Garen, #1
Lars, #2
by Ann Gimpel
Publication
Date: 2016
Publisher
Dream Shadow Press
Genre:
Shifter Romantic Suspense
Thanks
so much for inviting me to your blog, and for an intriguing set of questions.
How would you describe you style of writing
to someone that has never read your work?
Fast-paced,
tightly plotted, absorbing characters, well-researched and factually accurate.
I didn’t start out as a romance writer (or reader). My roots are in science
fiction and all varieties of fantasy. That bleeds through in my writing.
What mindset or routine do you feel the need
to set when preparing to write (in general whether you are working on a project
or just free writing)?
I don’t
have any kind of set schedule. When I’m in writing mode, I turn out a minimum
of a chapter each day (3000-3500 words). Some days I write two chapters. All
days, I review and edit what I wrote the day before. When I finish a book, I do
another round of self-edits and ship it off to my editor. Once I get round one
back from her, I incorporate her comments/suggestions, and do another complete
read-through on my own. Then it’s back to the editor. The version I get back at
that point is very close to what I go with.
Do you take your character prep to heart? Do
you nurture the growth of each character all the way through to the page? Do
you people watch to help with development? Or do you build upon your character
during story creation?
Characters
come to me full-blown. I chalk it up to all the years I worked as a
psychologist when I was exposed to darn near every personality type and foible.
Character building was always easy for me. I had to teach myself plotting,
pacing, and tension.
Have you found yourself bonding with any
particular character? If so which one(s)?
Oh my!
I love each and every one of them, but I have to admit I’m partial to the
dragons.
Do you have a character that you have been
working on that you can't wait to put to paper?
Not
really. My current project (that I’m about done with) includes three steampunk
prn romances set in the Old West. The books are done. So are the covers, and
I’m closing on uploading for preorder. Those are the characters that have been
in my head here of late. Luke, Abigail, Breana, Joshua, Sam, and Isla. Plus all
the supporting characters who make their journeys possible.
Have you ever felt that there was something
inside of you that you couldn't control? If so what? If no what spurs you to
reach for the unexperienced?
LOLOLOLOL.
Sheesh! That’s the kind of question I used to ask as a therapist. Nothing
uncontrollable. But I have a background as a mountaineer and still do a lot of
backpacking. I also like to travel to the weird places, like Antarctica for
example. I enjoy seeing new things and being self-reliant. Gives me grist for
the writing mill.
Thank you, Ann Gimpel
For taking the time to entertain my questions and allowing my readers to get the chance to know you a bit better and your writing. I love dragons myself. Maybe one day?
Thank you again,
The Book Junkie Reads . . .
For taking the time to entertain my questions and allowing my readers to get the chance to know you a bit better and your writing. I love dragons myself. Maybe one day?
Thank you again,
The Book Junkie Reads . . .
************
Garen
Garen
Rubicon International, #1
by Ann Gimpel
Publication
Date: June 16th 2016
Publisher
Dream Shadow Press
Genre:
Shifter Romantic Suspense
Undercover Shifter Bad Boys = Alphas With
Serious Attitude
Tumble Across the Rubicon Into the
Death-Riddled World of International Espionage
From
The Book Junkie Reads . . . Garen (Rubicon International, #1) . . .
I am gonna be straight with you and get this out there. There were some issue with some of the terms used and a few of the traits that the shifters had or did not have over time. There were some highly frustrating points and lack of bad boys showing there alpha sides in and out of the bedroom, but for me frustration and emotional outburst makes for a good read. Now on to what makes me recommend this reading.
Aside for having Rubicon International thrown in my face ahhh say a few hundred times, the undercover shifters and their teams did some serious stuff. Garen and his brother began something that was meant to make things better for the world. They set forth a set of rules to govern their organization. One of those rules was getting in Garen way. Big Time. Miranda was the ace in a hole he was not anticipating. Although she was the one hole he wanted to be in desperately. The alpha within came out when she was out in the field.
