Welcome to My World…

 

 

I’m an author of chick lit romances and mysteries. In my spare time I’m Wonder Woman! My world is sometimes wacky, quirky, and very accident-prone.

 

This is a collection of five humorous short stories – what I like to call true fiction. Some are true, some are fiction, and some are a mixture of both. I guess you have to decide which is which!

 

I often get asked if I’m like any of my characters in my novels, and I have to groan and say, yes. When you read these stories you’ll realize how, and a lot of them have inspired scenes in my novels, although names have been omitted or changed to protect me against lawsuits!

 

Are you ready to find out “how to dump your boyfriend in the men’s toilets”, why “yoga is bad for your house”, what the “S-Word has to do with your lady garden”, why you need to “follow that goat”, and whether “kismet” does really exist?

 

(Short stories total 6,500 words. Includes bonus material and chapters from my novels, Fourteen Days Later, My Perfect Wedding, The Fashion Police, and Be Careful What You Wish For)

 

Praise for How To Dump Your Boyfriend in the Men’s Room (and other short stories)

 

“Most of these stories are laugh out loud funny, written by a terrific writer who is always capable of engaging her audience. The last story is touching and made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. Great job Sibel, can't wait to read more of your work.” — Mel Comley, author if Impeding Justice

 

 

 

Novels by Sibel Hodge:

 

Fourteen Days Later

 

The Fashion Police

 

My Perfect Wedding

 

Be Careful What You Wish For

 

 

About the author

 

Sibel Hodge has dual British/Turkish Cypriot nationality and divides her time between Hertfordshire and North Cyprus. Her first romantic-comedy novel, Fourteen Days Later, was shortlisted for the Harry Bowling Prize 2008 and received a Highly Commended by the Yeovil Literary Prize 2009. My Perfect Wedding is the sequel to Fourteen Days Later, although it can be read as a standalone novel.

 

The Fashion Police is a chick lit comedy-mystery novel, the first in the series featuring feisty, larger-than-life, Amber Fox. It was runner-up in the Chapter One Promotions Novel Competition 2010 and nominated Best Novel with Romantic Elements 2010 by The Romance Reviews. Be Careful What You Wish For is the second Amber Fox murder mystery.

 

For more information, please visit

http://www.sibelhodge.com/

 

****

 

Copyright © Sibel Hodge 2011

 

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

 

All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

 

The ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
How to Dump Your Boyfriend in the Men’s Room!

 

 

When I was in my early twenties, I was in between boyfriends. What? People use that term for jobs, so why not boyfriends?

Dating agencies weren’t big at that time. If you were looking for Mr. Right you could scour the singles’ column in the local newspapers looking for Mr. Normal in amongst a lot of Mr. Weirdoes, or go to a single’s night and check out the available hot men first hand.

Oh, did I say hot? Hmmm…well, if the choice was anything to go by on the first night I went, it was more like the cast of a film: Night of the Living Dead  mixed with a bit of Thriller.

My friend and I got ourselves all dolled up and had a few glasses of wine, purely for Dutch courage, you understand.

I mean, we were normal and pretty damn hot (quite a few guys had told me that I was hot  – I’m not blowing my own trumpet or anything!), so there must be at least two other normal, hot guys to match us at a singles’ night, surely. How hard could it be to meet a nice one?

We surveyed the darkened ballroom used for the event, and I felt my eyelids widen involuntarily. The cast was as follows…

 

A Michael Jackson Wannabe (complete with ankle-skimming black trousers, white socks, black waistcoat, and…wait for it…yes, a white, glittery glove). Seriously! What was he thinking, moonwalking over the whole dance floor in his own little world, bumping into all and sundry? Omigod, you should’ve seen him when Thriller actually came on! Think a werewolf meets a hippie on acid.

 

Mr. Property Developer, who kept bragging about how much money he was earning. I could overhear him trying to chat up a tall woman (or a man in drag, I wasn’t entirely sure). Apparently, he’d made a million pounds in the last year on a new development. My bullshit-o-meter was detecting something nasty there.

 

Mr. No Fashion Sense, who looked like he was about twelve and had borrowed his dad’s baby-blue-coloured suit from the 70s, matched with a yellow tie and red sandals. Yes, sandals! Hellooooooooooooo?

 

Mr. Creep – a dark-haired, shifty guy in the corner who looked like a ferret. I swear I could even see his nose twitching, ferrety-style, as he oggled the women. I think his tongue was out at one point and he was drooling. Ew, creep alert!

 

Mr. Smarmy Lover Man, whose every other word was a sexual innuendo.

 

Mr. Sporty (decked out in a satin shell suit), boring me about all his sporting achievements to date. Apparently, he really played for Arsenal Football Club (uh-huh! My bullshit-o-meter was working overtime tonight!). And this was pre MLOE (My Love Of Exercise) so it wouldn’t have impressed me, anyway.

 

Mr Every-Girl-Who-Doesn’t-Fancy-Me-Is-A-Lesbian!

 

I could go on, but I’m sure you get the picture.

We were about to down our glasses of wine in one gulp and scurry away when a couple of cute and reasonably hot guys came in. On a scale of one-to-ten hotness they were around an eight.

I glanced around the room as all the available women ran to get away from the weirdos who were trying to chat them up and rushed towards the Hotties like desperate bargain hunters at a 90-percent-off sale in Harrods.

I stood at the bar with my friend, watching with amusement. Things had just got a bit more interesting around here.

Mr. Hotty One and Mr. Hotty Two attempted to extricate themselves from the ladies, hovering around them expectantly, and the term “Cattle Market” sprang to mind.

