🍾Best Reads of 2025 Part 3🍾

2025 was even more trying for me than any other year in my life as my mother passed away in January and the entire year just sucked. My reading mojo had slowly returned but not quite pre-Covid levels in 2024 but it left me again in 2025 and I only read 140 books, many were audiobooks and rereads.  So once again my Best of lists may be shorter but everything I read/listened to were so brilliant it was still a hard choice because every author I read/listened to in 2025 played a part in the moments of distraction that helped keep me sane throughout the first year of my grief journey.  So over the next few weeks I'll be featuring my Best Reads as well as Best ofs for my special day posts which are a combination of best reads and most viewed, I hope my Best of list helps you to find a new read, be it new-new or new-to-you or maybe it will help you to rediscover a forgotten favorite. These lists and posts are done chronologically throughout the years reading not ranking order.  Happy Reading and my heartfelt wish for everyone is that 2026 will be a year of recovery, growth, and in the world of reading a year of discovering a new favorite.

👀I try to keep the purchasing links as current as possible but they've been known to change for dozens of reasons, in case any of those links no longer work be sure to check out the author's social media links for updated buying info.👀

Part 1  /  Part 2  /  Part 3  /  Part 4

The Voluptuous Vixen by Frank W Butterfield

Summary:

Nick Williams Mystery #9

Wednesday, August 11, 1954

Nick and Carter are sailing across the sea to Honolulu on an impromptu holiday.

For the sake of propriety and decorum, the ship's captain pairs them off with a "lady couple" who turn out to be much more than they appear at first glance.

When one of them turns up dead in Nick and Carter's cabin, the hunt is on to find the other one before it's too late.

Original Review July 2025:

I had intended to read this last month for part of my Pride postings but time had other plans.  I'm just glad I took the time now.  So good!!!  Once again Nick and Carter find themselves in the middle of yet another crime. Nick's secretary and step-sister, Marnie was supposed to be on the cruise with her new husband for their honeymoon, but as fate often does with this group, the newlyweds had to stay home so it's only natural that the lads take their reservation.  Let's face it, there probably isn't another duo that deserves a vacation more.

The mystery had me guessing up until nearly the reveal.  We've seen the pair do their sleuthing without their found family and colleagues before but not often.  They aren't completely without assistance from their gang as there are a few ship to shore communications for information but most of it falls on the lads' shoulders.  Of course, they do find a few helpful partners on board too, which may just lead to additions to their group of sleuths back home, they do seem to stumble across at least one person looking for a change during their shenanigans😉. As good as the mystery was, I honestly think my favorite part is learning how Nick and Carter first met Rosalind Russell and her husband, who has popped in a few times in future entries.  I should have known their meeting wouldn't be as mundane as through a Hollywood studio😉. When I think of Rosalind Russell, or Roz as her friends call her, her films His Girl Friday and Auntie Mame always come to mind, which are both characters that make for a perfect Nick and Carter friendship. 

An all around great addition to the Nick Williams Mystery and the Nick and Carter Universe.

RATING:

The Case of the Deadly Deception by Charlie Cochrane

Summary:

Alasdair & Toby Mystery #4

When Alasdair Hamilton and Toby Bowe swopped the seats of their spitfires for the glamour of Landseer studios, they couldn’t have imagined that they’d end up playing Holmes and Watson both onscreen and off.

Their reputation for amateur sleuthing has led them into some tricky situations, but none as puzzling as dealing with the Monday Evening Association. Why should seemingly rationale people claim to be able to perform outrageous feats and how is this linked to the apparently accidental death of a fellow Landseer actor?

When threats to the upcoming coronation are uncovered, the sleuthing actors are faced with a challenge tougher than fighting the Luftwaffe.

Original Review July Book of the Month 2025:

Once again, Charlie Cochrane as proven she is a Queen of British Mystery.  I remember when I first read Toby and Alasdair way back in 2015 in The Case of the Overprotective Ass in the author's Home Fires Burning duology.  I enjoyed them immensely, though at the time I was coming off of a Cambridge Fellows series read and had a hard time letting go of Jonty and Orlando to fully appreciate Alasdair & Toby on their own merit without comparisons.  Which is something I'm ashamed to admit but when you love an author's couple so much, it can be hard to move on to someone new.  

HOWEVER.  Since then I've come to love A&T almost as much as J&O and can do so without comparing the characters or the series(and that isn't just because the author has connected the 2 series either).  A&T are definitely their own people with their own styles of living and detecting.  Such a delight that just keeps getting better with each new entry and case.

I won't touch on the case itself much so as not to spoil it, I will say that every little tidbit they discover leads to more questions and very few answers until the reveal.  I won't say I was completely shocked but at the same time I didn't really think that was exactly how it was all going to go down.  I just love stories when multi fronts merge together and in Deadly Deception, the lads are tasked with one case that leads to another that may or may not collide, but either way you get a big old pot of alphabet soup of clues and mayhem.  A good mystery keeps you guessing, a great mystery lets you think you have it, makes you doubt yourself multiple times, and even when you are dead certain you finally got it, you still find yourself completely thrown sideways.  

Charlie Cochrane's The Case of the Deadly Deception is a great mystery.

One last thing, as I mentioned above, the author connected An Alasdair & Toby Mystery and Cambridge Fellows Mystery with the last entry, The Case of the Undiscovered Corpse, where A&T prepare to play J&O in a new movie, but here we get to see the next generation of Stewarts take up the investigation mantle in Jonty's great nephew, Jonny.  What a brilliantly entertaining addition to the Cochrane amateur detecting universe!  Dare I hope that Jonny and his better half, Roger, help J&O in an investigation in their elder years? Or an even bigger dare to hope, their very own case and series? 😉hint, hint😉  Wherever the next generation pops up next, I doubt we've seen the last of them.

RATING:

Jamie by RJ Scott

Summary:

Redcars #2

Burning is control. Craving Killian’s touch is surrender.

Jamie has never claimed to be good. He’s a former hacker, a convicted arsonist, and an ex-con who’s killed just to survive—but he’s found a home at Redcars. The men there aren’t just friends—they’re his brothers. And when the man who held Robbie gives up a name before dying in flames, Jamie uncovers a network of monsters. Rich. Protected. Untouchable. For the people he calls family—for Robbie, who was broken and caged—Jamie would burn the world down and watch it turn to ash to keep them safe.

Only Killian—a lawyer with secrets in his blood and a war room built on vengeance—wants him to wait.

Killian unsettles Jamie in ways he can’t explain. His presence is a spark too close to fuel. The fear, the pull, the heat—it all blurs into something dangerously close to want. Killian doesn’t try to fix Jamie’s broken pieces. And when his steady hands quiet the fire in Jamie’s chest, Jamie doesn’t know whether he wants to fight him… or fall apart in his arms.

Bound by revenge, addicted to control, and drawn to each other in all the wrong ways, Jamie and Killian are on a collision course of pain and need.

The monsters they’re hunting won’t go quietly.

But neither will they.

Jamie is a dark, obsessive MM romantic suspense featuring a man who found silence in fire, and hope in an unexpected touch, combustible attraction, found family, a lawyer with a secret identity who hunts monsters from the shadows—and two men who refuse to let each other self-destruct.

Trigger warnings for past abuse, murder by fire, intense obsession, and dark revenge.

Original Review August Book of the Month 2025:

I'm going to start off by saying this is slightly outside my comfort zone.  Some might think that was a bad thing or that I didn't care for the story.  No.  I loved it!  Stepping outside my comfort zone is not something I do often but when I do, I always do it with an open mind because if we don't challenge ourselves we don't learn, and life is always learning.  What is it that puts this outside that comfort zone?  The fire, Jamie's pull towards the flame, his need to watch it, to control it, to use it as his brand of justice.  I don't personally understand that kind of pull toward something that is so dangerous, that holds the potential to get out of control and because of that I can't speak to how accurate the author got it.  What I can be sure of is that RJ Scott did her homework, not just to get it right but because she respects life's differences, one's needs and desires.

Now for the book.

Jamie has it's own story but it is part of a four book story arc and Jamie is the middle so you need to start with Enzo. Is there a beginning and an end here? Yes and no.  Yes, there is a more specific guilty party Jamie and Killian are focused on which does have a conclusion but there is more to come so again, this is a series best read in order.  Because it is a read in order series, I won't delve into the plot so I don't spoil the series as a whole.  I will say, it is dark, it is disturbing, it can be hard on your heart to read but because of the respect the author shows that I mentioned above, it is also deliciously satisfying.

I talked about Jamie's love of the flame and his own past that got him to Redcars but he is only part of the story, we also have Killian.  Killian is a lawyer we met in Enzo and though he comes across as commanding, he too has a past that brought him to where and how he is.  On the surface, you can't imagine two people more opposite and not right for each other but then you see inside and realize they are actually perfectly matched.  They complete each other but they also understand the need to let the other be who and what they need to be.