Mystery and lust turns into a combination that can work well for Garen and Miranda. Especially when her mission turns in to more that just do-it and get out. There are more forces at work that cannot be accounted for immediately. Things take another turn when Garen was the one that has to rescue Miranda. That may have been the best thing that happened for both of them.
Now I wonder what is in store for Lars.
Aside for having Rubicon International thrown in my face ahhh say a few hundred times, the undercover shifters and their teams did some serious stuff. Garen and his brother began something that was meant to make things better for the world. They set forth a set of rules to govern their organization. One of those rules was getting in Garen way. Big Time. Miranda was the ace in a hole he was not anticipating. Although she was the one hole he wanted to be in desperately. The alpha within came out when she was out in the field.
Mystery and lust turns into a combination that can work well for Garen and Miranda. Especially when her mission turns in to more that just do-it and get out. There are more forces at work that cannot be accounted for immediately. Things take another turn when Garen was the one that has to rescue Miranda. That may have been the best thing that happened for both of them.
Now I wonder what is in store for Lars.
**This ARC was provided via Bewitching Book Tours in exchange for an honest review.**
BLURB
As an agent for an international
espionage firm, Miranda has her hands more than full. Between secretly lusting
after her boss, Garen, and making sure the dirty little secret about her double
life as a wolf shifter remains hidden, she’s still a virgin at nearly thirty.
Sent to eliminate the head of a human
trafficking organization in Amsterdam, she barely escapes with her life.
Injured, frightened, and under attack the second her private jet lands in the
U.S., she’s not certain where to turn.
Garen’s watched Miranda just as
surreptitiously as she’s been eyeing him.
Unfortunately, the fact that she works
for him is a showstopper. Plus, he has a few secrets of his own that have kept
him single. When Miranda insists on heading up a covert operation, he can’t
come up with a plausible reason to stop her. Watching her sprint headlong into
danger damn near kills him. He wants to hold her, love her, protect her.
Miranda’s life is on the line. Will
Garen risk exposure to save her?
Buy Links
Or
buy direct from Ann at this link.
The Gulfstream G280
shuddered as it banked hard right. Miranda Miller pushed one of the window
blinds out of the way. Damn. Black as pitch outside the aircraft. She felt like
warmed-over crap. Her mouth tasted sour, and her eyes were hot and gritty. She
rubbed them and tallied how long it had been since she’d slept. At least two
days. She reached for a Styrofoam cup in its no-spill metal holder, sloshed
cold coffee around her mouth, and swallowed.
Her headset hummed.
“Wakey, wakey, fraulein,” a heavily accented German voice rumbled. “We land at
JFK as soon as the tower clears us.”
“What?” Fear sliced
through her fatigue. “I told you we needed a smaller airport.”
“Sorry, fraulein.
This one was closest. We are below recommended minimums on fuel.”
She considered asking
the pilot why he hadn’t planned better but decided not to antagonize him. It
was bad enough they were flying without a copilot—probably against FAA
regulations. She had a dummied-up commercial pilot’s license tucked in her
wallet under one of her many assumed names. Hopefully it matched the one on her
phony passport. She hadn’t had time to check. If it came down to it, she’d been
instructed to tell the tower she copiloted the flight.
As if he’d read her
thoughts, the pilot’s next words were, “I need you to move into the cockpit,
fraulein.”
“Alrighty. Give me a
minute.”
“You do not have much
more than that. I do not wish further difficulties with the U.S. authorities.”
Miranda wondered just
what other problems the pilot might be referring to. She almost asked him, and
then decided she didn’t really care. Her international security company engaged
professionals. Most of them came from either the military or law enforcement
and had checkered pasts. She unbuckled her seat belt and stumbled to her feet.
Her crumpled, black pantsuit stank, but maybe only to her lycan senses. She
hoped humans wouldn’t be able to smell stale blood.
A muffled chortle
made its way past her lips. Maybe once anyone got a whiff of days old sweat,
they’d give her a wide berth. Her body ached, especially her ribs where her
target had slammed a lead pipe into her. She fingered her side and wondered if
anything was broken. Not much you could do for ribs. They had to mend on their
own.
