It's Been A While...

And it will take take a bit longer to bring this site entirely up to date. There are lots of reasons for the huge gap between posts - a combination of health issues, and simple procrastination [of which I am a past mistress and Olympic Gold Medal material]. Since the health issues aren't going away, nor will they lessen, I'm going to do my damnedest to keep this blog up to date from now on.

I'll start with a shout-out for my last release, The Fall Guy, a short story set in 1920s New York, and London.

In 1920s New York, Pinkerton Agent John Brady is assigned to a brutal robbery/kidnapping, an open and shut case with an obvious culprit - but nothing and no one are what they seem.

Small-time crook Cesare Donati has the perfect getaway: a transatlantic cruise ship. When Brady turns up at his cabin door, Cesare knows he is out of options until they reach England.

Will London be a safe haven or a place of reckoning?

Excerpt:

“Brady!” The bellow echoed around the half-empty bullpen and the four of us still scribbling reports winced.

Even the chatter and clatter from the typing pool paused for a moment, and the new girl about to hand Parrish his copy, jumped and squeaked like a startled mouse. She wasn’t the only one taken by surprise. My involuntary jerk left a spreading blot of ink on my half-finished statement. Hank Hampton’s usual short temper had an extra side of rage this morning. I dropped my pen, spattering more ink, shot out of my chair and strode into his office. It didn’t pay to be slow in responding to that kind of shout.

“Yes, Boss?”

His heavy features were redder than I’d seen for a while, and angrier. He scooped a file off his desk and thrust it at me. “Our beloved Congressman Monroe had a break-in yesterday evening. His wife was beaten up, her jewels stolen and her maid kidnapped. The cops aren’t moving fast enough for him, so he’s roped us in as well.” ‘Us’ being the Pinkerton Detective Agency. Lucky us. “Do what you gotta do,” Hampton snapped. “Go where you need to go. Monroe’s breathing down my neck on this and we can’t afford to mess this up.” His warning glare came close to incinerating me. “Make it fast. He thinks this is more than a straightforward robbery-kidnapping, and he’s made it clear that he wants a personal chat with the bastard.”

“Yes, Boss,” I said and legged it back to my desk.

Congressman Gerald ‘Bull’ Monroe pulled a lot of political weight in New York since Prohibition had been imposed a few years ago: not all of it the kind that would make his momma proud. Rumor had it he was a bad man to cross. But I still didn’t understand why Monroe had called us in. Hampton didn’t, either, I guessed, which explained his more than usual lousy mood.

Okay, it isn't exactly a secret that the New York Police Department hustled along at the speed of cold molasses: even so, involving the Pinkertons at this early stage in the investigation seemed odd to me. I had a sudden gut-feeling that no matter who brought the suspect in, the guy would very quickly have a serious and almost certainly fatal accident.

Amazon getbook.at/thefallguy

Love In Three Moves, and an Excerpt

Many moons ago - 2009 and 2011 respectively - I wrote two short-short stories for the late Torquere's Sip range, and the rights have long since returned to me. Recently I re-discovered them on my hard drive, and decided to do something with them. But what?

The answer was to write another short story featuring my two men that would detail the beginnings of their friends-to-lovers affair. Then I extensively rewrote the 2009 one, comprehensively tweaked the 2011 story, and combined them under the title, Love In Three Moves.

The first two stories are set in Canary Wharf, London, so I wanted to have the cover reflect that. I found the perfect photo on Pixabay - Canary Wharf at night.

Buy Links

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BLURB

Love in Three Moves - Three short stories chart a passionate love affair: yet true love so rarely runs smoothly.

It Takes Two

David Grainger and Ben Tremayne are perfect partners in business and friendship – and finally they give in to the temptation of taking that further. Their passionate love has been brewing for a long time, and everything about their new affair is wonderful - until it isn't.

Breaking Point

Ben hasn’t seen his ex-lover David, for a year. He lives alone with his remorse for breaking up their affair, overwhelmed by his fear of commitment rather than his love for David. When, out of the blue, David asks him for a favour, Ben grudgingly agrees. The simple errand takes a complicated turn.

Clue Game

Once instrumental in reuniting Ben and David, their friend Barbara Curtis now needs the couple’s help with her own love-life. Despite being in Paris on their pre-honeymoon, Ben and David are caught up in the ensuing puzzle, involving a Paris art gallery, the works of Shakespeare, a devious crossword, a pair of precious earrings – and satisfaction for Barbara’s heart.

