THE
FORGER
Elite
Crimes Unit #2
by
Michele Hauf
Genre: Romantic Suspense
Pub
Date: 8/8/2017
Olivia
Lawson’s bosses at Scotland Yard don’t take her work very
seriously. Art and antiquities? Bor-ing! But her latest
investigation, at London’s world-renowned Tate, is turning out to
be far more explosive than anyone expected. In fact, the vandalized,
booby-trapped painting hanging on the gallery wall would have blown
her off her feet if it wasn’t for the tall, dark-haired stranger
who tackled her at the last second—a stranger as finely sculpted as
any masterpiece in the museum.
Ethan
Maxwell is working this case for the Elite Crimes Unit because it was
a choice between that and lockup. A (barely) reformed art forger,
he’s got the expertise to lead Olivia through a dangerous manhunt.
But the crime may have a more personal connection to him—and the
all-too-real feelings he’s developing toward Olivia could pull her
into the line of fire too . . .
Amazon
* Apple
* B&N
* Google
* Kobo
* Kensington
Chapter 1
London
Olivia Lawson stood before the most hideous
painting she had seen hung on the esteemed walls of the Tate Britain museum.
Around her the forensics team and various police constables had begun to
trickle in. Olivia had arrived twenty minutes ago, as soon as dispatch had
forwarded her the call from Camila Wright, the museum’s director. The director
had been frantic, and had suspected a vandalism.
Olivia had called in backup officers from
Scotland Yard to search the outer perimeter of the museum. As she’d headed out,
she’d stopped into her boss’s office. Superintendent Wellbrute had just been
informed a gallery in SoHo, not far from where she lived, had been hit last
week with methods similar to this morning’s incident at the Tate Britain. He
didn’t understand why she hadn’t been on top of the SoHo incident. It was her
job with the Arts and Antiquities Unit to investigate art crimes.
How could she be on top of what she hadn’t been
aware of? Apparently the SoHo gallery owner had gone directly to Interpol
instead of Scotland Yard. Which had miffed her boss. And baffled Olivia only so
much. Private galleries had a lot at stake in keeping thefts quiet. They
couldn’t have their reputations tarnished should Scotland Yard release information
to the press. But it did stab at Olivia’s pride to have her boss angry with
her. She should have heard about that one or picked up information from the
art- world grapevine. Her lacking knowledge wasn’t going to help her status
at Scotland Yard.
She needed to solve this case to show her boss
she had what it took, and that she was not expendable. A promotion from
constable to detective constable was her goal.
Scotland Yard’s Arts and Antiquities Unit had
been reduced to two police officers, her and Nigel Bellows, who was out with
shingles. Not a day passed that Superintendent Wellbrute didn’t grumble about
lacking funding, and who cared about art crimes, anyway? Wasn’t as if the
perpetrator caused physical damage or violence to people such as with robbery
or murder. Wouldn’t she be happier in dispatch or even—and this was always
delivered with a wink—bringing him coffee and answering phones?
The cuts and insults never ceased, but Olivia
would not break under such demeaning treatment. She was proud to be a woman
working in the field of law enforcement and she would show the men exactly how
valuable she was to Arts and Antiquities.
But before she tied herself up with worry knots
over not learning about the SoHo incident, she had to decide if this call to
the Tate was related to last week’s gallery vandalism, or was something else
entirely.
Approaching the painting on the wall, Olivia
took careful note of all surroundings, moving her gaze from the periphery and
inward. As she reached the painting, she scanned the pale gray wall for
fingerprints, smudges, disturbed dust. No dust. The museum’s housekeeping was
meticulous.
Standing akimbo three feet away from the piece,
Olivia scanned the ornate gold frame, which the director had insisted was the
original that had framed the John Listen Byam Shaw masterpiece, Now Is Pilgrim Fair Autumn’s Charge, which had been the
painting displayed on the wall. Or maybe it still was that painting. It was
difficult to determine such.
Because pinned over the original—or whatever
was beneath—was a stretched canvas, on which had been painted a copy of the
Byam Shaw. An awful copy. Even the worst forger in the world would never take
credit for such an aberration.
Trying not to stare too long at the horrible
piece, Olivia took in everything else. No dirt in the curves and arabesques
carved into the frame. Forensics would dust for prints and do a thorough
run-through of the crime scene, but she always asked for a few minutes alone to
take everything in. To make notes, both physical and mental. The painting hung
about a foot above the green marble base that bordered the walls. Numerous
other paintings from the Pre-Raphaelite period hung on the wall, close together
but seemingly untouched.