A few steps took her
to the tiny head in the rear of the aircraft. She splashed cold water on her
face and winced when she took a good look at her scraped knuckles. Her target
in Amsterdam—head of a worldwide human trafficking organization—had been much
harder to eliminate than she’d expected. She’d needed her supernatural speed
and strength—and her wolf form. One more face-dunking in cold water and she
grabbed a towel to dry herself.
“Now, fraulein.” The
jet shuddered again as its landing gear clicked into place.
The pilot sounded so
exasperated, she rushed down the aisle and hurtled through the already-open
cockpit door. He grabbed her arm and threw her into the empty seat.
“Watch it!” she
snapped. Her upper lip pulled into a snarl. Claws pressed against the ends of
her fingertips. Miranda struggled for control. Her wolf wanted to kill the
human who’d manhandled her.
“Sorry.” The pilot’s
voice was mild. She recognized compulsion beneath his words and wondered what
the hell he was. “I do not wish to draw anyone’s attention,” he went on
smoothly. “The rules regarding business-class jets are in constant flux.” He
glanced at her with gray eyes that didn’t miss much. “Are you hurt?”
She nodded. “My
assignment ran into unexpected snags.”
“Will you require
medical attention before you proceed to the West Coast?”
She snorted. What a
subtle way of asking if she’d been shot or stabbed. Lars Kinsvogel—or whatever
his name really was—had obviously dealt with people like her before. Something
he said caught her attention. “Won’t you be my pilot?”
He shook his head.
“Someone fresh will relieve me.”
“Will I be able to
stay aboard?”
He shot her an odd
look. “Of course not. You must go through customs.”
She rolled her eyes
and pressed her lips into a thin line. “That’s why I wanted to land somewhere
inland.”
His gray eyes
narrowed to slits. “All flights from foreign destinations are subject to
customs, no matter what the airport. Is this your first international
assignment?”
Heat rose to her
face. “No.” She was damned if she’d say anything else. She didn’t know him from
Adam.
The radio crackled.
The pilot responded in pilotese and banked the plane. “Flights from Europe are
cleared to land at certain airports. With the fuel we have left, we could have
landed in Philadelphia or Newark, but I have a feeling those two destinations
would not meet your needs, either. What are you afraid of?”
Miranda wasn’t
certain what she could tell him. Company policy was clear. Talk to no one.
“Never mind.”
She thought about
Garen, her boss and chairman for Rubicon International. She’d been half in love
with his razor-sharp mind, lithe build, salt-and-pepper hair, and sky-blue eyes
for years, but he didn’t see her as anything but a junior-grade agent. Rumor
had it he scarcely acknowledged employees until they became full-fledged
operatives. If her fellows were any indication, she had a way to go. At least a
few more assignments. And then there was the problem of her being a lycan.
She sighed, and
fantasies of Garen went up in smoke like they always did. It was nice to dream,
but Miranda steered clear of men. Between her wolf side and her somewhat
unorthodox career, intimate relationships carried too much risk of discovery.
She relied on her fingers, a vibrator, and the occasional one-night stand to
take the edge off her needs.
The jet banked yet
again and dropped lower. Its wheels made contact, and the pilot hit the brakes.
Because she wasn’t belted in, Miranda nearly plunged into the instrument
cluster. Lars made an aggravated clucking sound, but he didn’t say anything.
They taxied off the runway.
“Since I have to get
off, I need to get my things together.”
“Wait until the
aircraft comes to a complete stop, fraulein.”
He sounded so much
like a bot, she stifled a laugh. The plane moved smoothly into an enclosed
hangar. Once it rolled to a halt, she pushed out of her seat, returned to the
passenger compartment, and unhooked her small duffel from the wall. Lars’
breath hissed against her ear. “Where are your weapons?”
“On me and in my
bag.”
“Put everything in
your bag. Clips separate.”