Excerpt

1st Move - It Takes Two

"It's me," David Grainger called as he opened the front door and walked into the large studio apartment. "Are you back? Babs has been nagging me again. Did you get the Stravinsky commis - ?" He stopped in his tracks. Yes, Ben was back from Geneva. The room looked like Selfridges at the end of a sale day. Cushions, bedcovers, pillows and odd items of clothing lay scattered over floor and furniture, and the warm air was heavy with an exotic, expensive perfume. But over all hung the scent of sex.

Who was it this time? David wondered, irritated. Roger, Melanie, or both? Not that he gave a damn who Ben took to his bed. No, he was peeved because he'd heard nothing from the man for several days. Phone calls and texts had all been ignored, and Barbara wasn't the only one pissed off about it. Important matters hung on the success of Ben's trip to Switzerland. Sometimes the man was an irresponsible pain in David's arse.

Fastidious as a cat, he picked his way across the room, nose wrinkling as the assorted aromas assaulted his nostrils, and David thanked whichever gods looked after dissolute idiots that the used condoms had ended up in the waste bin and not on the floor.

Ben, the other half of Grainger & Tremayne Antiques, enjoyed a varied love life. Ten years of friendship, five of which included a highly successful working partnership, meant they'd shared keys long ago and had free range of each other's homes in the same Canary Wharf up-market apartment block. It wouldn't be the first time David had strolled in at the wrong moment. He was bisexual himself, but his own exploits in the relationship arena were a lot less adventurous. Or numerous.

"Ben? Are you still alive?"

"No…" The voice came from the other side of the half open bathroom door. David grinned, despite his exasperation. As usual, he found it difficult to stay angry at his mercurial but charming friend.

"Don't tell me they've worn you out after, what, only two days?"

"And nights." The muted, sleepy grumble made it easy to imagine Ben's smirk. "And it's she, not they."

Snickering, David strolled to the bathroom and lounged against the doorframe. Pools slopped all over the tiled floor and Ben leant forward on the side of the bath, half-kneeling in the foaming water. He'd obviously been lunging for the towel on the heated rail when David had announced his arrival. Now he rested his head on his hands and slanted a sultry blue gaze over his shoulder. Despite his action-packed weekend, Ben still had the energy to flirt. It was a reflex action, David knew. Ben could no more stop doing it than he could stop breathing. So, as usual, David paid no attention, even though the warmth of desire throbbed in his groin. Once again the urge to take Ben up on his flirtatious invitations heated his blood. But it was only a meaningless physical response to Ben's overt sensuality. It didn't mean a thing.

~ * ~

Love In Three Moves - 1st edition 2017 Chris Quinton

Containing

It Takes Two - 1st edition 2017 Chris Quinton

Breaking Point - 1st edition 2009: 2nd edition 2017 Chris Quinton

Clue Game - 1st edition 2011: 2nd edition 2017 Chris Quinton

~ * ~

In The Doghouse - Excerpt

In The Doghouse

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Jerry Thorne is on the run with a greyhound, and nowhere left to turn for safety but an old one-time friend, Mike Brown. Which could be a huge mistake. Not only did Jerry have a crush on the man back in the day, Mike happens to be a cop and has no wish to take in the two strays…

Chapter One

I'm a coward. A fully paid up, card-carrying and devoutly fervent coward and I've never made any secret of it. And I like my kneecaps just the way they are. Which is why I was heading out of London as fast as the car could take me on a particularly fogged-in January night. Not only fog, but frost and black ice as well, I discovered, as we skated round a curve in the Fosse Way. Not all Roman roads are plumb line straight, and the Fosse can kink with the best of them. Don't ask me what I was doing on the Fosse Way—I haven't a clue. I'd initially intended to head north. I have friends in Leeds, and I knew we'd be safe up there. But with Joe Mullins on my tail, I'd stayed away from the main roads.

So, since I was taking which ever turnings panic and instinct suggested, while clutching the steering wheel with the grip of a drowning man on a lifebelt and my foot as heavy on the accelerator as I dared in the weather conditions, I'd gone a bit astray. You don't believe me? Listen, I only discovered I was on the Fosse heading southwest when the road sign loomed out of the murk and informed me that Cirencester was ten miles away. On the plus side, as far as I could tell, no one was following us.

The reason why I was haring around the country like a panicked greyhound was—a greyhound. Spot, aka Edie's Lightning, all ridiculously long legs, ditto tongue, and soulful eyes, patrolled my Renault's back seat, shedding brindle and white hair on my upholstery as he went from one window to the next.

