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Please help me welcome Robb T. White with an interesting and amusing interview, plus a collection of stories that sound right up my alley!

 

Please tell us a little about yourself, where are you from? Where do you live now? Family? Pets?

I’m in my late sixties, look every day of it, and live five houses down from where I grew up along with my wife Judy. We’re celebrating our 48^th anniversary in September. We’d eloped and were married in Monroe, MI when she was still a teenager. We share a big, creaky house overlooking Lake Erie in Northeastern Ohio. We have grandkids in town and Austin, TX.  A pair of cats, Sid Vicious and Athena, manage the house and keep the staff busy.

Was there anything unusual, any anecdote about Dangerous Women:  Stories of Crime, Mystery, and Mayhem the characters, title, process, you’d like to share?

We live in a time of irksome political correctness with accusations of “cultural appropriation” and other such nonsense. I admit that, the first time I attempted to write a story—a novel, actually—from the viewpoint of a female, I hesitated. I was fresh out of an academic environment where, at my university, feminists are outraged at everything male or masculine. This is an era before the MeToo movement, so I suspect it’s much worse there nowadays.  But I’ve always believed in equality between men and women, I was raised along with five sisters, and I never bought into notions of masculine superiority. I’m not immune to all prejudice, of course, but my female characters in this collection were a natural offshoot of my two female protagonists, one of whom I’ve continued. Please don’t assume I’m starry-eyed about women. As I said, I was raised with five girls so I know women can be as vicious as men.

What do you dislike that most people wouldn’t understand?

I dislike the modern tendency to blurt out everything inside. It’s ironic because I write to discover that very thing in my characters—but it has to be controlled in fiction even more than in life. People don’t just wear their hearts on their sleeves; they advertise their whining and puling unhappiness all over social media. It’s downright sickening. Say what you will about the old-fashioned “strong but silent” stereotype of Hollywood westerns of my youth, but I wish to god more men and women would adopt this trait in public.

What’s your favorite book of all time and why? What’s your favorite childhood book?

I didn’t read as a child. I remember hiding away in bathroom closet upstairs as a boy around age 13 perusing encyclopedias. My favorite book, narrowly eclipsing Garcia Marquez’s One Hundred Years of Solitude,  is Dostoevsky’s Crime and Punishment, which I’d read around age 15.  I read the Constance Garnett translation with all those ludicrous “By Jove!” Victorian exclamations. I’ve read better translations in the years afterward, but the book never fails to enthrall—Raskolnikov, his buddy Razumikhin, the cop Porfiry, and that delectable villain Svidrigaelov are imprinted into my neocortex.

Would you rather have a bad review or no review?

Bad reviews are better because no writer writes to be ignored.  I’ve had many bad reviews and some harsh criticism on both Amazon and Goodreads over the years. Most recently, a reviewer of my latest, Perfect Killer, in Manhattan Review hated the novel, everything in it, found my main character—a woman, no less—“unfriendly” and standoffish. She seemed to be asking herself all the way through why she chose to review when she clearly despised violent, dark crime fiction like mine. Puzzling yet amusing. I enjoyed her discomfiture, to me shame.

What is your favorite quote?

Without apology because he’s right: “Words build bridges into unexplored regions” by Adolph Hitler.

What do you want your tombstone to say?

Full name, birth and death dates. (I’ll haunt my family if anyone adds a sappy inscription.)

Are your characters based off real people or did they all come entirely from your imagination?

A good question, a hard one to answer.  I want to say my “imagination” creates all of them but I’m no Shakespeare. I know some must come from my childhood experiences, where most of the hurt resides in us. It’s a handy pool to dip into for creating people who don’t exist.

What do your friends and family think of your writing?

My wife doesn’t read me (Thank you, Jesus), my three kids get my books but have never said a word about them to me, and when I send my older daughter in Texas copies, I write instructions inside that my two grandkids are not to be allowed near them. My older sister is my unofficial and unpaid literary agent, who promotes me to her friends and our relatives via Facebook. I’m not your PG-13 kind of mystery fiction writer.

