Carla Neggers's Blog, page 20

Art thieves and such on the big screen

I’m sometimes asked if Hollywood has ever approached me to do a movie based on my Sharpe & Donovan series about my FBI agents, Irish priest and whiskey expert, their families and friends and one elusive English art thief. Wouldn’t that be fun?

Jewel thieves and art thieves are a perennial source of entertainment on the big screen. They’re usually suave and good-looking, and they often do the right thing in the end. Most of the time they even see that it’s right! Here are few favorites:

The one-and-only Grace Kelly, in To Catch a Thief

To Catch A Thief (1955). Cary Grant plays reformed cat burglar opposite Grace Kelly in this classic romantic thriller.

Topkapi (1964) stars Maximillian Schell, Peter Ustinov and Melina Mercouri in this heist movie featuring a dagger stolen from the opulent Topkapi Palace, former Istanbul home to Ottoman sultans.

Entrapment (1999). The inimitable Sean Connery is a professional art thief going up against investigator Catherine Zeta-Jones.

The Thomas Crown Affair has two versions. In 1968 with Steve McQueen and Faye Dunaway and in 1999 with Pierce Brosnan and Renee Russo. Both are great fun but which is cooler?

Gambit also has two versions. The original in 1966 is with Michael Caine and Shirley McClaine. Colin Firth and Cameron Diaz star in the 2012 version. Alan Rickman, one of my favorites, also appears.

The Art of the Steal (2013) features Kurt Russell as Crunch Calhoun, an art thief who pulls the old gang together for one last heist. I had to include it for the thief’s name alone!

Enjoy!

Carla

Liar’s Key is here!

The first week a book goes on sale is always an exciting one for me. This week I’m celebrating the release of LIAR’S KEY, my latest Sharpe & Donovan novel. FBI agents Emma Sharpe and Colin Donovan take on an FBI legend, a mysterious antiquities specialist and a brazen art thief in this story of murder, blackmail and greed. I’m thrilled with the praise LIAR’S KEY is receiving from reviewers and readers.

An “intense, edge-of-your-seat whirlwind..” Booklist

“…insanely sensational …engaging, complex, unforgettable…”

RT Book Reviews

A “suspenseful, fast-moving thriller…” Reader to Reader

“…a richly atmospheric, beautifully drawn tale…”

Providence Journal

And here’s a gorgeous downloadable PDF.

Now it’s off to celebrate the start of September with a peach cobbler and a batch of ratatouille made with local veggies.

Happy reading!

Carla

 

LIAR’S KEY

August 30, 2016

A Sharpe & Donovan Novel

MIRA Hardcover

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An FBI legend, a mysterious antiquities specialist and a brazen art thief draw top FBI agents Emma Sharpe and Colin Donovan into a complex web of blackmail, greed and murder in the eagerly awaited new novel in the highly acclaimed Sharpe & Donovan series.

Emma Sharpe is suspicious when retired Special Agent Gordon Wheelock, a legend in FBI art crimes, drops by her Boston office for a visit. Gordy says he’s heard rumors about stolen ancient mosaics. Emma, an art crimes specialist herself, won’t discuss the rumors. Especially since they involve Oliver York, an unrepentant English art thief. Gordy and Emma’s grandfather, a renowned private art detective, chased Oliver for a decade. Gordy knows Wendell Sharpe didn’t give him everything he had on the thief. Even now, Oliver will never be prosecuted.

When a shocking death occurs, Emma is drawn into the investigation. The evidence points to a deadly conspiracy between Wendell and Oliver, and Emma’s fiancé, deep cover agent Colin Donovan, knows he can’t stay out of this one. He also knows there will be questions about Emma’s role and where her loyalties lie.

From Boston to Maine to Ireland, Emma and Colin track a dangerous killer as the lives of their family and friends are at stake. With the help of their friend, Irish priest Finian Bracken, and Emma’s brother, Lucas, the Sharpes and Donovans must band together to stop a killer.