With her cell phone, Olivia snapped a few pictures
of the entire frame and pinned canvas. Some were close-ups of the frame; the
texture of the paint on the new canvas; brushstrokes. It was a slapdash job,
but she sensed whoever had painted this copy had sincerely attempted to imitate
the master. The colors in the original were bold oranges, reds, and browns. The
copy had matched them perfectly. And the wispy ghost-like creature crawling out
of the water in the foreground was also executed with a careful hand.
Olivia stepped back and bumped into a man wearing
white scrubs over his jeans and T-shirt. “Sorry, Howard.”
Howard Leeds smiled and nodded at the painting.
He was deaf, but he didn’t need to hear to become one of the most honored
technicians in London forensics over the past two years. Having learned sign
language as a project in the fifth grade, and using it on many occasions over
the years, Olivia signed that she needed a few more minutes, then he could do
his job. Howard flashed another beaming white grin, punctuated by some killer
dimples, then walked over to a wooden viewing bench and sat
out his equipment.
Camila Wright clicked in on high heels and
stopped beside Olivia. Sheathed in drab gray, she looked like a stick in the
shapeless dress. After noting her badge, the woman had introduced herself to
Olivia upon arrival but hadn’t taken the time to ask who Olivia was. Tension
shimmered off her thin frame. She clenched her fists so tightly, her knuckles
looked ready to burst from the skin. “I just said goodbye to the Byam Shaw last
night as I was leaving the building.”
“Said goodbye to it?” Olivia asked.
“It’s one of my favorites. I talk to the ones I
love.”
Oddly enough, Olivia could relate to that.
Sometimes the characters depicted in oils and watercolors took on lives of
their own.
She offered her hand. “We didn’t have a chance
for proper introductions earlier. I’m Constable Olivia Lawson. I’ll be heading
the investigation.”
“Yes, Lawson.” Camila looked thoughtful, then her
demeanor changed. Olivia recognized the expression on her face as one she’d
thought she was long past receiving: derision. “The Olivia Lawson who once
worked at the now-defunct Hawhouse Gallery? And now you’re actually
investigating art crimes? Interesting.”
The unspoken condemnation crept down Olivia’s
spine, but she wasn’t going to allow it to affect her work. She was over that
horrible incident. Mostly. Her best defense was to ignore the attitude, which
she got more often than expected.
“It appears to be the original frame,” Olivia
said, more from a hunch than actual evidence. Upon arrival, she’d asked Miss
Wright to pull the details and catalog for the Byam Shaw, but hadn’t received
that information yet. She glanced upward. The roof was two stories high and
featured four curved skylights. They were the only windows in the well-lit
gallery. “Before I begin to consider possible entrances for theft,” she said,
“I want to spend
more time studying it on the wall. If you don’t
mind?”
“Of course not. I’ve blocked off the entire hall
so when we open in a half hour, no patrons will be aware of what is going on in
this area. I’ve instructed the police to enter from the employees’ entrance.
Our media team is keeping this hush-hush until we know what’s up.”
“Thank you. Do you believe the original lies
beneath?” Olivia tapped her lower lip, eyes on the painting.
“I certainly hope so. But if so, the pins will
have damaged the original artwork.” Camila shivered. “This is awful. Will
you be working with a partner?”
“I usually don’t. Why do you ask?” Olivia would
not allow the woman to condemn her for no reason.
“Uh, no reason.” Yet her flittering gaze revealed
her worry. “Just asking. I’ll leave you to go check on the files you
requested.”
Olivia nodded and approached the painting. She
stopped eight inches away and bent forward to view it from the side. The
intense chemical smell of cheap oil paints burnt her nostrils. Had the thief
replaced a valuable work of art with a hurried forgery? What was the meaning
behind such an obvious and blatant forgery?
It must have some meaning. Thieves were crafty.
Art forgers, especially, were pompous egomaniacs who liked their work to be
known. Had the thief—or perhaps she should think of the person as a vandal
until she could confirm theft had occurred—merely been after a grab-and-run, he
would have left the wall bare.
A glance to the upper corner by the ceiling
confirmed a small white security camera. She’d look at security footage as soon
as possible.
