CARLY'S RULE, Release date SEPTEMBER 2013

I'm getting excited. Carly's Rule, Book One of The Braddocks, published by Bell Bridge Books, will be out in September. Only two months away. Here's a little about the book.

Pastry Chef Carly Braddock only ever loved one man, Luke Donovan, who disappeared from her life years ago, breaking her heart and leaving her to wonder what happened to him.  When he walks into Sugar Plums, her bakery/cafe, and back into her life after all this time, she isn’t in a forgiving mood. Though he doesn’t know it, her experience with him shaped the other relationships in her life and led her to create a rule to protect her heart. What neither counts on is that the chemistry between them is still as fierce and tangible as it was all those years ago, and Carly doesn’t know until her heart is completely involved once again that Luke has kept an important part of his life from her.  When she finds out what it is, she knows she must let him go, and this time for good. Not only did he keep something from her, but he broke the one thing she created to protect her heart . . . Carly’s Rule.

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Chapter One of  
Knight & Day by Kathryn J. Bain

Winner of the free download of Knight & Day is
EARL STAGGS
Congratulations!

 Chapter One 

Why does this always happen to me? It's hard enough to keep God's commandments, at least the easy ones, without running into someone who died. It's like I attract them. Maybe I should find a support group. "Hi, my name is Trubleh Lawrence, and I find dead bodies."

I'd run screaming if I wasn't used to it.

Gerald Simpson had been looking to hire someone for his private investigation office. The ad read:

Receptionist for small firm. No experience necessary.

About to turn thirty, newly divorced, with no money or marketable skills, it fit my qualifications perfectly. I'd arrived at fifteen 'til for my nine o'clock appointment. My daddy said if you come early, it'd show them you're eager. If I'd waited, in this case, another applicant might have found Mr. Simpson.

When I arrived, the door stood ajar. The lock clicked behind me when I shut the door. Not a common occurrence for most businesses. Maybe private investigators need to take special precautions from husbands they've caught cheating.

Besides, Mr. Simpson could just be asleep and have his head on his desk. For all I knew, he might have had a long night out surveilling or whatever investigators do.

I'd been dealing with a cold the last week which threw my sense of smell off or the odor would have warned me when I entered the office.

I walked around to nudge him awake and saw the bloody hole in the back of his skull. My ick factor rose. Gray powder burns told me the shot had been up close. He looked like he'd been a large man when he was alive. Of course, the bloating from decomposition might have caused some of that.

A sheriff's daughter with an adeptness born of years of tagging with my father on cases, I scanned the room. Not much to look at. A long row of filing cabinets aligned the opposite wall. Mr. Simpson's desk appeared to be twice the size as the one up front. I assumed the smaller one would've been mine if he'd given me the job.

I sighed, resigned to the fact I'd be forever unemployed.

Mr. Simpson's purplish face and pale lips said I had more important things to think about. He'd probably died within the past hour. Why couldn't I be late? Tattooing from the gunpowder particles surrounded the wound, but no soot. The gun, a Smith & Wesson five round .38 Special laid at least ten feet from the body. The pink grip announced loud and clear that a woman more than likely killed him. Lucky me. I happened to be female.

I pulled out my cell.

"911 operator. Is this an emergency?"

"Yes. Somebody's been shot in the River City Plaza on Prudential Drive. Suite 613."

Once I hung up, a noise in the corridor drew my attention. The doorknob jerked back and forth, then the scraping of something in the lock.

My heart somersaulted while my mind raced with possibilities. A robber? Not likely. The killer? A better bet.

A small closet in the corner seemed a good place to hide. My heart and I raced toward it. A beige raincoat suspended by a wire hook appeared to float in air. I guess that's standard wear in the P.I. business. The small space carried a musty smell. I scooted further back into the closet and pulled the door shut behind me. The only light came in from a slit at the floor.

Please God, don't let my stomach growl. I wished I'd eaten breakfast.

I tried not to breathe too loud. File drawers opened and closed. Papers shuffled. Then footsteps neared my hiding spot. I grabbed my large green purse with both hands and held my breath. He might kill me, but I'd leave a few marks before I went.

A rush of adrenaline ran through me and pushed my lungs against my rib cage. The door handle twisted, and I flung against it. I had hoped to knock the other person down. It didn't happen. Could have to do with him being larger than me. A lot larger. He stared at me. I stared at him. Finally, I yelled and whacked him in the head with my purse. He went down.