As it is an ongoing story arc, we get to see Enzo and Robbie again and to see more of Robbie's healing.  Robbie's scenes might actually be short in wordage and page time but it is another example of the author's respect for healing, that it can be an ongoing and never-ending journey.  It also shows that found families are just as strong, actually stronger for some, as those stemmed in blood. 

As I started with, I may not understand Jamie's pull toward the flame making it a bit harder to connect to him, it did not take away from loving the story or the characters.  Frankly, the fact that I do love everything about Jamie, while not understanding the character's flame pull, speaks louder volumes to how brilliantly and emotionally told this story is.  A winner on all sides.

One last mention, we originally met Redcars in the author's Single Dads 6th entry, Pride which tells(in part) Logan's story.  We don't see Logan a lot in the Redcars first two entries but he is mentioned and because of that, I highly recommend reading Pride before you start Redcars, though it is not a must because it is not the same story arc but it does introduce the series and characters.

RATING:

Last Man Standing by Davidson King

Summary:

Saint Brothers #5

Angel

I’ve been through a lot with my brothers—from sinister politicians to stalkers and serial killers. The craziest of all has been watching them fall in love with their soulmates. Our lives are dangerous, so it’s a miracle one of us found love, let alone four. As the only one still single, I’ve accepted a future of loneliness.

Until one night, a drag show changes everything.

With a voice like an angel, legs for days, and eyes that sweep me away from my own heavy thoughts, Kona intrigues me. Everything about him makes me want to know more. He’s also in serious need of saving.

What I don’t realize is how deep the danger runs or how quickly I’ll jump into it to keep him safe in my arms.

Kona

My life is a nightmare of my own making. I had to keep my brother safe, and to do that, I accepted help from a monster. The Dead Kings Motorcycle Club is a dangerous, violent, and deadly crew. At the helm is Brick, the man who thinks he owns every part of me, and never hesitates to show me, especially when I step out of line. Sadly, this is my forever.

Until one night a Saint walks into my show, and I know he’s going to be the one to change everything.

What I don’t know is who, after the dust settles, will be the last one standing.

Last One Standing is the final book in the Saint Brothers series. While each book has a different couple, the characters in books 1-4 are important to this story. I recommend reading the series in order: Slay Ride, Kill Me Sweetly, Mine to Keep, What’s Left of Me, Last One Standing.

Last One Standing is a guaranteed HEA but there may be some sensitive subject matter, be sure to read the author’s notes at the beginning of the book.

Original Review September Book of the Month 2025:

Just, WOW!!!  Last One Standing is a perfect title for this series finale.  We finally get to see Angel's journey to HEA, and that's not a spoiler because no matter how dark, how much mayhem Davidson King puts her characters through, she always gives them what they deserve: love and joy.

I mentioned the perfect title and it's fit for the last single Saint but it also describes the fate the brothers may face.  I won't touch on the plot too much, but as it has been all the way through, there is darkness to this tale.  I may be a Jedi and light side of the Force lover but sometimes I enjoy a little dark with my romance too.  I will say, yes, it's dark and a hard topic with potentially triggering effects for some, for me it's probably the least dark of the five. The domestic violence("domestic" might be pushing a bit as I don't feel Kona ever truly had the relationship feels in his heart but I can't think of a better word at the moment) is hard, is devastating, is not good to put it simply. However, I didn't quite feel the same levels of psychological terror in Last One Standing, it's there but not quite on the same level.  Maybe that's just me.  Having said that, it's not a bad thing to be a little less and it's definitely heart hurting and soul crushing at times just slightly "smoother around the edges".

As for Angel and Kona.  Angel has always seemed to be the seen-but-not-heard brother. By that I mean, he's more action and a little less vocal in the first 4 entries, don't get me wrong, he speaks his mind just a little less than his brothers IMO.  Here we get to see and hear his feelings, thoughts, and emotions which gives the reader a little more insight to a few of his scenes from the other books as well as his mindset here. Kona, what can I say about him without giving too much away?  He has a heart of gold and a deep desire to protect his little brother, Pika, which is what puts him into the situation he finds himself in. Don't think I blame him for the danger and abuse he lives with because I don't, we all have to play the hand we're dealt and sometimes that means accepting help in the last place we want. Kona never expected things to spiral to where they went when he made the choices he did.  I love how it's Pika that reaches out to help his big brother by taking that leap of faith with the Angel and his brothers.

I'm going to stop there before I give too much away, just know you won't be disappointed.  If you've been following the Saint Brothers, then you definitely don't want to miss this finale and if you've been waiting to start till all 5 brothers' tales have been told, now you can begin and what a ride you're about to discover.  Each entry is a different brother and has its own dark enemy but I personally can't imagine not reading this in order.  There are characters and plot mentions from previous entries in each new book, the author does a wonderful job in filling in some details to refresh the reader's mind so you won't be truly lost but I think it's so much more enjoyable and easier to connect to the characters in order.

One last note, it doesn't seem possible that it's been nearly 3 years since we were first introduced to the Saint brothers in O Deadly Night: A Dark MM Charity Anthology. I'm so happy the author took her entry, Slay Ride, and expanded it into a full novel and this amazing series.  I hate seeing this come to end but all things must, and who knows, maybe the brothers will have more tales to let the author in on down the road but for now, I will cherish these stories and enjoy reliving them for years to come both in ebook and audio.

RATING:

Trick or Treat Temptation by Hank Edwards

Summary:

Williamsville Inn #7

Some crushes are worth the wait, even if they’re howlingly complicated.

After years of pandemic isolation, Ivan Mason has settled into a comfortable but lonely existence, hiding behind his lumberjack aesthetic and work-from-home routine. When his best friend Jules convinces him to spend Halloween weekend at the charming Williamsville Inn with the extended Powell family, Ivan reluctantly agrees, never expecting to come face to face with the man he’s secretly desired since adolescence.

Skylar Powell has always felt like the overlooked middle child, recently single and still figuring out his place in the world. Coming home for his mother’s Halloween extravaganza wasn’t high on his priority list until he sees his little brother’s childhood friend all grown up, bearded, and impossibly attractive.

As autumn leaves fall and jack-o’-lanterns glow, Ivan and Sky find themselves drawn together under the warm lights of the inn’s courtyard. But with meddling family members, an obnoxious almost-stepbrother, and the complication of living hundreds of miles apart, their connection seems as fleeting as Halloween night itself.

When costumes come off and truths are revealed, Ivan and Sky must navigate the feelings of those around them as they try to decide if what sparked between them is just seasonal magic or a treat worth savoring long after the holiday ends.

Trick or Treat Temptation is a heartwarming, slow-burn romance featuring childhood crushes on a best friend’s brother, awkward family dynamics, a costume contest, and two men discovering that the perfect time to fall in love might just be during the spookiest season of all.

Original Review October 2025:

Time isn't on my side right now so I hope to add to this review down the road but just know that it's worthy of the Williamsville Inn moniker.  I have not quite read all the entries so far but each one I have, I loved.  What better way to have a holiday-centric story than a rustic, cozy inn.  One of the things I loved most was this was a Halloween story without the scary, don't get me wrong, I LOVE the scary but sometimes it's nice to just step back and have a good old fashioned romance.

Trick or Treat Temptation is labeled as a slow burn, I don't know that I would quite go that far unless you think of the time spent crushing in younger years.  I also wouldn't go as far to say it's the opposite end of the timing spectrum as an insta-love either.  However you label it, Hank Edwards has once again brought an enjoyable romance with characters you can connect to and want to see get their HEA.

As I started with, I hope to add to this review down the road when I have more time but just know you'll root for that HEA trophy for Ivan and Skylar and that their journey will fill you full of all the warm and fuzzies most of us aim for in life. 

RATING:

The Voluptuous Vixen by Frank W Butterfield

Prologue

1198 Sacramento Street

San Francisco, Cal.

Saturday, August 7, 1954

About a quarter until noon

I knocked on the door of my old bedroom. We'd only been living in my family home for a few weeks, so it still seemed odd to me to see that familiar door behind which I'd spent many lonely, frustrated, and angry hours.

My father opened the door and smiled. "Come in, boys." Carter, my handsome ex-fireman of a husband, pushed me forward and we walked inside.

Alex LeBeau, the groom, was looking handsome in his wedding suit. As part of our gift to the happy couple, we'd arranged for him to get outfitted for not only the day of his wedding to my stepsister, Marnie Wilson, but also for their honeymoon. According to Marnie, he'd balked at the idea. The notion of two men giving another man a bunch of clothes to wear was just too strange for him. But, when she'd shown him her new outfits for their honeymoon, a gift from her mother, he'd finally given in and let us help.

Alex's father, one Mr. Victor LeBeau, was standing next to his son. They were speaking softly in French. Mr. LeBeau, and his wife Sophie, had immigrated from France back in the 20s. Alex, born Alexandre, was only four years old at the time and had grown up in the City. He might have been born French, but he was definitely an all-American kid. He even played baseball every Saturday afternoon in a beer league. He was a year older than me, but he was still a kid in my eyes.

