Excerpts

There are four book excerpts here.  Scroll down until you find the one you want.

 

Excerpt from The Only Way to Paradise

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

LATTE WITH STEFANO AND THE MEDICI

Roxie and her Red Rocket made a valiant attempt to follow Cosimo’s scooter through the stony, serpentine streets of old Florence and across the Arno. Twice she thought she’d lost him. He was an ace at the drag races that took place at each signal, and she suspected that he had a souped-up engine in his Vespa. Once they reached the other side of the river, the streets were more negotiable and less crowded. Roxie caught glimpses of boutiques selling everything from elegant handbags to the Florentine pottery she had always loved. She must come back on foot and explore this place.

Her heart speeded up with sickening familiarity. There was no getting around the fact that it would only be a few moments before they met the professor. She knew about men. Thoughts about past misadventures had kept her awake in the night. It was the body in the Lycra cycling suit he  invited to the café. Not my inquiring mind. She was probably the only woman in the non-Islamic world who wished for a burkha. At least, her new coat covered her.  It also kept her warm in those rare moments when the street was miraculously clear and she could zoom her scooter.

Could she keep up her fiction of being a novelist? Why was I idiotic enough to pretend such a thing? Still, it shouldn’t be hard for one afternoon. Most men loved to talk. She would just have to ask a few questions. And surely Cosimo would keep him in line.

But by the time her scooter slowed in front of the café across from the enormous, outwardly ugly Pitti Palace, her hands were shaking, and she knew very well it had nothing to do with the Medici or her supposed novel. Roxie took a deep breath. This wouldn’t do. She’d been a basket case as she had flitted through the outdoor market, exhilarated, yet frightened deep down of Stefano and his classic charm.  Did Stefano somehow influence me to buy the red dress last night? I can’t even imagine what MacKenzie will say when she sees it.

Cosimo had dismounted and was holding the glass door open for her. Even though the day was bright and sunny, all at once darkness, dampness, and the smell of decay descended upon her. In a moment of déjà vu, she was paralyzed inside the deserted summerhouse on grandfather’s estate. Where the snakes were.

“Signorina Roxie?” Cosimo asked. “Do you need help? Are you sick? You are green.”

With great effort, she focused on the handsome, concerned Cosimo. Her inner vision cleared. I must be crazy. Nothing around her suggested the summerhouse. There was only a charming café with a red-and-white striped awning, geraniums in the window boxes, and trays of Italian pastries in the window.

Tossing her head briskly, she said, “I’m fine. Let’s go in.”

Stefano was reading his newspaper in the back of the little hostelry with its bare wood floors and its walls decorated with bright Florentine pottery. His wavy brown hair mussed, he looked as though he had been running his hand through it. He rose, graceful as a panther, and met his nephew with a kiss on both cheeks.

Then he widened his arms as though he were going to embrace Roxie as well. She stepped back. He laughed, basso profundo, and said, “Ah, here we have Signorina Roxie. Our Medici scholar in blue jeans. Have a seat. Have a seat. Espresso? Latte?”

Roxie sat, taking in the fragrance of espresso and the doughy smell of cinnamon pastries. “A latte sounds good,” she managed. Today Stefano was wearing a baby-blue cashmere turtleneck and tobacco colored wool slacks with the sleeves of a matching cardigan tied loosely around his neck. She took a deep, steadying breath.

“And where is your young lady, Cosimo? I expected to see Adriana with you.”

“She has an interview,” the boy answered. “I told you, she has been looking for work. She could not miss this chance.”

“Ah.” After ordering two lattes and an espresso for Cosimo from a diminutive young waiter covered with a large white apron, Stefano turned to Roxie. “I am most intrigued by your proposed novel. Tell me,” his eyes searched hers and she read unveiled merriment. “Why did you decide to write about the Medici?”

Now that he had challenged her, she was relieved to feel her native facility with facts and language rise to the occasion. The lie tumbled out easily. “I’m making a personal study of the Renaissance. In this age of technology, I don’t think we really understand what a miracle it was. I mean, it just bloomed out of nowhere. Overnight. After a millennium of darkness. And the Medici were central to everything. It started with their patronage.”

“Don’t make them into saints, I beg of you. You must know they were a conniving, bloodthirsty lot, especially the Popes. And why a novel?” he persisted. “Why not a history?”