Is there a message in your short stories that you want readers to grasp? 

God forbid, no.

Who is your favorite author and what is it that really strikes you about their work? 

Martin Cruz Smith, hands down. Thomas Harris possesses a knife-like wit, David Lindsey is the best descriptive writer I’ve ever read, but MCS puts everything together in a beautiful package for the reader: plot, characters, scenic detail.  Arkady Renko, his Moscow detective, is the most “human” human being I know.

Your favorite Movie

Body Heat (1981) with William Hurt and Kathleen Turner—a gem of a noir film. I’m embarrassed to say how many times I’ve watched it. I could shut the sound off and recite the dialogue verbatim. Ned Racine (Hurt’s character) is the quintessential man overwhelmed by a woman.

GIVEAWAY: Check Amazon’s Giveaway to win one of 5 copies of Dangerous Women.

Thank you, Robb. I enjoyed your interview immensely. Love the “God forbid, no.” – That’s pretty much my response to the question. I write for entertainment. 🙂

Blurb:

Violence, they often say, is a male prerogative. But someone forgot to tell women like “Baby” Frontanetta in the first story of the collection, or Francie, for whom robbing an armored car isn’t that big a deal, if only her lover will “man up” to assist her. Even parricide isn’t beyond the pale for her. There are the twins Bella and Donna, aptly named, as the narrator of “The Birthmark” will discover. There’s semi-literate Bobbie from West Virginia, a gorgeous lap dancer in a sleazy club in Cleveland, who knows what price men will put on owning beauty like hers. Come meet them all—the hustlers, con artists, thieves, and all-around trouble-makers; you’ll see what the women in these pages are capable of—but beware: they are not your mother’s “ladies.”

 

Excerpt:

Be careful what you wish for, Regina.

Her mother’s words. Sometimes she could hear her mother’s voice in the house.

The Vindicator piece on Bodycomb’s death was two paragraphs.

He was found floating in Lake Milton, a popular summer resort area for fisherman seventeen miles east of Austintown just off the Interstate 80 overpass. Shot by a small-caliber weapon in the back of the head. The important information was in the second paragraph: Bodycomb, it noted, was running a dog-fighting network among three states: Ohio, Pennsylvania, and West Virginia for a loose-knit West Virginia crime family connected to the Pittsburgh LaRizzo family.

Damn you, Leo.

She was blowing through caution lights, ignoring the honking of cars, as she beelined for the office on Market.

Like a script from a cheap thriller, he was there, wearing the same clothes and unshaven, big jowls dark with stubble, pong of body odor in the overheated single room.

“You promised me full disclosure, total honesty,” she said.

She threw the paper across his desk.

“Here it is in case you missed it.”

Be calm, Regina, she told herself. She wasn’t going to lose her temper and a new job in that order.

“I did and I meant it, Baby,” Leo said.

He glanced at the paper sideways and pushed it back to her. He’d obviously read it.

“You asked me—no, you demanded I call somebody. I did,” he said.

He disgusted her with those wagging jowls and big stomach. She noticed his belt was undone and a patch of curly belly hair exposed.

Probably jerking off in here, the freak.

“I suppose you’ll tell me when the mood strikes.”

“I meant the second case—your next case,” Leo said. “Full disclosure, just like you want.”

Her indignation petered out at the prospect. “So tell me about it,” she said.

Bodycomb was moving in on Donnie Bracca’s territory with his dog-fighting, Leo said.

“He can kill all the dogs he wants in West Virginia,” Leo said. “But Donnie B. controls gambling around here.”

“Donnie Bracca was your real client all the time,” Baby said.

“It’s like this, kid. They don’t blow each other up in cars no more. Gentlemen’s agreements, all nice and polite. But rules have to be followed. Bodycomb went rogue.”

She bit back a retort: You mean, like your own father?

Leo went on, waxing large, a hopeless Mafioso lover, although a real mafia man, a made man, could see Leo couldn’t be trusted. But even the Aryan Brotherhood used outside associates to get things done. Leo could be useful if you couldn’t buy a cop or scare off an investigative reporter snooping in shady politics or business deals.

