice, even Lady Macbeth. I enjoyed the challenge but that was Shakespeare, with all the weight of tradition of men playing female roles. Out in the street, it's something else entirely."
"We all have to play roles in this business," Briers said. "Just remember you are doing something unique. Something I most certainly couldn't do."
Siward replied with a peevish snort. "Well, no, because you are a proper stalwart type. You don't get people sneering at you barely behind your back. I bet you played rugger and boxed for your college."
"Good guess." Briers chuckled. "Rugby League was the big thing in my house. Pa was a follower of St Helens and when I was born, the week before they played in the Challenge Cup, he named me after the entire front row."
"Briers?" Siward's tone was sympathetic.
"Briers Winstanley Allerdale," Briers said. "Actually it should have been Winstanley Briers Winstanley, because the brothers were playing, but even Pa wouldn't go that far. Being Brian Carstairs for a week or two will come as something of a relief."
Siward chuckled. "So your father was a Rugby League enthusiast. What about your mother? Are they still with you?"
"Yes, bless them. Pa is a country doctor, with a practice outside Eccleston. Ma – well she organises things, mostly Pa. I've got a younger brother who's in the practice with Pa and a sister who's courting."
"Someone suitable, I hope?" Siward said. "Do they know what you do?"
Briers shrugged. "I think Pa has guessed. The others think I'm something to do with steel production, which I am some of the time."
"That must be difficult," Siward said. "At least when I write to my family I can tell them a little of my daily life. A clerical post with the government is close enough to the truth."
"Just how many languages do you speak?" Briers asked.
"Five usefully." Siward's tone was matter of fact. "One picks them up easily as an infant and my nursemaids were a mixed bunch. I could speak Czech and Serbian by the time I was three and learned this odd kind of dialect mixture of Macedonian and Bulgarian from an Embassy driver who had the most wonderful pet ferrets."
Briers laughed. "So if ever I need someone to give a talk to the ferret fanciers of Skopje...?"
"I'm your man," Siward said. Their eyes met for a moment and both grinned. "Charing Cross." Siward nodded to the turn ahead. "Why don't you nip in and get your baggage while I turn the car around?"
Chapter One
MILO COOK sat behind a long wooden table inside the doors of the Andiron Bookstore in Coronado, California, hoping to snag each and every book shopper as they strolled in off the street. The problem was, there was no one strolling in.
Granted, Coronado, California, was a Navy town, but it was also a touristy resort mecca, known for its pristine beaches. Situated across the bay from San Diego with its back to the ocean, Coronado sat upon a tied island, connected to the mainland by a tombolo known as the Silver Strand. Despite its beauty, however, Milo was beginning to believe the city was populated by illiterates. Didn’t anybody read in this town? Didn’t anybody like a good story to wrest them away from their humdrum lives? They were gobbling up tons of gelato from the shop down the block. Didn’t any of them crave something a little more cerebral and a little less fattening? Like fiction, for Christ’s sake?
That was Milo’s stock in trade. Stories. Fiction. And if nobody wanted to read such things, Milo might end up living in a cardboard box behind a dumpster somewhere in pretty short order. Not a pleasing prospect by anyone’s definition. Milo enjoyed his comforts. Like, say, a roof over his head and food on the table, not to mention an occasional bag of Dog Chow for his mongrel, Spanky, who was undoubtedly sitting back in Milo’s San Diego home right this minute, twiddling his thumbs (well, assuming he had any), waiting for his lonely, miserable day to end just as much as Milo was.
The scarred oak table Milo sat behind (on a chair so hard it felt like it was made of granite and squeaked rather alarmingly every time he moved) held unsold copies of Milo’s latest novel. Alongside the books stood a placard with Milo’s picture and name and a few scattered excerpts from complimentary reviews his newest book had gleaned. For writers, there was no such thing as modesty when it came to foisting one’s books onto an unsuspecting public, thereby ratchetting up their sales. It had occurred to Milo in a moment of morbid whimsy that authors work on the same principal as serial killers. The higher the body count, the more famous they become. After all, there are only so many readers scattered around the planet, while there are writers everywhere, dangling copies of their latest masterpieces in front of each and every reader they run across.
A woman stepped in off the street, and Milo immediately molded his lips into his patented author’s smile—welcoming, humble, wise. The woman’s gaze skipped over him like he was merely another parking meter, or fire hydrant, or any of a thousand other inanimate objects, and peered off into the store’s interior. A discerning reader? Looking for the latest Grisham, Brown, or, please God, Cook? But his silent question was instantly answered when the woman barked, “Aha!” and bustled off toward the bathroom in the back of the store.
Milo kept his smile intact until she returned some minutes later. Once again her eyes skimmed over him like he didn’t exist as she headed straight out the door. She did look considerably relieved to have found a public toilet, however, and for that Milo was happy for her. He was also pleased as punch to see she was dragging a three-foot streamer of toilet paper that had stuck to her shoe.
He dug into his sport-coat pocket and plucked out a piece of Juicy Fruit gum, quietly peeled it from its wrapper, and popped it into his mouth. He settled in again to wait, avoiding the eyes of the sales clerk, who kept glancing his way, either in pity that the poor writer was getting so few nibbles, or in annoyance that the writer was taking up so much space for nothing. Milo couldn’t quite be sure which.
There are few things more exciting for a writer, Milo mused, than to be parked in a bookstore, offering himself to the masses for slavering admiration and the chance to buy one of his books and cop a free autograph. And there are few things more humiliating than when the masses have better things to do with their time and clearly wouldn’t recognize a decent book—or a world-renowned writer—if one leaped up and bit them on the ass.
Milo Cook had been writing for years, although he was only twenty-eight. His first book had done all right. His second book had done a little better. The sales of his third book had topped the other two by a considerable amount. It was too early to judge the numbers on his latest endeavor, although so far the reviewers had been kind. Not effusive perhaps, but kind. And for that Milo was grateful. Nothing can kill a writer deader than a bad review. And in some cases literally. Milo knew one poor soul who drank a bottle of Drano after a particularly cruel review, which even in Milo’s eyes was taking artistic sensitivity a bit too far.
Milo glanced at his watch. He had been sitting at this table for three hours now, and during that time he had signed two books. Those books had been purchased elsewhere and, by the looks of them, none too recently. In fact, both books had probably been tossed in the trunk of a car, forgotten, and quite possibly never even read, until the owners saw the sign touting Milo Cook’s presence for the sake of signing books and thought, well, why the hell not? I’ve got nothing better to do. Might as well get the scribbler’s autograph while I’m here. Maybe it will up the book’s resale value on eBay.
Milo poked another piece of gum into his mouth to augment the first. The reek of Juicy Fruit wafted around his head like swamp gas. He pattered his toes underneath the table, doing a little impromptu tap-dance routine to kill the time—keeping it quiet, of course, so he wouldn’t look like a fool. He stared out through the bookstore’s plate-glass window at the multitudes passing by on this gorgeous Southern California afternoon. None of the passersby glanced his way or had the slightest inkling he existed at all. At one point in the day, he heaved a sigh and rose from his chair to snag a book off the shelf across the aisle. He had been staring at that book for the last two hours. Lugging it to the front desk, he tossed it and his credit card onto the counter. The clerk tried not to smile as she rang up the sale but was not entirely successful.
Finally, her own wit got the better of her, and as she slipped his purchase into a bookstore bag and returned his credit card, said congenially and with infinite pity, “I think you’re missing the point. People are supposed to be buying your books, not you buying theirs.”
“Funny,” Milo answered with a tooth-grinding smile and returned to his lonely table by the front door to continue his exercise in abject humiliation.
He settled back down at the oak table he was quickly beginning to hate and let his gaze wander once again through the bookstore’s front window. There was a print shop across the street. He might have just enough time to jog over and have a ten-foot banner printed up. A banner to be splayed across the front of the bookstore reading, quite possibly, “Fine, then! Don’t come and meet the author!” Or would that be petty? He snickered and stuffed a third stick of Juicy Fruit into his mouth.
Oddly enough, it was at this point in the day when things started looking up.
A shadow fell over the bookstore’s front door. The little bell over the door jingled merrily, signaling a live one entering the premises. Milo looked up and saw a handsome man of perhaps as many summers as himself blinking away the sun’s glare and focusing instantly on the hapless writer sitting all alone at the tacky wooden table.
Since the hapless writer was himself, Milo sat up a little straighter, resurrected his patented author’s smile, and instantly regretted he had a wad of Juicy Fruit in his mouth big enough to choke a hippo.
Being an aficionado of tall men—holy cow, was he ever—Milo sat speechless with admiration when the guy had to duck his head to step through the shop door. He had clearly been banged in the forehead a few times in the past when navigating doorways and had no intention of doing it again. How sexy was that? Once inside, the man reached up and pushed his thick, dark hair out of his eyes. The hair was chestnutty in the sun’s light and curled around his ears. It was long enough down the back of his neck to be perpetually mussed by the movement of his collar. His face was lean but inviting, with a very sexy five-o’clock shadow darkening the cheeks. He appeared a likable sort. He wore an uncontrived smile on his face. It looked at home, that smile, as if it were a permanent fixture. His eyes were hazel, his lips full and expressive, his body trim. He wore tennis clothes—white polo shirt, white shorts, white tennies and socks—and all that white played up his tanned arms and legs, and a smidgeon of bronze chest at the base of his throat to perfection. He also wore a Pride bracelet on his left wrist, a simple braid of varicolored wire.
Put simply, the guy was a hunk, and judging by the bracelet, gay. Being a gay man himself, and single, and sort of horny, and being always attracted to long, hairy, suntanned legs and the men they come attached to, Milo was instantly fascinated.
The stranger’s gaze swiveled around the store before returning to land yet again on Milo’s face. When they did, his expressive lips spread wide in a smile that exposed an array of snow-white choppers. The man slid his hands down his shirtfront, smoothing the fabric as if trying to present himself in the best possible light—as if he could do otherwise looking the way he did—and it was that simple display of insecurity that truly captured Milo’s interest. Like the guy’s movie-star looks hadn’t done that already.
Those beautiful, long legs carried the man directly to Milo’s table, and Milo’s neck creaked when he looked all the way up the guy’s towering frame to return a smile.