“I’m not that
stupid.” She pulled a 9mm semiautomatic from its shoulder holster and punched
the button to discharge its clip. She drew back the slide, extracted the
chambered bullet, and stuffed it into the clip. Next came a snub-nosed .38
revolver and two knives. She spun the chamber to make certain all the bullets
were out and then placed everything in locked gun cases in her carry-on.
Lars still stood
practically on top of her. She met his gaze, noticing he was a few inches
taller than her five feet eleven. “Yes?” She quirked a tired brow.
“Has anyone ever told
you how beautiful you are?” He settled his hands on her shoulders. She smelled
his arousal and knew he had a hard-on without even looking.
“Christ! Not now.”
She spun from beneath his grip. “Let’s just get through customs and allow
whoever’s knocking to search the plane.”
“We will have some
downtime in the terminal. At least an hour.” He sounded hopeful.
Miranda looked at
him. Really looked at him. Lars was attractive in a Teutonic sort of way, with
ice-blond hair and gray eyes. His trim body suggested he worked out. Interest
flickered but then died. She shook her head. “I haven’t slept for forty-eight
hours. I’m dead on my feet.”
“Why did you not
sleep during the flight? The air was smooth.”
Good question. She’d
wondered the same thing. “I have no idea. Too keyed up, I guess.”
He shouted something
in German to whoever was pounding on the side of the jet and took her arm. “I
will watch over you until you are safely back in the plane.”
She opened her mouth
to tell him it wasn’t necessary, but something in his face stopped her. In that
moment, she understood he was a trained operative just like her. His role this
time around happened to be pilot, but she was certain he’d stood in her shoes
before. “Which branch of the military trained you?”
He shook his head and
let go of her arm. “It does not matter. Follow me, fraulein.”
She shouldered her
duffel and walked to the rear cabin door. Lars had just sprung the locks. He
spoke soothingly in German to an obviously agitated customs officer standing at
the top of the stairs. The agent’s beady, black eyes settled on her. “Do you
speak English?”
“Yes. Is there a
problem, sir? It’s been a long flight, and both of us are tired. It took me a
while to get my bag together.”
Nostrils flared, the
agent looked intently at her and then stepped into the aircraft, waving them
down the jet’s steps. “Customs is the last door at the north end of the
hangar,” he barked. “Don’t even think of running. This hangar is locked and
fully alarmed.”
Lars placed a hand
beneath her elbow and guided her across a concrete floor. “It is best if we do
not deviate from a straight line,” he muttered.
“Holy crap,” she
said. “Why are they so uptight?”
He shrugged. “As you
Americans say, it goes with the territory.” He grinned, displaying very white,
very even teeth. “Everything we do and say between here and the customs area is
filmed and recorded.”
************
Lars
Lars
Rubicon International, #2
by Ann Gimpel
Publication
Date: June 28th 2016
Publisher
Dream Shadow Press
Genre:
Shifter Romantic Suspense
Undercover Shifter Bad Boys = Alphas With
Serious Attitude
Tumble Across the Rubicon Into the
Death-Riddled World of International Espionage
From The Book Junkie Reads . . . Lars (Rubicon International, #2) . . .
Lars was hot, sexy, strong, determined, and very capable. Out on a mission was not the best place to find the mate that was destine for him but hey, you don't always get a choice in these matter. Fate has a way of making her voice known. Tamara strong, determined, and patient. She was a female shifter with a plan put in place. That plan involved a little payback. All along the way to accomplishing her plan she failed to plan for the escape and going undetected. In a bid for retaliation for the assassination she pulls off her life becomes a game of if she can stay that way and get away from the one out to make her pay for her payback.
This second installment to the Rubicon International series gave me an intriguing thrill in the world of espionage and shifters. Some twist and turns that always makes for a more enticing read. There was a surprise or two. All depends on the way you view the story and if you are following things very carefully. German and Irish romance was not one I was expecting but enjoyed. I find a immersing world with each new series that I read from Gimpel.