Normally I worked at the Customer Information Desk in my local branch of Lloyds Bank. In my spare time I was a member of Brayswood Harriers, an amateur cycling club. Not exactly Tour de France material, any of us, but we did okay at the inter-county level. I'd taken a week off from the Evil Day Job and my training schedule to stand in for Uncle George in his hardware shop while he and Aunt Edie prepared Spot for his upcoming race. They both were greyhound fanatics, and had two or three around the house for as long as I could remember. Usually it was a couple of older dogs kept as beloved pets when their racing days were over, and a young dog in training. Uncle always named their dogs for Aunt Edie; Edie's Charm, Edie's Surprise, Edie's Gift, Edie's—well, you get the idea. Each dog was as much a family member as a racer, and were great characters in that laidback greyhound kind of way. The current three were Gift, Surprise, and Lightning.

Anyhow, all was well, until things started to go pear-shaped. First, Uncle George's old van failed its MOT and the garage had to order in a part, so I was making deliveries in my Renault. Then he dropped an oilcan, slipped in the resulting mess and buggered up his left wrist. These things come in threes, so I wasn't entirely surprised when he'd come to the shop late this afternoon. His worried expression had been warning enough that things weren't about to improve.

"Do me a favour, Jer, my lad," he'd said. "Take Spot to the vet for me and get her to do a blood test on the quiet. He's as jumpy as a cat on a griddle today, and that's not right. I think he's been nobbled."

I'd scoffed, of course. I mean, the race was tomorrow night, and so far Spot was the odds on favourite. Uncle George loved the skinny streak of greased lightning as much as he did his own kids, and it would no more occur to him to give Spot performance enhancing anything than to shove steroids down the rugby-playing twins' throats. Besides, the local track had drug-testing down to a fine art. He wouldn't get away with it.

But if the dog had been dosed with something and it showed up in the post-race tests, both he and Uncle would be blacklisted, banned, fined, and generally be neck-deep in the manure. Zero tolerance was the watchword for the Brayswood Greyhound Racetrack.

I took a quick glance in the rear-view mirror. The road behind us was clear. In the foreground was Spot, tongue lolling, still going back and forth like a canine metronome. Which was odd. He was normally a pretty laidback kind of character, and even I knew this was excessive. He probably should have been travelling in his crate in the Renault's boot, rather than the back seat, but I hadn't paused to fiddle around with catches and locks. I'd bunged him in the back and taken off like Vettel in pole position at Monaco, and moments later the black BMW was hot on our tail.

~ * ~

Release Day for Manifold Press

February 1st, and Manifold Press has three titles out of the starting gate today. Once again, this small Press punches so far above its weight, Manifold should be in a Marvel movie, scripted by Josh Whedon. In no particular order they are:

Harbinger Island by Dorian Dawes

Every community has a dark side, a sordid past that’s kept to hushed whispers and out of the ears of prying tourists – and Harbinger Island has the darkest shades of them all. Professor Bartleby Prouse is obsessed with the secrets and occult conspiracies surrounding the island’s myriad of unsolved murders and mysteries. He’ll have to use every bit of magic and cunning at his disposal if he is to protect his students after they unwittingly draw the attention of one of the island’s most insidious cults.

Harbinger Island is a collection of character-driven stories which combine dark fantasy and horror elements within a modern setting. The diverse cast of LGBT+ individuals come from various backgrounds, and the stories examine the prejudices they experience in their day-to-day lives along with the supernatural horrors they face.

84,500 words / 322pages
$6.95

BUY LINKS

• Amazon US
• Amazon UK
• Smashwords
• Barnes & Noble
• Kobo

Ardent by Heloise West

In the village of Torrenta, master painter Morello has created a color that mimics the most expensive pigment of all, the crimson red. Master Zeno, from strife-ridden Medici Florence, tells him the color gives him a competitive advantage – but Morello must be careful. Fraud is ever-present in the dye and pigment markets.

As they work together in Torrenta, Morello falls hard for Zeno’s assistant, Benedetto Tagliaferro, a young man of uncommon beauty and intelligence. Benedetto is still fixed on his old lover, the master painter Leo Guisculo, and cannot return Morello’s affections.

But when Leo dies in a terrible accident, it’s to Morello that Zeno and Benedetto turn for help. And Morello soon finds that in Florence, every surface hides layers of intrigue.