Trying not to choke on his gum, Milo asked, “Six four?” And instantly regretted it. Damn. Why do I always start blabbing before I engage my cerebral cortex? It was a question he had asked himself on numerous occasions. Especially when coming face-to-face with particularly sexy males, and this guy certainly qualified as that.
The sexy male in question blushed but didn’t seem to mind the question. “Six five actually. Maybe even a little over.”
“Well, you carry it well. A fan of tennis too, I see.”
“Yes. Are you?”
“Well, I watch men’s tennis on TV.” But only for the legs. That last thought remained mute. Milo wasn’t a complete fool.
The man’s blush deepened. He trailed his fingers over one of the copies of Milo’s latest book adorning the table in front of him. Tearing his eyes from Milo, he lifted the book to stare down at the cover. He flipped it over, gazed at the picture of Milo on the back, then shifted his gaze back to Milo’s living face, which he was sure to notice was not nearly as photoshopped into gossamer perfection.
“I’ll take it,” the man said.
“You mean the book?”
“Yes. The book.”
Milo was astonishingly pleased. He wasn’t sure why. Believe it or not, he had actually sold books before, although by the swell of gratitude that instantly infused his heart one would never have known it. “Wonderful,” he said around the wad of Juicy Fruit. “Would you like me to sign it for you?”
“Please,” the man said, dutifully handing the book over.
While Milo jotted “Tennis anyone?” on the book’s title page, prior to extravagantly swirling his signature below like a pompous ass, the man reached across the table and tapped the sign Milo had placed on the table showing excerpts of his new release’s best reviews.
“That’s me,” the man said. “BookHunter. That’s quoted from my review in the Huffington Post.”
Milo stopped scribbling and stared at where the man was pointing. Then he lifted his eyes again to the man’s face. He tried to shift the wad of gum around in his mouth to a spot that wouldn’t interfere with what he was about to say, because this was important.
“You’re BookHunter.com?” Milo asked. “The reviewer?”
The hunk gave a shrug. “In the flesh.”
Milo stared down at the book he had just signed. “But you must already own a copy of this. Why would you buy another? And by the way, I’m honored to meet you. Honest.”
He scooted his squeaky chair back and stood up, sticking his hand out across the table. As they shook, Milo couldn’t help noticing that his hand fit quite neatly inside the other’s.
“I’m at a bit of a loss,” Milo said, reluctantly pulling his hand away. “You know my name, but I don’t know yours.”
The man blinked. “I’m Logan Hunter,” he said, his ears glowing red now as well as his cheeks. Again he tapped the placard. “BookHunter.com, like I said. I founded the review site a couple of years ago.”
“And you reviewed my book.”
Again his blush deepened. “I did. I love your writing.”
Milo blinked. Compliments to his writing always caught him smack in the heart. “Thank you, uh—”
“Call me Logan.”
“Logan.” He gasped when the wad of Juicy Fruit tried to slide down his throat.
Logan Hunter’s smile went from embarrassed to teasing in the thump of a heartbeat. “You should spit that out before you choke to death.”
Milo nodded as his eyes watered up. He gazed around for a place to deposit the gum. There wasn’t a wastebasket in sight.
Logan pulled a slip of paper from his back pocket. “Here. Use this.”
“Oh, no, I couldn’t. That’s probably important.”
Logan flapped it in his face. “It’s a note I wrote to myself to stop by and see you. Now that I’m here, I don’t need it anymore. Take it.”
So Milo did. With the gigantic lump of gum out of his mouth, he found it immensely easier to talk. While he was setting the paper-wrapped wad of gum aside, still not sure exactly what the hell to do with it, Logan had slipped the book from his hand and began reading what Milo had scribbled. His grin told Milo the inscription was acceptable.
“Why are you buying this book if you already own it?” Milo asked again.
“I only own the e-book, and that was an ARC from your publisher,” Logan said. “Advanced Reader’s Copies rendered digitally are well and good for reviewing, but for the books I love, I want hard copies to keep on my shelf.”
Milo blinked in surprise yet again. “Gotcha. So do I, actually.” His gaze skittered to the book in Logan’s hand. He hated asking, but he couldn’t stop himself. “So you really loved it?”
Logan’s gentle gaze settled over Milo like a warm blanket. “Did you read my full review?”
“Y-yes.”
“Then you know I loved it. I’ve loved all your books. I reviewed them too, you know.”
“Yes. I know. And thank you again.”
This time when Logan shrugged, it was quaintly self-deprecating. “Reviewing books is what I do. You don’t have to thank me. It’s my job.”
A reasonably comfortable silence settled around them. Milo sat back down in his chair. He felt a little guilty about it since there wasn’t a chair available for Logan. Still, it once again put his head on a level with the guy’s crotch, so he couldn’t complain too much.
God, I’m a slut.
“How about a bite to eat?” Logan asked, smiling down at Milo. “Somewhere casual. I’m not exactly dressed for the Ritz.”
“Really? You want me to go out to dinner with you?”
“If you want to call it dinner, sure. You eat, right?”
“Well, yeah.”
“Then what’s the problem?”
Milo’s eyes dipped to take in the Pride bracelet on Logan’s wrist.
Logan caught the glance and grinned. “Don’t let your writer’s imagination get the better of you. It’s not a date. Just a bite to eat.”
“No, I—I know….”
“If you’re up for a little social interaction, we can talk about your writing. I’ve never met a writer yet who would turn down that invitation.”
“And you still haven’t,” Milo said, making them both laugh. “But should you really be asking me out to dinner? How do you know I’m not in a relationship?”
Logan’s dimples deepened. “In the first place, I’m asking you out to eat, not make love. And in the second place, according to your bio, you live with a dog named Spanky. If you had a significant other at home, one that’s human, I mean, you probably would have mentioned it.”
“Oh.” Milo gave an almost audible gulp. He was a bit mesmerized by how incredibly sexy it was to hear this man utter the words “make love.” It really kicked his writer’s imagination into high gear. With bells and whistles and the whole nine yards. Yowza.
Totally unaware of the weird thoughts rampaging through Milo’s head, thank God, Logan glanced around the store, looking for the clerk. “I’m going to go pay for this book, then maybe we can leave. It’s almost five o’clock, and I would imagine you’re bored enough by now. It doesn’t look like there have been many readers lining up to bask in your glory.”
Milo barked out a little laugh. As laughs go, it wasn’t a happy one. “No, you’re my first sale.”
“In that case, I’ll buy two.” He snatched up another book, opened it to the title page, and slid it over to Milo to autograph. “Say something generically literary. It’ll be a Christmas gift for my mom.”
Milo did as commanded, jotting “Happy reading!” above his signature.
Logan glanced at it and tucked the book under his arm with the first. “Good, then. I’ll pay for these while you pack up. Is that acceptable to you?”
Without an ounce of shyness, Milo said, “It’s the best offer I’ve had all day. Give me two minutes.”
He watched as Logan Hunter, aka BookHunter.com, aka hunk extraordinaire, aka loving son to his dear old mother (and how sweet was that?), strode off down the aisle toward the cash register at the back of the store. As soon as Milo could wrest his eyes away from the long, hairy legs Logan strode away on, he started packing up his stuff.
He didn’t even try to hide the smile on his face as he tossed his unsold books haphazardly back into the boxes they came in. True to his word, in two minutes flat he was packed up and ready to go.
“I HAVEN’T met that many reviewers,” Milo said.
Logan grinned. “I’m sure you haven’t missed much. We’re a surly lot, some of us.”
Milo rolled his eyes, but not in a mocking way. “I don’t believe that.”
Logan frowned, then just as quickly smiled. “Neither do I. Most of the reviewers I know are great people. They love what they do.”
Milo smiled back. “I agree 100 percent.”
While he appreciated the words, Logan thought he saw a bit of reluctance in the way they were expressed. Logan knew perfectly well that some book reviewers could be hurtful. Judging by that wary look on Milo’s face, he had been targeted a time or two himself. Logan was grateful when he saw Milo whisk the gloom away with a smile. He suspected, although he had only known Milo Cook for a few minutes, that this particular writer’s default mood was one of open optimism and good cheer. That was a nice change. Some of the authors Logan dealt with were not only socially inept, but about as cheerful as a toothache.
With Logan’s help, Milo had dumped his book-signing paraphernalia and two boxes of unsold books in his car down the street. He and Logan were now waiting for their orders at a hamburger joint two blocks from the bookstore where Milo had just endured the most miserably pointless afternoon of his life, or so he informed Logan prior to ordering the biggest hamburger on the menu.
Logan aimed a smile across the table. He had to admit, he was intrigued by this writer sitting across from him. And it wasn’t just Milo’s books that intrigued him.
That surprised Logan more than anything that had happened to him in a very long while.
Milo Cook stood perhaps five ten, a good head shorter than Logan. His hands were expressive, his smile quick, his eyes as green as new leaves freshly sprouted on the branch. And those lovely green eyes stared out from beneath the longest eyelashes Logan had ever seen. Milo’s unruly hair was reddish and streaked with blond. The streaks came from the sun, not some hairdresser’s magic potion. That much was obvious. Milo’s tan was even deeper than Logan’s, and while he didn’t appear as muscled as Logan, he did have the lean, graceful look of a runner, perhaps, or a swimmer.
While they waited for their food, Logan studied the man in front of him while trying not to look like he was studying him. “You must be out in the sun a lot. Are you a runner?”
“Surfer, swimmer, all-around beach nut,” Milo said. “That’s when I’m not glued to my computer, sitting on my ass in my writing cave trying to string words together so I can make enough money to buy dog food, that is.”
“Ah, yes. For the aforementioned Spanky.”
“Exactly.”
Logan settled back in his seat. His legs were so long they bumped against Milo’s legs under the table. “Oops, sorry.”
“No problem,” Milo said, readjusting his legs to get them out of the way.
Silence settled over them, and suddenly Logan felt uncomfortable. Well, not uncomfortable really, just anxious. Maybe even a little guilty. It had been a long time since he found himself interested in another man. And it had certainly been a long time since he had asked one out for a meal.
After fiddling with the salt shaker for a minute and taking another glance at the menu on the little sandwich board sitting on the table because he didn’t really know where else to aim his eyes, Logan cleared his throat and asked, “What made you want to be a writer?”
“Are we doing an interview?” Milo asked.
“No. Just chatting. So are you working on something new?”
Milo groaned. “Sounds like an interview. And if you really want to know, I’m always working on something new.”
