Excerpt from THE FORGER OF MARSEILLE, a novel, by Linda Joy Myers   What’s in a Name? That October of 1939, autumn transformed Paris into a lush painting. The trees didn’t know of war, the leaves a magical yellow, crimson, and amber. Six weeks after war started, the people of the City of Light continued to dance and eat and sing in the streets, wearing optimism and cheer like a new dress. Except for bomb shelters spread through the city and uniformed soldiers sitting in cafés, Paris seemed the same as before the war, people going to work and enjoying the theater and cabarets, gas mask cases cast aside as they determined not to be dour simply because there was a war raging in Poland, far, far away. The most painful reminders of the war were the shuttered museums, empty of the art that made up the soul of Paris. Without Van Gogh and Matisse, Monet and Renoir, and art that spoke of culture and history, Simone felt bereft. And the Winged Victory. She’d flown to safety in the countryside where she’d be safe along with her sister, the Venus de Milo. When would the world see them again? As…

When I return to my new cave with supplies, the main cavern hums with happy voices. The others have arrived, and the sound of happy chatter is a constant hum in the air. I think Rukh and his mate Har-loh—who live at the elders’ cave more often than not—have the right of it. With everyone returning, there will be faces everywhere and no privacy. This thing between Jo-see and I will play out before all. At the thought, another surge of fierce possessiveness rises in me. Whatever she may think, she is mine. Jo-see is standing in the cave when I return, her pack at her feet. My khui immediately begins a pounding beat in my chest at the sight of her, and my blood pulses hard with the need to claim her. But her face is drawn and tired, her small shoulders hunched with exhaustion. Her khui starts to sing to mine and she looks down at her chest, confused, then jumps with surprise when I set my bundle down. “What are you doing here?” Her small human brows draw together. “They said this is my cave.” “The cave you will share with me,” I agree, keeping my tone…

THE SECOND CHANCE STORE: Pg # 17-20   To the ignorant, all charity shops are the same.   The particular smell of softening biscuits, yellowing paperbacks and aged storage heaters turned up slightly too high. The distant sound of Steve Wright in the Afternoon crackling through a portable stereo. The racks, a little too close together for comfortable browsing, laden with items at once both too old and too new to be fashionable. A bookshelf of indeterminate filing system that will reliably contain several copies of Shantaram, The Dukan Diet, and Bridget Jones’s Diary. A glimpse through an open door into a stockroom beyond, filled with bin bags, half- drunk cups of tea, and the theatrical hiss of a steaming machine.   And behind the counter, a kindly soul whose job is to scrutinize you. A generous person who has given up their time for the benefit of those less fortunate, who will probably rifle through your donations after you’ve gone and laugh at how gross they all are. An angel on earth, who will nonetheless hold up your ill- judged holiday shorts from 2009 while shrieking, “Cor, Brenda, get a load of these!”   And they’re allowed to, because…

CHAPTER ONE   Monday, 0900   It might come as a disappointment to learn that the natural habitat of the intelligence officer is not the shooting range or the gym mat, the departure lounge of a hot and dusty airport, the safe house or the interrogation cell. It’s not halfway up a ladder aimed at the draughty rear window of a foreign embassy. It’s not even the street, the simple street – narrow, damply cobbled, thick with London fog and Russian menace. No, the natural habitat of the intelligence officer is the meeting room. Spies like to talk. “You will have heard of a section called Gatekeeping,” says Charles Remnant. “In simple terms, we investigate the insider threat – the threat posed by our own members of staff, who may have been recruited by hostile foreign powers. What you will not have heard of, however, unless matters have really got out of hand, is the secret cadre of officers we refer to as Gatekeepers.” In this case, not just any meeting room, but one at the top of the building, one at the dead end of a corridor otherwise used to store broken filing cabinets and unused safes. The paint…

Chapter 1 Holly put both her hands flat on the deep sill of the hinged window of her bedroom and leaned out to see the morning light. Then she pulled on shorts and a T-shirt over her head. Flip- flops and bare feet were a common option, but this morning—like most mornings, in the early hours when it was cool—she put on a pair of sneakers so she could walk along the entire length of the seawall before the sun rose too high in the sky. The top of the wall was as wide as a sidewalk and had the most beautiful ocean view she’d ever seen. At points along the way, the waves crashed spectacularly upon the cement pilings before taking a back dive toward the Caribbean. Each big surge made a great brumpfasshh sound that made her heart feel light. Holly loved how the locals smiled their hello as she jogged by. How in the grocery store, shoppers often burst out singing together when a favorite song came on the radio, broadcast by the shop’s sound system. How music seemed to be everywhere. As constant as the competing crash of the waves. She wanted all of her guests…