Muscles were no match for a large bag with a flat iron tucked inside.

I leapt over him and ran out the front, knocking on every door on my way through the hallway to draw attention. Around the corner, the elevator dinged, and two police officers rushed off.

"He's in there." I panted. "Another man came in and started searching the place."

I trailed behind the policemen who had their guns out. I'd have mine out, too, if I'd brought it. I also wouldn't want a lot of questions since I still needed a job. Another interview waited for me after lunch. When we returned, Mr. Simpson remained where I left him.

However, the stranger I'd hit on the head had disappeared.

****

Two hours later I sat in a small diner in downtown Jacksonville, eating a bacon, lettuce, and tomato sandwich. I had a half hour until my next appointment. I'd been unemployed for three months now, and my savings disappeared faster than the chips on my plate. I glanced at my ringing cell. Caller ID announced my best friend, Kay, who called after every interview.

"No, I didn't get the job," I said before she had a chance to speak. I explained to tell her about the dead body. "I do owe you a debt of gratitude though. The purse you gave me for my birthday last year helped me get away."

"I told you that you need a different bag for every occasion. And a large one obviously makes a good weapon." Kay, a purse aficionado, had an unusual style for just about every situation. Who knew where she came up with them all? They also looked expensive. Good thing she married rich, instead of for love like I did.

I drank down some of my root beer. "In a few minutes I'm heading to a lawyer's office across the street. Pray I get this position. Poor Gretchen's getting tired of store brand dog food."

The phone beeped in my ear.

"I've got to go. My mom's calling."

"Good luck. And phone me when you get done," she said before hanging up.

"Hey, Mom."

"What's wrong? Your grandmother said she felt a disturbance."

Grandma, a million-year-old full-blooded Choctaw Indian, claimed to have special powers of vision and feelings. Most of them pertained to me. I just wished she'd stop telling my mom about her prophecies. If she'd tell Grandpa instead, I'd never have a problem. He knew how to keep a secret.

I went on to explain finding Mr. Simpson's body.

"Why, oh why am I cursed?" Mom spoke in that dramatic fashion she learned from doing school plays. "Why do I get the daughter who finds dead people?"

"I hate to cut this short," I said. "But I have another interview. I'll call you later. Love you." My thumb slid across the off button before she could say anything further.

I took the elevator in the Glade Towers to the fourteenth floor of Knight & Day, P.A. The writing on the outside window said they practiced criminal, worker's compensation, elder law, and personal injury law.

A large wood door remained between me and my future career. I entered and "oohed" and "aahed." I'd never seen anything this beautiful in Pâle Bayuk, Louisiana where I'd grown up. The reception room had cherry wood flooring throughout. A leather sofa and two matching seats surrounded a glass coffee table. Too bad a professionally dressed woman took every available spot. Each held a resume in her hand, at least two pages long. They all had way more experience than I did.

I fought the temptation to run. Maybe I could find a space in the corner to hide until they called my name.

Two large desks, matching the flooring, were on opposite sides of the back wall. Each had a telephone and computer. The one on the left had no papers or paraphernalia to show anyone used it.

At the other, an African-American woman appeared to be pulling her brown hair out. It probably had a lot to do with the ringing phone. It just wouldn't stop. An engraved nameplate read Sandra Kastanza. She no sooner answered one line, and then another would ring.

She grimaced at me. I'm sure she thought to herself, "Great, just one more thing I have to take care of." The phone went on with its unrelenting noise, and Sandra continued to push her hand through her hair. I strolled over and waited with a pasted smile on my face.

The phone rang. "Please hold." It rang again. "Can you hold?" Sandra looked up at me with pleading eyes. "I'll be with you in just a moment." Her fingers pressed buttons faster than she spoke.

Sandra's dark skin contrasted nicely against a watermelon colored suit. However, her brown eyes narrowed, and a crease ran across her forehead. If she kept that up, she'd have wrinkles before her next birthday. Sandra answered one of the lines. When she hung up from that one, she answered another. Then another. This time the person she spoke with apparently wouldn't let her off. Her other two lines rang again.

I shook my head and recalled the words my daddy told me. "Show initiative. Don't be too proud to take out the garbage. It shows them you're indispensable."

