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The Author

Confident that they can handle the job, they oversell their skills and demand half the payment up front to seal the deal.

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Skeptical at first, the mob boss decides to hire this unlikely pair when he mistakes their attitude for professional stoicism. Download it once and read it on your Kindle device, PC, phones or tablets. The girls are shocked when presented with a target profile and an envelope full of cash. The clock is ticking and when the body count is still zero after multiple attempts, the boss decides to bring in additional assassins to finish the job and tie up loose ends. And the girls just happen to be one of those loose ends.

Women and their sexuality from Zaftig: Thank you very much for mentioning my book, Misadventures Of Fatwoman! I think humour is a great way of tackling such a sensitive issue…I hope it helps others too. What Should You Read Next? You are commenting using your WordPress. You are commenting using your Twitter account. Like Liked by 1 person. So I'm going to find the scumbag who hurt my Cherry, and my club, and I'm going to make them pay.

Patricia Mason Goodreads Author. See if you have enough points for this item. Richards's newest anthology of gay erotic romance brings you eight stories ranging from contemporary to paranormal, fanciful to dystopian, earthly to alien. By the end of the day, I was tired, happy and very much in love with my wife. You are commenting using your Facebook account. Notify me of new comments via email. Notify me of new posts via email. Subscribe in a reader. View all posts by Darla G. March 14, at When it comes to Voluptuous neighbors-next-door with natural big boobs, Cameron Skye rates very high.

Cameron personifies that kind of all-American Vo. If Ann ever wore any o. It was never a conscious decision, it was part of me then and it still is now. It entirely depends on the story.

Likewise my first few attempts at novels still languishing unpublished! The Marquess House Trilogy , which has a split timeline comprising of a present day strand and a historical section has taken years of research. Book one: The Catherine Howard Conspiracy was actually not my intended starting place. The big reveal that appears in book two: The Two Elizabeths was the kernel of the idea for this story and, over the years, I have written many different versions of it trying to make it work. Three books, one for each piece of jewellery: two ruby rings and a silver locket.

It was actually devastating because it meant starting again from the beginning. In true frustrated writer style, rather than face this unhappy truth, I wrote a comedy instead, entitled The Patron Saint of Married Women, which was set in the present day and needed very little research. I also made the alarming decision to dump my two main characters: Isabella and Oliver. I never liked them much anyway.

The name Perdita had been running around my head for a while. The very very first version of this story featured Isabella now gone mourning her twin sister who had died under mysterious circumstances on an archaeological dig after she had unearthed a silver locket. The idea was that she had been murdered by MI One Elite.

Jerusalem was always around too, although it took me a while to settle on its true nature. Warren Dexter was another one who survived the character cull. Then, Kit arrived. He had been through a number of names and he finally found an identity because I quite fancied Kit Harington who plays Jon Snow in Game of Thrones. Anyway, in answer to your question, at present, several months of research and writing of detailed timelines. I have a purpose built writing hut in the garden with insulation and a heater.

I write every day and, at the moment, am lucky enough to be able to treat it like my day-job. It varies. I love the lure of the blank page. Every piece of paper is an adventure waiting to unfold. Very real. They all seem to end up taking over their own storylines. Sometimes, I even argue with them. I worry about killing them off for different reasons. What about if I suddenly realise I need them again but they died in Chapter Four?!! Usually I know the end before I begin. Part three of The Marquess House trilogy. The title will arrive when its ready.

The Moon Sister by Lucinda Riley. This is a tough one. How do you choose between so many friends? For a long time now, my favourite book has been Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban. Goblet of Fire had just been released, the films had been cast and the storm of Harry Potter was building.

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Chamber of Secrets worried me — who was Dobby? Was he good or bad? This was truly magical. Apart for the Harry Potter series? I try to read a broad cross-section of genres. I try never to suffer from literary snobbery. Are you working on a new series set in the Age of Sail? Have you written a naval thriller set during the World Wars? Are you passionate about seafaring stories? Sapere Books wants to hear from you!

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We are actively looking to acquire nautical fiction from both debut and established authors. We are particularly interested in historical naval fiction, nautical thrillers, and books in a series. If you are an author who owns the rights to a previously published naval series, or a writer working on a new nautical novel, please get in touch and tell us about it!

