Carla Neggers's Blog, page 26
October 25, 2013
DECLAN’S CROSS
On Sale August 27, 2013
A Sharpe & Donovan Novel
Harlequin MIRA Hardcover
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An escape to an idyllic Irish seaside village is about to turn deadly
For marine biologist Julianne Maroney, two weeks in tiny Declan’s Cross on the south Irish coast is a chance to heal her broken heart. She doesn’t expect to attract the attention of FBI agents Emma Sharpe and Colin Donovan-especially since a Donovan is the reason for her broken heart.
Emma and Colin are in Ireland for their own personal retreat. Colin knows he’s a reminder of everything Julianne wants to escape, but something about her trip raises his suspicion. Emma, an art crimes expert, is also on edge. Of all the Irish villages Julianne could choose…why Declan’s Cross?
Ten years ago, a thief slipped into a mansion in Declan’s Cross. Emma’s grandfather, a renowned art detective, investigated, but the art stolen that night has never been recovered and the elusive thief never caught.
From the moment Julianne sets foot on Irish soil, everything goes wrong. The well-connected American diver who invited her to Ireland has disappeared. And now Emma and Colin are in Declan’s Cross asking questions.
As a dark conspiracy unfolds amid the breathtaking scenery of Declan’s Cross, the race is on to stop a ruthless killer…and the stakes have never been more personal for Emma and Colin.
Read Excerpt
Excerpt of Declan’s Cross by Carla Neggers
Chapter 1
Emma Sharpe paused atop a craggy knoll and looked out at the ripples of barren hills, not a house, a road, a car or another person in sight. She didn’t know what had become of her hiking partner. Maybe he had stepped up to his midcalves in mud and muck, too, but she doubted it. It wasn’t that Colin Donovan wasn’t capable of taking a misstep. It was that she’d have heard him cursing if he had.
A fat, woolly sheep stared up at her from the boggy grass as if to say, “You might be an FBI agent back in Boston, but out here in the Irish hills, you’re just another hiker with wet feet.”
“This is true,” Emma said, setting her backpack on the expanse of rough gray rock. “However, I’m prepared. I have dry socks.”
She unzipped her pack and dug out a pair of fresh wool socks. The sheep bleated and meandered off, disappearing behind another knoll, one of a series on the windswept ridge on the Beara Peninsula, one of the fingers of land that jutted into the North Atlantic off the southwest coast of Ireland. It had been centuries since these hills were forested. She could see peeks of Kenmare Bay in the distance, its calm waters blue-gray in the midafternoon November light. Across the bay, shrouded in mist but still distinct, were the jagged ridges of the Macgil-licuddy Reeks.
Emma kicked off her shoes, sat on the bare rock ledge and pulled off her wet socks. She glanced down at the narrow valley directly below her, a small lake shimmering in the fading sunlight. She and Colin were five hours into their six-hour hike. With the short November days, they would get back to their car just before dark.
As she put on her dry socks, he came around the knoll where her sheep had disappeared. A light breeze caught the ends of his dark hair, and he had his backpack hooked on one arm as he jumped over the wet spot that had fooled her.
He climbed up onto her knoll and dropped his pack next to hers. “I like having you walk point,” he said with a grin.
“No fair. You saw my footprint in the mud.”
“I’ll never tell.”
Emma leaned back against her outstretched arms. She had on a wool hat, her fair hair knotted at the nape of her neck. She had pulled her gloves on and off over the course of the day. She didn’t know if Colin had even packed a hat and gloves. He was, she thought, the sexiest man she had ever met. Small scars on his right cheek and by his left eye from fights he said he had won. She had no doubt. He was strongly built, rugged and utterly relentless.
A good man to have on your side in a fight.
She was fit and lean and could handle herself in a fight, and although she wasn’t tiny, he could easily carry her up a flight of stairs. In fact, he had, more than once.
They had set out early. For the past two weeks, they had explored the southwest Irish coast on foot and by car, by mutual agreement avoiding talk of arms traffickers, thieves, poison, attempted murder and alligators. Colin would wink at her and say he especially didn’t want to talk about alligators, not that he had seen one on his narrow escape from killers in South Florida. Thinking about them had been enough.
By unspoken agreement, he and Emma also avoided talk of their futures with the FBI—or even each other. His months of intense undercover work, in an environment where everyone was a potential enemy, had taken a toll, and he needed this time to be in the present, to be himself.
Emma’s needs were simpler. She just wanted to be with him.
It was her life that was complicated.
She sat up straight, noticing that Colin’s boots and cargo pants were splattered with mud but not wet like hers. She grinned at him. “You do know I’ve spent more time hiking the Irish hills than you have, don’t you?”
“Beneath that placid exterior beats the heart of a competitive federal agent.” He made no move to sit next to her. “Your mishap gives me an excuse to run a hot bath for you when we get back to the cottage.”