Leaning in, Olivia noted the stick pins holding
the new canvas over what she suspected was the original canvas beneath. The
pins stretched the forgery taut. Each pin had a bit of wet paint smeared on it;
the forgery hadn’t had time to completely dry.
Olivia leaned in so closely that her
shoulder-length red hair brushed the wall beside the frame. Clicking on the
light at the end of her pen, she flashed it behind the painting. There was
about a quarter inch where it did not meet the wall, from top to about a third
of the way down. It allowed her to see the hook that held the painting and the
wire secured to its back. It was standard museum-hanging procedure. Everything
was attached to the frame, not the canvas.
Strange. If the thief had removed the Byam Shaw
from the frame, he would have had to carefully slip in a replacement. Something
to pin the forgery to. The original must still be intact.
Olivia moved in front of the piece again and
studied the inner edges of the frame. In a few spots, fresh paint smeared the
gold wood frame. She took a few photos of the spatters. Noticing that Howard
was waiting patiently, she signaled him over and pointed out what she’d seen.
He gave her a thumbs-up, then pointed to the top
of the picture and gestured that he might take it down for her inspection.
“We should take more photos before removing it
from the wall.” She signed to him to bring in the photographer from the
Evidence Recovery Unit.
Ten minutes later, the ERU photographer had
clicked through hundreds of shots of the entire room and the painting.
“I think we can take it down now,” Olivia
announced to the few officers in the room. “Howard, if you’ll assist me.” She
signed to him that she would help him remove it from the wall. He approached
the painting.
Olivia snapped on latex gloves and slid her right
hand to the top of the frame. With her left, she gripped the bottom.
“Stop!”
Olivia turned around. A tall, handsome man raced
toward her. She smelled sulfur. Something flashed in the corner of her eye as
the man’s body collided with hers. Together, they tumbled to the hardwood
floor.
THE
THIEF
Elite
Crimes Unit #1
The
Elite Crimes Unit works behind the scenes of Interpol—and employs
some of the world’s most talented criminal minds. Because as
everyone knows, it takes a thief to catch a thief—or to seduce one
. . .
The
old farmhouse in the French countryside is a refuge for former jewel
thief Josephine Deveraux. Admittedly, there aren’t many men in the
vicinity, but she has her cat to cuddle up with. It’s a far cry
from her former life, constantly running from the law, and she’s
enjoying her peace . . . until the intruder in the three-piece suit
tackles her. He wants her back in the game, helping with a heist—and
he’s not above making threats to get his way.
Little
does Josephine know that notorious—and notoriously charming—thief,
Xavier Lambert, is after the very same 180-carat prize she’s being
blackmailed to steal. To his chagrin, he’s doing it not as a free
agent, but as a member of the Elite Crimes Unit—the team he was
forced to join when his brilliant career came to a sudden end. And
little does Xavier know that his comeback is about to include a
stranger’s kiss, a stinging slap, and a hunt for missing
treasure—along with the infuriatingly sexy woman who’s outfoxing
him . . .
Amazon
* Apple
* GooglePlay
* Kobo
* Nook
Josephine
Devereaux strode through the open front screen door into the kitchen. Creamy
golden evening light spread quiet warmth across the aged hardwood floors. The
old farmhouse had stood on this plot in the southern French countryside for
centuries. She’d had the pleasure of owning it for two years.
Setting
a clutch of fresh carrots pulled from the rain-damp garden into the sink, she
spun at a tiny meow. Behind her, the two-and-a-half-year-old Devon Rex cat with
soft, downy fur the color of faded charcoal batted at the hem of her long pink
skirt.
“Do
you want fish or chicken tonight, Chloe?”
She
opened the refrigerator to find the only option was diced chicken, left over
from last night’s supper. Her neighbor, Jean-Hugues, had butchered a rooster
yesterday morning and brought her half.
The
cat went at the feast she’d placed on a saucer with big elf ears wiggling
appreciatively. Chloe had come with the farmhouse. The couple moving out hadn’t
wanted to bring along a kitten on their overseas move to the United States. It
had been love at first purr for Josephine.
She
smiled at the quiet patter of rain. And then she frowned. “Mud,” she muttered.
And she hated housecleaning. She had never developed a domestic bone in her
body and didn’t expect to grow one.