So that's what I did. Showed initiative. Really, I pitied Sandra. Any minute now she'd end up in a rubber room from the ringing. If she didn't, I sure would, so I marched over to the other desk, punched blinking line one and said, "Knight & Day, would you please hold?" Then I grabbed the other line. "Knight & Day, how may I help you?" I spoke in the most professional voice I could muster with my nerves all-a-twitter.

"Is William available?"

"I'm afraid not, but if you give me your number, I'll be sure to give him a message." I took down the man's information then did the same for the other person I'd placed on hold.

I glanced over at Sandra and gave her a grin.

She mouthed, "Thank you."

I may not have the ability of the others, but I had Sandra on my side.

She finally got her caller off the line. "It's been like this all day. I told them not to put that ad in the paper."

The phone rang again. She let out a weighted breath then answered. After listening to the caller, she announced, "I'm afraid the position has been filled." She winked at me and disconnected. "I see you know your way around an office."

"To be honest, I don't." I lowered my voice so the others seated within twenty feet couldn't hear. "You just needed someone to lend a hand so I thought I'd give you one of mine." I handed her my one page resume. "As you can see, it's not much."

A lady in a nice black skirted-suit glided out from the back. From the huge smile on her face, her interview must have gone well. I looked down at my flared brown skirt, pink sweater, and brown blazer one shade lighter than the skirt. I didn't come close to fitting in with this crowd.

"Wait right here." Sandra got up and rushed to the back. Her heels had to be at least three inches high and matched the skirt that went to mid-thigh.

She returned moments later beaming from ear to ear.

"Mr. Day will see you now."

I glanced over at the five women seated in the lobby. They each shot me a dirty look. One that said if they'd known answering a stupid phone would have gotten them in, they'd have done it.

Sandra led me to a large office with a window view of the St. Johns River. Inside was what you would expect from a law office. Law books, large desks and an older man sitting in a high-back chair. The place smelled of leather and money.

Only one document sat on the desk in front of a balding man of about sixty. My resume. Very few files littered a side credenza. No loose papers anywhere in the office. The place was meticulous. Degrees, plagues, and awards dangled on the back wall.

He rose and extended his hand, which I accepted.

"I'm Mr. Day. Have a seat." He used an opened palm to point to a chair across from him. I ventured to guess he stood less than six feet tall. He wore a gray suit and an orange and blue tie. Obviously a University of Florida fan. I figured yelling out for my Louisiana Tigers might not be a good idea right now. His crisp sapphire eye color would draw anyone's attention. Probably a good thing when you work in front of a jury.

"Hmm. Trouble, is that a nickname?"

"Actually, it's pronounced 'true blay'. It's French." I hoped he didn't speak French, or I'd have to explain how after being four weeks late, twenty-two hours in labor, and only willing to come by cesarean section, my mom named me Trouble with a French twist.

"Unique." He nodded. "You don't have much experience." He turned the resume page over.

Did he truly think I'd write on the back? I may not be very professionally dressed, but I'm not dumb.

"Tell me about yourself," he said.

"I moved here recently from Louisiana. I came from a small town, and there wasn't much in the way of jobs to be had."

"What brought you to Jacksonville?"

"My mother came here quite a few years ago. I decided to visit and liked it enough to stay." No point in telling him I'd actually run away from home after my divorce.

"Hmm." He must have said it twenty times as he looked over my resume. "Sandra seems to like you the best out of all our interviewees. She's been with us about nine years, and you'll be working alongside her." He let out a slight laugh. "And she's made it clear if we hired one of those stuck-up women in the waiting area, she'll walk out."

I tried not to get too enthusiastic in case I'd misinterpreted what he said.

"The job pays ten dollars an hour to start. You'll be on a ninety day trial period. After that, you'll get a raise and benefits will take effect." He rose. "If you want it, the job's yours. You can start tomorrow."

"I want it." I fought the urge to jump up and hug him.

"Just keep it quiet. I'd hate to have a stampede from those waiting to see me." He winked.

On my way out, I stopped beside Sandra's desk. She cradled the handset between her ear and shoulder. I mouthed the words "Thank you," before I left.

"Yes!" I leapt into the air.

The elevator doors slid opened not even a second after I landed. The man who'd been searching Mr. Simpson's file cabinets stepped out.

Before I could say anything, he hauled me inside the elevator with him.