No one creates exciting, action-packed romantic suspense and international intrigue like New York Times bestselling author Carla Neggers.

Praise for LIAR’S KEY:

An “intense, edge-of-your-seat whirlwind.” Booklist

“…insanely sensational….engaging, complex, unforgettable…”

RT Book Reviews, a September Top Pick!

A “suspenseful, fast-moving thriller with plot twists and excitement to the delightful conclusion.” —Reader to Reader

“…a richly atmospheric, beautifully drawn tale with echoes of Daniel Silva and even Dan Brown”–Providence Journal

 

Don’t miss the rest of the Sharpe & Donovan Series!

Click on cover to read more . . .

Series Book #1

Series Book #2

Series Book #3

Series Book #4*

Series Book #5

“The unforgettable characters make Neggers’ story extraordinarily memorable.”
— RT Book Reviews, Top Pick, on KEEPER’S REACH

*includes eNovella prequel ROCK POINT

A slideshow of Carla’s photos of scenic Ireland

KEEPER’S REACH

July 26, 2016

First Time in Paperback

A Sharpe & Donovan Novel

MIRA Books

Buy Now:

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Barnes & Noble
Books-A-Million
Indigo

Order Hardcover:

Published August 2015

Amazon
Barnes & Noble
Books-A-Million
IndieBound
Walmart
iBooks
Kobo




New York Times bestselling author Carla Neggers returns to her popular Sharpe & Donovan series with this absorbing tale of suspense, romance and fast-paced action.

Emma Sharpe and Colin Donovan, two of the FBI’s most valuable agents, are preparing for their next big assignment—their wedding—when Colin’s brother Mike alerts them that onetime friends from his military past are on Sharpe and Donovan home turf on the Maine coast. Now private security contractors, they want to meet with Mike. One of them, an FBI agent named Kavanagh, is supposed to be on leave. What is he investigating—or does he have his own agenda?

Mike zeroes in on Naomi MacBride, a freelance civilian intelligence analyst who, aside from a few hot nights, has never brought him anything but trouble. Newly returned from England, Naomi clearly isn’t telling Mike everything about why she’s snooping around his hometown, but he has no choice but to work with her if he wants to uncover what’s really going on.

But the case soon takes a drastic turn—Emma is targeted, and a connection surfaces between Naomi and Kavanagh and a recently solved international art theft case. Not every connection is a conspiracy, but as the tangled web of secrets unravels, Emma and Colin face their greatest danger yet. With everyone they know involved, they must decide who they can trust . . . or lose everything for good.

Read an Excerpt

KEEPER'S REACH excerpt
Near Stow-on-the-Wold, the Cotswolds, England
Wednesday, 4:00p.m., BST

Martin Hambly had expected additional visits from the FBI, but this agent was new to him. Rangy, sandy-haired, early forties. He conveyed an unsettling mix of suspicion and arrogance, with none of the humor of the agents Martin had encountered last fall.

Kavanagh. Special Agent Ted Kavanagh. That was his name.

Martin supposed it could be the case.

The American flashed his FBI credentials as he gave his name, but Martin, carrying clay pots planted with amaryllis bulbs in each arm, didn’t examine them.

Kavanagh tucked his credentials back into his overcoat, a sturdy but inexpensive dark gray wool. He had intercepted Martin on the narrow lane in front of the small village church, an oft-photographed favorite with the few tourists who ventured this deep into the Cotswolds countryside.

“Mr. York isn’t here,” Martin said.

“‘Here’ meaning his farm, the village or England?”

“He’s in England.”

Martin shifted the amaryllis pots in his arms. He had picked them up from friends who ran a flower shop in nearby Stow-on-the-Wold. His decades-old Barbour jacket, wool cap and waterproof walking shoes were adequate for the twenty-minute walk to and from the York farm on a chilly February afternoon, but not for standing still for a long, awkward chat.

“I will tell Mr. York you were asking for him,” Martin said with a deliberate note of finality.

“Okay. Thanks.”