“Good. You’re far too talented a writer not to be writing.” Logan could tell his words had hit home. An appreciative light hit Milo’s eyes, and before he could say “Thank you” or any other of a hundred mundane things people say when they’ve received an unexpected compliment, Logan crowbarred his way back into the conversation. “So answer my question. What made you want to be a writer?”
Milo smiled. It was a truer smile this time, Logan thought. With less shyness in it, he was happy to see. It never ceased to amaze him how a heartfelt compliment affected people.
“I suppose you want the real answer,” Milo sighed, a tendril of ginger hair falling over one eye before being impatiently tucked back into the mass of curls atop his head.
Logan returned the smile. Gently prodding. “Of course.”
Milo readjusted his silverware, then twirled the ring on his finger, which Logan noticed was a gold and onyx number. Quite nice. Simple and masculine. For some reason, Logan tucked his hands under the table to hide the silver band on his own finger. He didn’t bother to analyze the psychology behind why he did it. Instead, Logan watched as Milo gazed out the restaurant window for a second. When his eyes returned to Logan, he appeared resigned.
Milo fiddled with his fork while he talked. “Well, since you want the truth, I won’t give you the long-suffering artist baloney about leaving my mark on a heartless world and struggling to write tales that will last and how my books are my only progeny, what with me being a fruitcup and all. I’ll just tell you the truth. And the truth is—I don’t know why I write. It’s simply something I’ve always done. Something I’ve always loved. It’s been my outlet since grade school. It’s a tough business, but I can’t imagine living my life outside of it.” He paused, looking a little embarrassed, as if thinking maybe he had said too much. Then he leaned in, settling his eyes on Logan. “My turn. What made you want to be a reviewer?”
Logan laughed. “Oh, believe me, I’d rather be a writer than a reviewer, but I don’t have the talent or patience for creative writing. Still, I love books, so being a reviewer is my way of staying close to them, I guess.” He studied Milo with an admiring gleam in his eye. “Of all the writers I’ve spoken to over the last couple of years, you’re the first to ask me why I wanted to be a reviewer.”
“I’m nosy.”
“No. I think it’s more than that.”
“Well, whatever it is, I’m glad our two livelihoods brought us together. If it wasn’t for you, I wouldn’t have made any sales today at all, and I’d probably be sitting at home eating a bologna sandwich.”
Logan pouted like a three-year-old, or pretended to. “And here I thought you liked me for my critiquing skills. Now I learn it’s only my Visa card you’re enthralled with.”
Milo laughed. “The tennis shorts didn’t hurt either.”
To Logan’s amusement, Milo instantly looked appalled by what he’d said. His ears went fiery red, and his mouth formed a horrified little O. In fact, he looked so shocked, Logan almost burst out laughing.
“I’m sorry,” Milo said. “I don’t know why I said that.”
Logan reached across the table and patted Milo’s hand, still trying not to laugh. “Don’t look so embarrassed. I forgive you. Trust me, it’s nice to know I can still turn a head now and then.”
Logan stared down at his hand. The way Milo’s skin felt beneath his fingertips was something he could not have anticipated. It was—electric somehow. He yanked his hand away.
“Yes, well…,” he stammered, flailing around for something to say before spotting the waitress wending her way in their direction between the tables, laden with plates.
Milo didn’t seem to notice anything amiss, and for that Logan was grateful. He swallowed his surprise at the rush of desire that had surged through him, brought about by nothing more than touching Milo’s hand.
Resurrecting his beaming smile for the waitress’s benefit, Logan exclaimed, “Ah, here we go. Food!”
Old Sins by Charlie Cochrane
Chapter One
Adam Matthews yawned, stretched, and wriggled back down into the bed. If he’d been able to purr, he’d have sounded like a contented moggy, which would have annoyed his dog but summed up his feelings perfectly. Summer holidays, having the best part of six weeks without pupils to teach: bliss. Even if reality meant he still had lesson planning and the like to do, he didn’t mind. Not having to listen to the constant drone of ten-year-olds meant he could let his brain go through its annual recovery process. His partner, Robin Bright, was enjoying his fortnight or so of holiday as well, although in his case the break was from chasing villains and listening to the prattle of his constables.
They’d had ten days in a villa on the Med, enjoying sea, sand, Sangria, Spanish food, and a smattering of the pleasures of the double bed. Now they were home, with a few more days to make the most of before Robin had to report back for duty. The house was neat as a new pin, Sandra—the miracle worker who came into their house daily to clean, wash, iron, care for Campbell’s needs, and sometimes provide cake—having been in to keep everything in order, garden included.
So they’d nothing planned other than being lazy and making it up to Campbell for their cruelty in abandoning him into the care of Adam’s mother. Despite the fact that he’d been spoiled rotten, the dog would take a while to forgive his two masters for not taking him with them. A while being, in Campbell’s terms, until he’d had sufficient quantity of treats to compensate for the extreme mental hardship his facial expressions would suggest he’d undergone.
“Are you awake?” a bleary voice sounded at Adam’s side.
“No. I’m fast asleep.”
“Pillock.” Robin turned, laying his right arm over Adam’s stomach. “Am I dreaming it or did you volunteer to cook breakfast today?”
“Yes. It’s my turn.” Which was why Adam had been lying in bed thinking, putting off the inevitable. “Although I can’t do so unless you let go of me.”
“Shame.” Robin kissed Adam’s shoulder. “I need to clone you so you can be cooking breakfast and romping about here with me at the same time.”
“If I were a woman, I’d accuse you of being a sexist pig. As it is, I’ll call you a lazy sod.” Adam threw off Robin’s arm, rolled him over, and slapped his backside. “Don’t lie here too long or I’ll give all your bacon to Campbell.”
“I’d fight him for it.”
They both got out of bed, Adam heading to the bathroom for a quick relieving visit before his partner got in there. On a work day, Robin showered and shaved speedily, but on occasions like this when he had the opportunity to take his leisure, he enjoyed lingering over his ablutions. And why not? He worked hard, so he should have the chance to enjoy life’s simple pleasures. As long as he didn’t linger too much and risk being presented with an incinerated sausage.
When Adam got down to the kitchen, Campbell greeted him with a rub against his legs, followed by a dash for the kitchen door. Lie-ins were great for the workers in the household, but not helpful for canine bladders. Opening that door took precedence over everything else first thing in the morning. Once that was done, Adam could get the kettle on, fish out the bacon—always best done while Campbell was otherwise occupied—put on some music, and potter about the kitchen content in the knowledge that the two creatures he loved best were happy. And long might that state of affairs continue.
Over breakfast, talk turned—inevitably—to their imminent return to work, although Robin insisted that shouldn’t be discussed for at least another twenty-four hours. He’d even banned them from watching crime shows over the holiday period, so as not to remind him of what awaited at Abbotston station.
Adam changed the subject to their regular discussion topic. “Am I allowed to mention work in the context of moving house to somewhere slightly more convenient for commuting?”
Given that both of them had relocated to new jobs since they started living together, the comfortable little cottage in Lindenshaw—that had once belonged to Adam’s grandparents, as had the infant Campbell—wasn’t quite as well located as it had been.
“Campbell says you can mention that all you want.” Robin grinned. “He wants a bigger garden to lumber about in. And he keeps reminding me we can afford it, maintenance and all.”
“That dog should get a job as an estate agent.” Or maybe a registrar. There was also the small matter of a civil partnership to sort out, which they’d decided on earlier in the year but not got any further in terms of planning.
“Mum was asking again,” Robin said when he’d finished the last bit of bacon.
Great minds were clearly thinking alike again. “Asking about what?”
Robin gently tapped Adam’s arm with the back of his hand. “Don’t pretend you don’t know. Have we set a date? Will she need her passport? Should she buy a winter hat or a spring one?”
“What did you tell her?”
“That what with the demands of school life and the unpredictable villains of Abbotston, it wasn’t easy to fix a weekend.”
All of which was true, but wouldn’t have mollified Mrs. Bright one bit. “And what did she say in response?”
Robin shrugged. “That she understood the predicament we were in, which I suspect was a lie because she then pointed out that other policemen and teachers manage to tie the knot.”
That was also true, although their case was complicated by having feet in both camps.
The real reason they were making no progress was the simple, prosaic one that they were struggling to sort out what type of do they wanted and who they’d invite. They’d both have preferred something small, discreet, classy, and a guest list limited to their mothers, an aunt or two, and Campbell. But was that going to cause ructions among family and friends? Should they invite their cousins, and how could they not include some of their friends and colleagues? And if they invited only one or two each, whose nose would be put out of joint that they’d not been included?
When they’d sat down to do a theoretical-maximum guest list, they’d given up when it hit one hundred, and had then parked the matter entirely. One day they’d have to start it up again, although at present the real desire they felt for entering into that partnership, the official statement that they were a couple and intended to be until death they did part, kept being destroyed by the stress surrounding making arrangements.
“Let’s not spoil today thinking about it,” Adam said. “We’ll grab our diaries later, and set a date—not for the event, so don’t look so panicked, but for sitting down and deciding what we want to do. Once and for all and no arguments from anyone not already living in this household. Does that work?”
“Yeah. Got to bite the bullet sometime.” Robin grinned. “And I can relate that progress to Mum the next time she rings. She’ll make sure we actually do it and don’t renege at the last moment.”
“Deal.” Adam pushed aside his plate and mug. “Right, let’s not waste the rest of Sunday. What are we going to do with today?”
“The weather forecast is good. We should get some fresh air.”
“Sounds spot on.”
“Where do you fancy getting said air?” Robin asked, en route to putting his dirty crockery in the washing-up bowl. “And I assume we’re taking himself?”
“We wouldn’t dare leave him behind. He’s still not happy about us going away to that villa.”
“He can lump it. He’s on holiday all year round.”
Holiday time or not, Sunday morning was their favourite time to walk the dog, weather and jobs permitting. Campbell could run off some of his energy, Adam and Robin had the chance to talk, and they could all work up a healthy appetite for lunch. Today they were having beef casserole, which Adam had already got out of the freezer to defrost. The Yorkshire puddings needed no such preparation, being able to go from freezer to stomach via a hot oven in a matter of minutes. Accompany that with a beer and follow it with some sport on the telly—what more could a man want?
“What about going somewhere different today?” Robin asked. “There’s the towpath along the old canal. We’ve not been there for ages, and Campbell loves the smells.”