BLURB 

A no man policy doesn’t count when someone’s trying to kill you. A name can mean a lot. You expect Jasper to be a CEO of a company. Name your kid Phineas, well, he’ll get beat up a lot. Name your daughter Trubleh (true blay), and you’ll get nothing but trouble. Trubleh Lawrence makes a habit out of discovering dead bodies. When the police look to her as a suspect, she has no choice but to search for the killer. If being a suspect isn’t bad enough, she has to deal with a grandmother who has visions, a grandfather who wants to buy a speedboat, a co-worker who makes the Wicked Witch of the West look like Shirley Temple, and a guy who constantly reminds her that celibacy is hard when a hot male is around.

BIO

     Kathryn J. Bain began writing more than ten years ago. Her first release, Breathless, came out January 13, 2012. Her novella, Game of Hearts, was released in March 2012 followed by her inspirational romance suspense Catch Your Breath.

     She is the former President of Florida Sisters in Crime and Membership Director for Ancient City Romance Authors. She is currently the Public Relations Director for Ancient City Romance Authors.

     To survive and pay bills, she has been a paralegal for over twenty years and works for an attorney who specializes in elder law.

     She has two daughters and a dog named Gretchen. Her first grandchild is due in 2013.

     Kathryn grew up in Coeur d' Alene, Idaho. In 1981, she moved to Boise, but apparently it wasn't far enough south, because two years later, she headed to Jacksonville, Florida and has lived in the sunshine ever since.
 
Visit Kathryn at her website: KathrynJBain.com
Or through Facebook: Kathryn J. Bain  

Knight & Day is available on Amazon and Barnes and Noble.

Previously published in Woman's World Magazine

The Power of Love 

A romantic short story by Vickie King

     Samantha listened to the voice on the answering machine, "Hi, this is Mac. I can't come to the phone right now, so leave a detailed message after the beep, and I'll get back with you."

     Her chest tightened. She missed him, yearned to hear his voice, but part of her, the stubborn part, hadn't even wanted to make the call. "Mac, it's me . . . Sam. We've got plumbing problems again. I got an estimate, and it's really high. We need to talk. Just need to know what you want me to do. Uh . . . I'm having a garage sale, so I'll be home all day today."

     She hit end and sank into the kitchen chair. We need to talk about our marriage. That's what she really wanted to say. Her gaze roamed the kitchen. She and Mac had papered and painted, leveled the floor and bumped out the window over the sink for her African violets.

     They'd bought the Victorian fixer-upper the second year of their marriage, never dreaming they'd separate less than three years later. If their relationship continued on the same path, they'd have to sell the house.

     She recalled arguments over trivial things that had gotten blown out of proportion. Words spoken in anger had chipped away at the foundation of their marriage. The last argument, the one that had driven the wedge between them was still fresh in her mind. They'd planned a weekend getaway to Seneca Caverns--away from work, away from the phone, away from any distraction.

     Mac had appeared in the bedroom doorway that Friday evening, a roll of blueprints under one arm and a hard hat in his hand. He looked at the half-packed suitcase on the bed, then at her. She'd seen that look before, and her spirits sank.

     "I'm sorry," he'd said. "I just found out I have to work tomorrow. It's the only day I can get a crane, and the job has to be done by Monday."

     She shook her head. "No. You promised me nothing would come up this time. I already paid for the lodge."

     He dropped the blueprints and hard hat onto the bed. "We'll go another weekend."

     "No, we won't, because next time you'll have another excuse." She yanked clothes from the suitcase, then stuffed them back into dresser drawers.

     "It takes time to get a business going," Mac said. "I'm working all these hours for us, for our future." 

     "Us? We're never together. There is no us anymore."

     "You know I've always wanted to own my own business. I've worked too hard to give up now."

     "We need to work hard at our marriage, too." Samantha didn't bother to hide her tears.

     Mac raised his hands in defeat. "Why are we always arguing? I can't live like this anymore."

     "Then maybe you should find someplace else to live." The words had rolled off Samantha's tongue before she'd even considered their consequences.

     "Maybe I should." His voice had been barely above a whisper.