“Life could be worse. You’re not bored, are you?”
“I can go more than two weeks without anyone trying to kill me.”
As he stood next to her on her boulder, his smile almost reached his stone-gray eyes. Almost.
He offered her a sip from his water bottle, but she shook her head. He took a long drink as he gazed out at the hills. Except for the occasional baa of the grazing, half-wild sheep, the silence was complete.
“What are you thinking about, Colin?”
“Guinness.”
“A cold pint and a warm pub. Sounds perfect.”
He leaned down and touched the curve of his hand to her cheek. “It’s been good being here with you.” He winked at her as he stood straight. “Mud and sheep dung and all.”
Emma sighed as she slipped back into her trail shoes and tied the laces. “No escaping sheep dung out here, is there? I wasn’t distracted when I stepped in the wet spot. I just misjudged. There’s a difference.”
“But you do have a lot on your mind,” Colin said.
She always did. Their jobs with the FBI attested to their different natures. He was an undercover agent. She specialized in art crimes. She was analytical, methodical, detailoriented. He was direct, intuitive, quick and decisive—and independent to a fault. Six weeks ago, he had been assigned to her small team in Boston, if only because the senior agent in charge was determined to rein him in.
Good luck with that, Emma thought. She stood, lifted her backpack and slung it over her shoulders. “The rest of the way is all downhill.”
“Have you ever done this hike before?”
She shook her head. “First time.”
“It’s a good spot,” he said, tucking his water bottle in his pack. “I’m glad we did this before I go home.”
“Yeah. Me, too.”
It was Monday. She had a flight back to Boston on Friday. She’d be at her desk a week from today. Colin had more time before he had to decide what was next for him. Not a lot more time, but he could stay in Ireland for a while longer, without her.
She angled a look at him. “Anything on your mind, Colin?”
“I had an email from Andy in my in-box this morning. He sent it last night. I didn’t read it until just now, while I ate an energy bar and admired the view. Reading email is against our hiking rules, I know.”
“A sign it’s time to get back to work, maybe.” Emma gave him a moment but he didn’t take the bait and respond, and she let it go. “How are things in Rock Point?”
“Andy says Julianne Maroney is leaving for Ireland tonight.”
“Tonight? Isn’t that sudden?”
“She’s just accepted a marine biology internship in Cork that starts in January. She decided to come for a couple weeks now and get herself sorted out. It’s sudden, but that’s Julianne.”
“So, she’s staying in Cork?”
“A village east of Cork. Declan’s Cross.”
Declan’s Cross.
Emma went still as a dozen images came at her at once. A pretty seaside Irish village of brightly colored shops and residences. A romantic mansion with sweeping views of cliffs and sea. Haunting Celtic crosses on a grassy hilltop.
A tight-lipped old Irish sheep farmer.
Her grandfather, Wendell Sharpe, a renowned art detective, pacing in his Dublin office as he admitted he and Sharpe Fine Art Recovery were after a thief they couldn’t catch.
A thief, Emma thought, who had first struck in tiny Declan’s Cross on a lonely, rainy, dark November night ten years ago.
She’d only become involved in the case four years ago, in the months between her life as Sister Brigid at the coastal Maine convent of the Sisters of the Joyful Heart and her life as a special agent with the Federal Bureau of Investigation. She’d worked side by side with her grandfather in Dublin, learning everything he knew.
Not everything.
Wendell Sharpe never told anyone everything. She was aware of Colin’s eyes narrowed on her. He wouldn’t know about the thief. There was no reason for him to know. She pushed back her thoughts. “Why Declan’s Cross, Colin?”
“Emma…”
“Just tell me what you know. Please.”
“All right.” He was plainly suspicious now. “A woman who’s launching a marine science research facility in Declan’s Cross stopped in Rock Point last week. She and Julianne hit it off. Now Julianne’s meeting her there.”
“To help with this research facility?”
“Andy doesn’t have any details. He hasn’t talked to Julianne himself.
“Then who told him?”
“Her brother. Ryan. He’s in the Coast Guard, but he’s in Rock Point visiting for a few days. He found out from their grandmother. Julianne lives with her.”
Rock Point was a small, tight-knit southern Maine fishing village. Everyone knew everyone else’s business, but Julianne’s short-lived romance with Andy Donovan, third-born of the four Donovan brothers, apparently had come as a surprise, especially since she’d vowed never to get involved with a Donovan. Emma didn’t know either Andy or Julianne well. She’d only met Colin in September and was still figuring out who was who in his hometown.
“What’s this woman’s name?” she asked. “Do we know her?”
“Her name’s Lindsey Hargreaves. I don’t know her.”
Hargreaves. Emma searched her memory but shook her head. “I don’t, either. Did she come to Rock Point looking for Julianne?”
“I don’t have any details. I just know Julianne’s on her way to Ireland.”
“And you don’t like it.”
© Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
Neggers’ beautifully flowing and skillfully narrated novel is rich with dialogue that emphasizes the sights, sounds, culture and panoramic views of Ireland. Emma and Colin are as unforgettable as ever.”
—RT Book Reviews TOP PICK! for September for DECLAN’S CROSS.
Well-plotted, intriguing and set mostly in the lushly described Irish countryside, the novel is smart and satisfying, and the paths of three couples growing even more devoted to each other are deftly woven into the suspenseful storyline”
—Kirkus Reviews on DECLAN’S CROSS
[Neggers] forces her characters to confront issues of humanity, integrity and the multifaceted aspects of love.”
—Publishers Weekly
Heron’s Cove gives romantic suspense fans what they want…complex mystery with a bit of romance. Negger’s skillfully created a compelling puzzle, refusing to reveal all the pieces until the very end.
-Top Pick, RT Book Reviews
Carla Neggers has emerged as the queen of the romantic suspense novel…Heron’s Cove is a novel that is written with a gripping and suspenseful style that will surely have the most astute armchair sleuths and amateur detectives scratching their heads and guessing right up until the very end. Neggers does a first-rate job of creating scenes with images that are so vivid, one can almost breathe in the briny salt air along Maine’s craggy coast.
-Nashua Sunday Telegraph
With a great plot and excellent character development, Neggers’ thriller, the first in a new series, is a fast-paced, action-packed tale of romantic suspense that will appeal to fans of Lisa Jackson and Lisa Gardner.
-Library Journal on Saint’s Gate
A slideshow of Carla’s photos of scenic Ireland
HERON’S COVE
A Sharpe & Donovan Novel
Mass Market Paperback
August 2013
(Hardcover August 2012)
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WHEN YOUR SAFETY DEPENDS ON LIVING A LIE. . .
After escaping certain death, FBI deep-cover agent Colin Donovan is back home on the Maine coast with his new love, FBI art crimes expert Emma Sharpe. Then a man from Emma’s past arrives in Heron’s Cove, Dmitri Rusakov, a Russian billionaire who insists he’s there only to reclaim what’s his-a prized Russian Art Nouveau collection stolen from him four years ago. But Rusakov’s connection to the arms traffickers who just tried to kill Colin put him on alert-and Colin realizes his nightmare isn’t over. It’s just begun.
AND EVERYONE YOU LOVE IS A TARGET. . .
Emma guards her past closely, and Colin is determined to unlock her secrets. As they investigate the mysterious collection and its wealthy owner, they must count on their expertise-and each other-to outwit an enemy who wants to destroy them and everyone they love most.
WHO CAN YOU AFFORD TO TRUST?
Read an Excerpt
With three Donovan brothers and an Irish priest watching her, Emma Sharpe choked back her sample of the smoky single-malt Scotch—her sixth and last tasting of the night. “Intense,” she said, managing not to slam the tulip-shaped nosing glass on the table and grab the pitcher of water. Give it a few seconds. She was an FBI agent, after all. Tough as nails. She smiled at the four men. “People pay to drink this one, huh?”
“Dearly,” Finian Bracken, the Irish priest, said. “You’re not one for a heavily peated whiskey, I see.”
Emma tried to distinguish the other flavors of the sample—spices, fruits, whatever—but only tasted the peat. “I don’t know if I’m one for a lightly peated whiskey, either.”
A cold wind penetrated Hurley’s thin walls and sprayed the old windows with salt water and rain. The restaurant, a fixture on the Rock Point harbor, was basically a shack that jutted out over the water. Now only a few lights penetrated the dark night and fog. Finian had organized the impromptu tasting, setting up on a back table away from what few diners were there on a windy, rainy late-October Friday. He and Michael, Andy and Kevin Donovan were already gathered over a half-dozen bottles of highend whiskey when Emma had arrived in southern Maine an hour ago, up from Boston and her job with a small, specialized FBI unit.
Only Colin, the second-born Donovan, wasn’t in Rock Point. Mike was a Maine guide, Andy a lobsterman and Kevin a state marine patrol officer, but, like Emma, Colin was an FBI agent.
Not like me, she thought.
She specialized in art crimes. Colin was a deep-cover agent. He’d left his hometown a month ago, pretending to return to FBI headquarters in Washington. The true nature of his work was known to only a few even within the FBI, but his brothers had guessed that he didn’t sit at a desk. Initially he’d kept in touch at least intermittently with his family and friends—and Emma—but for the past three weeks, no one had heard from him.
The silence was far too long, not just for his family and friends but for the FBI.
And for Emma.
She felt the draft at her feet. She had come prepared for the conditions, dressed in jeans, black merino wool sweater, raincoat, wool socks and Frye boots. The Donovans were in a mix of flannel, canvas and denim, no sign they even noticed the cold and the damp. Finian had opted against his usual black suit and Roman collar and instead wore a dark gray Irish-knit sweater and black corduroy trousers. He was a sharp-featured, handsome Irishman in his late thirties who had arrived in the small Maine fishing village in June. He had run into Colin, home for a few days in the midst of a difficult, dangerous mission, and they quickly became unexpected friends.