Both his father and his mother worked for the City of Paris, the department store down at Union Square. They lived in a small apartment at the corner of Vallejo and Stockton, and took the cable car down Powell Street to work each morning.

When Alex had proposed to Marnie about a month earlier, she'd readily agreed and we were all happy for her. I had been worried that she might want to quit working as my indispensable secretary but, a few days earlier, she'd sat down with us over dinner and explained that she and Alex were in agreement that she would work after they got married. Marnie even told us they weren't sure about having children, which was somehow unsettling in a way that was confusing.

In the meantime, they were getting married at our house, a big pile of rocks on Nob Hill at the corner of Sacramento and Taylor. Her own mother had married my father back in April over at Grace Cathedral. That event had turned into a big brouhaha, so she'd asked us if they could get married here.

We'd happily agreed and now the big day had arrived. Once they were married, they were driving down to the new house that my father had just bought on the coast south of Carmel and then, on Wednesday, they were sailing on the S.S. Hilo to Honolulu. Once they arrived the following Sunday, they would be spending two weeks at the "Pink Palace," also known as the Royal Hawaiian Hotel, on the beaches of Waikiki. The trip had been part of our gift as well. We even managed to get them the best rooms on the ship and in the hotel, courtesy of the efforts of Ralph, my intrepid travel agent.

I walked over to Alex and his father. They looked up and his father smiled. Alex, on the other hand, looked nervous. "Well?" I asked.

Rubbing his hands together, Alex sighed. "If this is supposed to be the happiest day of my life, then why am I so danged nervous?"

I laughed and said, "Can't help you there but I bet my father can since he just got hitched himself."

My father harrumphed behind me and said, "Leticia and I did not get 'hitched,' Nicholas. We were betrothed. And, Alex, my boy, I was just as nervous as you even though I'm a good thirty years older."

Mr. LeBeau nodded. "Alors, this is what I tell you, mon fils. It is normal. If you were not nervous, then I would be concerned."

Alex nodded and said, "Thank you, Papa." He quickly hugged his father and then stepped back. Looking around the room, he asked me, "Isn't it weird to be in your old bedroom like this?"

I laughed and said, "You have no idea."

My father cleared his throat and asked, "Where is that Charlie Woodmore?" He was Alex's best friend and his best man for the ceremony. They had been swimmers at St. Ignatius Preparatory School, which I had attended as well. Although "attend" was stretching things a bit. I had a faint memory of the two of them but mostly what I remembered were the many days that I played hooky, particularly at the end.

Carter said, "He should be here in a minute or two. He was taking care of some last minute things."

Alex sighed dramatically. "Did you help him?"

Carter crossed his massive arms and replied, "I'll have to take the fifth, Your Honor."

Charlie and a handful of their friends had been decorating Alex's 1949 Ford Coupe by stringing up tin cans to the rear fender. Carter had lent a hand. I'd decided to be Switzerland, and remain neutral on the matter.

Right at that moment, Charlie burst in the door, and said, "Come on Al. Time to get a move on, boy."

Charlie had the same build as Alex. Both were long and lean. Alex had dark brown hair with brown eyes while Charlie had dusty blond hair that tended to fly around in the wind no matter how much pomade he rubbed in. His blue eyes sparkled in the sunlight. He was attractive, that was for sure. They both still swam as much as they could, even down in the chilly waters at Ocean Beach.

Charlie's wife, Eva, was one of the gals standing up with Marnie, along with her cousin from down in Burlingame, a sweet girl of 20 or so by the name of Hilda. Marnie's matron of honor was another cousin, a woman of about 35, who lived in Hercules, a small town across the bay. Theresa was busty and, I had noticed, had picked a dress a little too small for her figure. Her husband, Jake, seemed to like it. Marnie had once called him a horn-dog and after spending some time with him the night before during the rehearsal dinner, I could understand why. He couldn't stop talking about Theresa's rack. Even to Carter and me.

Besides Charlie, two of Alex's friends, Ron and Jeff, were standing with him. Ron was a real estate agent, something he'd reminded me about forty times in the last twenty-four hours. Jeff was a police sergeant who worked at the Mission Station and had, so far, kept his distance from Carter and me.

After Charlie combed his hair back in place, Carter and I headed out along the hall and down the stairs to the great room where everyone was waiting. My father and Mr. LeBeau were behind us. Alex and Charlie brought up the rear.

We hadn't set up chairs. Instead, everyone was standing. There was a buffet spread already laid out by our amazing cook, Mrs. Strakova. Drinks were being served by our butler, Gustav, and his boyfriend (and our gardener and occasional chauffeur), Ferdinand. Our housekeeper, Mrs. Kopek, was assisting the kitchen along with a couple of girls hired for the day.

The room was packed with guests from both families. In keeping with tradition, the groom's family and friends were generally on the right, behind his parents. Marnie's crowd was standing behind her mother, and my stepmother, the redoubtable Lettie.

My father walked back into our office, where Marnie had been stashed away for the duration. Since her father was nowhere to be found, Dr. Parnell Williams would be doing the honor as her stepfather. Once the rest of us were all in place, the minister motioned to a string quartet seated by the garden door who stopped playing Mozart and began to play the Wedding March from Lohengrin.

We all turned and watched as Marnie stepped slowly out of the office on my father's arm and began to make her way down the aisle marked by ribbons tied on small wooden posts. She was dressed in white. Her dress was plain and had a long train and she was gorgeous in it. She'd had what Carter's mother had called, "a full morning of beauty," and looked amazing. She'd always been cute. But as she walked down the aisle she looked, well, radiant.

  . . .

Once the ceremony was over, Paul Verdier, the President of the City of Paris company and a strikingly handsome man in his early 70s, announced his gift for the couple. It was a very large bottle of French champagne without a label. The bottle rested on a cart and was secured in such a way that allowed it to be tilted for pouring. It had been bottled a few years earlier in France and brought over and added to Mr. Verdier's personal cellar. He supervised one of his employees, a young man of about 25, who carefully opened the large bottle. After everyone had a glass, Mr. Verdier made the first toast to the happy couple. It was all in French and, by the way that Alex's parents both laughed long and hard while Alex turned bright red, it must have been a doozy.

We'd planned four initial toasts, and I was up next. I hadn't thought too hard about what I wanted to say because most of it was too sappy and sloppy. Once the cheering was over, Mr. Verdier said, "Now it's time for Nick, the bride's brother, to toast the bride and groom."

 

I stepped in front of the fireplace and lifted my glass to Marnie and Alex, who were standing right next to me. "To the best darn stepsister a guy could ever want." I looked around the room and could suddenly hear my own sister's laughter drifting down from upstairs. Janet had been gone for over year, but now living there, in the house we'd grown up in, made me think of her more than I had in all the years after I'd left.

I caught Carter looking at me with a crease of concern on his forehead. He winked at me and smiled. I nodded and continued, "And to Alex, her new husband and my new brother. May you both have years and years of joy and happiness together. To Marnie and Alex!"

Everyone in the room repeated, "To Marnie and Alex!" Marnie stepped next to me and gave me a hug. "Thanks, Nick. I love you."

"I love you, too, doll."

She giggled and stepped back as Alex came forward and shook my hand. "Thanks, Nick."

"Welcome to the family, Alex. We're all a little crazy, but don't worry. I'm sure you'll do just fine."

Alex and Marnie both laughed at that. I turned back to the room and said, "And now it's time for Mr. LeBeau to give his toast."

  . . .

Carter and I were walking through the crowd to make it over to the buffet. He wanted more of the puffed pastry with beef in it. And I wanted more caviar. An elegant woman in her 50s, who was holding a small plate of the puffed pastry, stopped us and asked, "You are Mr. Williams, oui?"

I nodded and said, "I am." Motioning to my husband, I said, "And this is Carter Jones." She smiled and nodded. I said, "Thank you for being here. Are you a friend of Alex's parents?"

"Oui. I am Mrs. Anne-Marie Boudier. I work for Mr. Veladier. Are you familiar with the Normandy Lane?"

Carter said, "We first discovered it at Christmas, as a matter of fact." This was an area in the basement of the store that had little shops that, I'd heard, were like the stores in France. There was a cigarette counter, a place to buy bread and pastries, and a little restaurant where they turned meat on a spit.

"I work in the patisserie, the bakery." She picked up one of the pastries. "Who is the person that is cooking these delights? Surely you must have someone from France who works for you?"

I shook my head. "Our cook is from Czechoslovakia. The east part, near Poland."

The woman shook her head. "Non. That is not possible. This has the flavor of Paris. I can taste the time before the war in these foods."

I shrugged. "Maybe Mrs. Strakova lived in Paris before the war. I know she owned her own restaurant at one time. Would you like to meet her?"

Mrs. Boudier nodded.

Carter, who had been stretching his neck to see if any of those pastries were left, put his hand on my shoulder, and said to the woman, "But, only if you promise to not try to hire her."