This second installment to the Rubicon International series gave me an intriguing thrill in the world of espionage and shifters. Some twist and turns that always makes for a more enticing read. There was a surprise or two. All depends on the way you view the story and if you are following things very carefully. German and Irish romance was not one I was expecting but enjoyed. I find a immersing world with each new series that I read from Gimpel.
**This ARC was provided via Bewitching Book Tours in exchange for an honest review.**
BLURB
Tamara MacBride has a much bigger
problem than hiding her shifter side from the world. By the skin of her teeth,
and with a smattering of Irish luck, she manages to kill her sister’s murderer.
Escaping from the scene of the crime is much harder than she anticipated. Just
when she thinks she might be safe, her cab driver shrieks and slumps over the
wheel.
An unknown assailant terminates Lars
Kinsvogel’s target. Pleased by the outcome—after all dead is dead—he exchanges
the glitz of Monte Carlo for a nearby airport, intent on collecting the private
plane he left there. He’s no sooner arrived when a cab jumps the curb, and he
races over to investigate. There’s not much he can do for the cabbie, but his
passenger is still very much alive.
Trying to hustle Tamara out of the cab
is tough. She’s frozen by fear, but when Lars lays out the rest of his plan to
move her out of danger’s path, her temper flares. He can’t leave her alone in
Monte Carlo. Can he convince her to trust him in time to save her life?
Lars Kinsvogel sucked
in an annoyed breath. Anxiety and greed thickened the air in Monte Carlo’s
Place de Casino, and he stifled a choking sound. Damn his hypersensitive
shifter senses. If it weren’t for them, the desperation hovering around him
wouldn’t be quite so palpable. Casinos were always like this, though, a haven
for the rash and reckless. What had likely begun as a harmless pastime turned
into hardcore addiction for an unfortunate few, forcing them to return again
and again despite diminishing returns.
Hope springs eternal.
All the poor sods need is one more spin of the wheel, another hand of cards…
Lars glanced up, right into the croupier’s beady gaze.
“Would monsieur like
to place a bet?” The croupier grinned with all the warmth of a hammerhead
shark, displaying a mouthful of bad teeth. What was it with the French and their
aversion to dentistry? Lars shook his head and made shooing motions with one
hand. He’d have to either join the baccarat game soon or move on, but he could
get away with loitering for a few more minutes without drawing undue attention
to himself.
His target, a
powerfully built man with features revealing Chinese ancestry, had an arm slung
around a striking brunette. Maybe she was one of the hookers who worked the
casino circuit, or maybe she was a steady thing for the man.
Lars considered it
and decided she could be both. Around five feet eight, she had a lush, curvy
body, dark hair cut into a stylish bob that fell a few inches past her
shoulders, and memorable eyes the color of a restless ocean. A short, black
sheath hugged her like a second skin. Open nearly to her waist, it displayed
half her full breasts. Even though Lars’ appraisal was surreptitious, he forced
his gaze elsewhere. The woman was sex incarnate, and he didn’t need anything
diverting him from his objective.
Jaret Chen pressed
chips into his companion’s hand and urged her to pick a number. He gave one of
her breasts a familiar squeeze, which earned him a smile, perfectly rouged lips
stretching over impossibly straight teeth—and a slight shake of her head. Color
stained her tanned skin. Lars realized he was looking at the woman again,
wondering how her breasts would feel beneath his fingers. She seemed
uncomfortable with Jaret’s frank exploration of her body, so she probably
wasn’t a pro. For some unexplained reason, Lars felt relieved. The woman was
too elegant to earn her living lying on her back.
He snorted to himself
and studied the flashing display above the baccarat table. Maybe the woman
wasn’t French. That might explain her perfect teeth—and her discomfort with
having her body mauled in public. At least she held Jaret’s attention. So far
the drug dealer hadn’t spared him so much as a sidelong glance. Lars had never
met the man, but knew a great deal about him from an extensive dossier provided
by Rubicon International. Deeply involved in the heroin trade from the Middle
East, across the Mediterranean, and into Europe, Jaret was one of the
principals in a large operation—and Lars’ current target.