The FBI agent—if, indeed, that was what he was—made no move to continue on his way. Martin didn’t notice a car that could have belonged to him, or a partner lurking down the lane or in the churchyard. In the fall, three FBI agents had arrived at the York apartment in London. Matt Yankowski, Colin Donovan and Emma Sharpe. Martin had expected Oliver to refuse to let them in, but he had instructed Martin to have the agents join him in the library. It was the same library where, twenty-nine years ago, eight-year-old Oliver, an only child, had witnessed the murder of his parents.

Martin decided not to mention the previous agents to this new agent.

“Quiet village,” Kavanagh said.

“Yes, it is. Stow-on-the-Wold isn’t far. It’s a market town with shops and restaurants, if you need anything. Are you staying in the area?”

“Off to Heathrow and home tomorrow.”

It wasn’t an answer, was it?

Martin felt the weight of the pots and now regretted not bringing the car. After two days of rain, he had looked forward to a good walk.

“Why do you suppose they buried people in the churchyard?” Kavanagh asked, nodding to the age-worn gravestones, many standing crookedly, covered in white lichens. The church itself was constructed of the yellow limestone characteristic of countless structures in the rolling Cotswolds countryside west of London. It dated as far back as the twelfth century, but, of course, had been added to and reworked over the ensuing centuries. “It was the thing to do, I imagine. I’ve never thought about it.”

Kavanagh grinned. “Stupid question from an annoying American?”

“I didn’t say that, sir.”

“You didn’t look surprised when I recognized you. Then again, you’re obviously a man of great self-control. How long have you worked for Oliver York?”

Martin saw no reason not to answer. “I was twenty when Mr. York’s grandparents hired me.”

“You’re what—a valet? A manservant?”

“Agent Kavanagh, if you have a card with your contact information, I can give it to Mr. York.”

“I don’t, in fact.” The American smiled. “Long story.”

Martin doubted that. “I should get cracking. Enjoy your stay, and have a good flight tomorrow.”

“Thanks.” He made no move to go on his way. “You met a few of my colleagues in November. Agents Yankowski, Sharpe and Donovan. Any contact with them since then?”

So, Agent Kavanagh knew about the November visit. “We exchanged Christmas cards,” Martin said, immediately regretting his sarcasm.

Kavanagh laughed. “A smart-ass under all that English formality, aren’t you, Martin?” He nodded at the pots. “What color amaryllises?”

“Both are bloodred.”

“Surprised I know an amaryllis bulb from a tulip bulb, aren’t you? In fact, I don’t. It says so on the little stick in the dirt.”

Chuckling to himself, the American resumed course down the lane, back toward the village, away from the church. Martin debated finding out whether Special Agent Kavanagh was booked at the village pub, which also let rooms. “Best not,” he said under his breath.

Restless now and decidedly ill at ease, he set the pots on the low wall in front of the church. He was sixty-three and in excellent shape, but the pots were heavier than he had anticipated. A short break was in order before he continued on to the farm. He stretched his arms as he walked in the opposite direction of the FBI agent. The lane ended at the entrance to a cemetery, which adjoined the churchyard but was separate from its scatter of gravestones.

A breeze stirred, and he noticed the sun, a welcome sight earlier in the day, was giving way to a gray, still dusk. Martin watched a lone bird—he couldn’t say what species it was—float above a barren field past the cemetery and disappear over the horizon, as if it wanted to get away from the dead.

His imagination, of course.

He veered off the paved walk, slowing his pace as he cut down a muddy footpath, past bare-branched trees and more graves. He had grown up in the village and had family buried here, but it wasn’t their graves that drew him.

He came to a far corner of the cemetery and paused at a low stone wall that bordered the field. He pulled off his cap and felt the breeze in his graying hair as he breathed in the cool air and tried not to let emotion overcome him.

Finally, he leaned forward and touched the name carved on a cold, gray stone.

Priscilla Farley York.