“One of my professors in graduate school told me that if you really want to understand a period in history, you should read a well-written novel about the period. It was his opinion that a novel is better-rounded than a history. The characters can add depth and multiple viewpoints. But it is also far more difficult to write.” Her professor had said that, though she had forgotten it until this moment.

“I can see that might be so. I, of course, am willing to help you in anyway I can. You have—how long to make this study?” The corner of his mouth quirked up.

Roxie swallowed and wet her lips. He could find out the truth from Cosimo. “A few weeks. I’m here with three friends.”

Stefano put his head to one side and studied her. “A few weeks? Have you any idea how complex a study the Medici are?”

Her mouth was dry. “Probably not. But there are such things as books in the States. And, of course, the Internet.”

“If you are going to have a character descend into the middle of their world, you will need more than the understanding books can give. You must enter their world. Their Florence. Their Tuscany. I can show these things to you.”

“You are very kind.”

He gave her a satisfied smile that she read as smug and patronizing. Roxie became her normal self. Raising her chin, she said, “I warned you not to be deceived by this face, Professor.  I am far from stupid.  As a matter of fact, I am a professor, too. Dr. Castro.”

Cosimo began clapping. Soon he was joined by his uncle. “I’m sorry, Madonna,” Stefano said with a lazy smile. “It was unforgivable of me to presume to judge you. I blame, not your lovely face, but rather your windblown hair and blue jeans.”

Raising an eyebrow, she said, “I could be completely wrong, but I doubt you would be so eager to help me if I weighed two hundred pounds and had a face like the back of a truck.  As for the blue jeans, everyone wears them. Even here.”

“Bravissima, Bella,” said Cosimo. “You are beautiful, but you are wise. I can tell by the intelligent way you drive your scooter.”

Roxie laughed and felt a little of the tension leave her. “Cosimo, I adore you. You have such a way with the English language.”

Stefano leaned back in his chair, raising his cup to his lips and sipping from it slowly.  “All right. I admit, I thought this novel was manufactured last night on the spur of the moment,” he said.

Roxie felt a blush start and so blazed at him with assumed indignation, “Why would I invent such a story?”

Stefano looked into his latte. “It will only make you more angry if I tell you.”

Cosimo said, “Women will say anything to get my uncle to notice them. He is the victim of a beautiful face as well.”

“Shall we put physical prejudices aside and begin all over?” the professor asked.

“Can you do that?” she asked. “You’re a man, after all.”

“Your charm is great, but I believe I can. The question should be, can you?”

“Are all Italians as vain as you?”

Cosimo applauded once more. “I see I need to be a—what is it in English? The man who judges in a fight?”

“A referee,” Roxie told him.

Cosimo crossed his arms and then threw them open as though declaring “safe” in a baseball game. “I think Professor Roxie wins the prize, Uncle. You are going to have to impress her with your brains.”

“Well, then,” Stefano said with a grin. “Why don’t we start? I suppose that enormous backpack has some notepaper?”

“Better,” Roxie said, “I never travel without my laptop.”

Stefano and Cosimo admired her slim, shiny little computer as she opened it and fired up her word processor.

“The first thing we need to do is cover the basics for the time frame you are interested in. Do you have one in mind?” Stefano inquired.

“What would you suggest?” Roxie asked, sheathing her claws now that they had gotten down to business.

“Did you know there was an actual murder of a Medici princess?”

She looked at him closely. “Are you making that up to test me?”

“No. Honestly. No. There really was. Isabella di Medici Orsini, the daughter of Cosimo the Great, was murdered.”

Well, maybe I’ll write that novel after all. Wouldn’t it be fun to have my heroine go back in time, specifically to warn Isabella? To try to prevent the murder and change history?

“That sounds promising. I’d like to hear about it.”

He sat back in his chair and viewed her almost absently as he presumably visited the past. “Actually, I have spent most of my professional career trying to prove that the wrong person was accused of the murder. There are many supposed ‘eyewitnesses,’ but I don’t consider them particularly reliable.”

“I suppose that would make a big academic splash,” she said. But her interest was piqued. “Let me guess. History says her spouse killed her.”