He sized the man up.
Maybe six feet, he had a barrel chest. Strongly muscled arms strained against
the fabric of his cream-colored, silk dress shirt. His art deco tie had been
loosened. Dark eyes, pronounced cheekbones, and straight dark hair cut short
blended with his business attire. For all intents and purposes, he was
indistinguishable from the phalanx of wealthy—and wannabe wealthy—men
circulating through the casino. Lars glanced at his own cream-colored silk
shirt and black linen pants. With the exception that his tie was still firmly
knotted, he and Jaret were dressed as twins.
Guess neither of us
wanted to stick out in anyone’s memory.
Lars glanced at his
Rolex. Close to midnight and time to move on. He’d seen enough. Now it was a
matter of figuring out where and when to strike. These things always went more
smoothly when he was close to invisible. He melted into the crowd and made his
way outside. The casino fronted the French Riviera, and Lars stood looking out
at the Mediterranean for long moments. The water was quiet tonight, waves
barely slapping the white sand beach. His cell phone, set on silent, vibrated
against his hip, and he tugged it from a pocket to look at the display.
Private. Damn! Could
be anyone.
Lars punched the
answer icon, held the phone to his ear, and waited. No need to say anything
until he knew who was on the other end.
“Are you somewhere
you can talk?”
Lars inhaled sharply
as Garen LeRochefort’s voice came through the phone’s speaker.
Another shifter,
Garen had founded Rubicon International with Lars hundreds of years before. The
mechanics of the spy game had changed drastically between the late seventeen
hundreds and modern times, but the basics—kill or be killed—hadn’t altered
much. Everyone who worked for Rubicon International was some type of shifter.
Lars’ animal form was a mountain lion, Garen’s a wolf.
Lars loped farther
down the beach until he cleared several couples engaged in deep, hungry kisses
before responding. “What has happened?” Something must have, or Garen wouldn’t
have risked contact.
“You need to leave.”
“But I have not—”
“Doesn’t matter,”
Garen cut in. “I’ll explain when you’re back in the office on a fully encrypted
line.”
Lars thought about
his twin engine Piper Seneca waiting at the Nice airport, twenty-four
kilometers from Monte Carlo. It gave him freedom to come and go, and was much
cheaper to operate than the business class jets he also owned. “Maybe I could
still—”
“No!” The one word
thundered so loud, Lars moved the phone away from his ear. “Don’t even go back
to your room.” Garen hesitated. “Old friend. Trust me on this.” The line went
dead.
Lars stared at the
iPhone’s display and dropped the device back into his pocket. He’d been
compromised. He wasn’t certain quite how, and a part of him was curious as
hell. He kept walking, swinging in a wide circle to head back toward the Hotel
de Paris. Garen had said not to return to his room, but if he was careful,
maybe he could learn something critical that would help their side.
“Ja, forewarned is
forearmed,” he muttered.
Keycard in hand, he
let himself into a side door of the rambling old structure, got his bearings,
and started cautiously up a stairwell. His suite was on the second floor, at
the very end of the wing facing the Mediterranean. He’d always loved the old
hotel with its thick, patterned carpets and antique lighting and furnishings.
Staying next to the walls, he used a bit of shifter magic to cast a don’t look
here spell. It wouldn’t keep someone determined from seeing him, but it didn’t
require much magic, either.
He entered the second
floor a few doors from his own and scanned the empty hallway, his senses on
high alert. Midnight was early in Monte Carlo, a city where people frequently
stayed up through dawn and slept the day away, so he fully expected to see
other guests, but the hall was mercifully empty. He padded silently toward his door
and examined it, wishing he’d set a trap. He inhaled, trying to sort scents,
but there were too many to make sense of. He could leave, just walk away like
Garen had almost ordered him to, but Lars had never been a coward, and he was
more intrigued than frightened. He’d spent years worming his way out of dicey
situations. This was just one more, and he was damned if he’d walk away from
his things. Not unless he had to.