He shut his eyes, his fingertips on the letters. He could feel Priscilla’s bony, aged hand as she clutched his wrist, and he could see the pain in her dying eyes. She had been frail then, a ghost of the woman who had put him to work. Yet undiminished were the will, the determination and the faith that had seen her through more than any mother and grandmother should have had to bear.

Look after Oliver, won’t you, Martin? He’s suffered so much. Promise me you’ll look after him.

Martin hadn’t hesitated, although he had known, even then, it wouldn’t be an easy promise to keep. He could hear his certainty and sincerity as he answered her. I will look after Oliver. I promise.

Priscilla had died a few hours later.

The next day, Oliver had dropped out of Oxford.

Opening his eyes, Martin touched his fingers to the names on three more York gravestones.

Nicholas York

Charles York

Deborah Summerhill York

Martin had known them all. Nicholas, Oliver’s grandfather, had preceded Priscilla into the grave by eighteen months. He had loved the Cotswolds. The York farm had been in his family for generations, and he and Priscilla had relished retiring there and turning over their London apartment to Charles, their only son, and Deborah, his lovely wife.

Who could have imagined that Charles and Deborah would be murdered?

Who could have imagined Oliver, their eight-year-old son, would be snatched and taken to Scotland, then held alone in a church ruin? Shivering and hungry, the traumatized boy had escaped. No one could say how long he had wandered in the cold Scottish countryside before a priest, on a walk to the ruins, had discovered him.

Oliver’s kidnappers—his parents’ killers—had yet to be captured, convicted and sentenced for their heinous crimes. They’d been identified as groundskeepers the Yorks had hired, briefly, shortly before their murder, but no trace of them had ever been discovered.

When the police had arrived at the farm with the terrible news, Martin had gone to find Nicholas and Priscilla, out with the dogs on the farm. The searing trauma of those days had undoubtedly shortened their lives. Despite their own grief, they had done their best to raise Oliver and get him whatever help he needed.

His throat tight with emotion, Martin turned back through the cemetery. He had dedicated himself to the welfare of the last of the Yorks—Priscilla, Nicholas and Oliver.

Now there was just Oliver.

Martin heard the distant cry of a bird, but otherwise the cemetery was quiet. As the church came into view again, he could see young Charles and Deborah on their wedding day, laughing as they greeted guests. There had been no question they would have the ceremony here in the village.

Martin scooped up the amaryllis pots from the wall. He needed to put aside loyalty, grief, pity and sympathy and see clearly what options were available—especially now with the bloody FBI popping into town for a visit.

He had made a promise. He couldn’t falter, and he couldn’t fail.

He glanced down the lane toward the village center, but he didn’t see the American.

Should he call Emma Sharpe or Colin Donovan and ask them about Special Agent Kavanagh and this strange visit?

Let Oliver make that decision.

A pot in each arm, Martin set off down the lane, cutting onto a public footpath that paralleled the main thoroughfare. It was part of the Oxfordshire Way, one of the many marked walking routes in the picturesque Cotswolds. On his free days, he liked nothing better than to don his walking shoes, choose a loop and set off for the day. Oliver was fit as a fiddle, but he hated to “ramble,” as he put it, preferring endless hours of solitary martial arts practice. Martin suspected his employer and friend’s distaste for country leisure walking harkened back to his kidnapping, but he had never asked—and he never would. Heart-to-hearts would only make them both uncomfortable, and Martin had decided years ago that some things he was best not knowing for certain. Guessing was enough for him.

Oliver would be in from London tomorrow. Martin would have the morning to see to errands and deliveries and get the house prepared for Oliver’s arrival. He was inviting a friend, he had said. An Irish priest Martin had yet to meet.

You’ll like him, Hambly. He’s a whiskey expert. He and his twin brother own an Irish distillery.

It was a marginal recommendation. Martin preferred Scotch.

Nonetheless, he appreciated that Oliver was making an attempt to turn over a new leaf and have real friends. Martin would be sure the guest suite was immaculate and fires were lit throughout the house, ready for their arrival.