Emma hadn’t met Colin until September. She suspected his friendship with the Irish priest was less of a mystery to her than to his brothers. Finian Bracken was a fish out of water in Rock Point. He had no history with the town and little familiarity with the FBI. He also had a ready Irish wit, and he knew whiskey. He was objective, intelligent, tolerant—a safe friend for a federal agent with secrets.
Andy Donovan held his small glass to the light and examined the Scotch’s deep caramel color, then swirled it and brought it to his nose. He raised his eyes—the same shade of gray as Colin’s—to Finian. “Do you want me to tell you what I smell?”
“If you like,” Finian said. “Just sniff. Don’t inhale deeply. It’s not a yoga class.”
“As if you’d ever find one of us in a yoga class,” Andy said, then shrugged. “It smells like peat.”
Finian observed him with interest. “What else? Do you smell spices, fruit—chocolate, maybe?”
“Nope. It smells like an expensive Scotch to me.”
“Have a taste, then,” the priest said with a sigh, his Irish Kerry accent more pronounced than usual.
“No problem.” Andy tossed back the Scotch and made a face. “I’m with Emma. Too smoky for me.”
It was the final whiskey of the evening. The Donovan brothers hadn’t left so much as a drop in any of the specially designed glasses, one for each whiskey. The glasses all had little hats, like Scottish tams, that concentrated the aromas of each sample. Finian had brought them from the rectory; Hurley’s didn’t have whiskey nosing glasses. Before turning to the priesthood six years ago, Finian and his twin brother, Declan, had founded and operated Bracken Distillers on the southwest Irish coast. Bracken 15 year old, an award-winning single malt and rare peated Irish whiskey, was one of the night’s offerings—or “expressions,” as Finian called his lineup of bottles.
Emma noticed Mike, the eldest Donovan, eyeing her from across the round table. He was down from the remote Bold Coast where he worked as an independent wilderness guide. “Special Agent Sharpe’s a wine drinker. Aren’t you, Emma?”
She couldn’t detect any hint of criticism or sarcasm in his tone, but he still was looking at her as if she had done something wrong. “I like wine.” She kept any defensiveness out of her voice. “How about you, Mike? Do you pack a nice Central Coast red in your canoe when you take tourists on moose-sighting excursions?”
Kevin and Andy both grinned. Mike ignored them and settled back in his chair. “I took a couple out on the river in August. They had a wicker picnic hamper stocked with real wineglasses, cloth napkins, silver cutlery, French cheese, a baguette, apples and pears and two bottles of fancy wine.”
“Must have weighed down the canoe,” Kevin, the marine patrol officer, said.
“Oh, yeah. They insisted on having a picnic on the river-bank but they didn’t count on Maine mosquitoes. They lasted three minutes before we had to throw everything back in the canoe. We paddled straight back to their car.”
“Don’t tell me,” Andy said, amused. “The next stop on their Maine tour was Heron’s Cove.”
“Couldn’t wait to get there. I’m sure they enjoyed the quaint shops and fancy restaurants.”
“Everyone does,” Emma said.
“I don’t care.” Mike raised his as-yet untouched glass of the heavily peated Scotch; his eyes were lighter than those of his three younger brothers but no less intense. “Sldinte.”
Finian winked at Emma but said nothing. She reached for the Inish Turk Beg, a clear, triple-distilled whiskey from an independent distillery on a small island off the west coast of Ireland. She splashed a little into a fresh glass, set down the distinctive tilted bottle, then held up her glass to Mike. “Sldinte.”
He swallowed the Scotch and she sipped the Inish Turk Beg, one of Finian’s favorites. He had explained that it was gentle on the palate, clean and fresh on the nose, with fruity aromas, flavors of apple and orange zest and a dry finish. Emma wasn’t discriminating enough to go much beyond whether she could get a taste down with or without choking.
“Colin would have enjoyed tonight,” said his eldest brother, still watching her.
Emma nodded. “He’ll have that chance soon. Lots of whiskey left.”
“Are you and your FBI friends any closer to finding him?”
“You’re assuming he’s missing—”
“That’s right. I am.”
Her head spun and she wished she had skipped the extra taste of the Inish Turk Beg. “I can’t discuss your brother’s work with you.”
Andy and Kevin were as serious now as Mike was. Even Kevin, a law enforcement officer himself, didn’t have any information on his older brother’s work as one of the FBI’s most valuable ghosts. Emma had only a few details on his latest mission herself. It wasn’t as if Colin couldn’t handle himself in a dangerous situation. He was bold, aggressive and tough.
He was also sexy, she thought.
Incredibly sexy, in fact.