She’d
spend the evening inside, maybe finish up the thriller she’d found on
Jean-Hugues’s bookshelf. He always encouraged her to take what she wanted—she
was a voracious reader of all topics—and she gave him vegetables from her
garden in return.
Not
that she was a master gardener. Jean-Hugues tended the garden, along with the
few rows of vines that produced enough grapes for one big
barrel
of wine. Jean-Hughes was sixty, but he flirted with her in a non-
confrontational, just-for-fun manner, which she appreciated probably more than
a twenty-six-year-old woman should.
Living
so far from Paris made it difficult to find dateable men, let alone a hook-up
for a night of just-give-it-to-me-now-and-leave-before-the-sun- rises sex. But
that’s what grocery trips to the nearest village were for. If the mood struck,
she’d leave in the evening for eggs, bread, and a booty call, and find her way
out of bed and back home by morning.
Sighing,
Josephine forgot about the dirty carrots in the sink and padded barefoot to the
lumpy jacquard sofa that stretched before the massive paned window at the front
of the cottage. The window overlooked a cobblestone patio, which stretched
before the house and also served as a driveway, though no cars used it. She
didn’t own a car. And she never had visitors, save Jean-Hugues, and on occasion
the neighbors who lived on the other side of him. They were newlyweds,
Jean-Louis and Hollie, and they spent most of their time by themselves. And
that was exactly how Josephine preferred it.
She
picked up the book, and the creased spine flopped open to the last page she’d
read.
An
hour later, she had to squint to read because the sun had set. Splaying the
book across her chest, she closed her eyes and breathed in the fragrance of
rain on fieldstones. Chloe nestled near her foot, keeping her ankle warm. The
screen door, still open, squeaked lightly with the breeze. Everything was….
Peaceful?
Was that a word she was supposed to embrace? To somehow understand?
“I
am embracing it. Life is good.”
Or
rather, more different than she could have ever imagined it would be. She set
the book down, but the sound she heard was not of a paperback book hitting the
wood floor. Josephine closed her eyes to listen intently. The floor creaked
carefully above her, where the bathroom was located.
It
did not indicate the aches and pains of an aging house. This house had settled
long ago.
Curling
her hand beneath the sofa, she gripped the cool bone handle of the bowie knife
she’d tucked up into the torn fabric amongst the springs and pulled it out.
Pointing the blade down, she took a deep breath and stood up. Moving sinuously,
she crept around the end of the sofa. Her free hand skimmed over Chloe’s body, comforting
and promising she’d return. The cat purred but thankfully didn’t follow.
Upstairs,
it was silent. Josephine wasn’t easily spooked by natural noises, but that had
not been a natural noise. And she wasn’t unnerved now. Just…. annoyed.
This
was her sanctuary. No one knew where she had disappeared two years ago. Very
few had known her location before that. But since then, she’d completely erased
herself from the grid. Therefore, whoever was stupid enough to break in was
looking to rob a random person. And they had to know she was home, which meant
the intruder did not fear an altercation.
Tough
luck for that idiot.
On
the other hand, she had only herself to blame for leaving the ladder up against
the north wall after knocking down a wasp nest this morning. Approaching the
stairway, which was worn in the center of the stone risers from decades of use,
Josephine tugged up her maxi skirt and tucked in one side at the waist to keep
from tangling her legs in the long, floaty fabric. The stairs were fashioned
from limestone; no creaks would give away her position. Barefoot, she padded up
six steps to a landing. Ahead,
around
a sharp right turn, rose another five steps to the second floor.
Hearing
the creak of a leather sole, she realized the intruder had stepped onto the
stairs. But where was he? Waiting for her to spin around the corner? He
probably thought she was still downstairs relaxing on the couch.
Which
gave her the advantage.
With
her right arm thrust out, knife blade cutting the air, she rushed forward. As
she turned the corner on the stairway, the intruder grabbed her wrist, forcing
it upward to deflect the blade from stabbing his face.
Josephine
yanked her arm back, causing the intruder to lose his balance. His weight
crushed her against the plaster wall, and they struggled on the landing.
Although it was dark in the stairway, she could see that he wasn’t an average
intruder—most tended to not wear three-piece suits. He was about her height and
lean. She did not doubt she could take him out.
He
managed a weak knee to her gut, but she didn’t even wince. She rammed her head
against his shoulder. He twisted his waist, knocking her off-balance. They
spilled backward. Her hip landed his thigh as they slid down the stone stairs.