Converting the small dovecote on the edge of the farm’s main grounds into a potting shed had been Priscilla York’s idea. Although the family employed a gardener, she had loved to putter with her pots and seeds. Martin had spent many hours helping her, although he didn’t pretend to have her knowledge, expertise or interest in gardening.

Adding a stonework studio to the dovecote twelve years ago, long after his grandmother’s death, had been Oliver’s idea. He hadn’t asked Martin for help, opinions or approval and went about stocking the studio with lapidary saws, heat guns, polishing wheels, hammers, chisels and various kinds of glue. Stone-carving became another of Oliver’s solitary hobbies. Martin had thought no harm could come of it.

One of his more spectacular miscalculations.

He set the pots on a rough-wood worktable. Deep red amaryllis blossoms would provide welcome color before spring returned. He felt his tension and melancholy lifting after meeting the FBI agent and visiting the graves. He envisioned hillsides of daffodils, fields of bright yellow rapeseed, lambs prancing with their mothers. Truly, was there anything more glorious than springtime in the Cotswolds?

He helped himself to a bottle of water he kept on the work-table and groaned when he noticed a package by the door. He had forgotten about it. Oliver had packed it himself before departing for London late Monday. Martin had no idea what was inside and wasn’t about to rip it open to find out. Surely it couldn’t contain anything provocative, since it was addressed to Emma Sharpe, one of the FBI agents from November.

Martin noticed Oliver hadn’t used Agent Sharpe’s Boston home or office address, which, to the consternation of the FBI, were in his possession. Instead, he had addressed the package to her in care of Father Finian Bracken at the St. Patrick’s Holy Roman Catholic Church rectory in Rock Point, Maine.

Oliver’s new friend, the Irish priest.

Father Bracken was also Emma Sharpe and Colin Donovan’s friend, an awkward and potentially incendiary situation in Martin’s estimation.

He rang the courier service, catching them in time to pick up the package for overnight service to the United States. He wasn’t surprised to discover Oliver had done a perfunctory, inadequate packing job. He added more tape before setting the package outside on the doorstep. He would wait for the courier. Then an early supper and some well-placed acupressure on his sore arms were in order.

He heard a rustling sound behind the dovecote, which sat atop a wooded hillside above a stream.

“Not the bloody ram again,” he muttered.

The stubborn beast refused to stay within the fence. He liked to escape the confines of his carefully maintained pasture and romp through forbidden territory. Farm animals weren’t Martin’s responsibility, but he couldn’t leave the sheep to his own devices. At the least, he could assess the situation and then call for help if necessary. If it was the ram and he wasn’t in too big a fix, Martin could manage to get him back into his pen on his own—if grumbling the entire way.

He went around to the back of the dovecote. The ground was soft and wet, no surprise given the two days of rain. At least it hadn’t been snow. He noticed with pleasure that snowdrops were in bloom, blanketing the grass around an oak tree with their tiny white flowers, a welcome harbinger of spring.

The hillside was darkened with dusk and shadows, but not so much so Martin would be unable to see a wandering sheep. Still, he saw nothing. He paused, listening, but he couldn’t make out any bleating.

Perhaps it had been a fox or pheasant he had heard, stirring with the warmer weather and now on its way.

“Well, good, then,” Martin said aloud, turning back toward the dovecote.

Then came a scraping sound…metal on metal…as distinct and unmistakable as his own breathing. Now what?

It had to be the ram. He must have caught on something. Martin decided to have another look then get a farmworker out here.

Then came a grunt, distinctly human and close. “No!”

Martin heard panic and fear in his voice. His heart jumped, adrenaline surging painfully through him as he tried, instinctively, to dodge what he knew was an oncoming blow.

He was too late.

The blow came quickly, hard, to the back of his head, sending him sprawling down the hill. He couldn’t get his footing and crashed against winter-denuded trees and brush, until finally landing facedown in wet grass and dead leaves.