She kept that assessment to herself. “I’m sorry. I don’t know why Colin hasn’t been in touch.”
“He’s not a desk jockey in Washington.” Mike got up abruptly, grabbed his jacket off the back of his chair. “You don’t have to confirm or deny. We all know. He’s always stuck his nose in dangerous situations. Even as kids, he’d be the one jumping into cold water and waves, chasing sharks. It’s his way.”
“I understand that,” Emma said.
“Is it your way, Emma?”
She didn’t respond at once. Aware of the four men watching her, she picked up one of the tiny tam-style hats and set it atop a glass. “Maybe Colin and I have more in common than you realize.”
“You’re a Sharpe,” Mike said. “You were a nun.”
“A novice. I never made my final vows.” Emma kept her voice even, neutral. “I studied art history and art conservation during my time with the sisters. I come from a family of art detectives. That background helps in my work with the FBI.”
Mike shrugged on his jacket. “I just think you have a knack for attracting trouble.”
“And you’re worried about your brother.”
“Maybe I’m worried about you, too.”
She let his comment slide. She had already said too much. “When do you go home?”
He grinned. “Not soon enough for you, I expect.” The seriousness returned to his eyes as he looked down at her. “If you hear from Colin, you’ll let us know, okay?”
It was more of an order than a request but Emma nodded.
“I will, Mike.”
He leaned over and kissed her on the cheek. “Take care of yourself.” He shifted his gaze to Finian. “Thanks for the whiskey and the whiskey education, Father. Uisce beatha. ‘The water of life.’ I like that.”
“We’ll do it again when Colin’s in town,” Finian said.
“Yeah. We will.” The eldest Donovan grinned suddenly. “I think I tasted chocolate in that last Scotch.”
Kevin and Andy thanked Finian and said good-night to him and to Emma as they followed Mike out of the nearly empty restaurant. The late-October weather wouldn’t faze them. They would take whatever weather northern New England threw at them in stride. Rain, snow, sleet, fog, wind. Wouldn’t matter.
Once the brothers disappeared through the outer door, Finian sighed as he corked the Inish Turk Beg. “If you had information that could ease their worry, Emma, would you give it to them? Could you?”
“If I’d heard from Colin, I’d have said so.”
“His story of an intense schedule in Washington has worn thin. I assume the FBI will be in touch with his family if need be.”
Emma felt the whiskey burning in her throat. “The safety of an agent—any agent—is of paramount importance to the FBI. Colin’s brothers know that.”
“But you don’t know where he is, do you?”
The look he gave her told her she didn’t need to answer.
A strong gust of wind whistled, whipped more rain against the windows. The small, protected working harbor was lost in the dense, swirling fog. In September, Emma had gone on a boat ride with Colin, kayaked with him, picked apples with him. Laughed, made love. They had met over the horrific murder of a nun at the Sisters of the Joyful Heart, Emma’s former convent. Until then, she hadn’t realized another FBI agent had grown up just a few miles from her own home in Heron’s Cove. They’d had a short time together before Colin was gone again, chasing illegal arms merchants.
He had the FBI behind him but, ultimately, he was alone. Emma understood he could go dark, but not like this. Not with no word for weeks.
His Irish friend’s midnight eyes narrowed on her. “Co-lin’s in trouble, isn’t he, Emma? It’s all right. You don’t have to answer. I watched you tonight. I could see the answer for myself.”
“He’s independent.”
“He’s good at working alone. All the Donovans are.”
She watched raindrops slide down the window. “Do you ever feel alone here?”
“I’m here for a reason. I have a purpose.”
She glanced back at Finian. “That doesn’t answer the question, does it?”
“It does for me.”
She thought she understood what he meant. After the deaths of his wife and their two young daughters in a sailing accident, he had walked away from Bracken Distillers to enter the priesthood and follow his calling wherever it took him. In June, he had landed in Rock Point to serve struggling St. Patrick’s parish while its priest, Father Callaghan, was in Ireland for a year.
Emma touched the elegant, distinctive gold label of the Bracken 15 year old. “Do you miss Ireland?”
“Every day. That doesn’t mean I’m unhappy here. What about you, Emma? Are you happy?”
His question caught her off guard. “Right now?”
“In your life. In what you do. In where you are, at this moment.”
A cold draft came through the thin walls and worn floorboards. “I don’t miss the convent, Father, if that’s what you’re asking.”
He smiled. “You only call me ‘Father’ when you think I’m speaking about your life as a religious sister.”
“I suppose you’re right,” she said with a small laugh. “Yes, Fin, I’m happy. In my work, in my private life. I haven’t known Colin long but our relationship feels like the real thing. I understand that I’m a new addition to his life, and that his brothers regard me as impermanent.”
“Is that how you feel, Emma? Impermanent?”
“Colin and I are very different. I know that much.”
“You’re worried about him, too. And you miss him.”
“Yes.”