Mrs. Boudier laughed and nodded her head. "Yes, of course." She put her hand on her heart and said, "I promise."

I said, "Stay right here and let me see what's happening in the kitchen." Without waiting for a reply, and knowing that Carter wouldn't abandon his post, I strode across the dining room and into the kitchen.

Mrs. Strakova was sitting at the kitchen table, eating a sandwich, while the two girls were putting out new plates. As always, the cook was calm and placid will everyone else was running around. Seeing me, she quickly stood up. "Mr. Nick? Is anything wrong?"

I shook my head. "Not at all. The food is amazing, as always. There is a woman outside who used to live in Paris and claims you must be French." I noticed that Mrs. Strakova looked down when I said that. "She'd like to meet you, if you're not too busy."

The older woman took a deep breath and sighed. "Oh, yes, that is fine."

"Are you sure?"

"Oh, yes." She didn't look happy.

"I can ask her to come by the house some other time, if you'd like."

"No, no. Let's get this over with."

"What?" I asked.

"It is nothing. Now would be a good time, Mr. Nick. Not so busy."

I nodded and asked, "Can I take a plate of those puff pastries with beef to Carter?"

Mrs. Strakova's eyes widened in delight, and she smiled. "Oh, yes! Does he like? I made them for him."

I nodded enthusiastically. "He likes them a lot."

  . . .

With plate in hand, I made my way over to where Carter and Mrs. Boudier were standing. Carter broke into a huge grin when he saw what I was carrying. I handed him the plate, offered my arm to Mrs. Boudier, and away we went.

When I opened the kitchen door, I saw that Mrs. Strakova was standing by the table as though she was ready for the firing squad. As Mrs. Boudier walked in and looked around, she suddenly stopped and said loudly, "La ZaZa!! Non! This cannot be!"

Mrs. Strakova looked downward. The French woman said, "Mr. Williams! How can you hide this from the rest of San Francisco?"

"Hide what?"

"She." She nodded at Mrs. Strakova. "You have the most famous woman chef of the 1930s working for you!" Walking over to where Mrs. Strakova was standing, Mrs. Boudier reached out and offered the cook a kiss on both cheeks and began to speak rapidly in French. Mrs. Strakova nodded and replied in the same language.

Meanwhile, behind me, I heard the kitchen door open and a gasp. I turned and saw Mr. Veladier coming through with Mr. LeBeau behind him. Mr. Veladier grabbed my hand enthusiastically. "So! It is true! La ZaZa works for you, Mr. Williams!"

I just shrugged. As Mr. Veladier walked over to join the two ladies, Mr. LeBeau stood by me and quietly said, "She was in the resistance, and it was said that she died before the liberation. And, then, poof! Now she is working in your kitchen."

By this time, there was a steady flow of people streaming in, all exclaiming in French. I looked around and said, "Let me find Mrs. Kopek before this gets out of hand." Before I could get through the crowd, Mrs. Kopek herself came in and managed to squeeze her way over to me.

Looking at her, I asked, "Did you know Mrs. Strakova was a famous chef in Paris before the war?" The two of them had grown up together in what had become Czechoslovakia. But Mrs. Kopek had been in San Francisco since 1935, so she might not have known about any of this.

She looked up at me in wonder and shook her head. "No. I know none of this. So strange she no tell me. But, then again, we no talk about the war much. Too many bad memories."

Mr. LeBeau nodded and said to Mrs. Kopek, "She was in the resistance. It is said that she murdered several German officers through her cooking. She could make it look like a heart attack.

Mrs. Kopek smiled wanly. "Now this." She wagged her finger. "This does not surprise me."

  . . .

Once the uproar in the kitchen had settled down, I found my way over to Carter. He was still munching on his personal set of pastries while talking with Jeff, the groomsman who was a police sergeant at Mission Station.

"Where you there the night he came in?" That was Carter.

Jeff nodded. "No. But I heard about it after he was murdered. You two were the ones who caught the men who did it, right?"

Carter said, "Along with our friend Mike Robertson, who used to be a lieutenant at North Station."

I looked around for Mike but couldn't see him. I wondered if he'd taken his date upstairs for a "tour of the house."

Jeff took a drink of champagne and nodded thoughtfully. "I never heard what the whole story was."

Carter said, "These two brothers were trying to be mobsters. One of them had done a job for us back a few years ago when we put a safe in our basement."

"That was over in Eureka Valley," I added.

Jeff took another sip.

Carter continued, "So, one of them was working for the construction company that's building Nick's new office building."

Looking at me, Jeff asked, "And you own that construction company, now, right?"

I nodded. "Yeah. The second brother, the one who worked for them, murdered the President of the company. The board wanted to sell out and it looked like a good deal."

Carter shook his head. "Don't let him fool you. Nick isn't a businessman. He just wanted to put one of our friends in her own company. And, of course, he was right. She's already got more work than she can deal with."

"She?"

I nodded. "One of the gals who lived next door to us over on Hartford Street."

Jeff's eyes boggled for a moment when he realized I was talking about a "lady couple." That was a term that Carter liked to use.

Picking the story back up, Carter said, "So, these two clowns end up burning down our house to cover for the fact that they looted our safe. And then they try to get the playwright next door to us to admit he did it. That part is still fuzzy to me."

I looked up at Carter. "They threatened to burn down his house."

"Oh yeah, I forgot about that."

Jeff shook his head. "And then I heard the lieutenant at North Station, who was in charge of the case, resigned as soon as it was over."

I nodded but didn't explain that he had done so before he was exposed in a blackmail scheme. And that he now worked for us. And was that he was Mike's date and was probably upstairs involved in some highly unnatural relations. I figured Jeff would find all that out later from Alex. Or most of it, anyway.

  . . .

The time had come for the happy couple to get on the road. By the stretched smile on Marnie's face, I could tell she was ready. They had both changed into more comfortable clothes. Marnie was wearing a pale green skirt under a coat of the same color and a frilly white blouse. Alex was in light brown trousers and a checked coat with big shoulders and a wide lapel. They both looked worn out and happy, all at the same time.

The party moved out onto the sidewalk on Sacramento Street. Alex's Ford was running and ready for them to jump in and go. But Marnie still needed to throw the bouquet. Standing on the edge of the top step of the stairs leading to the front door of the house, Marnie called all the unmarried gals to gather around. There weren't that many, but they made a show of it. She reached back and threw the flowers up in the air.

Since I was standing by the car, I didn't see what happened next, but apparently, in tossing the flowers, Marnie's right foot slipped down the edge of the step and, in an attempt to catch herself, she twisted her left ankle, which then crumbled underneath her. As she fell, she managed to collapse onto her cousin Charlene who then fell onto one of the gals from the department store. She tried not to fall too hard on anyone and stuck out her left hand. In doing so, she broke her arm as it hit the marble step below.

As Lettie said later at the hospital, "If this is the worst that happens, they'll do just fine."

The Case of the Deadly Deception by Charlie Cochrane

Chapter One

April 1953

Dear Mr Bowe

You are invited to the next meeting of the Monday Evening Association. We assemble at seven thirty sharp, first and third Mondays of the month, in the offices of Herbert and Chapman, floor three, Clanfield House, Eagle Street, London. We appreciate that you are a busy man, so will understand if you can’t join us on this occasion but we feel it vital you attend as soon as convenient.

Yours sincerely,

Lloyd Conway

Chairman

M.E.A.

“Well, what do you make of that?” Toby Bowe, who’d thrust the letter into Alasdair Hamilton’s hands almost as soon as he’d entered the latter’s house—and then had waited with admirable patience for his fellow actor to peruse it—felt he could wait no longer. “It came this morning, forwarded from the studio, and I have no idea who Conway is or anything about this association he represents.”

“I’ve never heard of him, either.” Alasdair raised his eyebrow, the one which was heavily insured by Landseer Studios due to its notable capacity for expressing emotion. “Miss Marple was a member of a Tuesday Night Club, so perhaps these are fans of either Mrs Christie or detective fiction in general.”

“I suppose that’s possible, but they could have given a chap a clue as part of their invitation. What if I go there based on that premise, then find they’re…I don’t know…a group of artists who’d want me to pose au naturel?” Toby tapped the letter. “There’s no address given for me to reply to, unless I send it via those offices.”

“Hmm. It does smack somewhat of fishiness.” Alasdair took the letter into his drawing room, where he stationed himself by the window to view it in a better light.

Toby suppressed a smile at the actions. Alasdair would no doubt not have given a thought to himself being seen in a better light, as well, nor to him presenting his best profile to the audience of one. He and Toby had been colleagues—and lovers—for long enough now not to have any element of vanity in their relationship. Yet what was done for the camera, or for the benefit of those in the stalls if the actor was on stage, could become habitual. And Alasdair did present a pleasing sight, standing with the missive in hand, the afternoon light catching his dark hair.