He was vaguely aware of the taste of mud and the stab of a twig in his cheek as pain exploded in his head.

Bastard.

Unable to breathe, he gasped in agony, fighting to stay conscious as he sank into the cold ground and the inevitable blackness.

Praise for KEEPER’S REACH

“Neggers’ fantastic new Sharpe & Donovan thriller is a breathtaking visual journey that ingeniously weaves an anticipatory, multi-leveled, fast-paced mystery.”

— RT Book Reviews, Top Pick

“Fans of romantic suspense will find plenty to like.” — Publishers Weekly

Don’t Miss the rest of the Sharpe & Donovan Series!

Click on cover to read more . . .

Series Book #1

Series Book #2

Series Book #3

Series Book #4*

*includes eNovella prequel ROCK POINT

A slideshow of Carla’s photos of scenic Ireland

Recipe for fresh raspberry pie

Happy August! We love local fresh-picked raspberries this time of year. We even have a few in our yard. A family favorite recipe is fresh raspberry pie. Our little grandson has celiac disease, and we’re delighted this fantastic recipe is naturally gluten-free if a gluten-free crust is used.

Here’s the recipe:

Bake a one-crust pie shell using recipe of your choice. 

Wash and let dry 1 qt. of fresh raspberries. Simmer together 2/3 cup water and 1 cup of the berries for about 3 minutes. Blend 1 c. sugar and 3 Tbsp. cornstarch with 1/3 cup of water and added to the boiling berries and water. Stirring constantly, boil for one minute and then let cool.

Spread cooled pie shell with cream cheese (about 1/2 cup) and add the fresh uncooked berries (about 3 cups). Pour cooked mixture onto berries. Refrigerate pie for about 2 hours, until firm.

Serve with whipped cream (we use unsweetened cream with a touch of vanilla) or vanilla ice cream.

Our daughter loved the pie I made a couple of weeks ago, she took a picture of it. We used a gluten-free pie crust. It’s super-buttery and came out great.

Enjoy!

Carla

COLD RIDGE

On Sale June 28, 2016

Mass Market Paperback Reissue

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A murderous plan is put in motion…with stakes higher than anyone can imagine.

Award-winning photographer Carine Winter does whatever it takes to get the perfect shot. So she accepts the job of photographing Sterling Rancourt’s historic Boston home knowing she’s taking a risk—she could run into Tyler North, the pararescuer who all but left her at the altar a year ago. Then Carine finds a body in Rancourt’s house—and the prime suspect in the murder is Tyler North’s best friend.

When Tyler hears about the murder, he rushes to see his friend Manny, expecting him to ask for help. Instead, Manny urges Tyler to protect Carine, to take her back to Cold Ridge and away from the temptation to meddle in a murder investigation.

What Tyler learns is that Carine’s at the center of a deadly game. And the only person she can trust is the person she vowed never to trust again: him. But they’re running out of time—because a killer has followed them to Cold Ridge…

Cold Ridge excerpt
Chapter One

Carine Winter loaded her day pack with hiking essentials and her new digital camera and headed into the woods, a rolling tract of land northeast of town that had once been dairy farms. She didn’t go up the ridge. It was a bright, clear November day in the valley with little wind and highs in the fifties, but on Cold Ridge, the temperature had dipped below freezing, wind gusts were up to fifty miles an hour and its exposed, knife-edged granite backbone was already covered in snow and ice.

Her parents had hiked Cold Ridge in November and died up there when she was three. Thirty years ago that week, but Carine still remembered.

Gus, her uncle, had been a member of the search party that found his older brother and sister-in-law. He was just twenty himself, not a year home from Vietnam, but he’d taken on the responsibility of raising Carine and her older brother and sister. Antonia was just five at the time, Nate seven.