She helped herself to a couple of the Simple White Stonewall Kitchen crackers Finian had provided, and his Donovan tasters hadn’t touched, then poured water from one of Hurley’s plastic pitchers. Finian disapproved of adding ice or water to whiskey but he encouraged having water on the side to help counter the dehydrating effects of the alcohol. Only during a tasting did he tolerate, if reluctantly, adding a bit of room-temperature water to the whiskey, which arguably helped with “nosing” the aromas, but there’d been no takers tonight. Mike, Andy and Kevin had all stuck to whiskey, period. Emma had followed their lead, if, admittedly, in part because of their scrutiny.
Her head spun with whiskey, fatigue and tension—with the uncertainty and frustration she felt at not knowing where Colin was, if he was safe. “He’ll be back, Fin,” she said in a half whisper.
Finian transferred the tasting glasses to a tray and took them to the empty bar. Hurley’s would wash them and he would pick them up tomorrow. Emma ate the crackers and took a few sips of the water, thinking now that she should have stayed in Boston for the weekend instead of making the two-hour drive to southern Maine. She had become adept at avoiding lonely evenings, but tonight, she suspected, would be very lonely indeed.
Neggers does a first-rate job of creating scenes with images that are so vivid, one can almost breathe in the briny salt air along Maine’s craggy coast.”
—The Nashua Sunday Telegraph
Neggers gives romantic suspense fans what they want in this complex mystery with a bit of romance. Maine’s scenic vistas come alive, and the characters aren’t soon forgotten — especially a villain who’s impossible to spot. She skillfully combines it all to create a compelling puzzle, refusing to reveal all the pieces until the very end.
—RT BOOKReviews
A writer at the absolute top of her craft.
—Providence Journal
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ROCK POINT
E-Novella Available Now
A Sharpe & Donovan E-Novella
New York Times bestselling author Carla Neggers enthralls readers with her suspenseful Sharpe & Donovan series. Read the untold story of one of her most beloved characters in this special prequel novella, Rock Point.
Seven years after suffering an unspeakable loss, Finian Bracken is recently out of seminary and leaving Ireland to serve a small parish in the quaint but struggling fishing village of Rock Point, Maine.
* * *
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BEWITCHING
Available Now!
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BEWITCHING
STAR-CROSSED
Hannah understood what it meant to be a Marsh. She belonged on the coast of Maine in her little house on Marsh Point. Her family was fiercely loyal to each other, and to the memory of their ancestor, Priscilla Marsh, who’d been wrongfully executed three hundred years ago. And Hannah knew her enemies-Judge Cotton Harling, who’d sentenced Priscilla to death, and every Harling since.
At least, she’d understood all of that until she met Win Harling. The handsome, urban businessman was everything Hannah didn’t want, and yet somehow, he was everything she needed. But he was a Harling, and she was a Marsh. Three hundred years of history said they could never have a future.
Unless they could make a little history of their own….
Read Excerpt
The pinks and oranges of dawn sparkled on the bay beyond Marsh Point, off a stretch of southern Maine that was still quiet, still undiscovered by tourists. Hannah Marsh stood on a boulder above the rocky coastline. The wind blew raw and cold, although the calendar said spring had arrived. In defiance of the weather, daffodils bloomed in the little garden outside her cottage.
In Boston the tulips would be out, perhaps even a few leaves budded. It wouldn’t be so bad.
“You’re going,” a gruff voice said behind her.
She turned and smiled at Thackeray Marsh, aged seventy-nine, owner of Marsh Point, fellow historian and her cousin several times removed. He was a stout, fair-skinned, fair-haired man, although not as fair as herself, and kept in shape with dawn and dusk walks along a loop-shaped route that took in most of Marsh Point.
“I have no choice,” Hannah said. “Most of the documents I need to examine are in Boston, and anything new on Priscilla Marsh will be there. It’s where she lived and died, Thackeray. I have to go.”
He snorted. “The Harlings catch you, they’ll string you up.”
“You said yourself there’s only one Harling left in Boston, and he’s even older than you are. I’ll be fine.”
Her elderly cousin squinted his emerald eyes at her. He was wearing an old tweed jacket patched at the elbows and rubber boots that had to be older than she was. His frugality, Hannah had learned in her five years in Maine, was legendary in the region.
“The Harlings and the Marshes haven’t had much of anything to do with each other in a hundred years,” he said. “Why rock the boat?”
“I’m not rocking the boat. I’m going on a perfectly ordinary, honorable research expedition.” She tried not to sound defensive or impatient, but she had gone over her position—over and over it—with Cousin Thackeray. “It’s not as if Priscilla Marsh died yesterday, you know.”
Judge Cotton Harling had sentenced Priscilla Marsh to death by hanging three hundred years ago. Hannah hoped to have her biography of her ancestor in bookstores by the anniversary of the execution. Not only would it be good business, but it would pay a nice tribute to a woman who had defied the restrictions of Puritan America—of the Harlings of Boston.