“Precisely. Paolo, her husband, supposedly strangled her, and while I can see that happening in the heat of passion, this murder was, according to most reports, planned ahead of time. And though they were both certainly emotional Italians, any passion that might ever have existed between them was long over.  It doesn’t smell right to me and never has. I think Paolo would have coldly and efficiently run her through with a sword or simply cut her throat.”

“Do you have a contrary nature?”

“I can see that you do.”

She forced a laugh. He saw too much. “Definitely. It’s the journalist in me. Always question the facts.”

He leaned on the table with his forearms and caressed her with his coffee-colored eyes.  They were no longer teasing. In the silence his desire and her own stole between them, doing a slow dance together as though they had known one another well in a pre-existent reality.  She sensed a gentle pull from him toward his godlike face, his warm, gentle mouth. Overtaken by a foreign yearning that warmed her breast, relaxing all her barriers, Roxie wanted more than anything else to kiss him. Everything around her had dissolved.  There was only his face, his eyes, his mouth.

“I think, Signorina Dottore, that we might make a very good team.” His voice was low and husky.

Without warning, the black descended upon her, choking her like dense fog, and she was breathless. In an instant, she felt as though her lungs were scorched. Clumsily gulping a mouthful of latte, Roxie’s mind fought the dark veil with no success.

Striking her forehead with the heel of her hand, she exclaimed with a drama tinged by hysteria, “No. No. I’ve got to get out of here.” She barely remembered to stuff her computer  back into its case.

Stefano was clearly startled, if not a little affronted. “What is wrong?”

However, Cosimo, ever the gentleman, rose and said, “We must leave then. You will never find your way back alone. I will lead the way.”

Roxie moved as fast as she could for the door.

Excerpt from The Last Waltz:

The activity towards which Amalia’s entire day built was her late afternoon ride.  She hurried into her riding habit after her chores were completed and hastened to the stables where her mare, Elisabeth, was saddled and awaiting her. As soon as they were out of view of the Schloss, she spurred her mare into an unrestrained gallop, as satisfying to Elisabeth as to herself, and she would allow her thoughts to tumble out.  She allowed herself to mourn for Andrzej and what they had lost.  She knew this was important.  She couldn’t just cut off her emotions and pretend they weren’t there, she had to go through the process of grieving and then letting go.

She often rode with tears streaming down her face.  It had been years since she had indulged herself this way.  She was nearly forty.  Shouldn’t she be putting all this type of behavior behind her?  She was deeply fond of Rudolf, and became more so the longer she spent at the Schloss.  But those old treacherously sweet memories remained and it seemed there was nothing she could do to censor them.  It had been so long since she had felt any passion in a life that had become so prosaic.  The intimacy she had shared in Vienna with Andrzej had never been part of her life with Rudolf.  They kept to their own rooms for the most part, and he had always kept his ardor restrained, as though vaguely embarrassed of it.  She knew he hid in the “cobwebby rooms” in his mind for days at a time, sometimes a whole week.  Though she had grown deeply fond of him, she had never dared to let him know it for fear she would frighten him off.  And now, just as he had always feared, Andrzej had returned for her.

And so she prayed as she rode.  She prayed that she would learn to live without passion, or at least passion for Andrzej.  She prayed that her feelings for Rudolf would deepen and that she would be able to fill this aching sorrow with kind and gentle love.  She prayed she could be more understanding of the problems facing him in the government and that he could still be a force for good.  As the days passed, she could feel herself grow in spiritual substance.  Wild emotions quieted, a peaceful feeling grew in her breast as she thought of her little family and all they meant to her.  But still, the grief remained.

Excerpt from The Arthurian Omen:

Running along the towpath of the River Dee in the dark, Maren felt the damp fog on her face and breathed in the scent of wet grass and running water. As thoughts of her daughter crowded her mind, she pushed harder. The exercise began to purge her, and she reached heavenward.

“I know awful things happen in this world,” she prayed. “I know I have no right to ask for special favors. But, please, God, please, watch after my little girl. Help Sam to find her. Help me to find the manuscript.”

She thought of Rachael as she skirted a fishing boat, pulled up onto the path. Pounding across an ancient bridge, she thought of

Patrick. “The only one I have left is Claire. I’ve failed everyone else, God. Please, please help me to save her.”