Yes, Carine thought as she climbed over a stone wall, she remembered so much of those terrible days, although she had been too young to really understand what had happened. Gus had taken her and her brother and sister up the ridge the spring after the tragedy. Cold Ridge loomed over their northern New Hampshire valley and their small hometown of the same name. Gus said they couldn’t be afraid of it. His brother had been a firefighter, his sister-in-law a biology teacher, both avid hikers. They weren’t reckless or inexperienced. People in the valley still talked about their deaths. Never mind that weather reports were now more accurate, hiking clothes and equipment more high-tech – if Cold Ridge could kill Harry and Jill Winter, it could kill anyone.

Carine waited until she was deep into the woods before she took out her digital camera. She wasn’t yet sure she liked it. But she wouldn’t be able to concentrate on any serious photography today. Her mind kept drifting back to fleeting memories, half-formed images of her parents, anything she could grasp.

Gus, who’d become one of the most respected outfitters and guides in the White Mountains, would object to her hiking alone. It was the one risk she allowed herself to take, the one safety rule she allowed herself to break.

She’d climbed all forty-eight peaks in the White Mountains over four thousand feet. Seven were over five thousand feet: Washington, Adams, Jefferson, Monroe, Madison, Lafayette and Lincoln. At 6288 feet, Mt. Washington was the highest, and the most famous, notorious for its extreme conditions, some of the worst in the world. At any time of the year, hikers could find themselves facing hurricane-force winds on its bald granite summit – Carine had herself. Because of the conditions the treeline was lower in the White Mountains than out west, generally at around 4500 feet.

It was said the Abenakis considered the tall peaks sacred and never climbed them. Carine didn’t know if that was true, but she could believe it.

Most of the main Cold Ridge trail was above four thousand feet, exposing hikers to above-treeline conditions for a longer period than if they just went up and down a single peak.

But today, Carine was content with her mixed hardwood forest of former farmland. Gus had warned her to stay away from Bobby Poulet, a survivalist who had a homestead on a few acres on the northeast edge of the woods. He was a legendary crank who’d threatened to shoot anyone who stepped foot on his property.

She took pictures of rocks and burgundy-colored oak leaves, water trickling over rocks in a narrow stream, a hemlock, a fallen, rotting elm and an abandoned hunting shack with a crooked metal chimney. The land was owned by a lumber company that, fortunately, had a laissez-faire attitude toward hikers.

She almost missed the owl.

It was a huge barred owl, as still as a stone sculpture, its neutral coloring blending in with the mostly gray November landscape as it perched on a branch high in a naked beech tree.

Before Carine could raise her camera, the owl swooped off its branch and flapped up over the low ridge above her, out of sight.

She sighed. She’d won awards for her photography of raptors – she’d have loved to have had a good shot of the owl. On the other hand, she wasn’t sure her digital camera was up to the task.

A loud boom shattered the silence of the isolated ravine.

Carine dropped flat to the ground, facedown, before she could absorb what the sound was.

A gunshot.

Her camera had flown out of her hand and landed in the dried leaves two feet above her outstretched arm. Her day pack ground into her back. And her heart was pounding, her throat tight.

Damn, she thought. How close was that?

It had to be hunters. Not responsible hunters. Insane hunters – yahoos who didn’t know what they were doing. Shooting that close to her. What were they thinking? Didn’t they see her? She’d slipped a bright-orange vest over her fleece jacket. She knew it was deer-hunting season, but this was the first time a hunter had fired anywhere near her.

“Hey!” She lifted her head to yell but otherwise remained prone on the damp ground, in the decaying fallen leaves. “Knock it off! There’s someone up here!”

As if in answer, three quick, earsplitting shots cracked over her head, whirring, almost whistling. One hit the oak tree a few yards to her right.

Were these guys total idiots?

She should have hiked in the White Mountain National Forest or one of the state parks where hunting was prohibited.

Just two yards to her left was a six-foot freestanding boulder. If these guys weren’t going to stop shooting, she needed to take cover. Staying low, she picked up her camera then scrambled behind the boulder, ducking down, her back against the jagged granite. The ground was wetter here, and her knees and seat were already damp. Cold, wet conditions killed. More hikers in the White Mountains died of hypothermia than any other cause. It was what had killed her parents thirty years ago. They were caught in unexpected freezing rain and poor visibility. They fell. Injured, unable to move, unable to stay warm – they didn’t stand a chance.