“He loves getting smelly, you mean, which is why we avoid it. Remember last time?” Campbell, being a Newfoundland and thereby convinced that water was his second home, had found the most disgusting stretch of canal to go swimming in. He’d needed hosing down and the car had required a professional valeting to get rid of the stench. “Anyway, isn’t there an event on at Rutherclere Castle?”
Rutherclere was a large stately home, the pride of the county, which was said to house a remarkable—highly eclectic—collection of items which various owners had accumulated, mainly during Victorian times. The route from Lindenshaw to the canal would pass close to the grounds.
“Oh, yeah. The one day a year they deign to open the estate to the public.”
“You old cynic. It was supposed to be a cracking affair last summer. Everyone at school was raving about it. People say the first year wasn’t so great, but they’ve got the hang of it now, maybe?”
“Whatever they’ve done, it’s grown bigger than anyone anticipated. Every special constable in the county’s been drafted in. Please God it’ll only be for traffic duties.” Robin shuddered. “What did you do when you were little and didn’t want something to happen? Go out of the room and turn three times?”
“We were far too civilised to do that, but if performing that action, or anything equally daft, stops you getting called in, it would be worth a go.” Robin had only dealt with one murder case so far this year, which was one too many for all involved. If it was time for another serious crime to come along, the damn thing should wait until he was officially back in the office. “Those specials will have their work cut out with the traffic. Last year they only avoided gridlock by the skin of their teeth. The road near the canal’s a standard rat run, so we’d be better off away from the place.”
“So where can we go to avoid the traffic? All the best walks are over that way.”
“What about Pratt’s Common?” Adam suggested. “That’s nowhere near Rutherclere.”
The common was a large area west of Lindenshaw, much beloved of dog walkers, courting couples, and anybody else who wanted fresh air, space, and some trees to either climb in or indulge in less wholesome activities. Adam hadn’t been there for years, but today seemed the ideal day—with the piercing blue sky, bright sunshine, and likelihood of dry ground beneath the feet—to become reacquainted.
“Ah, hold on.” Robin frowned. “Am I dreaming this, that they have cattle grazing there? Ones with dirty great horns?”
“So I’ve always assumed, which is why I’ve avoided taking himself there, but one of the learning support assistants at the school told me they were taken off and relocated last year.” And if one of that redoubtable group of ladies stated the fact, it had to be true. “Done their job for the environment, whatever that might have been.”
“Probably related to grazing or fertilizing. One end or the other.” Robin chuckled. “Let’s give it a whirl, then. Campbell can run about to his heart’s content.”
*****
The drive over to the common was pleasant enough, especially when the radio kept cutting in with extra travel news bulletins warning locals to avoid the Rutherclere area. The big event must have been proving a bigger attraction than the police had predicted, although apparently it wasn’t simply the volume of traffic causing problems. There had been a three-car shunt on one of the approach roads and rumour of the air ambulance having to be sent in. Adam tried not to feel smug at having made the right decision—pride goeth before fall and all that—although he was grateful when they reached the car park to find it almost empty rather than stocked with people who’d come there to avoid the traffic. There was another parking area on the Lower Chipton side, and if that was equally quiet they’d have the common pretty much to themselves.
This parking area, previously little more than a muddy patch of grass, had been properly surfaced since Adam had last visited, and the space available for vehicles had been expanded. The two cars already present were at either end of the tarmacked area—very British behaviour to be as far distant from other people as possible—so Adam slotted his car slap bang in the middle. As he opened the driver’s door, he caught sight of the distinctive yellow air ambulance flying over, and sent up a silent prayer that nothing else would go wrong at Rutherclere and Robin wouldn’t have to be called in.
Campbell sniffed the air tentatively as they let him out of the back of the car. He would know this wasn’t his usual stomping ground and he’d be naturally wary about what delights or disappointments it would hold in store for him. It didn’t take long for him to decide he liked the place, though, and begin to bounce about enthusiastically. They managed to get the lead on him and would keep it on until they could, quite literally, get the lie of the land, then they’d be able to let him romp where he wanted. He was a well-behaved dog, not one to approach strangers, whether canine or human, and generally he’d not stray outside of shouting distance. Clearly, he believed that part of his role was to keep half an eye on his owners while he let them have a walk.
Once off his lead, he initially walked no farther than a few paces ahead, although as soon as they started throwing his ball for him to fetch, his confidence and need for exploration both grew. Adam and Robin eventually found a fallen tree to perch on, sun warming their backs, where they could repeatedly hoick the ball over the scrubby grass, watch the dog go scrambling after it, then see him return triumphant with his treasure.
Adam shook his head. “Next time I say that Campbell’s an extremely intelligent animal, remind me how he takes such pleasure in performing the same actions time and again.”
“I can never work out if he’s really bright or really thick,” Robin observed. “Or maybe he flips between the two.”
Adam grinned “I’d say he’s good in a crisis. That brings out the best of his limited mental resources. Otherwise he can’t process anything other than food, pat, or favourite toy.”
He’d proved his worth in a crisis at least three times, though—and in two of them he’d probably saved a life. Despite the reputations of Newfoundlands, none of these crises had involved water, but death by gunshot or blunt instrument was as definitive as death by drowning.
“That’s typical of dogs, though, isn’t it?” Robin picked up the ball Campbell had deposited at his feet and lobbed it in the direction they’d come, for variety. “Wow, a ball! That’s my favourite thing. Wow, a biscuit! That’s my favourite thing. Wow! You get the picture.”
“Yeah. And that’s himself to a T. Look at the idiot.”
The Newfoundland had retrieved the ball and was carrying it back in his slobbery jaws like he was carrying the crown jewels. He dropped it in the same place he kept placing it in front of Robin, who’d only just finished wiping dog saliva off his hand from the last time he’d handled the thing.
“He’s a disgusting idiot, to boot.” Adam grabbed the ball, stood up, and ran to the ridge to fling the thing as far as he could and give them a bit of respite from continual throw and fetch. The ground fell away sharply before levelling onto a plain, so the ball would roll farther than on the flat where they were seated. He lobbed the ball, then plonked himself down next to Robin, taking a deep breath of the bracingly pleasant air. “I’d forgotten how nice it is here. Better than that place with the goats.”
“The cells at Abbotston are better than the place with the goats.” While holidaying, they’d gone on an expedition to a supposed beauty spot that had been anything but. They spent the next few minutes reminiscing about how ghastly the experience had been, until they risked depressing themselves. “We’ll come here again. It’s so peace—” A sharp report cut Robin off, and sent rooks and pigeons into the air from the nearby trees.
“What’s that?” Adam jumped up, a sickening tingle flying up his spine.
“A rifle, by the sound of it. Not that I can tell much from gunfire.” Robin scanned from side to side as he got up, then they both broke into a run. “Where’s Campbell?”
“He went off after his ball.” Don’t panic. That shot and Campbell’s nonappearance is a coincidence. “Maybe it’s only somebody shooting rabbits in the woods?”
“If they are, they shouldn’t be doing it so damn close to where the public are. I should have a word.”
“You can take Campbell to help ‘persuade’ them. Where the hell has he—” Adam stopped, sick to the stomach. He had kept his eyes down once they’d got onto the slope, aware of how easy it would be to take a tumble. Now he’d looked up again, the flat western part of the common came into full view and—lying a hundred yards off—a large, black, furry mound. “Campbell?”
Adam sprinted, scared witless. The closer he got, the more the mound resembled an animal, the size of a big dog. One that might be a Newfoundland.
“Hold on.” Robin, voice tight, grabbed his arm. “Let me go and see. It looks like Campbell’s hurt himself.”
“No. It should be me that checks.” Adam slowed his pace, though, eyes drawn to the thick black coat that had to be the Newfoundland’s, surely. And that shot they’d heard could only mean one thing. “He was my dog before he was ours.”
“I know. Sorry.”
“I can’t believe this is happening.” Adam could barely control his voice. Whichever bastard had done this, they were going to pay. He knelt down, tears blurring his eyes as he laid his hand on the dog’s flanks. “He’s gone.”
Robin squatted beside him. “I’m so sorry.”
“I . . . It’s so unfair. He wasn’t an old dog. He should have— Oof!” Adam jolted as something heavy smacked into his back, almost going headfirst into the dead dog.
“Not as dead as we thought he was, then.” Robin’s voice was shaky, somewhere between tears and laughter. “Where have you been, boy, scaring us like that?”
Not chasing his ball, given that the thing was nowhere to be seen. Campbell had probably heard the shot and either taken fright or gone to investigate; they’d have to solve that puzzle later, though, there being a more urgent matter to hand. Adam wiped his eyes, then properly examined the corpse. Shock must have deluded him, because this wasn’t even the same breed of dog. This was a Saint Bernard, one that was still warm, and bleeding, so the chances were that the shot they’d heard was the one which had killed it. He’d certainly not been aware of another discharge.
“What happens next?” Adam asked. “This isn’t a case for calling in Grace, is it?” She was Robin’s favourite crime-scene investigator and would no doubt quickly work out—or get somebody else to work out—how long the dog had been dead, what weapon had been used, what he’d had for breakfast, and whether his owners loved him with the passion Campbell’s owners had for him.
Robin, already getting his phone out, replied with, “What happens next is ringing in to report there’s a nutter on the loose with a gun. And we’ll do that while we get back to the car, as quick as we can.”
“Good thinking. Heel, boy.” Adam speedily clipped on Campbell’s lead, ensuring the dog would keep close by. “Nothing we can do for the Saint Bernard, and it’ll upset this lad to hang around a corpse.”
“That’s the least of my worries,” Robin said, picking up the pace.
Adam shivered. Of course. Campbell was a potential target. “Ah, yeah. We don’t want two dead dogs on our hands.”
“I wasn’t just thinking about Campbell. He’s not the only sitting duck out here.”
Adam gulped and broke into a trot, eyes and ears alert for any untoward movement or noise. Arriving at the car park couldn’t come soon enough.
Chapter Two
Robin got Adam and Campbell into the car, reminding them they weren’t safe yet. They’d have to keep their eyes peeled and be ready to drive off at a moment’s notice. He’d not been able to ring out on the common because of the lack of signal, something all too widespread in this area. There had still been only two other vehicles in the car park when they’d got back there, although one was different. A bright-green Saloon had gone while a people mover had arrived recently, so he advised the owners—as strongly as possible without panicking them and calling on his rank to get the message home—to take their dogs somewhere else for their exercise that morning.