They
landed on the kitchen floor, Josephine on her stomach, with the intruder on top
of her. The knife flew out of her hand and skittered across the floor, landing
before Chloe’s toes. The cat bent to sniff the weapon.
“Chloe,
no!” she shouted. The cat scampered under the sofa.
The
intruder grabbed Josephine by the hair at her neck and lifted her head. Just
when he would have smashed her face against the floor, she kicked him right
between the legs. His fingers instantly released the pinching hold on her neck.
He swore and dropped beside her.
Scrambling
across the floor, she grabbed the knife and stood, flicking on the light switch
on the wall, and moving to stand over the attacker.
“What
the hell?” she gasped. “You?”
A
man she knew well, and had trusted enough to let down her guard and actually
date, offered her an imperious smile. He swore and rubbed his crotch. “Your aim
has always been spot on, Jo-Jo. Ah fuck.”
His
head dropped. His eyes closed. Passed out from the pain? Josephine inched
closer and leaned over him. With the tip of the knife,
she
prodded him at the temple.
The
man’s hand whipped up and grabbed her long hair, jerking her off balance and
swinging her to the floor. He slammed her knife hand on the floor so hard, she
let go. Grabbing the knife, he pressed it against her left breast, right over
her heart.
“I
have a proposition for you, Jo-Jo.”
No
one had called her that in over two years. And hearing it now conjured up dread
and regret. But along with those feelings, there was the sudden rush of
adrenaline that always came with the game. She’d walked away from the game, and
this man’s world of larceny and lies. And she didn’t intend to walk back into
it—or be forced.
“Funny,
your last proposition had me running for the hills.” Away from the engagement
ring he had offered like a tempting sweet. She wasn’t that kind of girl. The
domestic, let-a-man-own-you type. Her mother’s horrible choice in men had
taught her a few lessons. “Never thought I’d see you again.”
He
winced. “Your refusal wounded me, Jo-Jo. But I’m able to put past mistakes
aside. I need you for a job.”
A
mistake? More so on her part than his. But with his narcissism, he’d never care
that she did have feelings, and she could be hurt. Hell, it had taken her two
years living alone in the French countryside to realize that herself.
She
splayed out her arms and closed her eyes in surrender. “Just kill me, Lincoln.
That’s the only way this will ever happen.”
“I
assumed as much. You like living the hard way? Out here in the sticks? I’ll
give you that. But you owe me, Jo-Jo. For saying no.”
“Seriously?”
Since when did a woman owe a man because she’d refused his marriage proposal?
She
closed her eyes, inhaling the cool, ocean scent of his skin as the knife’s cool
metal disappeared from her body. “What the hell could you possibly want from
me?”
“There’s
a pretty bit of sparkle I need you to pick up for me. This Saturday. In Paris.”
Lincoln
was interested in the sparkly stuff? Since when? The man was into money
laundering and securities fraud.
Did
it matter? “Not interested.”
The
knife blade glinted from the light over the kitchen table. “One job and I’ll
never bother you again.”
“Since
when are you into jewel theft?”
“It’s
related to an offensive situation that could cast a black mark against my name.
I’d like to remedy that. But since you know where my expertise is focused, you
should also understand I have to bring in an expert for this particular heist.”
The
asshole could skim a million from a major stock as easily as gliding a knife
over butter. It was that talent that had initially attracted her. He was Robin
Hood, taking from the rich—but he’d never given to the poor. And that had been
a sticking point for her, a woman who had always tried to give away some of her
spoils to those in need.
An
offensive situation? She couldn’t imagine. And she didn’t want to know. “How’d
you find me?” she asked.
“I’ve
kept tabs on you since you went under. Did you actually think you could elude
me, Jo-Jo?”
“Don’t
call me that.”
“It’s
your name, Josephine.” He straddled her hips, and his grip at her shoulder
loosened. He let out a long, deep breath. It reminded too much of soft summer
mornings spent lazing under the sheets against his warm skin. “You never did
like this position,” he said. “Me on top.”
“You
have a thing about being the one in control.” “And you don’t?”
She
was in no mood to discuss her preference in sexual positions, or even to
converse with this man. But she remained still beneath him. The knife blade
pointed away from her; he’d let down his guard. She had only to bide her time.
“You
know I’m not in the trade anymore, Lincoln. If you need some sparklers, there
are other options.”