She didn’t feel bad about Bodycomb’s death. After all, she’d wanted to kill the guy herself.

“Damn it, Leo,” she said. “You should have told me this in the beginning.”Baby moved in the direction Bodycomb’s vehicle had taken. After A couple of hundred yards through meadow grass up to her knees, she stopped and listened. Moving on, she dodged stunted bushes that popped up out of nowhere to snag her clothing. The foliage grew less dense. She found the parallel ruts of the Road Runner’s tracks and kept moving, straining her eyes to see light ahead. If Bodycomb was hiding assets from his soon-to-be ex-wife, he was taking a lot of trouble over it.

After five minutes of faster walking in the grooves, she heard barking coming from the right. She saw the first glimmer of light in the distance. The terrain was sparse but small slopes refracted the light source so it appeared and disappeared with every rise of the ground. A single dog barking became two, then three and finally a pack. Beneath their howls, men’s voices.

When she got close enough to make out words, she lay flat on her belly and put the binoculars on a cluster of men beside a ramshackle barn surrounded by cages of dogs in the beds of trucks beside a squared string of light bulbs a dozen feet from the ground. It looked like a crude boxing ring for backyard brawlers.

Its purpose became clear in the next few minutes. It was a dog-fighting pit.

 

Buy Link:

Paperback exclusively from the publisher’s website: http://www.classactbooks.com/component/virtuemart/cat-murder-mystery-suspense/dangerous-women-8472017-10-14-23-36-05-detail?Itemid=0

Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B076GCNMQ5/

About the Author:

Besides Dangerous Women, Robb T. White is the author of numerous short stories, three hardboiled Thomas Haftmann mysteries, a pair of noir/crime novels, and a recent serial-killer novel featuring a female FBI agent not named Clarice Starling.

A lifelong reader of crime fiction, he published his first story in Gary Lovisi’s Hardboiled magazine. An ebook crime novel, “Special Collections,” won the New Rivers Electronic Book Competition in 2014.  One of his short stories, was named one of 6 Best Of for 2009 by a Chicago website.

A forthcoming hardboiled novel is in the press.

 

Find out more about Robb at:

http://tomhaftmann.wixsite.com/robbtwhite

https://www.amazon.com/Robert-White/e/B001JP338Q

 

 

Please help me welcome fellow AHA member, Toni Sweeney…

 

Please tell us a little about yourself, where are you from? Where do you live now? Family? Pets?

I’ve just your average, friendly neighborhood little old lady writer.  I celebrated my 75th birthday this past December.

No pets now, but I used to own (or they owned me) 4 poodles and a mutt, AND a cat.  All at the same time.  They were the basis for my novel Spacedog’sBbest Friend.

Where did you get the idea for Serpent’s Tooth?

Believe it or not, it was from a dream.  I had a dream about an actor who was popular in the 50’s, in SF/horror movies and when I woke, all I could remember was his name and the name “Hildebrand.”  A few days later, I saw one of his movies on TV and one of the characters was named “Hildebrand.”  I took that to mean something, and wrote Serpent’s Tooth around that name.

Why did you choose this genre (is it something you’ve written in before)?

It was one of the first books Class Act Books published of mine. I’ve always liked ghost stories and tales along that line.

What is the most difficult thing about writing a book?

Making time to sit down and write it. Thee’s always something else needing to be done.

What was the most difficult thing about this one in particular?

See above.  I had it all plotted out, even written, in my mind.  It was sitting down in front of the keyboard and actually writing it that was the difficult part.

Are there any tricks, habits or superstitions you have when creating a story?

There was a time when I couldn’t talk about a book until after it was finished.  Now, I’ll tell about it if someone asks.

What book have you read that you wish you had written?

Gone with the Wind. Even those people who don’t like to read have heard of it.

What do you love that most people don’t like and wouldn’t understand why you do?

Boiled peanuts.  You’re either born loving them or not. Being a Southern, I was born this way. I also like them oven-roasted.

Do you collect anything?