“So, what in the communication specifically smells of either fish, flesh or good red herring?” Toby asked as he settled himself into one of the comfortable fireside chairs. 

“The name of the offices, for a start. Herbert and Chapman. Herbert Chapman.”

“Oh, yes. The Arsenal and all that.” Toby should have spotted the significance of the name. “If it’s not a coincidence, it could be another indication of a love of detective fiction. An allusion to The Arsenal Stadium Mystery.”

“I’ve not read that one. Should I?”

“Yes. It’s quite fun. You’ll have to imagine the men running around in shorts as the book isn’t illustrated.” Toby produced his cheeky grin, so beloved of newspaper and magazine photographers. “If Mr Conway and his merry band do enjoy reading of that type, perhaps that’s the very reason they want me to attend one of their get-togethers.”

“To talk about portraying Dr Watson on the screen or emulating his and Holmes’s exploits off it?” Alasdair asked.

“Either or both. In each case they’d benefit from my inside knowledge.” Landseer was unique in being the film studio that could boast of actors who were involved in detection onscreen and off.

“Then why not invite me to the meeting, as well?” Alasdair couldn’t hide his disappointment at not being asked.

“Perhaps they have done and your invitation has been delayed in the post? They wouldn’t invite us both via one letter, surely, as they can’t—please God—be aware of the exact relationship between us.”

“True. Or perhaps they are exclusively fans of Watson rather than Holmes. Let’s check if Eagle Street exists, anyway.” Alasdair went to his bookcase, selected the A to Z, then perched himself with it on the arm of Toby’s chair. “Well, the road’s here. Just north of Lincoln’s Inn. Not an area I know.”

“Indeed.” Toby took the letter back, although studying it for further clues seemed a vain pursuit. “I think I’ll get the Landseer people on this. They’ll surely know if this Conway chap or his group have a reputation, say for inveigling film stars into their clutches then performing terrible things upon them. If Landseer advise me to go ahead, they might also provide a bodyguard, to prevent the clothes from being ripped off my muscular frame.”

“Twit. The Monday Evening Association is unlikely to turn out to be populated by your adoring female public. Aren’t they called something like The Toby Bowe Appreciation Society?”

“They are indeed and a more splendid bunch of women you could not wish to meet. I think you’re right in saying this has to be a different kind of organisation, though: adoring male public, perhaps, given that Lloyd is a chap’s name.” Toby folded the invitation and tucked it in the pocket of his jacket. “I’ll reply to him once Landseer give the go ahead. Perhaps I’m being over cautious, purely from the lack of information. Whoever this group is, facing them can’t be as dangerous as squaring up to a Junkers with a trigger-happy pilot.”

Alasdair took Toby’s hand. “One can only hope. And if they are genuine fans, too coy to advertise the fact, it would be a shame to disappoint them. Common decency must always be observed towards those who ultimately pay our wages.”

“Let alone always observing the avoidance of adverse publicity.” Toby chuckled.

“Were you joking about needing a bodyguard?” Alasdair asked.

“Only partly. It wouldn’t surprise me if Sir Ian, should he get wind of this, insists I’m properly looked after. Some burly chap to act as chauffeur and be in the offing in case of trouble.” Sir Ian Sheringham, head of the studio, wouldn’t want one of his most valuable properties to be put into a potentially tricky situation. “Are you volunteering to disguise yourself for the part?”

“No thank you, much as I’m intrigued by the whole business. It’s simply that I have someone in mind for such a role, should it be required.”

“Are you going to tell me who?”

“You’ll have to guess. Clue one, your godfather mentioned him a while back as being a useful person to have in one’s corner if trouble was brewing. He’d helped him out with a case, I believe.”

Toby furrowed his brow. “That doesn’t narrow down the field much. He’s often running across people, helpful or otherwise.” Matthew Firestone, being one of the police force’s most reliable—and successful—officers met plenty of folk and had many tales about them to regale his friends with.

“Then consider clue two. He’s pally with the brother of one of Matthew’s other godsons. I think I’ve got that right.”

“Right or not, it doesn’t help much, either. Matthew has stood at the font so many times he might as well be ordained. Another clue please, Sherlock. At the risk of me having to play an astonished Watson at how obvious the answer is.”

Alasdair, who was evidently enjoying this greatly said, “Third and last clue. He has a connection to a certain person you’re portraying in our upcoming release.”

“Jonty Stewart? Oh, of course. We’re talking about his great nephew, aren’t we?”

“Correct, my dear Watson. Jonny Stewart, which is rather confusing name wise but at least memorable because of the similarity to Jonty. Except in your case obviously not memorable at all.” Alasdair snorted.

Toby now recalled the conversation with Matthew clearly, but didn’t want to admit that he hadn’t been paying attention throughout, because there’d been a rather handsome waiter in the offing who’d been making eyes at him. It had taken all of Toby’s concentration to ensure he gave no hint of response to the saucy chap, not least because he had all he needed—romance wise—currently sitting on the arm of his chair.

“Why do you have Jonny in mind, as opposed to anybody that Landseer could suggest?” Toby asked.

“It feels neat and tidy, with the Stewart connection.” Alasdair liked things neat and tidy. “It might even be useful publicity if this thing somehow becomes public. Young Jonny carrying the family torch.”

“Quite.” They weren’t portraying Holmes and Watson in this latest offering but the entirely real Jonty Stewart and Orlando Coppersmith. “You really do think there’s something odd about this, don’t you?”

“Yes. I couldn’t tell you exactly why—a pricking of my thumbs, maybe—but it’s like when we’d scrambled, and were flying in an apparently clear sky yet knew there were bandits about.”

A shiver shot down Toby’s spine. He remembered that feeling in every detail and hoped he’d never experience such a sensation again.

***

Those at Landseer studios who seemed to know everything there was to know—about anything—were tasked with looking at the letter and gave Toby his answer very promptly, or so he reported to Alasdair. There was apparently nothing in the communication from Conway that rang any corporate alarm bells, so if he wanted to attend the Monday Evening Association meeting on April the twentieth, he could.

“They say they don’t recognise the name or address as being linked to any of their unpleasant correspondents. You know, like the ones who take umbrage at the way Landseer portrays Holmes and Watson, particularly your Sherlock getting his end away with whichever minx Fiona is playing.” Toby grinned over his teacup.

They were both at the studios, grabbing a cuppa before a meeting about all the activities surrounding the launch of their new film. Fiona Marsden would be attending, too, she being the key third part of the Landseer star acting triumvirate. The fact that she’d recently begun a romance with Jonty Stewart’s nephew, the present holder of the family title, wouldn’t hurt publicise the new film, either.

“A chaste kiss in the final five minutes counts as getting one’s end away, does it?” Alasdair said, with a snort.

“In the fans’ eyes, yes, according to the complaints received. Although these folk are no doubt right in saying that Sherlock never went so far with a woman. Nor man neither, I’d guess.”

“He wasn’t a real person, you know.”

“I know that. Although I’m not sure everyone else does.” Toby took a drink. “Apparently, 221b Baker Street receives post from people hither and yon wanting the great detective to solve their problems. Those letters can’t all have been sent as a bit of a joke.”

Good point. “And will Sir Ian allow you to go into the Eagle Street lions’ den alone?”

“Absolutely not.” Toby explained—much to Alasdair’s satisfaction—that Sir Ian, had happened to drop into the department concerned when they’d been making their enquiries. “As a result of which, he’s just sent me a note. He’s worried about potential risks to yours truly and said that he’d need to organise somebody to go with me. I said you might have the very chap.” 

“Excellent. I’ll ring up to Sir Ian’s office, right now, and suggest Jonny. I’ve got two numbers for the latter, office and home, garnered from his great uncle Jonty.”

“Have you? How sensible.” Toby nodded approval. “What did the Cambridge connections think of the idea?”

“They gave it their whole-hearted approval. I also discovered more about the mystery he helped Matthew with. Remember that story about Ivor Gregg the actor going missing? Jonny and a pal of his were involved with getting that sorted.”

“Well done him.” Toby raised his teacup to make a toast. “I did wonder if Sir Ian was going to suggest you as my wingman but either he doesn’t want to risk both of our handsome faces being bashed about or he’s avoiding us being seen together too often when not on studio business.”

“The second, I’d say.” There was an increasing risk of people becoming suspicious, especially when none of the fledgling romances he and Toby were apparently involved in actually took flight. “Talking of which, I wonder which young ladies they’ll hang on our arms for the premiere?”

“I’m due a rising starlet, although I have hinted that a bluestocking from Girton might be more fun and a novelty for the press coverage. I’m sure Jonty or Orlando have a suitable contact.”

Alasdair raised his non-insured eyebrow. “That would be a novelty. It’s a while since I was paired with a lesser daughter of minor nobility so I guess my partner will be along those lines. I do feel sorry for these women.”

The machinations of the Landseer publicity offices, which provided the daughters of captains of industry or other eligible ladies as the actors’ “dates” for events, had proved successful so far but surely there was a limit to how long they could get away with it?

