Good
morning and thank you for having me Dorothy. I wanted to share a bit of the
background to my new mystery romance The
Mason's Mark: Love and Death in the Tower (an Old Town Romance).
The Mason's Mark arose in part out of a true story. Starting
in the 1940s an Italian named Licio Gelli embarked on a lifetime of bizarre
scams and crimes. Alternately linked to rightists and leftists, he
Gelli is most famous for founding a Masonic lodge called
Propaganda Due, a renegade group that was first dissolved, then reinstated,
then erased by the Grand Orient de Italia. He had ensnared many prominent
Italians into P2, which ultimately led to several huge scandals. He is the model for the shadowy puppetmaster
in my new romantic suspense novel The Mason's Mark: Love and Death in the Tower
(an Old Town Romance). Here's
the story:
In both the best and worst first day at work ever, docent Claire Wilding meets the man of her
dreams, but her carefully rehearsed guided tour of the George Washington
National Masonic Memorial falls apart when she discovers a dead body. Together
with Detective Ernest Angle, she's drawn into a dark world of black ops and
Italian renegade masons. Also cloaked in mystery is her new love Gideon Bliss. A George Washington expert, he haunts the
Memorial, his manner evasive. What is his secret? Claire fears she'll fall in
love with him only to learn he's a thief or even a murderer.
Juggling two eccentric mothers, an inquisitive sister, and
an increasingly smitten Ernest, Claire must find answers to a complex web of
intrigue, including which black ops agent to trust, whether our first president strayed, and if
she and Gideon will ever be together.
Secret Cravings Publishing (released January 7, 2014)
eBook (79,000 words), Romantic suspense, M/F, 3 flames
Buy Links: http://store.secretcravingspublishing.com/index.php?main_page=book_info&cPath=4&products_id=800
In this excerpt we meet the
beautiful and dangerous Dorcas:
Excerpt (PG) Dorcas Enters
the Picture
Gideon finished his scotch and
savagely ripped a piece of bread in half, scattering bits all over the table.
Before he could answer, a disembodied voice spoke from the shadows. “Steak and
kidney pie?”
The waiter hovered, balancing
large crockery plates in each hand. As he bent down, the fire lit his face with
a devilish glow.
“Here, thanks, and I’ll take a
pint of Guinness. Claire? Another drink?”
Claire considered her order, a
rather wilted Caesar salad. O’Connells apparently didn’t approve of vegetables
that weren’t boiled to death. Or any dish that didn’t include potatoes. “A
glass of the South African dry Riesling, please.”
At least the ambience fit their
mood. They sat at a high oak table by an unnecessary fire, overshadowed by
pendent dark wood choir stalls stolen from an Irish monastery and next to a
heavily varnished organ faƧade stolen from an Irish church. A tea light made a
heroic effort to pierce the obscurity. It all served to heighten the sense of
approaching doom.
“You were saying?” she
prompted.
“Why is Dorcas here? Simple. She
wants to make my life miserable. According to Mother, the man she left me for
dumped her unceremoniously. I imagine her plan is to take it out on me.”
“Was the man with her in
Paris?”
“Yes, but Dorcas told Mother he
went back to Argentina. That’s where she originally met him. When she arrived
here she learned that he left Buenos Aires for the States a month ago and is
somewhere in the District. She claims if she finds him she'll give me my
freedom.”
“That sounds promising.”
“Not if he doesn’t want to be
found. This could go on forever.” He touched her hand. “I hate putting you
through this.”
“Me?” Claire ignored the throbbing
of a quickened pulse and did her best to assume an indifferent air. “What does
it have to do with me?”
His emerald eyes bored into her
blue ones. “I shouldn’t have to spell it out, should I?”
Claire blinked and took a large
swallow of wine, coughing only some of it up. “I told you—I have renounced
disporting with both jailbirds and married men.”
“Disport? Will you gambol with
me then? Cavort?”
“The answer to any synonym you
come up with is still no.”
The waiter skipped up and set a
second Guinness down before Gideon with a flourish. “Compliments of the lady.”
He gestured toward the long mahogany bar, sparkling with polished brass and
crystal glasses.
Gideon followed the waiter’s
pointing finger, and Claire followed his gaze. A woman sat alone facing away
from them. She wore a burgundy Donna Karan suit and three-inch stiletto heels.
The matching broad-brimmed hat hid her hair and most of her face. Claire
checked the mirror behind the bar and dropped her fork when she saw what she
would later describe to her sister as Audrey Hepburn’s doppelganger. A few
tendrils of glistening black hair curled out from under the hat. High, aristocratic
cheekbones flanked a flawlessly proportioned nose over ruby-kissed lips. The
woman swiveled on her stool to face them and Claire nearly fell off her own.
Dorcas—for it could only be Dorcas—would indeed easily pass as the twin of the
late exquisite actress. Her huge, liquid, brown eyes locked on Claire.
If Gideon hadn’t stood up and
stepped between them, Claire wouldn’t have been able to break the spell. She
slumped, breathing heavily. “I feel like a trapped mouse.”
“Dorcas does that to people.”
Gideon tossed the words over his shoulder. After a tense minute's staring match
he swung around to Claire. “Come on, let’s go.” She didn’t argue. He dropped
some bills on the table and stalked after her.
She had reached the door when
she realized Gideon was no longer behind her. She turned to see him nose to
nose with Dorcas, their lips moving rapidly, showing off very white teeth.
Claire could have sworn Dorcas’s canines were unusually long and sharp. She
waited.
A minute later Gideon swept
past her out the door. He didn’t speak as he drove Claire home, unless one
counts foam bubbling from his mouth and an occasional snort. He left her at the
door. She trudged up the steps. As she fit the key in the lock, she heard
ringing. That's the landline. Who
would use that? She ran in and picked up the receiver. “Hello?”
“Claire? This is Ernest. I have
news.”
Biography
Although
she has lived or traveled in every continent except Antarctica and Australia
(bucket list), M. S. Spencer has spent the last thirty years mostly in
Washington, D.C. as a librarian, Congressional staff assistant, speechwriter,
editor, birdwatcher, kayaker, policy wonk, non-profit director and parent.
Blessed with two fabulous grown children, she has published eight romantic
suspense/mystery novels. In an excess of optimism, she has recently heaved the
entire ho to Florida with a detour to Maine, leaving behind the cherry
blossoms, the monuments, and the political hacks.
CONTACTS:
Facebook: www.facebook.com/M.S.SpencerAuthor
AUTHOR
PAGES:
Secret
Cravings Publishing: http://store.secretcravingspublishing.com/index.php?main_page=products_all&filter_author=56
Amazon
Author Page: http://www.amazon.com/M.S.-Spencer/e/B002ZOEUC8/
GoodReads:
http://www.goodreads.com/msspencer