I joined Librarything, they give you the option of describing your book with a haiku. Here’s what I wrote for Online Cupid:

She is the woman 
Of his dreams. He is the man  
Of her worst nightmares. 

Granted, it’s not a real haiku, but it does, somewhat, sum up their relationship.

You can find it here.

Introducing Clarence Houlihan

Clarence has a dream: to escape the world of contract killing and start a little musical theatre, for kids, so they can make something of themselves. Every job he does is money in the bank, food on the table. If he had to, Clarence could lay his hands on two million dollars, all earned.

ebook available here.

Russian Book Deal, (Maybe, Baby!)

She’s the woman of his dreams. He’s the man of her nightmares.

Online Cupid ebook cover

A publisher in Russia has expressed interest in a couple of my books, but they want to read a synopsis first. I’ve never had to write a synopsis for one of my books before, not as easy as I expected, probably as a result of me overthinking it. Anyway, this is what I wrote for Online Cupid:

When Rose Healy kissed her daughter goodbye, and left for work, she thought it was a day like any other. But Rose never arrived at her office.

She came to, shackled to a chair, in a room without windows, at the mercy of a man who insists they met on a dating website. He was looking for love and thought he had found it in her.

He had only to buy an upgrade, a paid subscription to the site, in order to contact her. When he did, he never heard from her again. Now he wants to know why.

Rose insists she knows nothing about it; she’s not part of any dating site. But he has her personal information, and pictures of her in the nude.

Is Rose telling the truth? If she is, then who sent her pictures to this man, and why?

As the interrogation continues, a battle of wits ensues, with the balance of power shifting between captive and captor as Rose tries to find a way to get home to her daughter.

Ps. This does not mean I’ll be voting for Trump! I know I don’t actually have a vote, but I suspect that won’t stop a lot of people voting for him! Didn’t that happen with a previous President? Or am I thinking of a cartoon?

It will be interesting to see how things progress. I’m told that if I’m not careful I could be cancelled; that the book has enough triggers to make Gandhi go on a killing spree!

Online Cupid is available here.

Forty Shades of Green

I recently finished the sixth draft of my next book Forty Shades of Green, and when I went to save it, I got a message saying, basically, that it couldn’t be saved because it was infected. Be fore I lost the entire document, I managed to copy it and paste it into notebook, so at least I saved the raw text.

I’ve started on the seventh draft, and I’m doing it longhand, and I’d forgotten how enjoyable that it – no flickering screen, no tapping keys, just the flow of a hand across the page.

Anyway, here’s the new beginning for Forty Shades of Green.

Frank Moran stood 6’2’’ in the mirror; his hair reflected the same Elvis-black it had since he was seventeen. With one eye on the gallery of bald ancestors on the wall behind, Frank checked his own hairline, and then he stood back. He quickly turned and turned again to check his clothes. Did they pass the JBT? The James Bond Test – when in doubt, always ask yourself, ‘What would James Bond Do?’ They did; now he was ready; that readiness gave weight to his mussels. He trembled like a first night actor in a play. He always did. But this wasn’t a play, or a movie, he wanted to be in, at least not in this place – never in this place. He had been there three days now, and had yet to go into town. All necessary arrangements having been made over the phone, he went straight from the airport to the house. The taxi journey became an education in the brilliance of Steven Seagal movies. Frank made appropriate noises at appropriate moments. An hour later he arrived at his childhood home with a new appreciation for both Steven Seagal and the world he had left behind. He found a key to the backdoor under a flowerpot, and let himself into the house.

At the sound of a car outside, Frank turned his face to the window, but the curtains were drawn; not that it mattered, his father had recently covered the glass with tin foil so he could sleep in a more complete darkness. Frank listened as the car stopped. It was time. He closed his eyes and took a breath – in through the nose, out through the mouth – to centre himself. And again. He checked his reflection one last time.

‘Looking good,’ he said. ‘You can do this.’ He nodded his head.