75,600 words / 292 pages
$6.95

BUY LINKS

• Amazon US
• Amazon UK
• Smashwords
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Last, but by no means least, is a new Espresso Shot from Rainbow Award winner Jay Lewis Taylor (The Espresso Shots imprint is designed for shorter works, with a more informal publishing schedule than for Manifold's ‘regular’ works.). This story follows on from his successful recent novel Across Your Dreams:

Break of Another Day by Jay Lewis Taylor

The Great War is over. Jack Townsend, no longer a hospital orderly, is back at work in his photographer’s shop in Lewisham. But there is no peace yet; his blackmailer is still in business, and Celia Vavasour seems determined to manage his life. All his life; even his love-life …

Meanwhile in Sussex, David Lewry, former army officer, is still holding off from a closer relationship with Alan Kershaw, once in the Navy and now the village’s GP. Lew knows how much Alan wants him, but this last step is one he cannot take – not yet, unless something changes …

16,200 words / 66 pages
$1.99


BUY LINKS

• Amazon UK
• Amazon US
• Smashwords
• Barnes & Noble
• Kobo

THROWBACK THURSDAY - Ghosts, Curses and Psychics...

"I curse you and your children's children, that you shall all live out your allotted years, and that those years shall be filled with grief and loss and betrayal, even as you have betrayed and bereaved me."

But in this case, the caster was vindictive enough to tantalise his victims with a spark of hope. In the best fairytale tradition, if certain conditions were fulfilled, the curse would be broken:

"When the one who reads the earth joins with he who sees beyond, when the warrior and the healer stand to swear a sacred bond, when the one who seeks in danger is sworn to the landless lord, then shall my curse be lifted and all the lands restored."

Some years ago, RJ Scott had an idea for a paranormal trilogy, each story to be written by a different author, and she invited Sue Brown and me to join her in writing The Fitzwarren Inheritance. "We need a curse," she said, and blinked innocently the way she does. I came up with the required malediction and its get-out clause, and those two passages formed the springboard for The Psychic's Tale by Chris Quinton, The Soldier's Tale by RJ Scott, and The Lord's Tale by Sue Brown. Each title is available as a single ebook, and also as a box set, The Fitzwarren Inheritance. All versions are available across the Amazon sites, and from All Romance eBooks.

https://www.allromanceebooks.com/product-thefitzwarreninheritance-1916281-145.html

I sort of fell in love with my two men - Mark Renfrew, closeted psychic and openly gay, and Jack Faulkner, archaeologist. So under the overall label of The Renfrew Files, I've written two standalone stories.

The Carpenter's Tale

It should have been a bit of a break for Mark Renfrew, attending an archaeological conference with his lover, Jack Faulkner. No ghosts, no drama beyond the academic. But it didn't work out that way. The modern Five Star hotel held a dark secret, and Mark knew he had to uncover it before more people were hurt.

https://www.allromanceebooks.com/product-thecarpenterstale-1278348-340.html

The Cameraman's Tale

Mark Renfrew is a researcher for a paranormal reality TV show, but no one involved with the show knows he is the real deal—a genuine psychic. When a cameraman encounters a ghost and needs his help, he has to come out of that particular closet. Along with his archaeologist lover, Jack Faulkner, Mark must find a way to break the ghostly cycle of injury and death on a haunted road, but things don't go according to plan. Mark discovers a new aspect to his psychic talent, and with another ghost to contend with, he is entering dangerous and uncharted waters.

https://www.allromanceebooks.com/product-thecameramanstale-1280209-340.html

Both titles are available across Amazon as well as ARe

RAINBOW SNIPPETS - Mat 21-22

For more tantalising snippets from a whole host of authors, see the Rainbow Snippets Facebook group, you won't regret it. There are Snippets to suit every reader.

Life is back to being hectic this weekend, which means my Snip will be posted on auto-pilot, as it were. We're on Chapter Four of Coins Not Accepted, and it’s far more than six sentences, I’m afraid. Apologies, but this is about as far as I have got with this WiP, so I thought I’d leave you with a longer teaser, and move onto another story next time...

"In the meantime we need to get Allan to safety. Somewhere far from here where they won't think to look for him and he can recover from his injuries." His stern gaze fell on Miles. "Take him home with you and keep him hidden."

"What? No, I can't. The twins are in and out of my place like a horde of Visigoths on bungee cords."

"All the more reason for him to be there. Business as usual, my boy; that is all the enemy will see if they should follow or find you."

"Seriously? How do you expect me to explain him?"

"How do you think?" his grandfather replied, exasperation in his voice. "He's your lover, of course."

"Oh, of course. Stupid me," Miles said over Allan's startled, "What?"

"Allan, like you, my grandson is also strange. At least, I assume you are and the rumours I've heard about you have some basis in truth."

"I'm not--" Miles began, affronted. This, from a man who took alternate dimensions in his stride? Then he noticed his patient had a mutinous set to his mouth and his face was even more scarlet, as much in embarrassment as fever.

"Strange is the same as gay," Miles Senior replied  crisply, "and Logrean society is not as accepting as ours. Hence the scandals that have followed Allan around for most of his adult life."