“Quite. Hopes dashed and all that.” If Toby was going to add to that remark, he was prevented by the arrival of his dresser, who wanted to nab him for five minutes, if she could, regarding one of the costumes for their next film, The Heart That Wears the Crown. With a grin and a, “No peace for the wicked,” Toby let himself be taken off.

Alasdair could profitably use the time to ring through to Sir Ian, which he did without delay.

“Sir Ian? Do you have a moment?”

“I do, Alasdair. You just caught me before I go into a meeting about Naughty Nelly. Someone’s having kittens about the title. And the script.”

Naughty Nelly: there was a production that had already caused a problem or two, including losing its leading man to a fatal accident two days into shooting at the start of February. The role had been recast but production proper had yet to recommence. Alasdair hoped that the royal connection both films shared wouldn’t prove an ill omen. “Then I won’t delay you. I only wanted to suggest a suitable bodyguard—if that’s not too strong a term—for Toby, when he goes off to this strange meeting he’s been invited to.”

“Not too strong a term at all,” Sir Ian said. “Do you have as strong a smell of rat as I do?”

“Absolutely. So does Toby, although not as foul-smelling an odour as ours. I couldn’t tell you why, Sir Ian, and I haven’t been quite so frank about it with him but I’m not at all happy about this invitation. If I can’t go with him, which would no doubt be too great a risk on other fronts, then I want to do all I can to protect him, albeit vicariously.”

“Agreed on both counts. You’ll be in public view alongside each other often enough in the next few weeks, so if it’s not official Landseer business or to do with your detecting work, I’d rather being seen together didn’t happen.” Sir Ian rarely put his foot down in such a way: the Naughty Nelly business must be getting to him. “It’s a shame these two Cambridge chaps you’re portraying are too long in the tooth to do the honours on the bodyguard front.”

“Quite. Although the person I want to propose is of the same family—the Stewarts—and according to our constabulary friend Matthew Firestone, a good man in a tight corner.”

“Another Stewart? They’re getting everywhere, given Fiona’s latest amour.” Sir Ian chuckled. “Still, that would all hang together nicely with the new film, should it come to public attention. Can I leave you to organise that with him, please?”

“Of course.”

“Now, while I have you. It may appear that I’ve been slightly tardy regarding your and Toby’s companions for the premiere of Death Stalks the College, but I haven’t. In fact, it was all set up a while ago, at the suggestion of your two Cambridge contacts.”

“That sounds intriguing.” Maybe Toby would be getting his blue stocking companion.

“We certainly thought so when we heard their idea. It also fits nicely with the film, given that the two ladies concerned both helped you clear up that recent case with the Victorian corpse in the vaults. Names being…” the sound of papers being rummaged through came down the line, “Mrs Bessy Cutting and Miss Geraldine Topley. The publicity department are going to make a splash about it over the next few days but we’ve had to hold fire because Miss Topley had a fall and we weren’t sure if she’d have to pull out of the event and we’d need to call on one of the usual suspects. Luckily, she’s fully recovered so can attend. I hope that gets your approval.”

“It does indeed. Much better than having another young woman disappointed at the lack of follow up from either of us.”

“Exactly. The public will love them being there, of course, suggesting as it does that one of them might end up on your arm on a similar occasion in future.”

“That could be a suitable strategy for all such events.” And an answer to the thorny issue of why their companions tended to be for one evening only. “You could hold a ballot or a raffle—a shilling to enter and all proceeds to the Royal British Legion.”

“That’s brilliant, Alasdair. I’ll jot the idea down right now or else I’ll forget. Can you let Toby know about the arrangements? You can fight over who gets Bessy and who gets Geraldine.” Sir Ian chuckled.

“I will do so at the first opportunity. Good luck with Nelly.”

“I’ll need it. All the content is a matter of historical fact, of course, but the censor may cut up rough. We never have that problem with your films, and long may that continue. Ave Imperator, morituri te salutant.” With which comment, Sir Ian ended the call, leaving Alasdair to wonder at just how bad the upcoming meeting would be and how near the knuckle the script of Naughty Nelly was. Not anything that could be lodged against The Heart That Wears the Crown, even though it was frankly a piece of opportunism. One that had benefitted from Nelly’s problems, because the delay in production had meant slack capacity in various departments which had allowed the Cambridge film to be whizzed out in record time and without the risk of it looking like a quota quickie. In turn, the coronation film could then be moved forward and got out in a timely fashion.

The Heart That Wears the Crown had a long history. The film had first been mooted in the early years of Landseer studios, some twenty years previously, in anticipation of the day when the then Prince of Wales would succeed to the throne and the screen representation of a coronation would chime with the real one being held in June. The general disquiet caused by both King Edward’s abdication, and his choice of partner, had led to the film project being shelved indefinitely. Now, the country suddenly found itself with a young, beautiful queen, whose upcoming coronation was an occasion likely to shine as brightly as the diamonds in her crown amidst the lingering post-war austerity. So, the Landseer script was quietly dusted off and reworked into its present format, as suiting the trio of stars.

Assuming nothing awful happens to Toby at his meeting.

Alasdair decided to ring Jonny immediately, because if the man was unavailable, or didn’t wish to take up the commission, then he’d have to go back to Sir Ian cap in hand to report his failure. Fortune must have been smiling on the endeavour, though, because Alasdair not only caught Jonny at work, he professed himself delighted to help, particularly when told that Matthew Firestone had recommended him. “It all sounds very mysterious, though, Mr Hamilton.”

“Call me Alasdair, please. And yes, too mysterious for anyone’s liking. We might be being over-cautious but as your great uncle Jonty may have told you, we do our own bits of sleuthing, in a small way, and it’s possible we’ve made an enemy or two as we’ve done so.” Which idea had only come into Alasdair’s head that moment. Not that he could think of any specific enemies offhand, but those they’d helped to convict would have friends and relatives who might seek revenge.

“If there’s any rough stuff, I’ll be prepared. Should Toby and I meet beforehand to make a plan of campaign?”

“Sounds a splendid idea. I’ll get him to give you a call this evening, if that’s convenient. You can sort out the details between you both.”

“Aye, aye, captain. I’m looking forward to it.”

“Cheeky scamp,” Alasdair said, with a grin. It sounded like Jonny and Toby would get on like a house on fire, the pair of little rascals. Surely between them they’d be able to cope with anything Mr Conway’s meeting had to throw their way.

And he’d have to sit on his hands, to ensure he resisted all temptation to lurk in the Eagle Street area on Monday evening, just in case another pair of hands—or fists—were needed.

Jamie by RJ Scott

ONE

Jamie

The fire started in the kitchen.

Just like the last one.

The flames licked up the drapes, each faded flower vanishing in white sparks. I stood there, still holding the used match, and watched the edge of the fabric curl inwards, blackening, then opening with a hiss of release. The smoke thickened fast—it always did. Greedy. Hungry.

I didn’t run.

I waited until the heat reached the hallway, caught the old linoleum, the newspaper bundles, and the cracked, piss-yellow chair, until the air turned hostile, burning my throat.

Then, I walked out of the front door.

It was early. The street was quiet but not peaceful. Rows of tired brick apartments lined the block, tagged with graffiti and sagging with disrepair. Trash rustled in the gutters, and a broken streetlamp still flickered behind me, casting everything in a sick, pale glow. A busted bike frame leaned beside the stop sign as if even it had given up.

Shitty neighborhood. The kind no one cared about. The kind no one came looking in unless they wanted something worse than answers.

But quiet.

Not like the house.

The house was screaming now.

Wood groaning. Glass cracking. That beautiful, chaotic roar meant nothing could be saved.

I sat on the curb across the street staring at the fire. No shoes. Smoke on my clothes. My uncle was still inside. Passed out on the couch, maybe. Maybe, he woke up trapped and terrified. Didn’t fucking matter. I knew he hadn’t gotten out. That was the point.

By the time the sirens came, I was calm but didn’t know what to do with the silence. No belt snapping through the air, no fists, and no lock sliding into place behind me.

I was free.

When the fire crew arrived, I clutched my laptop close and didn’t move. One firefighter tried to grab me, shouting something I didn’t catch. His gloves smeared soot across my bare arms. He looked scared. Or maybe confused.

They always are.

The ambulance came next. Someone wrapped a blanket around me. I let them. A woman crouched beside me, her voice gentle, as though I was fragile.

“What happened?” she asked.

I looked past her to the smoke billowing into the sky. “It burned,” I said.

She blinked. “How did it start?”

I shrugged. “Match, I guess.”

Her expression changed. Not fear, exactly. Just the beginning of understanding. The moment when people realize I’m not the victim they thought I was.

“What’s your name?”

“Jamie Maddox.”

Then, the cops came with their questions, and when they searched my name and the other fire was flagged, the inevitable happened.

There’s a body, trapped, couldn’t get out, burned.

“…you’re under arrest for suspicion of arson and homicide.”