Once that was all done, he called 999; the phone signal was weak but better than the almost nonexistent signal there’d been out on the common.
Thank God he connected with the call handler without the signal fading. He explained exactly what had happened and where, and suggested a suitable response unit was geared up. When asked if there was a remaining risk to life, he answered that he didn’t know. These things could get nasty quickly or just fizzle out.
He then got onto Abbotston station and informed them of what he’d done, so they were aware of the situation first-hand as well as second. He toyed with promising to stay on scene until backup arrived, but self-preservation—or, more properly, preservation of the two most important creatures in his life—overrode that. There was a café with a car park about a mile away, so he suggested that as a place to meet the response car if he was required to. When the sergeant told him to simply enjoy the rest of his holiday, he couldn’t resist pulling rank, insisting that it would make sense his briefing the responding officers as he could give them valuable information. The sergeant relented, although he still made Robin promise to get himself to safety straight away.
Get out, call out, stay out. Good advice to follow in any emergency.
Before they made their escape—which wasn’t too strong a word for it, given how anxious Adam was looking—Robin noted the registration number of an empty Vauxhall Vectra, the only other vehicle in the car park.
The drive to the café seemed interminable, Robin keeping an eye out for anything suspicious and Adam driving with the exaggerated care Robin had seen exercised by drunken drivers. Once they’d pulled into the café car park—delighted to see the place open and so offering the prospect of a big injection of much-needed caffeine—they could at last feel some degree of ease. They’d barely got the drinks ordered when a police car drew up, blues and twos going like mad. Robin toyed with getting out his warrant card and flashing it about among the other customers who were having a good gawp to prove, See? They haven’t come to arrest us.
“Here we go again.” Adam gave him a rueful smile.
“Not my case, this time. I’m just passing it all on. And leaving it to the ones who aren’t on holiday.” It was hard work letting go, though. He’d been in on the start of this—whatever crime it turned out to be—and part of him itched to see it through. Still, he owed it to Adam and Campbell to pass the buck, to make sure that off duty meant exactly that.
He waved at the officers, grabbed his coffee, and went to give them as full a briefing as he could manage. In the hope, naturally, that they wouldn’t notice how shaken up he’d been by the experience.
Once Robin had described the events out on the common, the older of the two attending officers asked, “Do you think the shooter might have been aiming at either of you, sir?”
“Unless his or her aim is useless, I doubt it. We were a good couple of hundred yards away and at the top of a slope.” Sitting—literally—ducks, if they had been the target. That brought a sickening jolt to his stomach. Instances of random gun crime rarely happened in Britain and certainly had never happened around here. He had to believe there was some logical reasoning behind why the dog had been shot.
“It’s probably kids arsing about and they went too far,” the other officer remarked. “Probably from Stanebridge.”
“If kids have started killing dogs, they’d better hope they don’t have me to deal with in the interview room,” Robin snapped. “And less of the digs at Stanebridge. This is no joking matter.”
“Didn’t mean to joke, sir. Sorry.” The constable stared at his feet. “But it could have been kids, couldn’t it?”
“It could, but don’t jump to conclusions.” When would officers all learn to keep an open mind? “Has an armed response unit been called in?”
“They want to have a look at what we’re dealing with first. The helicopter’s been scrambled so we can scan the area.”
Robin instinctively glanced skyward. This sounded a typical Chief Superintendent Cowdrey approach, caution married to action. The boss would never assume that this incident was either trivial or treacherous, until he’d accumulated the necessary information. But, and of this Robin had little doubt, the man would be en route to the station, keeping in touch with all the parties involved until he was sure of the bigger picture.
“Sir?” The younger officer’s voice startled Robin out of his thoughts, and reminded him that this wasn’t his problem. Unless it turned out to be still going on come Tuesday when he returned to work.
“Can you show us roughly where the shooting happened?” The other officer had produced a large-scale map, which he spread on the patrol-car bonnet.
“Hold on. I know the man to consult.” Robin gestured for Adam to come across. “You know the area better than I do. Where would you say the dog was?”
Adam studied the map, placed his index finger on the car park, then traced a line to a location that Robin wouldn’t have been able to pinpoint.
“Roughly there,” Adam said. “I’m going by the contour lines as much as anything, trying to replicate our steps from the car park, so I can’t be one hundred percent sure.”
The officer nodded. “I reckon we might be able to get this thing out there.” He patted the side of the police car, which appeared sturdy enough to tackle any terrain. “I used to play on the common when I was a nipper. My uncle used to take me and my cousin out in a Land Rover, and we’d go all over the area.”
“You’d know where somebody taking pot-shots would hang out, then?” Robin asked him.
“I might have done thirty years ago. We knew all the dodges then.” The officer grinned.
“Still, it probably hasn’t changed that much.”
The younger policeman refolded the map so that only the key bit was showing. “Best get going.”
“I won’t keep you.” If there was an idiot with a gun on the loose, then they needed to be caught quickly. “Best of British luck.”
“Thanks, but I hope we don’t end up needing it.” The officer shook his head, then got back into the car.
Robin watched the police vehicle screech out of the car park, torn between the desire to be in on the chase and staying well out of things. His copper’s nose was telling him that whatever the outcome of the helicopter search, this situation had the capacity to turn nasty.
*****
Home, sweet home—shutting the front door on the rest of the world had never felt so good. Campbell had been a bit whiny on the way home: he must have registered that something hadn’t been right with the other dog, maybe from the smell of blood or the atmosphere of stress emanating from his owners. Campbell might have been daft, but he wasn’t stupid.
Robin had sat in the back with him the entire journey, Adam joking that he always had to play second fiddle to a pooch and that was why Robin wasn’t in the front with him. Adam was clearly worked up though, because twice on the drive home his hands had started to shake on the wheel, no doubt as the realisation of the danger they’d all been in had hit him afresh. Time and again Robin’s mind replayed the sound of the gunshot and the sight of the dog. Who’d been using a gun up there, and why? Given the wide, open nature of the terrain, it was unlikely this had been an attempt to kill a particular target—whether man or beast—gone wrong.
Robin had seen the police chopper pass over and then circle back not long after they’d left the café, but there hadn’t been anything on the local radio news, which they’d listened to all the way, despite the awful Sunday morning choice of music in between the bulletins. The newsreader made a passing mention of the Rutherclere event and probably the locals would have assumed any police activity was connected to that.
Conversation had been scarce, Adam evidently concentrating hard both on driving and on stilling his fears. He’d made the odd comment along the lines of, “Everyone all right in the back there?” but otherwise their usual comfortable buzz of chatter had been curtailed.
Once home—without further incident thank God—Robin rang in to the Abbotston station to get an update. Not solely his idea: Adam had insisted, no sooner had he pulled the car up on their drive, saying he was burning to know who the intended target had been and whether anybody was still at risk. Robin had soothed him, saying it would be far too early to get any clarity on that, although the same questions plagued him too.
He didn’t get much of an answer to them, though, when he got through to the officer on the desk. The helicopter had apparently not spotted anything untoward, although they weren’t declaring the incident over yet. The officers had managed to get out onto the common and yes, there was a large black dead dog there.
Robin felt a ridiculous sense of relief at having that confirmed. Despite the evidence of everyone’s eyes, he’d retained an illogical worry that he’d dreamed the whole episode. Or somehow cocked it all up. A psychologist might have said that was a factor of his childhood making itself known again, the long dormant effect of bullying rearing its head, although Robin preferred to call it typical British anxiety.
“Any idea whose dog it was?” he asked, switching into rozzer mode, the holiday mood dissipating.
“Some chap named Britz over at Lower Chipton. Luckily, the dog had a tag on his collar with a phone number. Or maybe that’s unluckily for the owner,” the sergeant added, ruefully. “I’d hate it if it was my dog.”
“Tell me about it.” Robin could hear Campbell snuffling around—how quickly he’d got used to that background noise and how awful it would feel to be suddenly robbed of it. “I guess it’s better than your pet disappearing, leaving you not knowing what’s happened.”
“Maybe. Anyway, you’re well out of this. Mr. Cowdrey’s got his work cut out explaining to the powers that be why the helicopter’s been called in.”
“I wouldn’t want to be the person grilling him. He’ll fight his corner all right.” And who could blame him for reacting so strongly at the present time? Terrorism wasn’t confined to big cities, so it was no good saying these things didn’t happen here. Unfortunately, they could. “I guess I’ll hear all about it on Tuesday. If there’s anything I can do to help in the interim, let me know.”
“You just enjoy the end of your holiday, sir. We need you back in peak condition and at your brightest.” The sergeant chuckled. “Excuse the pun.”
Robin rolled his eyes. “I’ve heard them all before. See you in a couple of days.”
He ended the call, then headed for the kitchen. “You okay?”
“As well as can be expected, given the circumstances. I’m making lunch.”
Robin broke out some beer to have with it; he also broke out Campbell’s favourite dog biscuits as a treat.
Adam pointed a fork in the general direction of Abbotston. “Do they want you to go in?”
“Nothing for me to do.” Robin gave Campbell a pat. “The helicopter’s still scouring the area, but there’s no sign of anyone with a gun.”
“He—or she, I suppose—would have been long gone. I’m guessing they’d have legged it as soon as they took that poor mutt down. There’s another parking area on the other side of the common, so they might have had a car there, or they could have had a quad bike with them on the common itself, although I don’t remember hearing one.”
“You should be on my team. I like the way your brain works. You’d be too distracting, though.”
“Flatterer.” Adam gently poked him in the stomach with the end of a wooden spoon. “I’m happy to simply share my thinking here. And the other thought I thunk was that there used to be some cottages in the woods when I was a teenager. They could have gone to ground there.”
Robin, who had slipped his phone out with the intention of seeing whether the local media had at last got hold of the story, glanced up at that. “I didn’t know that. Were they occupied?”
“A few. May well still be. One or two were derelict but might be standing. We used to hang around there when I was a teenager.” He poked Robin again with the spoon handle, this time in the shoulder. “And I got up to nothing worse than trying a ciggie and climbing trees, I hasten to add. I was a good boy.”
“Methinks your other dad protests too much,” Robin said, addressing Campbell. “Good point, though. I’ll text in and suggest the team go and check over any ones that are close to where the shots came from. Somebody might be using them for less innocent purposes.”