I used to collect horse figurines but that stopped when a good many of them got broken during a move.  I suppose you could say I collect books since I have 12 bookcases fjull.

What was your first job?

After graduation, I was secretary to the chairman of the English Department of the college where I studied.  That was a great job for an English major!

What do you want readers to come away with after they read Exile?

I’d like theme to say, “Wow, I can’t wait to read the next one!”

What genre have you never written that you’d like to write?

Mystery. I don’t think I’m sneaky enough to write a really good mystery.

What is the toughest criticism given to you as an author?

I once had a publisher reject a manuscript and tell me no one would believe in a hero who was part feline.  Later, when Class Act Books published the entire Adventures of Sinbad series and it won several award, including Best series of that specific year, I wanted to write them and let them know. I managed not to.

Are your characters based off real people or did they all come entirely from your imagination?

I’ve based a few characters on real people, mostly ones I didn’t like.  I once made a very obnoxious co-worker into a mud-rooting pig in one of my books!

What do your friends and family think of your writing?

They wish me “Good luck,” but they don’t rush out to buy them.  Maybe the “Good luck” is hypothetical?

Who is the most famous person you have ever met?

Gene Roddenberry. For about 3 seconds.

How did you come up with the title? 

It tells the entire story and I hoped it would make the reader want to know exactly why the main character was exiled and what happened during his banishment.

Is there a message in your novel that you want readers to grasp? 

Not in this series. It’s just for the adventure of it.  Some of the others had a message, however.

How much of the book is realistic? 

Losing someone you love and never expecting to ever find anyone else is pretty realistic. I imagine almost everyone has experienced that feeling. I doubt if any one person has gone through everything my main character has, however. That would be too much!

Your favorite…

Movie – Rocky Horror Picture Show

Music – the finale to Swan Lake

Place you’ve visited – Jekyll Island, GA

TV show from childhood – Rinky Dink and You

TV show from adulthood – Gotham

Food – fruit cake

Blurb:

Aric kan Ingan is a Non-Person, an Exile stripped of title and citizenship for treason against the Arcanian Empire, crimes of which he is innocent.  Sentenced to banishment, he wanders the Emeraunt Galaxy a lonely decade while his uncle withholds clemency.

Money depleted and addictions demanding to be fed, Aric enlists as a guard at a Terran mining colony. Adjusting to life among hated Terrans is difficult, until Aric meets two people who will become an indelible part of his life: Susan Moran, the company doctor, and Miles Sheffield, his former mistress’ younger brother.

With Miles and Susan, Aric suffers the joy of friendship, the passion of love, and the grief of  sudden death, and eventually makes a decision that will change the destiny of the Arcanian Empire forever.

Excerpt:

As he rounded a corner and dodged a brightly-robed Scyllan, he nearly collided with a short weasel of a man running out of a nearby doorway. The little man brushed against him and sped on, only to be pulled off his feet as Aric’s hand wrapped itself in the collar of his jacket.

“Hold it!”  He hauled the little man backward to stand before him, and held out his hand.  “Give it back.”

“Give what back?”  A face of total innocence, if a trifle ferret-like, looked up at him.

In answer, Aric snapped his fingers and thrust the hand at the little man again, palm up.  Something about the gesture told the little thief not to argue.  It frightened him and he didn’t know why.  It wasn’t the stranger’s size. He’d seen bigger men. Nor was it the tiny jewel, set like a droplet of blood in his left earlobe, announcing that here was a warrior Blooded in True Battle, just as the Sign of Ildred, marking his forehead in indelible mourning-black, likewise proclaimed him an Exile.

The little man shivered and the stranger smiled, and at that moment, Fredi the Pick knew exactly what caused his fear.  Those eyes.  Less than human.  Like a bird of prey.

Digging into his pocket, he extracted a small leather pouch, and placed it in the Arcanian’s hand, smiling a little weakly.  “Well!  Now that that’s done, I’ll just be on my—”

“Not so fast.”  He was pinned against the wall, lifted by the force of the hand against his chest, struggling to keep both feet on the cobbles as he looked up into his captor’s face.

