Karen Lewis won an award for her suspense play, Hit and Run, and her short story, The Cellar Door. She has also written a number of popular children’s stories, including the perennial favourite, Wolstencroft the Bear. Her mystery novels have been translated worldwide, and usually feature fictional detective, Neil Slater. She lives in Vancouver, Canada. www.karenlewisnovels.blogspot.com http://www.manicreaders.com/KarenLewis/ Congratulations to Karen Lewis, voted Best Author in the 2011 P&E Readers Poll!

New Title(s) from Karen Lewis

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	When Lacey Grant meets Denman, a handsome soldier, there's an instant connection between them. Their time together, however, is all too brief. Denman is soon posted overseas on a dangerous mission to Afghanistan. They marry before he leaves. Then the mother of Denman's first wife shows up and claims he murdered her daughter. As more disturbing revelations come to light about Denman, Lacey realises just how little she knows about this new husband of hers. She is torn between believing in his innocence one minute, to thinking he must be a cold-blooded murderer, the next.
Reviews:      From Sensual Reads	Excerpt Word Count: 21,400 Pages to Print: 75 File Format: PDF                  Price: $3.99

 

EXCERPTS

Suspicion

Prologue      “He’s a devil.” The woman spat out the words. She leaned in so close, Lacey could see the pores on her face cheeks. “He murdered my daughter.”      “You . . . you must be mistaken. You have my husband mixed up with someone else.”      “Not a chance. There’s only one Denman Grant.”      Lacey trusted Denman, completely. Couldn’t believe he was a murderer. It all had to be some horrible mistake. And yet . . .      Lacey recalled the exchange now as she raced blindly through an unfamiliar landscape thick with fog. She gasped for breath, hopelessly lost. Footsteps pounded behind her, gaining ground. Her heart hammered so fast she feared it would explode.      If he caught her, after what she had just witnessed, he’d kill her. Yet she couldn’t keep up this pace. I’m a dead woman running, she decided with morbid conviction . . .                                                                      One      Saturday night. The Signature Lounge pulsed with the beat of a jazz quintet. Dozens of couples thronged the dance floor. Lacey skirted around them, debating whether to leave. She hated the bar scene. But the prospect of another evening spent alone had driven her here.      She weaved her way through the crowd, past scarlet sofas and ebony tables, to a corner nook beside a French window. From here she had a priceless view of the Vancouver skyline and harbour.      “Is this your first time at the Sig?” A skinny little weasel with lewd eyes sidled up to her.      She gave him the brush off and made for the washroom.      A line up formed for the toilets. She competed for mirror space, peering at her reflection. Pale skin, blue eyes, dark hair with a widow’s peak, black dress. She dabbed on more rouge.      By the time she returned to her corner, el creepo was gone.      The heat, noise and sexually-charged atmosphere were dizzying. She ordered another gin, took it out to the terrace. Stars glittered in the midnight sky.      “Venus is brilliant tonight.” Tall, fair and built like an athlete the man leaned over the railing and gazed up at the heavens. She was drawn to him immediately.      He pointed to a bright light that dwarfed those around it.      Lacey squinted up at it. “It’s beautiful,” she said.      “I’m Denman.” He extended a hand.      She took it, introduced herself. His touch excited her. Felt just right.      They sat down at a table, ordered another round.      “I’m on leave just now,” he said. “From Camp Renfrew.”      “So you’re a soldier.” She noticed how luminous his eyes were, hazel spiked with green.      He nodded. “I come from a military family. It’s a tradition with us.”      “Well I don’t do anything nearly as exciting.” She toyed with her drink stick. “I work in a library.”      A drunken crowd filed onto the terrace, loud and rambunctious.      She finished her drink. It was impossible to talk with the racket.      He smiled. “Let’s dance.”      A mirror ball spun lights around the floor. The gin and his closeness were having an effect. She was almost afraid to have him touch her. Yet she longed for it, too. Every nerve strained. She braced herself. When the moment came, a tremendous rush of passion left her feeling giddy and weak. She breathed in the heady maleness of him. Caught the slight whiff of aftershave. It had been a helluva long time since she’d been so up close and personal with a male she found attractive.      She stumbled against him. “I’m out of practice,” she murmured.      “So am I.” He laughed. “I can’t remember the last time I was on a dance floor.”      Lacey smiled to herself. He thought she meant dancing. Oh well, that worked too.      When the music stopped, she still clung to him, reluctant to have the moment end. It had been ages since her divorce. She had dated hardly at all. Declined sex with anyone. Now her hormones cried out for their due.      She watched the band fold up their instruments. Overhead lights were switched on.      “Let’s go somewhere else.” He extricated himself from her arms––gently, and led her outside.      The pebbly path led to the waterfront. She stayed close to him, held his hand. She knew he must feel it too, that age old clamouring of the senses that simmered and swelled and boiled to a fever.      A full moon shimmered on the water. She reminded herself she’d only just met him. Knew nothing about him. Yet she felt safe with him. Shocked herself by contemplating going to bed with him right away!      He had good manners and this appealed to her immensely. He’d shown her respect. Hadn’t attempted to touch or grope her. This turned her on even more. Made her want to seduce him.      He put his arm around her. She turned towards him. He kissed her lightly on the lips. She melted inside. Pressed herself against him. Longed for more.      “I . . . I don’t usually do this sort of thing.” She felt confused, conflicted. “You know, pick up a guy in a singles bar and then . . .”      “I know,” he interjected. He took her hand, led her towards a coffee shop at the end of the pier.      She felt as if she were sleep walking.      He ordered coffee and sandwiches. She thought how incredibly handsome he was. Pictured him in his army uniform. Wow! She wanted to take him home and display him in a glass case. She giggled silently at the outrageous thought. She’d never really hoped to meet someone this dishy––and decent––at the Sig.      “Dig in,” he said, and pushed a plate towards her.      She surprised herself by being hungry, quite ravenous, in fact.      They ate, and talked. He ordered more coffee and desert.      She tucked into the pie. Amazed and delighted by the easy intimacy.      A waitress cleared the table. Brought them more coffee. Still they talked. Lingered on. Lacey wanted the night to never end. So different to the mad coupling she’d throbbed for, but just as satisfying in its own way.      Dawn lightened the eastern sky. It made the café’s neon sign look artificial, out of place, extraneous, like a party dress during morning rush hour.      They walked through a grey world not yet awake. “My car’s over there.” She indicated the corner parking lot.      In the confined space the tension built, superimposing itself between them like a third person. Lacey visualized it as an enormous red bubble, engorged with blood. She switched on the engine. Drove through deserted streets. Neither one spoke until they reached their destination.      “Here we are.” Lacey pulled into her driveway. Surprised, in a way, that the house she had left what seemed like an eternity ago looked unchanged. It was more like a cottage, really, with whitewashed walls and latticed windows. She unlocked the door. Punched the alarm code into the control panel. Felt suddenly awkward, unsure.      She knew he sensed her mood, her reticence.      “Get some sleep. I’ll call you later today,” he said.      It wasn’t what she wanted. She turned to him, kissed him passionately on the mouth. “Please stay,” she whispered.      They unleashed the passion they'd restrained all night. Grasping, touching, kissing, fondling . . . the room spun around Lacey and she saw silver stars. “This way,” she panted, and guided him towards the bedroom.      She tugged off her dress. Lay down on the bed. Watched him strip to the skin. What a physique. Tanned, toned and perfect. He lay down beside her. She pulled him on top of her. Panting, feverish, she couldn’t wait, her need too great now for politeness or preliminaries. He entered her. His knuckles grazed her clit. Waves of pleasure shot through her. The unintentional nature of the manoeuvre made it that much more exciting . . . illicitly thrilling in its intensity. She gasped, and wound her legs around his back. Rocked in a frenzy.      “I won’t last.” He tried to draw back but she held him fast.      Neither will I, she thought, as she soared on a rocket to the heavens. The contractions at climax fiercer than she’d ever experienced before.      The coupling they had resisted all night had been faster and more furious than anything Lacey imagined possible. It was all over in a matter of minutes.                                                                                                   Back to Suspicion