“Feel free to share my bright ideas. Only make this the last contact from our end. You’re still on holiday, remember?”
“Yes, sah!” As soon as the message was sent, Robin’s stomach started to rumble, the delicious smells from the oven sending the noise level to earthquake.
Adam smiled, wooden spoon still in hand. “I was worried you wouldn’t feel like eating. Seems I’m wrong.”
“I’ve got my appetite back.” Robin cast a glance at Campbell, who was tucking into his lunch. “Looks like himself’s back to normal too.”
Adam chuckled. “I only need to do the Yorkshires, and they won’t take long. I’ll get them on before you leap in his bowl and fight him for his nosh.”
“I might too, given how my stomach’s complaining.”
“Be patient, man. Here, while you were on the phone earlier, I saw this on Twitter.” Adam passed over his phone to show where the county police feed baldly stated that their helicopter was attending an incident and asking people to avoid the area.
“Any replies?”
“Only from a couple of people asking why they’re not being given any further information. Usual arsy stuff.”
Robin puffed out his cheeks. “That’s one of the things I hate about social media. Everyone wants to know now. Even if we don’t yet know ourselves, or we’re too busy trying to deal with an incident than tweet about it.”
“Remember that plane crash?” Adam asked.
“All too well.” They’d been about to go out for dinner when news had broken about a plane going down in the Med. Adam had gone mental at the radio presenter who’d grilled some aviation expert for answers and had been unnecessarily unpleasant when he’d kept pointing out—quite reasonably—that there was no point in grounding other planes or having knee-jerk reactions until the cause of the crash was clear.
Adam peered through the oven door. “Right, these Yorkshires are done. No more speculation until after lunch.”
*****
It was after lunch, a beer, and half an hour of kip that they actually got around to discussing the morning’s events again. Robin hadn’t received any further messages and nothing definitive was featuring on either the news or social media yet, so they’d made themselves comfy on the sofa, with Campbell stretched out on the floor like a living rug.
“I hope himself’s asleep and can’t hear what I’m about to ask,” Adam said. “What’s the law on killing dogs?”
“Long story short, if you’re a farmer and a dog’s trespassing on your land, worrying your sheep, you can kill it, preferably in one clean shot. You’d need to prove you were justified in taking the action, though. Long story longer, if you asked your pal to come over and he brought his dog and it starts worrying the sheep, you’ve lost the right.”
“That’s sounds straightforward enough.”
Robin grimaced. “It isn’t. You’re supposed to try to contact the owner first, and only shoot if absolutely necessary. You’re supposed to report it, afterwards, too.”
“And do they? Report it?”
“Not always. If you dispose of the evidence—the corpse—then how would anyone know?” Robin cast Campbell a glance but the hound was still asleep. “If the dog’s a sheepdog, or a guide dog, or any other official working pooch, you can’t shoot them at all.”
“That can’t apply in this case, can it?” Adam absent-mindedly rubbed Robin’s arm. “The common’s not private land, and there are no livestock up there now.”
“Exactly. There’s some act—I’d have to look it up to tell you which one and how it applies in this case—that prevents cruelty to animals. I guess the culprit’s liable to be fined or even imprisoned.”
“Good.”
Robin snickered. “You’d prefer they were hung, drawn, and quartered?”
“Not quite. But I’d hope they’d never be allowed to own a gun again.” Adam took a deep breath. “I can understand a farmer shooting a dog that had got on his land and was attacking sheep. I can understand him wanting to beat up the dog’s owner while he was at it, but what happened this morning’s beyond my comprehension.”
“Same here.” Robin ran the back of his hand across his forehead. “Let’s take the emotion out of it and consider this like any other case. Maybe that particular dog had attacked somebody in the past and said victim was determined to get their own back. Doesn’t ring a bell with any cases I’ve heard of, though.”
“I’ve heard nothing like it on the dog-owning grapevine, either.” Adam’s mother, expert on all local matters of gossip, also had a fund of knowledge concerning other representatives of the canine family. “What if they’d meant to kill the owner and somehow cocked-up?”
“Pfft. It would have to be a right royal cock-up, then. The owner was nowhere in sight. I didn’t see another soul anywhere around before or after we saw the dead dog. Unless the owner could run faster and farther than Usain Bolt, and had managed to get over to the copse of trees, they couldn’t have been anywhere near where we were. You can’t hide in scrub.”
“Unless you lie flat like a commando. The other dog must have been doing something similar, surely, or wouldn’t we have seen him earlier?”
“I guess so. He might have been hunkered down behind one of the bushes.” In which case a human could have been hiding there too. Maybe the shooter themselves.
“Oh God.” Adam, face drained of colour, must have had the same thought.
Snow Storm by Davidson King
Christopher
“You settled that perfectly.” His voice was like a purr, and suddenly, I realized I was going to be very late for my meeting. “It’s like you’re some boss or something, making the hard calls.” He said the word hard with a moan and I knew if I turned around, he’d be stripping off his clothes.
“Snow…” I tried for a warning tone, but it was Snow. He couldn’t be deterred.
“You’re already going to be late.” His hands pressed against my back. “And you’re already going to be naked in a second.” He reached around my waist and began pulling my belt buckle.
Resistance was futile, so I turned in his arms and smiled at the cheeky, adorable man I loved more than the air I breathed.
“You argue a good case, Mr. Manos, so make me later.”
He chuckled as he pushed me onto the bed, straddling me in all his flour and sugar-covered glory.
I relished in the feel of his mouth over my heated skin, his tongue gliding along my flesh like a paint brush. With my shirt open and my cock freed from the confines of my pants, I moaned as he made me later.
Slay Ride by Josh Lanyon
Chapter One
Maybe Tom Finney’s phone call was a blessing in disguise.
Robert was having an early dinner at the home of Sheriff’s Deputy Clinton Dooley’s widow. Dooley had been shot to death on Mill Creek Road six months earlier, and it was a god-awful Christmas for Mabel and the three little girls.
But then, with the war on and so many families missing loved ones, it was a god-awful Christmas for everyone. Joey, Robert’s kid brother, had been killed in the Pacific the previous spring. The Pacific was where Robert had nearly lost his right leg the January before that. There wasn’t a family in Bolt that hadn’t been touched by the war. In fact, there probably wasn’t a family in Montana or maybe the whole of the United States that hadn’t felt the brush of that icy finger.
Robert was doing his best to bring a little holiday cheer to the proceedings. Mabel was swell. He’d been to school with her, had even thought about asking her to marry him at one time. But somehow, he’d never gotten around to it, whereas Clint Dooley had. Now Dooley was dead, shot one night on a country back road by a nameless assailant, and Mabel was making a brave effort not to cry into the mashed potatoes.
When he was done failing to comfort the Dooley girls, Robert was supposed to head over to his mother’s house, where his kith and kin would make their own brave effort not to notice the empty place at the table.
So yes, in a funny way, Officer Finney’s phone call was a relief.
“Chief, I just got a call from Eugene Boswell, the assistant manager of the Safeway over on Harrison Avenue. He claims there’s some bird holed up at the Knight’s Arms, waving a roscoe around and squawking about bumping off his girlfriend.”
“Knight’s Arms. That’s the place on Main Street?” Robert asked. And then, suspiciously, “How would Eugene Boswell know what’s going on in the Knight’s Arms?” Finney had a fondness for practical jokes, and was known to celebrate the holidays, every holiday known to man—including some that hadn’t been thought of yet—with a nip or two.
But Finney sounded cold sober when he replied, “Boswell was over there having dinner at his mother-in-law’s apartment when a gal burst in, followed by this Harold Braun. Braun said he had three bullets, two for the dame and one for himself. While the women were trying to reason with him, Boswell scrammed across the street to the Scandia Bar and called us. He said Braun’s not fooling.”
“On my way. I’ll meet you in front of the Knight’s Arms.” Robert hung up and turned to find Mabel standing in the doorway holding his hat and coat. Her pretty face was pale. She was a tall, thin blonde with a spatter of golden freckles across an upturned nose. In the old days, she had always laughed a lot.
“Trouble?” she asked. She had been a lawman’s wife for nearly a decade.
Robert nodded. “Sounds that way. I’m sorry about dinner.”
Mabel brushed aside the mention of the meal on which she had used up so many of her ration coupons and worked so hard to prepare. “Be careful, Robert.”
“Sure,” Robert said easily. “I’m not the heroic type.”
“Not you,” Mabel agreed. “Not being heroic is how you got shot in the Philippines.”
“Everybody got shot, so that doesn’t count.” Robert shrugged into his coat, took his hat, and limped toward the front door. “Anyway, it was my leg that got shot, not my Philippines. My Philippines still work fine.”
Mabel laughed shakily. “If you can come back later, do. I’ll save you a slice of mince pie.”
“I can’t promise, but if I can, I will.”
She was still standing in the doorway, framed in cozy lamplight and hugging herself against the cold, when he climbed into his car and pulled away from the curb.
* * * * *
A handful of snowflakes drifted down as Robert parked behind the Scandia. He got his pistol out of the glove box and climbed out of the car. His leg ached in the damp winter air. But then, his leg always ached now.
Christmas lights strung across the windows of the bar cast watery blue and red and green smears on the black, shining street as he hurried across to where Finney and O’Hara were pacing in front of the brick apartment building. There was a third man with them, young, sandy and balding, plump as a pigeon, in a dark overcoat. That would be Boswell, the grocery store assistant manager, and Robert automatically wondered why he wasn’t in the army or some other branch of the service.
“Chief, we were just about to go in,” Finney said as Robert reached them. Finney was in his forties, short, wiry, hair prematurely white. He always reminded Robert of a smooth-haired fox terrier. Now he was almost quivering, like a dog tugging at a leash.
O’Hara was older than Finney. He was big—tall and broad—with a head of curly and startlingly dark hair. He hooked a thumb back at the trio of men hovering just out of earshot, and said, “The newshounds say they heard a shot right before we arrived.”
Newshounds? Robert swore inwardly. It had taken him less than five minutes from receiving Finney’s phone call to get over to Main Street, and he had been relieved to see there wasn’t much of a crowd gathered yet. But now that he took a closer look, he saw that the three men lurking a few feet away near scraggly shrubbery were not casual bystanders. One of them, a kid with a shock of white-blond hair, held a camera. Robert recognized the second man as Earl Arthur from the Montana Standard. And the third man… His heart jumped at the sight of that tall, lanky figure with the untidy chestnut hair.