“I suppose you’re going to peach me?” What did he expect, picking someone like this as a mark?  Stupid move, truly stupid!

“Hardly.”  The Arcanian laughed but it was a grim, cold sound.  “You know the Keepers don’t come to the Quad.”

“I’d prefer the Lawkeepers.”  The little man looked even glummer.  “We’ve our own rules here, y’know, and the Primary One’s that one inhabitant of the Quad never steals from another.”

Relief and confusion showed on the rat-like face.  “Well, then, I’ll just be go—”

The large hand detained him again.  Fredi looked up.  “Was there something else?”

“Yes, I need some…things.”

“Oh?”  The little man frowned. “What kind of things?”

In spite of where they were, Aric hesitated.  He wasn’t certain he could trust this little rodent.  “Are you a-a Procurer?”

“Why didn’t you say so?”  The frown disappeared.  “I thought—you being an Exile and all…  Did you break your Vows?  You want girls?  How many?”
“No.  Not girls.”

“Oh.  Well, I don’t usually deal the other way but—  Boys?  I suppose I could find one or two—”

“No!”  Aric’s denial was quick.  “I want—”  He lowered his voice, struggling to keep the desperation out of it.  “I need some drugs.”

“No problem.”  The little man showed no surprise.  “Name your poison.”

“I need nicotine and caffeine.  Can you get me some cigarettes and coffee?”

“Cigarettes—”  The little man looked around quickly before continuing in a whisper that was almost a hiss.  “You want cigarettes and coffee?  Those two are at the top of the Unlawful Substances List!”

“Can you get them?”

The thief looked away.  He couldn’t meet that unblinking amber stare, not just the steadiness of the gaze but the bleakness in it, as if something inside the man had died.

“Possibly, but it’ll cost you.  There aren’t many, even in Thieves’ Quad who dare deal in both.”

“I can pay.”

“I’ll need something for my time, too.  Do you know the penalty for possession of tobacco?”

“I don’t want to know.” Aric was tiring of the conversation and desperately wanted to lie down.  Drel’s tushes, I need a tox!  “Just find it, at any cost.”

“Right.”  The little man eyed him as if inspecting him for some sign of nicotine-spasm.

“And I’ll need a place to stay.”

“Elmia’s.  Around the corner and two blocks down.”  He gestured behind him.  “Tell ’em Fredi sent you.”

Aric released him.

“I’ll be back in an hour, maybe two.”  Fredi sped away without looking back.

Aric wondered if he’d keep his word.

Buy Links:

Paperback from the publisher’s website: http://www.classactbooks.com/component/virtuemart/science-fiction/exile-8782018-03-14-02-58-23-detail?Itemid=0

Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/Exile-Arcanian-Chronicles-Part-2-ebook/dp/B07BGW7DQK/

About the Author:

Toni V. Sweeney has lived 30 years in the South, a score in the Middle West, and a decade on the Pacific Coast and now she’s trying for her second 30 on the Great Plains.

Since the publication of her first novel in 1989, Toni divides her time between writing SF/Fantasy under her own name and romances under her pseudonym Icy Snow Blackstone.  In March, 2013, she became publicity manager for Class Act Books (US). She is also on the review staff of the New York Journal of Books and the Paranormal Romance Guild. In 2016, she was named a Professional Reader by netgalley.com.

She is an Amazon reviewer, is in the 1% of reviewers for Goodreads, and in 2015 and 2016 was voted one of the Top 10 authors of those years by Preditors & Editors Readers Poll. In 2013, the Paranormal Romance Guild’s Reviewer’s Choice voted The kan Ingan Archives (Part Two of the Arcanian Chronicles) a Special Mention, and the following year, named the individual novels The Man from Cymene, and Space Studs, from the same series two of the Top 8 SF/fantasy novels of 2014.

As of 2018, Toni currently has 55 novels in print, including 3 series, and 3 trilogies.

Find out more about Toni:

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/tvsweeney

Amazon Author’s Page: https://www.amazon.com/-/e/B002BLQBB8

Twitter:  @ToniVSweeney

 

Please help me welcome today’s guest, , with a fun and interesting interview, plus, a new release!

