Saturday, September 7, 2013

Story Saturdays - Something Italian

ICHABOD & PENELOPE is now available for sale. Only 99 cents!  Pick up your copy at Amazon or Barnes & Noble.

The paperback copy of THE LIFE AND TIMES OF LUCAS MCGILLEY and ICHABOD & PENELOPE is for sale through Amazon

Also, be sure to download your copy of the audiobook for ME & TIMOTHY COOPER. Experience the story in audio! (All the audiobooks/ebooks/paperbacks I have available can be found on my blog.)

I finished writing a new YA, THE GIRL IN THE PINK BIKINI (featured here before), and in doing so, realized the story of Coralee Pirtle and Roman Avery isn't over. There will be three books in this series. I have a cover and title for book two - THE BRIDE WORE BLUE SNEAKERS. I'm still working on the title for book three. Book 2 will pick up where Book 1 leaves off.

I also finished writing the third book in The Italian Series of novellas that began with FLIGHT RISK and ITALIAN WITH A SIDE OF PASTA. Book 3, SOMETHING ITALIAN, steps back a bit in the timeline from Book 2 to tell the story of Dr. Marco Bottari, Gynecologist. 

I featured an excerpt from early on in the story before, which you can read at this link. This scene picks up where that one left off. Patricia Fanning leaves Dr. Bottari's office, and he thinks he'll never see her again. But when he reaches the parking garage, she's staring into her trunk.


“She got to you, huh?” Jennifer settled herself in a chair on the opposite side of his desk, her gaze piercing his skull.
Marco expelled his breath in a puff and clutching either side of his head, gave it a squeeze. “Sometimes I hate this job.”
She clucked her tongue. “No, you don’t, or you wouldn’t do it.”
He leaned way back in his chair, almost horizontal, and cast his gaze on the foam ceiling tiles. “Okay, no I don’t. But I hate what people do to each other, and whatever happened to her, it must be bad.”
“Doesn’t help she was so attractive.”
He brought one eye to her face. She was smiling.
“No, it doesn’t help.”
“And the good doctor has a heart and a man’s eyes.”
He laughed. “Stop.” He sat forward in his chair. “Now, the day’s over. You get on out of here.”
Chuckling, she rose and exited the room.
Freedom. The end of the week, end of appointments, nothing but hours to himself stretched out ahead. Well, except for that one with his brother, but that wasn’t until later. Tossing his lab coat over the back of his desk chair, he dug his cell from the drawer and stuffed it in his pants pocket. He waved at Renee on his way out the back door.
There were only a handful of cars left in the parking garage, his black luxury car and five or six others of different makes and models. He crossed the distance, keys dangling in one hand and readied his thumb on the unlock button.
A glimmer caught his eye. He paused and squinted, angling himself away from the bright sunlight, and the figure of a woman came into view. She was standing frozen in the middle of the driving lane, gazing into the trunk of a car.
The blonde hair and blue jeans sprang foremost into his thinking. Patricia Fanning.
He wavered. He should walk away. She was a patient, nothing more, a troubled girl with a lot of baggage. He made to continue toward his car, but found his feet fastened to the concrete. He curled his hands into fists. He’d have to drive right past her to get out, and with the way she was standing, he’d have to swerve way around. How would that look?
Be the good guy. He always was, and this was no exception. Releasing his held breath, he swiveled his steps, approaching her from the side.
“Miz Fanning?” he called out.
She turned her head and stumbled, her legs caving. He leaped. Grasping her shoulders, he held her suspended. Then his eyes caught what was in the trunk. “Shoot.”
“He’s … he’s … but how?” Patricia broke into sobs. Shoulders shaking, back bent, she slid toward the ground.
Gently, Marco turned her around and pulled her to him, tucking her face against his neck. The distended pupils of the dead man stared up at him and the gaping hole in his chest.
“Who is that?” he asked. Obviously someone she knew, gauging by her reaction.
“R-ray.” She pulled back, her eyes spun wide. She grasped his shirt, her fingernails scratching through the fabric to his skin.
“He’s dead,” she whispered. “He’s dead. He didn’t call, so I thought he’d given up. But he didn’t ‘cause he’s dead.” She was babbling now, the words falling over each other.
He raised his hands to her face, and one on either cheek, clasped tight. “Ray who?” he asked. “Patricia, talk to me.”
She blinked and swallowed. “Chandler. He’s the father.”

Suzanne D. Williams  
Suzanne Williams Photography  
Florida, USA 

Suzanne Williams is a native Floridian, wife, and mother, with a penchant for spelling anything, who happens to love photography.

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