Email our Editorial Director, Amy Durant, directly with some information about your nautical writing and a synopsis of your naval novel and we will get back to you as soon as possible. In the s. The class would start out well attended, then people gradually would drop out — usually in winter. But I always persevered and about three or four of us went to the same classes, which I enjoyed very much.

Finally one tutor suggested I sent off some of my stories to a magazine. The first one was rejected but the editor must have seen something in my writing and made some useful suggestions. I still have the cover framed on my wall. The volunteer guide on duty was so helpful, explaining how the machines worked, then demonstrating them. He was really patient answering all my questions. From a large second hand book store in South Manchester I was lucky enough to find a book from the television series about the American Civil War shown back in the s.

It was packed with information and original photographs which was invaluable to my research. The internet is invaluable too. Where else could you discover the uniform that an American military hospital orderly wears? It overlooks the back garden and I can see the small birds bobbing about in the trees.

So I drag on a hairy old dressing gown — and tracky bottoms in winter — and sneak off into my office for an hour or so. Then I slip back into bed and sleep soundly. Most of my stories are written in my head long before they reach the page. Then when I have time I want to get down the information as quickly as possible. Of course I have to go through it all again and edit it. Sometimes I seem to write in Polish! My characters do seem to take on a life of their own and I instinctively know how they will act.

This is a very perceptive question as many times my ideas and plots will change when faced with what a character would do. I have sat and wept when one of my characters died. I feel they get what they deserve. I get annoyed by the macho attitude of the men though! I have Lamentation by C.

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Sansom waiting in the wings. I love his Shardlake novels. My favourite book is Jane Eyre. Something brilliant like The Book Thief. I have very eclectic taste. I really enjoy Terry Pratchett books. Tell us something surprising about you! The rest of the canvas had an ironing board, a dirty frying pan, an un-ironed shirt and lots and lots of socks — black with a different coloured heel. None of the socks matched!

Along with a certificate I received a bag of art goodies. It was already bedlam; hundreds of people covered the dusty patch of waste ground beyond the white walls of the property, shouting, pushing, arguing among the cacti and scruffy palms. The demolition had been scheduled for nine a. The whole neighbourhood turned out to help, Briton and Spaniard alike. A stream of people walked back and forth along the edge of the unpaved road, carrying everything and anything they could salvage — doors, windows, even the kitchen work surface.

The problem now was where to put it all. An incongruous pile of household items was collecting around the trunk of a fan palm. Danny watched as a negligee blew free from a box and wrapped itself around a cactus. In eighteen years of journalism, Danny had witnessed dozens of horrors — people cut from the wreckage of car accidents, a woman leap from a burning building, a suicide on a railway track — but this was something new.

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It was like waiting for an execution. Crafty , Danny thought; people found it harder to get angry with a woman, especially an attractive one. Her hard hat and fluorescent bib bobbed at the centre of a tightly-knit group of people. Guardia Civil officers in green boiler suits formed a protective ring around the Junta woman. Then came the leaders of the protestors, waving documents and trying to argue over the shoulders of the Guardia officers. Behind them was the press pack, two dozen strong, cameras and microphones waving above the crowd as it surged and rocked.

Gawkers and curious children milled at the edges, wondering what all the fuss was about. For her part, the woman from the Junta looked genuinely distraught at what she had to do. Danny had no idea whether she could follow the English words being bellowed at her, but it was obvious she understood the gist. She kept pointing to the paperwork on her clipboard, raising hands and shoulders in shrugs of helplessness. Someone, somewhere had decreed the demolition must go ahead; it was her job to get it done. The Cookes were inconsolable.

Peggy sat on an armchair that had been dumped among spiky clumps of esparto grass. Tears carved streaks through the dust that had settled on her face. Arthur Cooke had looked dapper and defiant as he posed for the cameras back then; now, every one of his seventy-three years weighed upon him. Peggy Cooke wanted to speak, though. I want you to print that. Why us? A Junta survey had uncovered more than 12, irregular constructions in just ten of the worst affected municipalities. But the Spanish legal system was a Heath-Robinson contraption manned by characters from Kafka; immense and baffling in its complexity, arbitrary in the decisions it dispensed and spitefully prescriptive when it did so.