 

Please tell us a little about yourself, where are you from? Where do you live now? Family? Pets?

I’m originally from Georgia and now live in the Midwest.  There was a time when my entire family was into genealogy and we did a lot of research on our ancestors.  I discovered my great-great-great-greatgrandmother’s name was Icy Snow Blackstone and always thought that sounded like it should belong to a romance writer. When I was living in California, I was a member of the South Coast Writers Club and once we had a speaker who said if a writer wrote in more than one genre, he needed a penname for one of those genres, so his readers wouldn’t get confused. (Not very complimentary to the readers!) Since I was already writing science fiction/fantasy under my real name, when I decided to writer romances, I decided tgo use Icy Snow’s name as my pseudonym.

I’m also a grandmother with three grandchildren, one of whom is a budding writer.

Where did you get the idea for Runaway Brother?

I already had the plot in place—a millionaire dumps everything and runs away from his responsibilities and his brothers try to find him—so the book named itself.

Why did you choose this genre (is it something you’ve written in before)?

I’d already written several romances set in the South, so this one simply followed the others in setting and style.

What is the most difficult thing about writing a book?

1. Getting started.
2. Sticking with it.
3. Finishing the book.

In other words, anything to do with writing a book is difficult!  J

What was the most difficult thing about this one in particular?

There’s a show horse in the story. An Arabian named Shazam.  I had to do a great deal of research on Arabian horse clubs in Georgia, and how the horses are shown, as well as what kind of  riding gear and costumes the owners use when showing their horses.  Finding out the names of the various parts of an Arabian rider’s clothing was the most difficult part.

What book have you read that you wish you had written?

Gone with the Wind.  It’s definitely the Southern romance to end all Southern romances.   It’s been copies in movies and literature and parodied by Carol Burnett (will anyone ever forget her walking down the stairs with the curtain rod sticking out of her dress?) I once read that next to the Bible, it’s one of the top five most read books in the world.

Do you have another occupation, other than writer? If so, what is it and do you like it?

I used to be a medical transcriptionist before I retired.  Now?  I review books for the New York Journal of Books, so I guess “book reviewer” is my “second occupation.”

What do you love that most people don’t like and wouldn’t understand why you do?

Boiled peanuts.  It’s a Southern thing.

Do you collect anything?

I used to collect unicorn figurines. Unfortunately I got so many I had to stop.

What was your first job?

After I graduated from college, I stayed on as secretary to the Chairman of the English Department, a dream job since I was still associating with the professors who’d taught me while I was in college.

What’s the main thing that you could get rid of in your life that would give you more writing time?

Not a thing!  I have all the time in the world to write now. It’s making myself buckle down and do it that’s now the problem.  I’m getting lazy!

What do you want readers to come away with after they read Runaway Brother?

I’d like them to have a favorite scene from the book that they keep talking about and telling friends about, ending with, “You should really read it. I can’t forget that scene.”

Are your characters based off real people or did they all come entirely from your imagination?

75% of my characters are imaginary. That way I can make them as nice, handsome, mean, or ridiculous as I want.

What do your friends and family think of your writing?

For some reason, a good many of them are sarcastic of my writing and always giving me put-downs.  One actually said my writing was “run of the mill.” (She’s no longer a favorite relative, I might add.)  That’s the reason I don’t talk aloud about my writing to people.  (Blogs are different.)

Who is the most famous person you have ever met?

Gene Roddenberry, long enough to say “hello,” and receive the same in answer.  I also hosted a houseparty once for George RR Martin, ‘way back when.

Is there a message in your novel that you want readers to grasp? 

If there is one, it’s that people shouldn’t be forced into roles that others think they should have but should be allowed to pursue their own dreams.

How much of the book is realistic? 

All of it could be.  There are plenty of towns in Georgia like Oceano.  I had horses when I was younger, though not Arabians, and I once dated a guy who owned a motorcycle, so all the info about the Harley is true, too.

How did your interest in writing originate? 

