Roman Rescue:
Who Will Save the Hero?
by Michelle Gilliam
Publication date: May 21st 2016
Genres: Mystery, New Adult, Romance
by Michelle Gilliam
Publication date: May 21st 2016
Genres: Mystery, New Adult, Romance
BLURB
Maggie has always been a sassy,
headstrong Southern girl. But running off to Rome, Italy on summer break from
college is the most impulsive thing she’s ever done. Her brother is in trouble,
and she’s determined to rescue him- after all, he’s the older, wiser, military
officer who has never needed her help before. Paul is in a mess with an Italian
ex-girlfriend who has cut ties with him…but is pregnant with his child. Maggie
thinks she can fix it.
After all, a break from her life
would be nice, too. She just broke up with her long time boyfriend, and her
estranged mother keeps hopelessly trying to reconnect with her. Italy sounds
like the perfect refuge. Until she meets Paul’s best friend, Marine Sargeant,
Luke Seager. He complicates things in every way. He persists to play tour guide
and asserts his way into her plans at every chance. Maggie prefers to become a
hero on her own, but as she digs into the truth about Paul’s predicament,
danger builds around them. While the tension and mystery grows, so do her
feelings for Luke- a man with his own shrouded past.
Nothing is as it seems when
Maggie gets more than she bargained for with the girlfriend’s mafia ties,
Luke’s dangerous connections, and unexpected guests from home. Finding out the
truth lands Maggie in more trouble than she can escape. Who will save the hero
now?
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I strolled further down until I
found a pizza place and dove in for a slice of basil, mozzarella, and sausage.
I ordered a Coke, but it came at room temperature, so I changed it to water
instead. But, pizza and water weren’t the right combinations. Maybe I tasted
the tomatoes more, or the sauce’s bright red color made it look too eerie.
Again, I blamed it on Fear whispering warnings of stares from unsmiling eyes.
Wasn’t Rome the city of romance? Then why did I see figures in the shadows,
taxi drivers with guns, and blood in the pizza sauce?
On the way home, I tried to ignore the shadowed alleys and drivers staring me down as they passed by. I double-checked that my debit card hadn’t fallen out of my bra. It was still there, safe from thieves.
On the way home, I tried to ignore the shadowed alleys and drivers staring me down as they passed by. I double-checked that my debit card hadn’t fallen out of my bra. It was still there, safe from thieves.
The night
air, fruity and moist, smelled unlike the air back home. I walked, taking deep
breaths with my nose to the sky. Going through the park, a breeze whipped by,
causing me to imagine the world before cars, a time when the Roman statues were
real. I could see it. I could see me in it, wearing a long tunic. What did Dr.
Francisco call it in English class? A stola, yes. I would look
good in a stola, gold chains
strapped around me. I imagined the horse dung in the streets and stopped
romanticizing. I wouldn’t call it pessimism but realism. Life had taught me not
to believe in the wonderful, magical, or romantic. Not that I hadn’t tried.
I pulled
the key out of my bra and entered the apartment. I glanced around for a
television and spotted the floating stairs. At the top of the stairs was
Kayla’s and Luke’s bedroom, tidy and simple with a triple-tier shelving of
masculine books: Shooter, Abraham Lincoln,
and various spy novels. I also found a TV. I smiled and threw myself into a
chair after emptying the clothes from it.
That is
where Luke found me, asleep in his bedroom chair. His wide shoulders and his
body blocked out the light. It alarmed me. Only a dark sketch of him stood there,
looking down at me.
“According
to this note, you must be Maggie.”
“Please,
tell me your name is Luke, so I won’t have to kill you,” I managed to get out
while stretching my arms and rubbing my eyes, barely awake—barely thinking—but
not afraid.
“Yep,
you’re Maggie. I’ve heard of your quipped tongue.”
I sighed.
“Great, my reputation has preceded me all the way to Italy. At nineteen, I’m
not sure that’s a good thing.”
“Nineteen,
just a baby.”
That
riled me. When I should have asked to stay on his couch, I couldn’t. I stood.
“I’m not a baby.” I squinted at his dark silhouette and tried to look him
straight in the eyes. I stood on my tippy-toes, but his eyes were still inches
away, taller and higher, out of my reach. “Well, damn, are you six-four, or what?”
“Maybe
six-three,” he said with pride.
I
composed myself after a thick swallow. “Must be hard to be that tall.”
“Sometimes.”
His insecurity showed. His voice wavered or his shoulders dropped; it was so
subtle and so quick. I don’t know, I could just tell.
I took
the clothes from the bed and put them back on the chair.
“You
don’t have to mess with that.”
“I moved
them; I’ll return them. What time is it?”
“Twelve-thirty.”
I took a
deep breath, walked over to the top of the stairs, and looked back. That’s when
I noticed Luke’s face: soft reddish-tan complexion and pool-water blue eyes. I
paused, wordless for too long.
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Author Info
Michelle Gilliam, BSN lives in
Tennessee with her husband and three sons, two of which are college football
players. She was raised by a southern mother and a British father and her
accent is quite a mess with California, Florida, and Texas influences. She
loves to read, analyze, and create. But all of that comes after a good cup of
coffee and a conversation with a close friend or while treating her patients.
That and her dreams are the source of her stories. She first began writing
poetry and it is apparent when you see the use of descriptive language as she
paints rooms, international settings, and people.
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