Excerpted from Cold Ridge by Carla Neggers Copyright © 2003 by Harlequin Enterprises Ltd.

SECRET HIDEAWAY

Available Now!

New eNovella
and 2 Bonus Short Stories!

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SECRET HIDEAWAY

She was supposed to be cooling off. Instead, things are heating up, and now no one is safe.

Ellen Galway has been living life on overdrive. It’s not just her job as a newly minted prosecutor. Her relationship with Texas Ranger Luke Jackson is also getting overheated. Luke keeps knocking down all her boundaries. Ellen’s whirlwind trip to Saratoga Springs to hear her twin sister Maggie’s presentation offers the perfect chance for a cooling off period.

Then Luke turns up in Ellen’s hotel lobby. His instincts tell him Ellen and Maggie could be in trouble, and he’s determined not to let anything happen to them. When Maggie disappears, Ellen joins Luke in search of a remote cabin in the Adirondacks. They must find a way to work together if they want to find her sister alive.

 

New York Times bestselling author Carla Neggers returns with this exciting novella plus two bonus short stories. In “On the Run,” Gus Winter takes on a killer in the White Mountains, and in “Cold Moonlight,” Ryan “Grit” Taylor proves he’s still a tough U.S. Navy SEAL. Note: “Cold Moonlight” is included in Love Is Murder, an anthology edited by Sandra Brown; “On the Run” is included in Thriller 2, an anthology edited by Clive Cussler.

Winding country roads

Summer is a great time to go for a drive in the country. GPS can take some of the adventure out of it, but only if we let it. Here’s a country road in the English Cotswolds, where my fictional English art thief, Oliver York, has a farm. He plays a prominent role in KEEPER’S REACH, out in paperback in late July, and in LIAR’S KEY, my latest Sharpe & Donovan novel, available in late August.

Happy driving!

Carla

The writing life: Scotland

Hello from Scotland! Joe and I picked a warm, sunny week to be here. Not a drop of rain has fallen on us since we arrived early on May 31. My raincoat hasn’t been out of my suitcase. No complaints.

Given our hectic April and May, we didn’t have time to arrange for tours or set up a tight itinerary. Not that we would have, anyway. We like to allow for serendipity when we travel, but we did crack open our Scotland guidebook at breakfast upon arrival in Edinburgh (pronounced Edinburra). A visit to the castle that looms over the city, popping into the iconic department store Harvey Nichols and wandering in the Royal Botanic Garden (above) were some of the great ways we dealt with jet lag and got a taste for this fascinating, historic city.

After Edinburgh, it was up to Pitlochry and visits to such places as Queen’s View (above), Soldier’s Leap, Blair Castle and Edradour distillery and several awe-inspiring walks through the Scottish countryside. I’ve been taking notes for research and letting my mind wander…mostly letting my mind wander. For me, a change of scenery every now and again is a great way to recharge creatively, mentally and physically. It doesn’t have to be a trip to Scotland or Ireland. I remember in the dead of a Vermont winter when I had small children and couldn’t pick up and go, I’d sometimes tune in to a Magnum, P.I., rerun, fire up the wood stove and pretend I was in Hawaii. Hey, it worked!

We head to Ireland next, for a writing retreat and a bit of a break. Our son, Zack, will be joining us. An Irish whiskey tasting is a must, don’t you think?

Windows with views

Windows with views

Some writers prefer a blank wall when they’re writing, but I love to write by a window with a view. Maybe it’s because as a kid I’d write while up in a tree! Regardless, here are some real-life windows with tempting views.

Here’s a window looking gout on a Cotswolds stone wall.

 

Here’s a window looking out on an Irish horse farm.

 

Here’s a window looking out on the grounds of beautiful Ashford Castle in Ireland. 

I’d write with these views. Really!