I’ve been writing in one form or another since I learned how to make my first words on paper. (They were “cat” and “rat” by the way. I couldn’t figure out how to spell “dog.”) I started out writing comics. I’d watch a movie and come home and draw it out and narrate it.  When I was eight, I got a toy typewriter for Christmas, and after that, I started typing out stories.  Mostly about horses, since that was the beginning of my “horse-crazy” era, too.

Thank you for the interview. I enjoyed getting to know you. I have to agree about Gone with the Wind – I would LOVE to have written that book. 

About the Author:

Icy Snow Blackstone was born in 1802, in northern Georgia where her father, the Reverend John Blackstone, was prominent in local politics.  She married a minister, raised seven children, and lived there all her life.

Two hundred and five years later, her great-great-great-great-granddaughter began using her name as a pseudonym for her romance novels. The present Icy Snow Blackstone lives far from her Southern roots in Lancaster County, Nebraska, where she continues to write romances.

As of 2017, Icy Snow has eleven novels published by Class Act Books. Her contemporary romance, Tuesday’s Child, was given the Paranormal Romance Guild’s Reviewers Choice award for Best Contemporary Novel of 2014. A SciFi romance, Earthman’s Bride and Vietnam-era romance Jericho Road, have also received awards.

 

Blurb for Runaway Brother:

At the age of twenty-two, newly-graduated Nicolo Liguori is forced by his three brothers to become care-giver for his father, who suffered multiple strokes.  For the next ten years, Nick gives up his own ambitions , working during the day in the family jewelry business in Vanderhoek, New York, and returning to the Liguori mansion every night, to be at his father’s beck-and-call. Then Papa dies and Nick is free…or is he?  Carlo, Marco, and Pietro expect him to continue life as usual, but Nick has other ideas.  Secretly buying a motorcycle, he starts to work one day and… disappears.

Nick gets as far as the southern coast of Georgia before an accident disables his bike.  Stranded, with no idea of the South except what he’s seen on TV, Nick isn’t certain what kind of reception he’s going to get.  Then, a pretty Southern miss and a white tank disguised as a temperamental horse named Shazam change his life as they and the citizens of Oceano teach a runaway Yankee about life and love in a small Georgia town.

EXCERPT: 

The track was getting narrower, barely two ruts now with a width of slender, wiry grass separating them.  He slowed the bike.  Don’t want to get that stuff caught in the spokes and stall the engine.

Nick raised his head, looking around, then gave a loud sigh of exasperation.  Okay.  So I’m lost. He’d just follow the road to wherever it went, probably to some farmer’s front yard.  When he got there, he’d apologize, turn around and get himself back to the main drag.  If he could find it.

A broken branch loomed ahead, and he turned his attention to it, guiding the bike around it.

A second branch and several twigs littered the roadway.  Nick was so concerned with maneuvering around them he didn’t see the horse sail over the fence, wasn’t even aware it was there until he looked up and found the white shape almost directly in front of him.

He jerked the wheel to the right, forgetting to apply the rear brakes first.  The bike skidded, its back wheel rising off the ground as the front one stopped rolling.  He had a brief vision of the animal leaping forward, its rider clinging to its back, wide, frightened blue eyes, flying blonde hair…

The motorcycle went off the road, sliding into the ditch and running up the other side, the front fender striking one of the fence posts.  It bounced and rebounded, and Nick went flying over the handlebars, flipping in mid-air and hitting the same post with his back. The bike wavered a moment, then toppled onto its side.  Nick slid down the post, landing upside down in the ditch, his shoulders crushing coffeeweed into an aromatic mass.

The pounding hooves stopped.  He heard running footsteps, opened his eyes and saw someone running toward him.  He closed them again.

“Are you hurt?”

This time when he opened his eyes, he was staring at the upside-down face of a very pretty girl, at least she’d have been pretty if her face wasn’t screwed up into such a dismayed scowl.

“Am I hurt?”  He managed a growl as he slid further into the weeds and rolled over.  “I just hit a fence and got tossed into a ditch!  What do you think?”  Clambering to his knees, while she plucked ineffectually at one arm, he jerked out of her grasp.  “I can get up by my—  Ow!”