“Yes,
but I require discretion and quality work. You’re the only thief I know who can
do this job. I’ll even pay you.”
She
scoffed. “I know better. You are not a generous man. Leave.”
He
slapped her face. The smack rung in her ears, and Josephine’s gasp burned in
her throat. But she used the distraction to her advantage, jabbing her knee
into the femoral artery in his thigh. Always a painful spot. The knife clanked
on the stone floor. She twisted her body, slamming him onto the floor, and
landed both knees onto his torso. Grabbing the knife, she lifted it above her
head with both hands, aiming for his chest.
Lincoln
chuckled. His dark eyes twinkled in the cool evening shadows. Yeah, that was a
devastating twinkle, and he knew how to wield it. As he spread his arms out,
and she felt his chest relax beneath her knees, he said, “If I know one thing
about you, Jo-Jo, it’s that you are not a killer.” She tilted her head and
nodded. “Nope, I’m not so keen on taking life.
But
I don’t mind causing a little pain now and then.”
She
slammed her hands down. The knife pierced Lincoln’s Givenchy suit and nicked bone
as it entered his shoulder. He growled as she stood up over him.
“Get
the hell out of my home.” She stepped back and glanced around the room. Chloe
was still under the sofa. “Now!”
Gripping
his shoulder but leaving the blade in, Lincoln stood up, staggered, yet managed
a cool recovery. He swept a hand over his coal-black hair, slicked with pomade.
“You will do this job for me. I will be back.”
He
turned and stalked out, leaving the screen door swinging out over the
courtyard. Spots of blood dribbled on the floor and cobblestones in his wake.
As Josephine let out a long breath, she heard a car roll across the gravel
drive. Lincoln must have had a driver park at the end of the half-mile drive.
He had walked up and insinuated himself in her house as if he was a specter.
It
didn’t matter how he’d gained access. He’d crept back into her life.
Not cool.
Josephine’s
instincts kicked into survival mode.
She
ran up the stairs and pulled a duffel bag out from the bedroom closet. Stuffing
it with shirts, pants, bras, and a Glock 42—a .380 automatic—she scrambled down
the stairs, calling for Chloe. The cat scampered out from under the sofa.
“I’m
sorry, sweetie, but my past just stopped by for a visit.”
And
she wasn’t stupid enough to sit around and wait for that return visit he had
promised. Because it would happen.
Ten
minutes later, she’d pulled the rusty ten-speed bicycle she used for grocery
trips out of the garage and pedaled up to Jean-Hugues’s cottage. She handed him
Chloe and bent to kiss the cat’s downy-soft head. “I need you to watch her for
a few days. I’m heading to Paris. I have some things to take care of.”
Like
finding a new place to live. The little apartment she owned in Paris’s 8th
arrondissement served as a safe house. It would provide cover until Dmitri, her
go-to man, could relocate her.
“Is
everything okay?” Jean-Hugues asked as he cuddled Chloe against his neck. He
bent his head to allow the cat to nuzzle against his five-o’clock shadow. “You
are not in trouble, Josephine?”
Her
name always sounded whispery and sexy when he said it. Of course she’d let him
flirt with her. She’d considered kissing him once—a deep and lingering taste
from a wise and seasoned male—but had never gone beyond the thankful kiss to
his forehead or cheek.
“No,
not in trouble. Never.”
She’d
not told him why a young, single woman had suddenly moved out to the country to
do nothing more than read and bike, and spend her evenings cooking meals
straight from the garden alongside a sexy old Frenchman. He’d always accepted
that she had some secrets, as did everyone.
“I’m
going to pedal into town and catch a cab to Paris. I’ll be back in a few days
to pick up Chloe. Okay?”
“Of
course, mon petite chat is always welcome. We will have chicken and eggs for
breakfast, oui, Chloe?”
Josephine
stroked the cat’s head, then she leaned in to kiss Jean-Hugues’s cheek. “Merci.
I will not be long.”
Michele
Hauf has been writing romance, action-adventure and fantasy stories
for over twenty years. Her first published novel was Dark Rapture
(Zebra). France, musketeers, vampires and faeries populate her
stories. And if she followed the adage “write what you know,” all
her stories would have snow in them. Fortunately, she steps beyond
her comfort zone and writes about countries she has never visited and
of creatures she has never seen.
Follow
the tour HERE
for exclusive excerpts and a giveaway!
0 comments:
Post a Comment