I didn’t fight them. I didn’t cry. I didn’t ask why. They took my laptop away from me, but that was okay. I’d hidden everything in the cloud, and no one would find it. All my tools and things I used to steal were gone. I walked to the cruiser barefoot, fingers twitching for another match I didn’t have. My skin itched for the flick of sulfur, the sharp tang of smoke. I could still taste the fire on the back of my tongue, feel the way heat had kissed my face. It wasn’t only the burn I missed—it was the control, the silence it gave me, the way everything else fell away when flames were dancing. If I could watch something fall apart correctly, the world could be wiped clean and made simple. The cuffs were too tight, but I didn’t complain. The pain felt real. Felt deserved.

I remember watching the dark smoke and the firefighters from the back seat. The house collapsed in on itself as if it had been waiting to die.

I knew that feeling.

They took me to a white room with plastic chairs and a table bolted to the floor. I waited. Eventually, someone came in and read me my rights. I asked for a cold soda, but they didn’t give me one, handing me water in a plastic bottle with no lid.

They called it an accident at first. They suggested it could have been faulty wiring, an electrical short in the kitchen, or maybe the old microwave gave out. One neighbor swore they heard a pop. Another said they smelled gas.

But I was too calm.

Too clean at first glance.

No soot on my face. No burns. Just a folded blanket around my shoulders and hands that didn’t shake. I hadn’t asked questions. I hadn’t cried then, and I hadn’t cried when I watched the smoke curl upward as if it was writing my name across the sky.

And when they’d checked me for injuries and found the marks on my back and thighs, the cigarette burns and the cuts, and they asked me what happened, all I said was that I’d been in the kitchen. I heard them talking about abuse, and they handed me pity in one hand and accusation in the other. It didn’t matter how badly someone hurt me. That wasn’t justification for burning them to death, and hell, no one walks out of a house fire that began in the kitchen without a mark on them. Not unless they’d set the fire.

They started looking closer.

And when they asked how the fire spread so fast, I said, “Accelerant helps.”

Eventually, they stopped calling it an accident.

They sent me to a facility outside Los Angeles. Not jail. Not at first. Psychiatric observation, they called it. I played the game—quiet, cooperative, unreadable. The diagnosis was difficult when pretending to be someone else was so easy. They looked for remorse, for cracks in the story, but I gave them blank calm and vague sadness. I could mimic empathy, mirror fear, and drip trauma in rehearsed doses until they believed what I needed them to. The doctors said I didn’t appear to understand guilt the way others did. I agreed with them. I didn’t feel guilty. I felt nothing.

Eighteen months of docs poking and prodding, of white padded rooms and meds.

After that, it was prison—two more years. I was under minimum security once the court accepted the diminished capacity argument, which I sold like a motherfucker. I kept my head down, memorized the schedules, worked in the auto shop they had there, and didn’t light a match in all that time.

It didn’t mean I’d stopped wanting to. I’d dream of it—heat curling under my skin, flames reaching for the sky. Sometimes, I’d close my eyes and imagine it: the sharp snap of a match, the whoosh of ignition, the way light flickered against the walls as if it were alive. Fire never judged. It didn’t ask questions. It simply consumed. It gave me power when everything else made me powerless. It took things away, but only the things I never wanted to keep.

Fire made sense in a way nothing else did. It was simple. Pure. I didn’t need to justify why I liked how it moved or why watching something burn down to its bones gave me a kind of peace nothing else ever did. Not even Tudor at Redcars, with all his calm and second chances, ever really saw the craving underneath—how it wasn’t just about destruction. It was about clarity and silence.

I didn’t understand either. I only knew that when things burned, my brain was quiet.

And for a moment, I could breathe.

I’d worked in the auto shop inside. Learned just enough not to look stupid and lied about the rest. Said the right things, kept my head down, let them think I was trying.

I wasn’t.

The plan was simple—stay long enough to get off the radar, then vanish. Tudor came to my room, told me about Redcars, said it was the kind of place that gave second chances to the worst of us. I didn’t believe in second chances. I believed in escape.

Tudor opened the garage door that first morning with oil on his hands and a don’t-fuck-with-me stare. He looked me over like I was a car wreck—twisted metal, something he couldn’t walk past. Then he gripped my chin, hard enough that I felt it in my jaw.

“You’re faking this shit,” he said. “I see the fire in your eyes. That thing that wants to burn it all down just to feel something. You so much as fuck up on my doorstep, you’re gone. You understand?”I didn’t answer. I stared back, let him see it—the fury, the heat, the part of me that didn’t give a damn.

But he didn’t flinch.

“Fuck kid, you’re trouble.” He sighed.

“Whatever,” I snapped. Fuck this bullshit.

“I’m not here to fix you,” he said. “I’m here to give you the tools to fix yourself. You learn to control the fire, or it’ll eat you alive. Your choice.”

Then he turned his back on me and disappeared into the shadows of the garage, like he already knew I’d follow.

And I did.

Not because I believed a word he said.

Because I figured he’d be easy to play—just another bleeding-heart idiot with a savior complex.

I couldn’t have been more wrong.

Last Man Standing by Davidson King

CHAPTER ONE

ANGEL

I lived in a house with nine other people, and finding peace wasn’t easy, so when I came home from running an errand to a blessedly quiet house, I wanted to cry with joy. I loved every one of my brothers—which included Four—and their partners, but being able to sit down in the living room with a mug of coffee, a book, and silence was a rare commodity.

I rushed to the kitchen, vigilant as ever that one of them could pop up and ruin the bubble of silence. I placed a pod in the coffeemaker and while that was dripping, I went to my room to snag the book I’d been reading.

Five minutes later, I was sitting on the plush couch, drinking my java, and reading my book. This was a little slice of heaven.

“People!”

And now it was shattered.

“Where are all the people?” JJ chuckled. “Anyone catch my Drusilla impression from Buffy?” He was shouting, and no one was answering back.

If everyone was upstairs, they wouldn’t because their bedrooms were all soundproofed. There was no way I was getting away without JJ seeing me. I wasn’t in his sight yet but⁠—

“Oh, Angel…good, good.”

“Hi, JJ.”

“Why are you so glum? Oh, wait. It’s a day ending in Y—never mind.”

“I try to like you, but you make it hard.”

JJ beamed and he turned to yell again. “Where is everyone?”

“I don’t know, and I don’t care. They aren’t here, and I was enjoying the blissful silence, but I guess dreams are made to be pulverized into the dirt when you’re around.”

JJ narrowed his eyes. “You’re extra pissy today. What’s wrong?” Of course, he decided to sit next to me. “Tell JJ. I can help you.”

“I’m fine.”

“Mmhmm. You know who says they’re fine?” He quirked a brow.

“People who are fine?”

He blew a raspberry and lightly slapped my knee. “Funny guy. People who are in fact not fine.”

“I’m not doing this with you. Why are you looking for everyone?”

JJ pursed his lips and stared at me for a second, eventually sighing. “Keep your secrets, whatever. I was looking for everyone because I have a surprise.”

“You’ll probably have to wait until dinner. You know how they all scatter.”

He nodded. “Yeah, but it’s really quiet.”

“Which is why I was taking advantage of it.”

JJ smiled. “Okay, I’ll let you be, but I’m calling a family meeting. Don’t go far—it’ll be right before dinner.”

“Can’t wait,” I deadpanned.

When he left I could’ve gone back to my book, but that was not how things worked here in this house. He would be the first domino. I closed my book but remained seated, drinking my coffee, and waited.

Two minutes later the door opened, and Gabe and Mason walked in.

“I don’t understand, Gabe. You paid for the ultimate cleaning service for your car, but you vacuumed it yourself. It’s literally part of the package.”

“He was doing it wrong.” Gabe shrugged, and Mason rolled his eyes. Then he saw me.

“Hey, Angel, what’s up?”

“JJ is calling a family meeting to take place right before dinner.”

Mason’s brow furrowed, and he looked at his watch. “That’s in like, an hour. You’re going to sit there until it’s time?”

“I haven’t decided yet.”

He slowly nodded and grabbed Gabe’s hand. “Let’s leave this room, babe. Angel is being weird.”

Gabe snorted. “He’s always weird.”

I shot him the middle finger and watched as they walked up the stairs.

Next was Matt, followed by Nick, Four, Shep, Phoenix, and Noel. And soon enough the house was a cacophony of sounds, and not too long after that, the aroma of Shep’s and JJ’s cooking filled the air.

So much for quiet. I stood and went to my room to drop off my book, then to the kitchen to put my mug in the dishwasher.

I leaned against the doorjamb and watched the controlled chaos. Shep was at the stove with JJ next to him, grinning at whatever he was saying. Noel and Phoenix were at the table snapping green beans while Nick periodically grabbed one to eat, earning a smack from Matt. Mason and Gabe were peeling potatoes and playfully arguing about their car-wash situation earlier. And finally, there was Four. He was in the corner, phone in hand, his eyes on me.