Jamie.
He hadn’t seen Jamie—James Jameson—since Joey’s funeral, but he’d been on Robert’s mind the past few days. Ever since Officer Alf Davies had told him Jamie had traveled to Great Falls and tried yet again to enlist. With the same results as before. 4F. Weak lungs. There were worse things. A lot worse things, as Robert would have liked to remind him, but somehow he hadn’t gotten around to it, and now here was Jamie gazing back at him, eager and alert, hazel eyes shining like Santa had brought him a brand-new bicycle that very morning.
How old was he now? Twenty-one? Twenty-two? No. Twenty-three. Same age as Joey would have been. Why kid himself he didn’t know? Not like he would ever forget the year Jamie turned sixteen—and a stolen kiss at a birthday party.
Remembering that Jamie now worked for the Bolt Daily Banner, Robert groaned inwardly. He turned his back on Jamie and the other newshounds. Another snowflake drifted down and melted as it brushed his skin.
“He’s crazy,” Boswell was saying between chattering teeth. “He’s going to kill that woman. My wife’s still up there.”
Finney and O’Hara were only waiting for his word. Robert pulled his pistol from his belt. “How many people are in the apartment?”
“My wife, my mother-in-law, Mrs. Mileur, and her sister.”
“That’s four. Which apartment?”
“Top floor. First one on the left. I can show you.”
Robert nodded. “Good man.”
Finney sprang for the front door. The reporters moved to follow. Robert turned back to them. “Not a chance. You boys wait here.”
Jamie and the pup with the camera burst into protest. Arthur, older, harder, or just lazier, waved them on. Robert ignored them all, following his men and Boswell up the slick wooden steps and through a pair of tall white doors with oval panes of etched glass.
Inside, the building was warm and smelled of a dozen cooking Christmas dinners. Delicious and comfortable scents of roasting turkey and baking pies. The halls smelled the way the world used to smell before Herr Hitler came goose-stepping along.
Bing Crosby’s voice floated from beneath one closed door. “I’ll Be Home for Christmas.” But a few million people would not be home for Christmas. Would not be home ever.
Boswell rushed up the staircase, feet pounding, and Robert followed. His leg twinged in painful protest. Behind him, Finney and O’Hara made enough noise for a herd of elephants as they crashed after him up the carpeted steps.
As they reached the top floor, the sound of a woman sobbing reached their ears. All else was eerily silent.
“Anne!” gasped Boswell, starting forward.
“Wait.” Robert grabbed Boswell’s arm. “Stay here.” He went past the other man, moving quietly, cautiously down the hall. The line of doors stayed closed, all but the last. That one stood ajar, and through the opening he could hear voices. Women’s voices.
A floorboard squeaked beneath his foot. Robert paused. O’Hara breathed heavily down the back of his neck.
Robert’s heart was fast, but that was just adrenaline, readiness for action. He didn’t figure he’d ever feel real fear again. Not after Bataan.
He could feel Boswell’s anxious impatience from down the hall, but he wasn’t going to be rushed.
When no one charged out of the apartment at them, Robert reached the half open door and pushed it wide.
He could see his reflection—Finney and O’Hara hovering behind him—in a long mirror hanging over a white and green flowered sofa. A string of Christmas cards hung across a doorway leading into another room. A small Christmas tree sat on three-tiered table. Its silver star was crooked.
There were four women in the room. One woman slumped in a chair while two others worked over her bloodied form. A fourth woman in a red dress sat on the sofa, weeping into her hands. There was no sign of anyone else.
“Where is he?” demanded Robert, and the weeping woman looked up and screamed.
Boswell charged past Robert, nearly knocking him over in his haste. “Anne!”
“Oh, Gene!” The woman in the red dress threw herself in her husband’s arms. “Mrs. Mileur’s been shot. She was struggling with that maniac for the gun, and the gun went off. He shot her!”
“There, there, honey,” Boswell said, clasping her tight.
“You’re no doctor.” A white-haired woman, older than the others, stared at Robert.
“We’re the police.” It seemed pretty obvious to Robert, but maybe not to the woman. “I’m Chief Garrett.”
She demanded, “Then where’s the doctor?”
Robert opened his mouth.
“I’m all right.” The blood-stained woman, Mrs. Mileur, suddenly sat up, startling them all. “The bullet just nicked me.”
She was about forty, with brown hair and blue eyes. Blood soaked the white lacy collar of her navy-blue dress, but she seemed alert enough. She was holding a makeshift bandage to the side of her neck.
The second woman attending to her was younger than the rest of them, dark-haired, and very pretty. Her voice wobbled as she said, “The bullet grazed your throat, Alice. He nearly killed you.” She gulped. “And all because of me.”
“What do you mean because of you?” Robert asked. “Who are you?”
Her blue eyes were angry—and afraid. “I’m Jean McDuffy. Alice’s sister. I was…well, I used to go with Harry. Harold Braun. He was mad at me. That’s what all this was about.”
Finney said, “Why was he mad at you?”
“Because I wouldn’t take the dirty gifts he bought with his dirty blood money!”
“You’re not to blame for anything he did.” Alice Mileur glared at Finney as though he had suggested otherwise.
“Oh, Gene, I want to go home,” Mrs. Boswell sobbed.
“Sure, honey. Sure, we’ll go right away.”
“Nobody’s going anywhere,” Robert said. “There are questions that have to be answered.”
“This woman needs a doctor,” the white-haired lady informed him while at the same time Jean replied to her sister, “You warned me he was no good. I guess I thought I knew better—”
“Never mind all that now. Where’s Braun?” Robert had to raise his voice to be heard over the din of everyone talking at once. “Where did he go?”
The white-haired woman answered. “He ran downstairs. He must’ve thought he’d killed Mrs. Mileur.”
The injured woman said with reassuring vigor, “He meant to kill Jean, and no thanks to him, he didn’t. He lives in an apartment in the rear of the building, by the door to the cellar. I should have thrown him out weeks ago.”
“You’re the manager of this place?”
“Yes.”
“Does Braun live alone?”
“Yes. I’ll tell you now he’s a chicken thief and a hophead. Don’t trust him for a second.”
“It’s my fault,” Jean said again. “This is all my fault.”
“Be quiet, Jean. The only thing you’re to blame for is having lousy taste in men.”
“Nobody leaves this apartment. Boswell, lock the door after us.” Robert turned back to O’Hara and Finney. “Come on. Downstairs.”
A chicken thief and a hophead. Well, it could be worse. It nearly had been. A lot worse.
He pounded back down the staircase, Finney and O’Hara on his heels.
There was a good chance Braun had already fled the premises. In fact, if he had any brains, that’s exactly what he’d have done, but if he was hopped up on dope, all bets were off. He might be sitting there waiting quietly for them to arrest him. Or he might be planning to ambush them from around the next corner.
Cautiously, Robert and his men made their way down a narrow hall. No ambush materialized.
They passed the battered door to the cellar and lined up outside Braun’s rooms.
There was no sound from within.
Robert nodded at Finney. Finney pounded the door with his fist.
“Police! Open up!”
The door did not open. There was only silence.
Robert touched the round doorknob. The door swung silently open.
“Careful, boys,” Robert whispered.
Pistols at ready, the three men entered the apartment. The blinds were drawn and the room was in darkness.
“He’s gone,” Finney said. “He must have lit out.”
Robert felt through the gloom for a lamp.
“There’s another room here,” O’Hara’s voice floated through the blackout.
There was a squeak of hinges, the gloom wavered as a door opened, and too late Robert saw white muzzle flash and heard the blast of Braun’s revolver.
O’Hara cried out. The lamp flared on just as there was another flash and another loud bang. Robert glimpsed the nightmarish vision of Finney crashing into the wall, firing at the open bedroom door.
Robert didn’t remember turning the lamp out again, but the room fell back into blackness as he dived for the floor.
Braun was still shooting, and Robert returned his fire. He could hear Finney groaning and swearing, and for one crazy, confused moment he thought he was back on Luzon, under fire from the Japs. He had fallen badly on his leg, and it was throbbing like he’d been shot all over again, but that was the least of his problems.
Swift footsteps approached, someone running toward Braun’s apartment, and to Robert’s horror, a voice he would have known anywhere called, “Rob? Chief Garrett?”
So much for the comfortable notion he would never feel real fear again. Terror squeezed his heart, squeezed his lungs as he yelled, “Jamie, stay the hell out of here.”
He listened, ears straining.
Braun had stopped firing.
Had he managed to hit Braun in the dark? Robert didn’t think so. More likely, Braun was hoping to slip into the front room and pop him. He kept his gaze trained on the slit of faded light between the dark living room and the bedroom.
Jamie hovered outside the apartment doorway. Robert knew it, could feel it in his bones, but he didn’t dare call out again, didn’t dare draw Braun’s attention to Jamie. Finney was still groaning.
“O’Hara?” Robert tried.
There was no answer. Rather, that deadly stillness from the spot O’Hara had fallen was the answer.
“How bad are you hit, Tom?” Robert called.
Finney stopped moaning. He choked out, “The sonofabitch chicken thief got me in the right shoulder. And my left arm.”
“Did he get you, Rob?” Jamie asked from the other side of the front door frame. He sounded startlingly calm.
“No. I’m okay,” Robert said. “Stay out of here. Understand? Stay clear of the door. Stay back from the walls.”
“Got it.”
A gust of cold December air blew in from the bedroom, and Robert tasted snow. “Goddamn it,” he exclaimed. “He’s gone out the back.”
He scrambled up, levering himself on the small table with the lamp, knocking both over. The glass globe smashed on the wooden floor. Robert stayed close to the wall, moving quickly around the square of the room. Keeping to the side, he threw open the bedroom door.
In the wintry light he saw O’Hara sprawled and motionless. Crimson pooled beneath him, soaking the floorboards.
“Goddamn it,” Robert said.
Brown curtains bobbed lightly on the breeze blowing through the open window next to the bed. Aside from O’Hara, the room was empty. When he thrust his head out the window, the alley behind the building was empty too.
Robert swore again, bitterly, turned and ran past Finney, who was slumped and bloody against the wall. “Hold on, Tom.”