He took a deep
breath, tugged his guaranteed-not-to-set-off-metal-detectors .32 caliber
revolver from its ankle holster, and shoved the key card into the slot in the
door. A tiny electric motor hummed before the deadbolt snicked out of the way.
He turned the latch, kicked the door open, and pivoted from side to side,
scanning the sitting room of his suite, gun at the ready. Lars waited in the
doorway, barely breathing, and then he heard a muted click, followed by an
unmistakable whirr, and knew.
A bomb.
He cursed in German,
not knowing if he was more annoyed with the turn of events or with himself for
not taking Garen’s advice and getting the hell out of there.
* * * *
Tamara MacBride
pushed the betting chips back into Jaret’s hand. “Sure and I’m not feeling like
wagering just now,” she murmured. “Why don’t you do it for me?”
He shot her an odd
look. “But you like to gamble.”
You only think I do.
“Something we had for
supper didn’t quite settle. Would you mind if I sat somewhere?” She swayed a
bit on her feet to make her statement more realistic and sent a weak smile his
way. In truth, she was a bit nauseated. Between sweat and greed, the air in the
casino stank of humanity’s darker side. Expensive colognes added a queer edge,
their rich scents intensifying as their owners’ anxiety rose. If she hadn’t
been a shifter, she might not have noticed, at least not as much. So far, she’d
done a decent job hiding what she was from Jaret. She aimed to keep things that
way.
He ran a thick index
finger down the bare skin between her breasts. “We could return to our rooms.”
She crinkled her face
in what she hoped looked like an apology and did her best to ooze regret.
“Better wait until my tummy settles.” He was arrogant enough, he had no idea
how repulsive she found him. Thank all the bloody saints, she’d managed to keep
any sexual activities between them tamped down to nothing because of his heroin
habit. According to a bit of Internet research, she supposed he could probably
get hard, but the drug suppressed orgasms. At least so far, he’d been much more
interested in his next shot of dope and drifting into an opiate-induced dreamy
void than in bothering her for sex.
Jaret returned his
attention to the baccarat table. “I’ll just be over there.” She pointed to a
row of padded Louis Fourteenth chairs with bowed legs. Jaret nodded absently.
His pupils were very small, so he was still fully under the influence of his
last shot. That meant she had at least a couple of hours before he’d need to
leave the casino.
Tamara tottered to a
chair on ridiculously high heels. They made her feet ache, but Jaret liked it
when she dressed like a fancy woman and pleasing him was high on her list. She
settled onto the plush seat and slipped her shoes off. A waiter stopped and
arched an inquiring brow. Nodding pleasantly at him, she ordered club soda.
Rubbing the bridge of her nose between two fingers, she made a grab for her
courage. So far, her plan had gone off without a hitch. The only thing left was
to finish things off.
The waiter handed her
drink over, along with a bowl of salted nuts, and she set both on a nearby
chair. The ebb and flow of noise in the crowded room eddied around her. A quick
glance at Jaret reassured her that he was still deeply engrossed in
gambling—his second favorite addiction, right after heroin. He didn’t care much
for women, other than as window dressing and so the other men would see him as
some sort of stud.
Author Info
I'm basically a mountaineer at heart. I remember many hours at my desk where my body may have been stuck inside four walls, but my soul was planning yet one more trip to the backcountry.
Around the turn of the last century (that would be 2000, not 1900!), I finagled a move to the Eastern Sierra, a mecca for those in love with the mountains. Stories always ran around in my head on backcountry trips, sometimes as a hedge against abject terror when challenging conditions made me fear for my life, sometimes for company.
Eventually, the inevitable happened. I returned from a trip and sat down at the computer. Three months later, a five hundred page novel emerged. It wasn’t very good, but it was a beginning. I learned a lot between writing that novel and its sequel, and I've been writing ever since.
In addition to turning out books, I enjoy wilderness photography. A standing joke is that over ten percent of my pack weight is camera gear, which means my very tolerant husband has to carry the food -- and everything else too.
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