And paid the price, of course. Hannah couldn’t forget that.
The wind picked up, and she hugged her oversize sweatshirt closer to her body. Her long, fine, straight blond hair was, fortunately, held back in a hastily tied ponytail. Otherwise it would have tangled badly. Cousin Thackeray barely seemed to notice the cold.
“Hannah, the Harlings resent that we won’t let them forget it was a Harling who had Priscilla hanged. We, of course, say they shouldn’t ever forget. The feud has been going on like this for three hundred years.”
She refused to let his dark mood dampen her enthusiasm for what was, after all, a necessary trip—and no doubt would prove boring and routine, involving nothing more than musty books and documents and hours and hours in badly lit archives.
He made her trip sound like some kind of espionage assignment. “At least,” her cousin went on, “don’t let anyone in Boston know you’re a Marsh. It’s just too dangerous. If Jonathan Harling finds out—”
“That’s the name of the last Harling in Boston?”
Cousin Thackeray nodded somberly. “Jonathan Win-throp Harling.”
She grinned. “I look at it this way. What could one little old man who happens to be a Harling do to me?”
J. Winthrop Harling climbed the sloping lawn of the golddomed Massachusetts State House above Boston Common with a sense of purpose. He had come to look at the statue of the infamous Priscilla Marsh. Her tragic death three hundred years ago at the hands of a Harling still colored his family’s reputation. It was a part of what being a Harling in Boston was all about.
The wind off the harbor was brisk, even chilly, but he didn’t feel it, though he was only wearing the dark gray suit he’d worn to the office.
Although he’d been born and raised in New York and had lived in Boston only a year, he was a stereotypical Harling in one sense: he made one hell of a lot of money. Sometimes the size of his income, his growing net worth, staggered him. But the Harlings had always been good at making money.
Priscilla Marsh’s smooth marble face stared at him in the waning sunlight. She looked very young and very wronged, more innocent, no doubt, than she had been in fact. The sculptor had managed to capture the legendary beauty of her hair, supposedly an unusual shock of pale blond, fine and very straight. She had been hanged on the orders of Cotton Harling when she was just thirty years old.
“Good going, Cotton,” Win muttered.
But had she lived and died an ordinary life, Pris-cilla Marsh would never have inspired an oft-quoted Longfellow poem or a famous 1952 play. Nor would her statue have stood on the lawn of the Massachusetts State House, either.
Win brushed his fingers across the cool stone hair and felt the tragedy of the young Puritan’s death. She had been dead less than a day when evidence of her innocence had arrived. Priscilla Marsh hadn’t been teaching the young ladies of her neighborhood witchcraft, but how to cure earaches.
Her death should have been a lesson to future Har-lings.
A lesson in patience, humility, faith in one’s fellow human beings. A warning against arrogance and pride. Against believing in one’s own infallibility.
But, Win thought, it hadn’t.
Hannah arrived in Boston without incident and set up housekeeping in a cramped apartment on Beacon Hill. She had traded with a friend, who would get two weeks in Hannah’s Maine cottage come summer. The friend, a teacher, was off to Paris with her French class. Things, Hannah decided, were just meant to work out.
Her first stop, bright and early the next morning, was the New England Athenaeum on Beacon Street, across from the Boston Public Garden. It was a private library, supported by just four hundred members and founded in 1892 by, of course, a Harling.
Hannah indicated she was a professional historian and would like to use the library, a renowned repository of New England historical documents.
Preston Fowler, the director, a formal man who appeared to be in his mid-fifties, informed her that the New England Athenaeum was a private institution. Accordingly, she would be permitted into its stacks and rare book room only when she had exhausted all other possibilities and could prove it was the only place that had what she needed. And even then she would be carefully watched.
Hannah resisted the impulse to tell him other private institutions had opened their doors to her in her career. Arguing wouldn’t get her anywhere. She needed something that would work. She sighed and said, “But Uncle Jonathan said I wouldn’t have any trouble with you.”
“Who?” Preston Fowler asked sharply.
“My uncle.” She paused more for dramatic effect than to reconsider what she was doing. Then she added, “Jonathan Winthrop Harling.”
Fowler cleared his throat, and Hannah was amused at how rigid his spine went. Ahh, the Harling factor. “You—your name is…?”
“Hannah,” she said, not feeling even a twinge of guilt. “Hannah Harling.”
Win settled back in his soft leather chair and took the call from the elderly uncle whose name he bore. “Hey, there, Uncle Jonathan, what’s up?”
Jonathan Harling, who had just turned eighty, got straight to the point. “You going to the New England Athenaeum dinner on Saturday?”
“Wild horses couldn’t drag me. Why?”
“Friend of mine says he saw a Harling on the guest list.”
“Well, it wasn’t me,” Win said emphatically. “I haven’t even been inside that snooty old place. Your friend must have been mistaken. What about you? You aren’t going, are you?”