1 Walter Reed Army Medical Center, Washington, D.C. December 27, 1967, 2:00 a.m.   The room was brightly lit. Pale blue walls shone white and the black floor tiles shimmered and rippled like water. Paper chains and tired snowflakes hung from the ceiling and a Christmas tree sat unhappily in the corner, leaning forward but somehow not tipping. In the middle of the room was a flimsy Formica table and, on either side, sat two men, neither of whom wanted to be there. Jack Miller was relaxed but wary, his eyes alert and clear despite the hour. His clothes well cut. He clenched and unclenched his right fist, which was large and heavy and stiffened with arthritis. The weight of it made the table look flimsier still. He rubbed his knuckles to ease the pain then looked from the blank piece of paper in front of him to the man opposite. Private Connor Murphy. His face and hands were covered in bandages and the parts of his scalp that showed through were either pink and raw or black and charred. It made you hurt just to look at him, Jack thought. Poor bastard. The nurses said feeding him was like…

The Time Wine Shot Out My Nose 2 years before   Smack in the middle of an otherwise normal Wine Wednesday, Liddy blurts out, “Jack is having an affair. No, make that affairs.” For a moment, nobody speaks. I swallow a weird knee-jerk desire to giggle. Max recovers first. “What are you talking about?” “I got a phone call yesterday from a woman who says she’s been sleeping with Jack for years. And the only reason she wanted to tell me now was that…” Her voice breaks. She looks at the ground. Nobody moves or breathes. When she raises her head to speak again, she is transformed. Her long, ropy curls quiver with contained energy, her nostrils are flared, her cheeks are pink and bright. She is a freaking warrior. “Was that he’s cheating on her with someone else.” “Jesus, what did you say?” I ask, my voice barely above a whisper. “I said, ‘That must be hard. I hope you can get some professional help.’ Then I hung up and threw Jack’s Rolex in the toilet.” “And what condition was the water in the toilet?” asks Feeney, like she’s talking to a wild caged animal. Liddy takes a big…

Here’s an exclusive excerpt of Maggie Shayne’s FIONA: ORIGINS FMI: https://MaggieShayne.com/fionaorigins     When I came home after a night of partying with my friends that beautiful spring morn, the last thing I expected to see was my parents lying on the floor of our cottage. I ran to my father first, as he was the nearer. But he was cool to the touch, chalk white, eyes closed, still in his nightclothes. Dead. My da was dead. “No!” I fell to my knees beside him, pressed my fingers to his neck in search of his pulse, but instead I felt, and then saw, two small dark wounds. I gasped and drew my hand away, but my gaze stuck fast. The punctures were swollen and red; there was not a drop of blood to be found, not even on his skin. We’d argued the night before. My last words to him had been unkind. “Oh, Da,” I whispered, “I’m sorry. If you want to move away, we’ll move away. I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Da. I’m sorry.” “Fiona,” Ma whispered. “Ma?” She was alive! I scuttled to her side. She lay faceup on the floor, still wearing her nightgown and her soft…

I start searching around my feet for my bag. I spin round in my swivel chair a few times, examining the floor. “What are you doing?” Mimi asks. I groan. “I left my bag in the meeting room.” “I’ll come with you. I want a coffee anyway,” Mimi says, standing. “I’m guessing you won’t turn down a coffee, Rakhee?” “You know me so well,” Rakhee says, typing away furiously again. Gabby, our editorial assistant who sits a couple of rows behind, overhears. “I can get your coffees if you like,” she sweetly offers, glancing up from her screen. “That’s okay,” I say. “I need to rescue my bag from the meeting room.” “You’d lose your head if it wasn’t screwed on,” chuckles Dominic from the picture desk as we wander by. “Hey! If you still want early screening tickets to the next Ryan Reynolds movie, I’d be careful about your tone,” I say breezily. “Have I told you lately how amazing you are?” he adds quickly. “That’s more like it.” I grin, winking at him. Mimi is waylaid at the picture desk about one of the hotels she’s featuring in an all-inclusive round-up, so I go ahead, swiftly passing Cosmo’s…

Good morning, friends of Fresh Fiction!   I’m excited to be here today and share an excerpt of the first book in my Say I Do series. YOURS TRULY, THE DUKE, is a marriage of convenience story between the Duke of Wyatthaven and Miss Fredericka Hale. Wyatt is at the top of his game in fencing, cards, and social life and he has no interest in marriage. Fredericka is in need of a husband and fast. They both discover that there are times in life when unimaginable things start to happen. Enjoy! Amelia     Yours Truly, The Duke     Satisfied, Fredericka turned to the duke and smiled quite splendidly. “Now, I believe it’s time you told me why you’re here.” He looked at her as if wondering why she asked him that question. “I’m here concerning the letter I had delivered to you.” Letter? Instantly thinking it might have something to do with her sister’s children, since he had just mentioned them, Fredericka visibly tensed. “I’m sorry, Your Grace. I don’t recall receiving correspondence from you.” He lifted his brows in doubt. “My courier didn’t arrive with it earlier today?” “Today?” She glanced at the clock on the…