When I met his gaze he lifted a brow. He was observant; JJ was too. I was bothered, uneasy, and possibly a little depressed.

Ever since Two had moved away with his family, I hadn’t been able to shake this mood. I hadn’t truly felt anything for anyone until him, and I’d thought the feeling was mutual. But as soon as he’d heard he had a family that wanted to get to know him, I’d ceased to exist.

Aziza had explained it to me. “You want a relationship with someone who barely knows who he is. His whole life, he has been a hostage—someone designed to manipulate others and kill them. Two is years away from growing a romantic attachment, and he may never. Letting him go is the best thing you could do for him right now.”

So, I did. I’d put on a happy face, told him I was proud of him, watched him get into the car with family he didn’t know and drive away.

“Everything is simmering; I need to talk to you all.” JJ broke through my memory, and I looked over at him. “We can do it here; everyone is accounted for.”

“What’s up?” Nick sat back and offered JJ an encouraging smile.

“Okay, so, you all remember when that new fancy club opened up a couple of months ago?” JJ was practically vibrating with excitement.

“There’s a new club?” Matt asked.

JJ huffed. “It’s called Stilettos and Sangria, ring any bells?”

Everyone shook their heads except Phoenix. “Oh, yeah! It’s a drag queen club, right?”

JJ beamed. “Thank you, Phoenix, yes!”

Phoenix turned to Noel. “It’s that place I told you where it’s ridiculously hard to get a reservation—apparently, the headliner has really drawn a crowd, and it’s so impossible to get in.”

“Which brings me to my surprise!” JJ shouted and Phoenix gasped. “No, don’t ruin my thunder.” He pointed to Phoenix.

Phoenix mimed zipping his lips, but he was bouncing. I hated that I had a feeling I knew what was about to come out of JJ’s mouth.

“I was able to get us all a reservation for this Friday night!”

Yup, I was right.

“Ah!” Phoenix jumped up and was clapping. Everyone else was a mix of emotions—some were happy, others either wide-eyed or indifferent, simply shrugging.

“Isn’t that family night?” Matt asked.

“Yes. It’s why I tried for a Friday. It’s the only night you all have to be here, so I knew it wouldn’t conflict with any plans or work.” Judging by his smug expression, JJ was clearly proud of himself.

“What if we don’t want to go?” We all turned to where Four was sitting. He stared unblinkingly at JJ.

“Why wouldn’t you want to go, Four?” JJ leaned his hip against the counter. “It’s supposedly an amazing show.”

“It’ll be loud, and I don’t like crowds all that much.”

JJ bit his bottom lip, but I was sure he’d convince Four. “I got us a roped-off area in the VIP section purposely because I had a feeling you’d hate being smushed by people you wouldn’t know, and there are a lot of us.”

“How’d you manage this if the place is so hard to get into?” Gabe wondered.

“I have my ways.” JJ winked. “I really think this will be so much fun.” He sighed. “Do we need to vote on it?”

“No.” Shep dropped the wooden spoon he had in his hand loudly. “You did something nice for all of us—we don’t vote on gifts.” Shep narrowed his eyes at each of us. “Do we?”

No one responded, so I figured I would. “We’ll all go. If it’s too much on Four, then we’ll deal with it when and if it happens.”

JJ’s eyes widened. “Wow, thanks, Angel. I appreciate you’re willing to give this a try.”

I lifted my shoulder. “I like theater and musicals—how different could it be?”

The room went completely silent, and I hung my head. It was going to be completely different.

Trick or Treat Temptation by Hank Edwards

“Want me to give you a few minutes alone in the room so you can absorb the vibes from celebrity singer and songwriter Rex Garland?” Ivan said, grinning as he followed Jules down the hallway.

“I hear your voice, but I’m ignoring your sassy words,”Jules said without looking around or missing a step.

Their room was at the end of the intersecting hallway, and Ivan lingered in the hall as Jules stepped inside. The door swung shut with a slam. Ivan stood smiling, waiting for Jules to realize he was alone in the room.

“Oh, shit, is that Ivan?” someone asked from behind him.?He looked back along the hall and his heart lurched.?Skylar Powell approached, pulling a roller bag. Everything slowed down, like a cheesy effect in a TV show or movie. The sureness of Sky’s stride. The way his long-sleeved T-shirt accentuated his strong torso. How well his jeans hugged his hips and legs. Henna highlights gleamed in his brunet hair with each wall sconce he passed. The upward curl of his lips within the neatly trimmed dark beard. The very presence of him in this place, where men before them had met and fallen in love, sent Ivan’s heart racing.?As Sky stopped a few feet away, Ivan stared, dumbfounded.?“Wait, are you not Ivan?” Sky’s expression shifted to embarrassed panic. “I’m sorry. It’s just…”?

The door to the room opened, jerking Ivan’s attention away from Sky’s handsome face. Jules stood glaring out at him, one hand high up on the edge of the door, the other on his hip.?“You have this ridiculous notion that you are a humorous person,” Jules said. “And, yet, time and time again you keep proving yourself wrong. I was in there talking away to you and you’re being a smart ass, lingering here in the hallway to give me time alone with the Rex Garland vibes. You are a complete tool.”

“Julian?” Sky moved closer, looking between Jules, who had been out of his sightline, and Ivan. Ivan took a few steps back to give them space, but an enticing scent drifted his way, and he breathed it in. Sky’s cologne was subtle but masculine, and it made Ivan feel slightly lightheaded.

“Sky?” Jules moved into the hall and grabbed his brother in a strong hug. “It’s really good to see you.”

“You, too,” Sky said. “It’s been a long time.”

Jules stepped back and smiled as he looked Sky up and down. “You look great.”

“Thanks. You look really good yourself.”

“You remember Ivan, right?”

“Yeah, of course. I thought it was him, but he looks so mature now, I second guessed myself.”

“Mature?” Jules said with a snort.

That broke Ivan from his daze, and he shot Jules a dirty look before extending his hand to Sky.

“Hi, Sky. Sorry for not responding right away. You caught me off guard, and I was daydreaming.”

“No worries.” He looked Ivan in the eye as they shook. Sky’s warm brown eyes were locked on Ivan’s like a tractor beam. His palm was warm and soft, while Ivan’s felt sweaty. “You look good. Got kind of a lumberjack vibe going on.”

“Yeah, well,” Ivan said, blushing. He dropped his gaze to the floor as he released Sky’s hand. He curled his fingers in tight, as if trying to hold on to the heat from their touch. “I’ve been told that once or twice.”

“Or seven hundred times,” Jules said. “And most of those by me.”

Frank W Butterfield

Frank W. Butterfield is the Amazon best-selling author of 89 (and counting) self-published novels, novellas, and short stories. Born and raised in Lubbock, Texas, he has traveled all over the US and Canada and now makes his home in Daytona Beach, Florida. His first attempt at writing at the age of nine with a ball-point pen and a notepad was a failure. Forty years later, he tried again and hasn't stopped since.

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.

Happily married, with a house full of daughters, Charlie tries to juggle writing with the rest of a busy life. She loves reading, theatre, good food and watching sport. Her ideal day would be a morning walking along a beach, an afternoon spent watching rugby and a church service in the evening.

RJ Scott

Writing love stories with a happy ever after – cowboys, heroes, family, hockey, single dads, bodyguards

USA Today bestselling author RJ Scott has written over one hundred romance books. Emotional stories of complicated characters, cowboys, single dads, hockey players, millionaires, princes, bodyguards, Navy SEALs, soldiers, doctors, paramedics, firefighters, cops, and the men who get mixed up in their lives, always with a happy ever after.

She lives just outside London and spends every waking minute she isn’t with family either reading or writing. The last time she had a week’s break from writing, she didn’t like it one little bit, and she has yet to meet a box of chocolates she couldn’t defeat.

Davidson King

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.

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.

Hank Edwards

Hank Edwards has been writing gay romantic fiction for more than twenty years. He has published over thirty novels and dozens of short stories. His writing crosses many sub-genres, including romantic comedy, contemporary, paranormal, suspense, mystery, and wacky comedy.

He has written a number of series such as the funny and spooky Critter Catchers, Old West historical horror Venom Valley Series, suspenseful Up to Trouble series, and the very erotic and very funny Fluffers, Inc., He is also part of the shared universe Williamsville Inn series of contemporary gay romance books that feature stories by Brigham Vaughn as well. He's written a YA urban fantasy gay romance series called The Town of Superstition, which is published under the pen name R. G. Thomas.

No matter what genre he writes, Hank likes to keep things steamy, kind of sassy, and heartfelt. He was born and still lives in a northwest suburb of the Motor City, Detroit, Michigan.

Frank W Butterfield

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Charlie Cochrane

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Davidson King

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Hank Edwards

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The Voluptuous Vixen by Frank W Butterfield

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The Case of the Deadly Deception by Charlie Cochrane

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Jamie by RJ Scott

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Last Man Standing by Davidson King

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Trick or Treat Temptation by Hank Edwards

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