Finney didn’t answer.
There was no sign of Jamie in the hall. That showed reassuring good sense, and Robert was relieved as he limped hurriedly down the narrow passage and back to the front of the building.
Arthur from the Montana Standard was fairly dancing with excitement on the pavement in front of the house. “By God, what a story! What’s the name of this gunman?”
“Never mind that. Where’d he go?”
“Thataway.” Arthur pointed down the street, where a green sedan had all but disappeared into the now heavily falling snow. “There were two women in that car he grabbed.”
God almighty. It just kept getting worse and worse.
Robert looked around. A crowd had already gathered on the sidewalk behind them. Well, that was bound to happen, and maybe in this case it wasn’t such a bad thing. He scanned the ring of bystanders. “I need a doctor. I’ve got two men down in the apartment next to the cellar entrance and an injured woman upstairs.”
“The doctor just went up,” Arthur said.
Well, that was something anyway. Robert realized that the face he had been instinctively searching for was not among the growing crowd.
His heart sank still lower. He turned back to Arthur. “Where’s the kid?” he demanded.
“Who?”
“The red-haired kid. Works for the Bolt Daily Banner. He followed us inside. Where did he go?”
“Kid? You mean Jameson?” Arthur pointed down the street, now empty of all but snow flurries. “He and that damned cub who’s supposed to be my photographer took off after your bird.”
Eleventh Hour by Elin Gregory
Siward picked up a small leather bag and led Briers out of the back of the building into a cobbled court.
"Nice car," Briers said, admiring the vehicle's powerful lines. "Armstrong-Siddeley?"
Siward opened the dickey seat and crammed his bag down into it. "Four-Fourteen Tourer, Mendip model. It was George's," he said as he got into his seat. "He only drove it twice. I'm keeping it in tune while he's convalescing."
Briers waited until Siward had turned the car and driven it out onto Buckingham Gate before he spoke again.
"How is your brother?" he asked.
"As well as can be expected." Siward drove carefully, without much dash, content to follow a coster's cart until sure it was safe to pass it. He glanced at Briers and smiled – a polite but unconvincing grimace. "Thank you for asking. He's walking now, at least, and is his cheerful self, but we don't know how long it will be before he can get back to work. He misses it."
Briers expected he did. He didn't know the details – all very hush-hush – and hesitated to embarrass Siward by asking. "Your brother's a brave man. He could have cut and run. He didn't owe his informant anything."
"Yes, he did." Siward's reply was sharp. "The man was risking just as much as George was, if not more. And he got George to the border, injured though he was. I hope ... I hope if ever I'm in a similar situation, I have half the courage. In comparison with that, anyone should be proud to do what they can, even if it's not what they expected to be asked to do."
"I see," Briers said. Once Siward had taken the turn into Victoria Street he broke their silence again. "So – this business. Mildred?"
"Dear God in Heaven." Siward sighed. "Don't think I'm doing it because I like it. I just happen to be very, very good at it."
"And how did you discover that?" Briers asked. "No, honestly. I'm genuinely curious, not poking fun." He turned a little on the broad seat and studied Siward's profile. "We're going to be in close quarters for a while and I like to know a bit about the people I work with. Was it at school?"
Siward's flush was immediate. Even the narrow strips of skin visible between his cuffs and his driving gloves went pink. "I didn't go to school. I had rheumatic fever when I was six and again when I was nine, so I stayed with my parents and we hired a local tutor wherever we happened to be. Hence all the different languages, I suppose. No, it was when I went up to Cambridge. I read English and wasn't doing too well. My supervisor – dear me, even he was a war hero – suggested I join the Shakespeare performance society. He felt it might give me more insight. I'm not sure it worked as he intended but, over my time there, I think I played all the main female leads – Viola, Ophelia, Rosalind, Beatrice, even Lady Macbeth. I enjoyed the challenge but that was Shakespeare, with all the weight of tradition of men playing female roles. Out in the street, it's something else entirely."
"We all have to play roles in this business," Briers said. "Just remember you are doing something unique. Something I most certainly couldn't do."
Siward replied with a peevish snort. "Well, no, because you are a proper stalwart type. You don't get people sneering at you barely behind your back. I bet you played rugger and boxed for your college."
"Good guess." Briers chuckled. "Rugby League was the big thing in my house. Pa was a follower of St Helens and when I was born, the week before they played in the Challenge Cup, he named me after the entire front row."
"Briers?" Siward's tone was sympathetic.
"Briers Winstanley Allerdale," Briers said. "Actually it should have been Winstanley Briers Winstanley, because the brothers were playing, but even Pa wouldn't go that far. Being Brian Carstairs for a week or two will come as something of a relief."
Siward chuckled. "So your father was a Rugby League enthusiast. What about your mother? Are they still with you?"
"Yes, bless them. Pa is a country doctor, with a practice outside Eccleston. Ma – well she organises things, mostly Pa. I've got a younger brother who's in the practice with Pa and a sister who's courting."
"Someone suitable, I hope?" Siward said. "Do they know what you do?"
Briers shrugged. "I think Pa has guessed. The others think I'm something to do with steel production, which I am some of the time."
"That must be difficult," Siward said. "At least when I write to my family I can tell them a little of my daily life. A clerical post with the government is close enough to the truth."
"Just how many languages do you speak?" Briers asked.
"Five usefully." Siward's tone was matter of fact. "One picks them up easily as an infant and my nursemaids were a mixed bunch. I could speak Czech and Serbian by the time I was three and learned this odd kind of dialect mixture of Macedonian and Bulgarian from an Embassy driver who had the most wonderful pet ferrets."
Briers laughed. "So if ever I need someone to give a talk to the ferret fanciers of Skopje...?"
"I'm your man," Siward said. Their eyes met for a moment and both grinned. "Charing Cross." Siward nodded to the turn ahead. "Why don't you nip in and get your baggage while I turn the car around?"
John has been writing fiction for as long as he can remember. Born on a small farm in Indiana, he now resides in San Diego, California where he spends his time gardening, pampering his pets, hiking and biking the trails and canyons of San Diego, and of course, writing. He and his partner share a passion for theater, books, film, and the continuing fight for marriage equality. If you would like to know more about John, check out his website.
Charlie Cochrane
As Charlie Cochrane couldn't be trusted to do any of her jobs of choice - like managing a rugby team - she writes. Her favourite genre is gay fiction, predominantly historical romances/mysteries, but she's making an increasing number of forays into the modern day. She's even been known to write about gay werewolves - albeit highly respectable ones.
Her Cambridge Fellows series of Edwardian romantic mysteries were instrumental in seeing her named Speak Its Name Author of the Year 2009. She’s a member of both the Romantic Novelists’ Association and International Thriller Writers Inc.
Davidson King, always had a hope that someday her daydreams would become real-life stories. As a child, you would often find her in her own world, thinking up the most insane situations. It may have taken her awhile, but she made her dream come true with her first published work, Snow Falling.
When she's not writing you can find her blogging away on Diverse Reader, her review and promotional site. She managed to wrangle herself a husband who matched her crazy and they hatched three wonderful children.
If you were to ask her what gave her the courage to finally publish, she'd tell you it was her amazing family and friends. Support is vital in all things and when you're afraid of your dreams, it will be your cheering section that will lift you up.
Bestselling author of over sixty titles of classic Male/Male fiction featuring twisty mystery, kickass adventure and unapologetic man-on-man romance, JOSH LANYON has been called "the Agatha Christie of gay mystery."
Her work has been translated into eleven languages. The FBI thriller Fair Game was the first male/male title to be published by Harlequin Mondadori, the largest romance publisher in Italy. Stranger on the Shore (Harper Collins Italia) was the first M/M title to be published in print. In 2016 Fatal Shadows placed #5 in Japan's annual Boy Love novel list (the first and only title by a foreign author to place on the list).
The Adrien English Series was awarded All Time Favorite Male Male Couple in the 2nd Annual contest held by the Goodreads M/M Group (which has over 22,000 members). Josh is an Eppie Award winner, a four-time Lambda Literary Award finalist for Gay Mystery, and the first ever recipient of the Goodreads Favorite M/M Author Lifetime Achievement award.
Josh is married and they live in Southern California.Her work has been translated into eleven languages. The FBI thriller Fair Game was the first male/male title to be published by Harlequin Mondadori, the largest romance publisher in Italy. Stranger on the Shore (Harper Collins Italia) was the first M/M title to be published in print. In 2016 Fatal Shadows placed #5 in Japan's annual Boy Love novel list (the first and only title by a foreign author to place on the list).
The Adrien English Series was awarded All Time Favorite Male Male Couple in the 2nd Annual contest held by the Goodreads M/M Group (which has over 22,000 members). Josh is an Eppie Award winner, a four-time Lambda Literary Award finalist for Gay Mystery, and the first ever recipient of the Goodreads Favorite M/M Author Lifetime Achievement award.
Elin GregoryElin Gregory lives in South Wales and works in a museum in a castle built on the edge of a Roman Fort! She reckons that's a pretty cool job.
Elin usually writes on historical subjects, and enjoys weaving the weird and wonderful facts she comes across in her research into her plots. She likes her heroes hard as nails but capable of tenderness when circumstances allow. Often they are in danger, frequently they have to make hard choices, but happy endings are always assured.
Current works in progress include one set during the Great War, another in WW2, one set in the Dark Ages and a series of contemporary romances set in a small town on the Welsh border.
John Inman
iTUNES / GOOGLE PLAY / AMAZON
EMAIL: John492@att.net
Charlie Cochrane
KOBO / GOOGLE PLAY / AUTOGRAPH / MLR
RIPTIDE / iTUNES / AUDIBLE / SMASHWORDS
Davidson King
EMAIL: davidsonkingauthor@yahoo.com
Elin Gregory
WORDS by John Inman
KOBO / iTUNES / GOOGLE PLAY
Old Sins by Charlie Cochrane
Snow Storm by Davidson King
Slay Ride by Josh Lanyon
AMAZON US / AMAZON UK / B&N
AUDIBLE / iTUNES AUDIO
KOBO / iTUNES / GOOGLE PLAY
SMASHWORDS / GOODREADS TBR
AUDIBLE / iTUNES AUDIO
KOBO / iTUNES / GOOGLE PLAY
SMASHWORDS / GOODREADS TBR
Eleventh Hour by Elin Gregory