Uncle Jonathan grunted. “Some of us don’t have unlimited budgets, you know.”
“I would be happy to buy you a ticket—”
“Damned if I’ll accept charity from my own nephew!” the old man bellowed hotly. “Why don’t you go, meet a nice woman who’ll inspire you to part with some of that booty of yours? How much you worth these days? A million? Ten? More?”
Win laughed. “It’s more fun to keep you guessing.”
Still grumbling, his uncle hung up. Win turned his chair so that he could see the spectacular view of Boston Harbor from his fourteenth-floor window. He watched a few planes take off from Logan Airport across the water. It was a clear, warm, beautiful May afternoon, the kind that made him wonder if he shouldn’t call up the New England Athenaeum and get a ticket to its fund-raising dinner, just to see who showed up.
But meeting women was not a problem for him. Contrary to his uncle’s belief, Win did not live the life of a monk. No, he had no trouble at all finding women to go out on the town with him, occasionally to share his bed. It was finding the right woman….
“Romantic nonsense,” he muttered.
By her fourth day in Boston, Hannah had settled into a pleasant routine of research. Preston Fowler himself had invited her to the New England Athenaeum’s fund-raising dinner and she’d accepted, despite the rather steep price. But she was supposed to be a Harling and therefore have money. Besides, Fowler himself had begun to help her ferret out information on the Harlings; she had told him she was researching one of her ancestors, Cotton Har-ling. No point in stirring up trouble by mentioning Pris-cilla Marsh or the truth about her own identity. She was enjoying the perks of being a Harling.
“Is this your first trip to Boston?” Fowler asked on a cool, rainy morning. He had brought a couple of books to the second-floor table he had reserved for her at a window overlooking the Public Garden.
“Yes,” Hannah…
BONUS BOOK INCLUDED IN THIS VOLUME!
His Secret Agenda
by Beth Andrews
Dean can’t fall for Allie Martin. Because when she finds out he’s not the laid-back
cowboy bartender she hired but a P.I., he’ll not only have compromised his case
and his career, but his chance to be with Allie.
[Neggers] forces her characters to confront issues of humanity, integrity and the multifaceted aspects of love.”
—Publishers Weekly
September 30, 2013
Hiking the Kerry Way
The Kerry Way is a 200 km posted walking trail on the southwest Irish coast, one of my favorite places. In my Sharpe & Donovan romantic suspense series, Irish priest Finian Bracken seeks solace on the Old Kenmare Road, a gorgeous stretch of the Kerry Way that runs through part of the Killarney National Park. Joe and I hike it whenever we’re in Ireland. Here’s a picture from two weeks ago!
Old Kenmare Road, Kerry Way, Ireland
September 26, 2013
Live chat September 27!
I’d love for you to join me on my live chat at BookTrib.com at 3 PM ET on Friday, September 27. See you then!
Carla
September 24, 2013
Live online chat on Friday!
Now that I’m back from my latest wanderings to England and Ireland (more on that soon!), I’m gearing up for a fun online chat at booktrib.com on Friday at 3 PM ET. Click here for all the details, and please join us!
Carla
September 3, 2013
What’s your favorite pizza topping?
USA Today’s popular Happy Ever After blog asked three authors to list three things. Mine: my three favorite pizza toppings. You can also read the three words author Lucy Woodhull would use to describe herself and the three people author Linda Bennett Pennell would invite to dinner. Total coincidence: the heroine of my upcoming Swift River Valley novel is named Samantha Bennett.
Click here to read about three things!
Enjoy,
Carla, always in the mood for pizza
August 25, 2013
Declan’s Cross endpapers!
My first-ever endpapers! The artist did a beautiful job. DECLAN’S CROSS goes on sale on Tuesday, August 27th. It’s the third book in my Sharpe & Donovan FBI series. Emma and Colin are in Ireland on a break when an American diver disappears…
July 26, 2013
A Sharpe & Donovan prequel
Writing a prequel e-novella to my Sharpe & Donovan series was totally natural, an outgrowth of my fascination with Finian Bracken, an Irish priest we meet in SAINT’S GATE, the first book in the series. Finian, to say the least, has a past. He and his twin brother defied the odds and started their own whiskey distillery. Happily married with a wife and two small daughters, Finian’s life is forever changed when his family dies in a boating accident. I wanted to know more about how he forges ahead as a new man and ends up in a small Maine fishing village, and that’s how ROCK POINT came to be.
ROCK POINT is FREE through August 31 at participating e-retailers in the US and Canada! (It will be available in print in 2014.)
Here’s a short video about ROCK POINT and its Ireland and Maine setting:
Enjoy!
Carla
Order Now! FREE until August 31 in U.S. and Canada!
Don’t have a Kindle? Download the FREE Kindle app and read ROCK POINT on your computer, smartphone or tablet!