~ * ~

I've also doing Throwback Thursday, featuring a longer excerpt from a novel from my backlist, so if you'd like to read a few more than six lines of my fiction, check the excerpt from DARK WATERS in the previous post.

THROWBACK THURSDAY - DARK WATERS

Today’s Throwback is a shifter tale with a difference, more traditional in some ways. It's set in an historical, semi-mythical Scotland where the Elder gods haven't quite left the lands.

Dark Waters

Available at Amazon HERE

All Romance eBooks HERE
Smashwords HERE 

~ * ~

Flein is a wanderer by instinct and need, roaming the known world as the fancy takes him. In the Highland village of Glenfinnan, women have been raped and brutally murdered.  By all accounts, the killer is a waterhorse, a monstrous shapeshifter. But when Flein meets Donnchadh, first in its equine form, then its man-shape, he knows the waterhorse is innocent. Flein is drawn to the shapeshifter, but he finds it difficult to acknowledge it's more than a monster.

Donnchadh, though wary, shares the same attraction. They join forces to hunt for the real murderer, but time is short.  They must find the killer before more women die. Then suspicion is turned on them and the hunters become the hunted.

Excerpt

At the water's edge stood a horse. A riderless horse. It wore neither saddle nor bridle and the glossy brown hide gleamed in the May sun. The mane and tail were long, very black and by the look of the wind-tangles in them, had never known a grooming. The heavy stallion neck swooped down to join strong shoulders, and arched ribs led on to powerful haunches. Long black legs and rounded hooves completed the picture of what to Flein seemed the perfect horse. Sharp ears were angled toward him, deep dark eyes were fixed on him and the fine head was held high, nostrils flaring.

Flein Traveler smiled, his eyes narrowed and watchful. He knew danger when he saw it.

"Gods, but you're magnificent," he said quietly. "I know you. I don't know who you are but I know what you are." Flein had long ago learned all he could about shapeshifting predators. Loki was such a one and far more lethal than this creature. The horse gave a deep-throated grunt that was almost a snarl and took a pace toward him, its ears flattened against its skull, long neck snaking forward. "Waterhorse." He had an instant of warning as the muscles bunched and he hurled himself away from the stallion's charge. Fast as he was, the narrow head whipped round and carnivore fangs clashed a scant hairsbreadth from his shoulder. Laughing, Flein put the slender grace of his rowan tree between himself and the creature. "If I'd known this land had such wonders I'd have come here sooner."

It might have been his laughter or his lack of fear, or perhaps it sensed the difference in him that came from his sire, but the stallion stopped and its ears flicked forward. He was being studied, assessed by a keen mind.

"So, I'm something new, am I?" Flein drawled softly. "I've not met the likes of you before, either. I can see how you'd entice someone onto your back. You're the finest beast I've seen in many a year, but you won't be chewing on my bones, nag."

The ears twitched and it came toward him, pacing slowly. He was not deceived. He'd already seen it could move with the speed of a striking snake for all its size. Reluctantly, Flein drew his sword and the waterhorse paused.

"I don't want to hurt you," he said. "Go back to your loch and leave me alone." He stepped out from his shelter, blade held ready. "I've a long journey ahead of me and I'd sooner not fight you."

Again the ears flicked forward. The gesture was purely equine but the growing curiosity in the steady gaze was not.

"Go back." He moved closer and stopped with his sword point only a few feet from the broad chest. It was more than a little risky and it put him perilously close to those murderous hooves and teeth, but it also enabled him to see more clearly the intelligence in the beast's eyes. "Don't you know an iron sword will kill you?" he snapped. "And you, my splendid fool, would find it hard to kill me."

The waterhorse wrinkled its upper lip, scenting him. As a sneer, it was monumental. It came forward until the point of the sword was almost touching it and Flein smelled the lightness of clover, as if it had rolled in a meadow. If it feared the touch of the forged metal, Flein could see no sign of it. The dark eyes were challenging him now, daring him to chance his speed against its swiftness for the first strike and Flein laughed again. "Shall we call it a draw between us, then?" he suggested. "We go our separate ways and agree not to harm each other?" It would be so easy just to grab a handful of mane and swing up onto that sleek back—Flein got hold of the impulse and smothered it, easing back a pace. At the same time the waterhorse retreated a short way.

They matched each other step for step, until Flein was on the road and the stallion hock-deep in the loch. Then the each-uisge turned and plunged into deeper water, sending up twin wings of spray. Feeling oddly disappointed, Flein called his horse to him and soothed its sweaty fear. He took off the hobbles, tightened the girth, mounted and started on his way.