     Two months had passed since that fight. Now Samantha sighed and carried a box of kitchen items outside into the crisp morning air. She set the box on a table piled with odds and ends.
     "Well, that's the last of it," she told her sister, Tara, who tossed an old shirt into a box labeled Free. "That's not for sale," Samantha said, protectively grabbing the shirt. She traced the faded white number 10 on it. She'd slept in it more times than she could count. Somehow it had found its way to the back of the closet. She'd discovered it along with some of Mac's other mementos, as she'd gathered up stuff for the garage sale. All morning she'd been plagued by bittersweet reminders of her marriage.
     Two cars stopped in front of the house. Mentally, Samantha readied herself for the day. A while later, she spotted a little boy hugging her teddy bear. "Oh, I'm sorry, but that bear isn't for sale," she told the child's mother.
     "But there's a price on it."
     "My sister put it out by mistake."
    The woman lips tightened, and she straightened her spine. "Tommy, give the lady her bear." Curtness edged the woman's voice.
     He turned away. "No. Mine."
     "Mommy will buy you something else." The woman held out her hand.
    The child clutched the stuffed animal. His lower lip quivered.
    His mom looked at Samantha. "I'll give you a dollar for the bear."
     "I'm sorry, but it's not for sale." Samantha eyed the bear's faded brown fur, and something tugged at her insides. "My husband won it for me at a carnival when we were dating."
     "Look what I've got," a man's voice called from behind her.
     Samantha closed her eyes and took a deep breath. There was no mistaking that voice. The smooth baritone sound warmed her, thawing the bitter cold that had crept into her heart. Her pulse quickened, and bracing herself, she turned around.
     Mac stood behind her holding a toy train that had belonged to Tara's son. "How about we make a trade, Sport?" Mac wound up the toy and set it on the concrete driveway. The train took off in a circle. It's bell clanged, and the child's eyes widened. He dropped the bear.
     Mac picked up the stuffed toy and pulled the sticker from its ear. Mac's brown eyes held a hint of challenge in them. "If I remember correctly, it took eight or nine tries to win this bear." He held it out to her.
     "Thanks." Samantha reached for the stuffed animal. As she took it from her husband, their fingers touched. His hands were callused from work, yet she remembered how gentle they could be.
     She looked up at the dark hair peeking from under his cap and remembered just how much she loved the smell of his freshly shampooed hair when he stepped from the shower. Some things could never be erased.
     Mac picked up her lucky fishing hat from the table. "You're selling this?" His brows furrowed, and the muscle in his jaw visibly tightened.
     He had given her the drab, olive hat the first time he'd taken her fishing. "Tara put some things out by mistake--that's one of them." She touched it and smiled.
     "Remember when I gave it to you?" he asked.
     How could she forget Cranberry River in April, budding trees edging the placid stream? "You said it would bring me luck."
     Mac chuckled. "I didn't get another bite that day, but you--"
     "Practically wore my fishing pole out catching fish." She remembered other things about that day, too.
     They'd spread a blanket on the ground, had eaten cold chicken for lunch and shared iced tea from a thermos. She'd also gotten her fishing line tangled in a patch of poison ivy. The next day, with her face and hands covered in pink lotion, he'd told her for the first time that he loved her. Was he remembering, too? "You can have it, Mac. You're the fisherman."
     "But you love to fish."
     How could she tell him it wasn't the fishing she loved? She didn't really want to part with the hat, but she wanted him to have something to remind him of what they'd shared. "No, you keep it." For a moment they just looked at each other.
     "Okay," he said finally, his voice softening.
     They stood there gazing into each other's eyes. Then Mac looked down at the old fishing hat. As he lifted his head, the look in his eyes told her all she needed to know. Their marriage had been threatened, but it could still be saved. She'd let Mac slip out of her life once. She couldn't risk it again.
     "Mac, why are we doing this? Her voice broke over the words.
     "I've been asking myself that same question since the day I walked out. I finally realized all those hours I'd worked building a business for our future didn't mean a thing without you." He reached for her hand, determination in his eyes. "You are my future."
     "Oh, Mac," Samantha whispered. Tears pooled in her eyes. "We belong together. I want to work things out."
     Mac pulled her to him. "Me, too." His strong arms wrapped around her.
     She rested her head in the curve of his neck, his familiar spicy scent flooding her senses. Then she looked up into his eyes. "You still love me, don't you?"
     "Always," Mac whispered. His warm lips touched hers. He kissed her then, a soft, sweet kiss of promise.
      "I love you, too," she said, as he buried his face in her hair and held her close. "Forever."

© Copyright by Vickie L. King