He’d gotten upright, took a step, and his leg buckled, turning at the ankle            “Here.”  She slid into the ditch, offering a hand.  Reluctantly he took it, being careful not to put too much weight behind it as he let her pull him to his feet.  He could see she was worried and he really wasn’t hurt all that bad, but he was angry because she’d been so reckless.

“What the Hell’s the matter with you?  Jumping in front of me like that!  If I’d hit that horse—”

“What are you doing riding this road?  This is private property.”

She was too pretty for him to pretend to stay angry at, so he toned it down, answering her question. “I got lost.  I only wanted to find the end of the road and turn around.”

“You have a way to go.  The house is about a quarter of a mile that way.”  She nodded toward a group of pines thrust into the road, hiding the rest of it from sight. Nick looked in that direction, then back at her.  She, in turn, looked at the motorcycle, still on its side in the weeds.  “You seem okay.  Is that hurt?”

Nick got down on one knee, feeling under the bike.  His hand came away wet.  He sniffed at his fingers.

Gasoline. He pulled off one glove, exploring gingerly.  Something had punched a hole in the gas tank and gasoline was pouring into the grass.  He had no idea how, but it didn’t matter.  What did was that he wasn’t going anywhere as long as that hole was there.

“Well?”  She appeared to be awaiting his diagnosis.

He wiped his fingers on the seat of his jeans.  “Gas tank’s got a hole in it, clutch cable’s severed. Is there a motorcycle shop around here anywhere?”

“No, but Marshall’s in town can probably repair it.  He does everything from lawn mowers to farm machinery.”

            Oh Lord, deliver me from small town handymen!  He was about to tell her he didn’t want Marshall touching his bike when he realized, What else am I going to do?  Do you have a better idea, Mr. Runaway?

“So which way is town?”  He straightened, looked around as if expecting to see the city limits a few feet away.

“Too far for you to push that thing,” she answered, gesturing at the front wheel.  “Not with it twisted like that.”

“What do I do then, Miss Not-So-Helpful?  Since this is your fault—”

“My fault?”  Hands went to her hips.  And deliciously slim ones they were, too.  Nick had a moment to think she looked anything but angry, though it was apparent she thought she did.  Cute, maybe.  Hell, he might even say adorable with those blonde wisps floating around her face, but angry?  Nope!  “Who’s the trespasser?  Who had his head down, studying the ground when he should’ve been looking straight ahead?”

“You weren’t ahead of me,” he countered.  “You and that white tank of yours jumped a fence and came in from the side.”

“Never mind.  Just let me get the bike upright and point me in the right direction, and—”

“I’ll do no such thing.”  That made him stare at her, wondering if she was going to walk away, mount her white steed, and leave him stranded knee-deep in Kudzu or whatever-the-Hell these weeds were.  “I’ll ride back to the house and get my grandpa’s truck.  We’ll put the motorcycle in it.”

She clambered up the bank, running toward the horse now was grazing on the other side of the road.  Catching the reins and a handful of mane, she swung into the horse’s back—very gracefully, he noted—then turned the animal’s head and trotted it back to him.

“You stay right there,” she told him.  “I’ll be back in a jif.”  She kicked the horse in the ribs and sent it galloping down the road.

Nick turned his attention back to the V-Rod.  It hadn’t moved.  Did he expect it to get up and limp over to him like a dog with a hurt paw, whimpering for sympathy?  Shaking his head, he leaned against the edge of the ditch, back against a fencepost.

Welcome South, Brother!

 

Buy Links:

Paper back from the publisher’s website: http://www.classactbooks.com/index.php/component/virtuemart/cat-contemporary/runaway-brother-342013-04-29-03-29-06-detail?Itemid=0

e-Books/Kindle from Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/Runaway-Brother-Icy-Snow-Blackstone-ebook/dp/B01JO3XGOA/ref=sr_1_2?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1473437700&sr=1-2&keywords=runaway+brother