It was one of the dangers of emigrating to Spain, the flipside to all the sunshine, fiestas and good living. Not that it had worried the tens of thousands of Britons who had flooded the Almanzora Valley at the turn of the century, buying up villas and plots of land for self-builds, breathing life into the moribund rural communities that nestled below the Sierra de los Filabres mountain range.

But the rush to expand had left thousands caught in the legal quicksand between the local and regional government of Andalusia. Local councils could grant licences to build, but the regional government had the right to challenge those licences. We only got round to processing eleven. Time was ticking on. The crowd was getting angrier, the shouting louder. More Guardia officers arrived. Danny phoned everyone and anyone he could think of who was involved with the case. The council blamed the Junta, the Junta blamed the courts, the courts blamed the council; all down the line, each link of the chain shrugged its shoulders and pointed to someone else.

Arthur Cooke watched Danny in action, hoping that this man who spoke such perfect Spanish could somehow work a miracle. Danny finished the phone call, shook his head. Paco Pino arrived at 11 a. Just my luck. Truth be told, Paco was a saint in comparison with some; Danny had spoken to one of the journalists sent by a UK red top to cover the announcement of the demolition orders the previous year.

I might get a bit of a tan.

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The pile around the palm tree grew: beds, sofas, lampshades, mirrors, cardboard boxes stuffed with clothes and crockery. Danny looked at his watch. Not long now. At ten to twelve, uniformed officers of the Policia Local cleared the last of the protestors from the garden and checked no one was left inside the house. There were more scuffles on the white gravel outside the villa, more insults in English and Spanish. Having shoved a final protestor outside, Guardia Civil officers formed a human barrier in the space between the gateposts.

Protestors waved paperwork at the Junta woman as she looked at her watch and waved toward the workers. For a moment, time seemed stilled…. An angry moan emerged from the crowd as the arm rose and hundreds of dislodged tiles showered and smashed on the ground. The excavator arm dipped once, twice, three times more, prising the roof apart before ripping backwards and pulling free a ragged-edged section of brickwork.

The Cookes stood holding each other: Peggy sobbing; Arthur straining to keep her on her feet, his face stoic. Another huge section of wall tumbled away; it fell to the ground with a thud. Dust rose, people coughed, choked, began walking back along the road. Danny pulled his jacket up to cover his mouth. She was only there for the spectacle, to have something to tell her friends tomorrow at the market. Her mouth gaped; then she began to scream and point toward the corner of the house.

A Guardia Civil officer rushed to the excavator, banged on the window. The machine fell silent. Other people had noticed the shouting woman now and were pressing closer, shading their eyes, unsure of what they were seeing. For the second time that morning, a sudden silence halted the crowd. Danny thought it was a mannequin at first. And then the corpse fell forward, bending from the waist, its blackened head rocking back and forth.

Some people screamed; others stood open-mouthed; some turned to run. Then, without moving a single muscle of his face, he toppled forward and fell heavily to the earth. Need to know what happens next? Get Scarecrow now from Amazon. I am looking for a drowned girl. I need an inquest on said drowned girl; this is where the British Newspaper Archive comes in. There are drowned girls aplenty in London in the decade Their bodies sometimes float, buoyed up by petticoats — the effect of air retained by the clothes, or the presence of gases.

Sometimes a thin hand grasps a clump of weed which, according to Professor Taylor, indicates that the victim went into the water alive. Did she fall or was she pushed? Suicide, most often. I find the case of the suicide of two young sisters dragged from a Leeds canal in April , tied together by a handkerchief.

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  7. The handkerchief is pitiable somehow, and memorable. Dickens must have read of that case for he uses the same circumstance in Our Mutual Friend. Something of a thrill in contemplating that, but I need only one girl. I need an unknown drowned girl, unclaimed, buried at the expense of the parish, and forgotten. Somewhere in a village, a mother wonders about her lost child. She will never know what became of her ruined darling.

    The Coroner directs the parish to advertise the body, often in vain. I find several cases of unidentified females in the newspaper archive. She was never identified. Yet she has a distinctive mole on her left cheek, dark hair and hazel eyes. Surely somebody missed her. However, this is a crime story, so, naturally, I need a drowned, unknown, murdered girl. This is more difficult.

    Such is the damage done by the water, or the bridge, or the rocks of some lonely reach that it is often impossible to find enough evidence of murder. There is a deep cut under her chin.