As dawn began to gray the sky, a fine drizzle commenced, and she turned and started running back to the Squirrels. Endorphins were now flooding her system. The sharp desperation of fear was gone, but she knew her own resources weren’t enough. If there were such a thing as divine intervention, Maren needed it badly.

Entering her room, exhausted and damp, she saw that a square of white notepaper lay just inside the door. Puzzled, she picked it up. It appeared to be verses of poetry.

Emerald goddess of the waters

Swaying with the waves,

I am trapped on this dry shore.

I may not go your way.

I can dream of watery worlds,

Of light and joy and love.

But I am weighted by the earth,

And ne’er can float above.

Calm the sea, O goddess good.

Stretch out your milk-white arms

And keep the savage shark at bay

That he may do no harm.

Float across the endless oceans,

Go to meet your destiny.

But don’t forget the beachbound one

And let me see, oh let me see.

I’m coming for you someday soon.

Glyndwr

Love poetry? Glyndwr? As in Owain Glyndwr? What was this? A joke?  She sank onto her bed, staring at the paper. It must be a joke. But there was something creepy about it. She didn’t like the idea of being compared to a fish. It sounded uncomfortably suggestive for some reason. But who could have done it?

Excerpt from Cankered Roots:

A noise awakened her. At first, she didn’t realize she was awake. Registering automatically that the back door had just shut, she wondered idly what time it was and who was going out. There was another sound, and suddenly she jerked awake. Someone had just upset the umbrella jug by the back door. She had done it numerous times herself. Was it Officer Gentry?

Perhaps she had better find out. Climbing out of bed, she descended the stairs lightly and crept through the entryway, her bare feet making no sound. In the dining room, she halted at the swinging door that led to the kitchen. A wavering, yellow light was moving through the slit underneath. A flashlight. Not Officer Gentry, then. Who could it be?

Easing the door just a crack, she could see the light reflecting off the mirror on the butcher block. The intruder was examining the will. A heavy odor of French fries filled the air.

Suddenly angry, she pushed the door open the rest of the way. “What do you think you’re doing?”

The flashlight moved to her face, blinding her. Heedless, she moved toward it. “What do you want?” She was dimly aware of someone’s tread on the staircase.

The owner of the light jerked around and made for the door. Still dazzled, Alex heard him charge the butcher block, sending the glass table top rolling and then crashing to the floor. Like a slow-motion sequence in a film, its shattering seemed to go on forever. Against this sound, the back door slammed, and the intruder disappeared.

A split second later, she heard the front door. Whirling, Alex ran into the entryway and stared out into the night. It was easy to see Briggie in the moonlight, her white Royals nightie giving her the appearance of a plump fairy as she sprinted across the lawn to her Bronco. Another shape, this one rotund and not quite as fast, was lumbering down the driveway from the back of the house.

Briggie emerged, backside first, from the Bronco, her thirty-aught-six rifle in hand. Meanwhile the rotund shape had made it to the street and was making track across the drive towards what looked like an aged Ford Pinto.

Her partner took aim. “Hands up!” she cried.

Ignoring her, the intruder flung open the car door, tossed something inside, and dove in after it. The something appeared to be Alex’s canvas bag.

“Hey!” she yelled, running across the lawn. The car started.

Alex heard a shot and her automatic reflex was to duck from flying buckshot. There was a burst of gravel by the back tire. With the vague idea of blocking the car, Alex ran into the street. Briggie yelled at her, “Out of the way!”

Another shot. “Darn!” she exclaimed as the Pinto disappeared around the corner. Running after it, Alex heard someone shout, “Mrs. Campbell!”

It was no use, of course. The idiot had gotten away with her bag.

Wandering back to the house, she was amused to see Briggie, deer rifle in hand, explaining events to an obviously chagrined Officer Gentry.

“What’s going on?” Daniel demanded, his ginger hair standing on end. He was dressed in her father’s pajama bottoms.

“Dear Cousin Bob just made off with my bag,” Alex explained. “Briggie almost got the rear tires, but I spoiled her aim.” Looking over at Briggie she said remorsefully, “Sorry, Briggs.”

“Cousin Bob?” Briggie asked. “Is that who it was?”

“Without a doubt. He was fat, cowardly, and smelled unmistakably of French fries.”