Wednesday, February 22, 2012
GUNS AND ROSES
A Murder She Writes Anthology
featuring "A Punishing Night" (excerpt below)
Murder She Writes Press
February 20, 2012
Murder She Writes presents a one-of-a-kind romantic suspense anthology with ten all-new, never-before-published short stories and novellas that promise thrills, chills, romance, intrigue, passion, danger, murder...and love. Penned by New York Times and award winning authors, some stories in this exclusive collection will make you laugh out loud while others will force you to sleep with the lights on.
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“Nightfall” by Laura Griffin
“Dead Flowers” by Lori Armstrong
“Above Reproach” by Allison Brennan
“The Housewife Assassin’s Bloody Valentine” by Josie Brown
“Bobbie Faye’s Whacked Out, No Good, Really Sucky, Hot Mess of a Wedding” by Toni McGee Causey
“Blood and Roses” by Sylvia Day
“King of Hearts,” a Rough Riders short story by Lorelei James
“A Punishing Night” by Sophie Littlefield
“Pick Your Poison” A Bullet Catcher Novella, by Roxanne St. Claire
“Rebel Rose” by Karin Tabke
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Excerpt from "A Punishing Night" by Sophie Littlefield
Through the wide double doors that opened onto the dormitory lounge, Joe could see the girls, at least a dozen. Most were still wearing what they slept in, which ranged from baggy T-shirts and boxer shorts to thin camisoles which barely covered their breasts. They lay about the sofas and chairs of the dorm’s lounge like women in an Ingres tableau.
Noticing Joe, a girl got to her bare feet and padded over to the door. Her thin tank top read “Boys Suck”. Her eyes were a beautiful, clear green, the effect ruined by smudged black rims. It looked as though she’d lined them with a magic marker and a shaking hand.
“Are you in charge?” The girl demanded.
“I’m Detective Bashir. I’m working with Officer Collier. And you are?”
“Kaylanna Pace. We just want to know if we can like take a shower or something. Or if we have to be stuck in here, you could maybe get some coffee sent up?”
She was clearly the leader, the queen bee. She looked into his eyes with a directness that Joe still found surprising in people her age; his own niece and nephew, the second generation born in California, retained a trace of the bashful gaze cultivated by Pakistani-American parents in their children. Madiha and Taj looked adults in the chin.
“I’ll see if I can do something about refreshments,” Joe said.
“But what if we have to pee?” a girl called from inside the room.
That was a bigger problem, indeed.
In the bathroom down the hall, a dead man waited for Joe.