OK, that was it. I wasn’t going to cheapen myself like this. I was young, I had all my own teeth, and I was hot (yes, I was!). I had plenty of time and opportunity to meet a nice guy, and I wasn’t going to lower myself into trying to get Mr. Hotty One notice me in between a bunch of drooling women. That was sooo not going to happen!

‘Shall we go?’ I raised an eyebrow at my friend.

‘Let me just lust after Mr. Hotty Two for a few minutes.’ She took a slow sip of her wine, seductively eyeing him over the rim of her glass. ‘It’s been ages since I’ve seen a fit-looking guy, and he’s fit. Your one’s not bad, either!’

I gave her an eyeroll to beat all eyerolls. ‘He’s not mine.’

But actually we did get chatting and he wasn’t A) A sleeze B) A freak C) Twelve D) A werewolf. All things considered, that was pretty good going.

We went out for a couple of months, and he seemed like a nice guy. He was sweet, funny, hot, and not a pair of sandals in sight. Then one day he was invited to a friend’s wedding and he asked me to go with him.

What the hell, why not? 

We’d finished the sit down meal at the reception hall and my boyfriend had gone to talk to one of his mates, so I thought I’d nip to the ladies’.

In I go and get into one of the cubicles and plop down on the toilet seat, when the next minute I hear two guys walk in and start chatting.

Now, I’d probably better explain that I have this nasty habit of going to the loo in the men’s toilets. It’s not intentional, you understand. I don’t have a weird urinal fetish, or anything. I think I must have toilet dyslexia. For some reason I always get them mixed up and never seem to notice the signs. And a lot of the time, there aren’t actually urinals in the men’s anymore – just cubicles – so it’s not like it’s my fault or anything. It’s a natural mistake. Although, having said that, this one did have urinals – it’s just that they were round the corner from the cubicles and I didn’t notice them when I first walked in.

Omigod, I’d done it again! Well, I’d just have to sit there and wait it out. These weren’t my friends at the wedding. How embarrassing would it be if my new boyfriend found out?

‘So, I see you’ve got a new girlfriend,’ one said with a deep voice.

‘Yeah,’ the other guy said with a knowing chuckle. The kind of chuckle that lets you know he’s used to getting the girls.

Hang on…that was my boyfriend! Hmm…I strained to hear over the tinkling going on.

‘What happened to Sarah?’ Deep Voice asked.

‘I dumped her. She was too high maintenance,’ Boyfriend said.

‘Oh, I thought I heard she’d dumped you,’ Deep Voice again.

Boyfriend snorted. ‘Me? No way, man! I dumped her.’

‘So what’s the new girlfriend like? She looks pretty hot.’

See, I told you!

I allowed myself a smug little smile.

‘She’ll do for now, I suppose. Nothing special, you know. I could get better,’ Boyfriend said, and I could almost see him giving Deep Voice a casual shrug.

My smile disappeared south. Whaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaat? Nothing special? Thanks a lot! I’m hot! HOT!

‘Yeah,’ Boyfriend started, ‘but at least she’s got her own place and money. Not like the last one I had to keep forking out for all the time. Might as well have a bit of fun while I’m looking around for something better. I met this other girl last week named Jenny Logan…’ he let out a slow whistle, ‘now she was hot in the sack!’

‘Oh, I know Jenny. She’s a lovely girl,’ Deep Voice said.

Ooh, the bloody cheek! So Mr. Hotty was really Mr. Serial Shagger in disguise! Well, not with me, pal!

I got off the loo as the tinkling sound stopped and reached for the door handle.

I heard zips being pulled up and gnawed on my lip. What should I do? Should I confront him here? Or let him get outside and pour a pint of beer over his head in front of everyone? I’d always wanted to do that to someone but never had the opportunity.

Taps turned on as they started again…

‘Still, I might as well keep this one around, too. You can never get enough hot totty, can you?’ Boyfriend said. ‘I’ll just keep a couple on the go in case one’s not in the mood.’

‘Yeah, I know what you mean,’ Deep Voice chuckled.

OK, so he admitted I was hot, but still…I was NOT going to let him get away with this!

I opened the cubicle door and sauntered out as Boyfriend and Deep Voice were washing their hands at the sinks, heads down.

I calmly strode to the taps, squeezed into the empty sink space between them and washed my hands. It was then that Boyfriend and Deep Voice looked up at me in the mirror on the wall in front.

Boyfriend’s eyes pinged open like they were spring-loaded as he stared at me.

‘Well, seems like it’s back to the Night of the Living Dead for you. It would appear, like my orgasms, that you are a FAKE!’ My voice rose to ear-splitting decibel on that last word and he jumped back, away from the sink as I turned off the tap. ‘Never underestimate the power of the spoken word. I can’t wait to tell Jenny, I’m sure she’ll be equally impressed.’ I turned around, narrowed my eyes at him, and dried my dripping hands on the front of his shirt as his mouth flapped open ridiculously. ‘Maybe if you had a smaller head and a bigger penis we could go far. But, unfortunately, God mixed those two up for you!’ I said, and flounced from the loos with my parting words, ‘I’m hot and you’re not!’

 

 

How to Have an Orgasm

 

 

And speaking of orgasms (fake or otherwise), after that little episode I was between boyfriends again. So what's the next best thing a girl can do? Yep, have her very own Chocolate Orgasm!

 

This is a secret recipe from my romantic comedy Fourteen Days Later. It's the way to any chocolate-lover's heart. Guys – I know you'll want to give your girlfriend/wife one of these fab Orgasms! And girls – you could just keep it to yourself to have your own secret Orgasm!

 

If you’re worrying that this recipe could be a moment on the lips and a lifetime on the hips, then don’t. Chocolate comes from cocoa, which is a bean, and everyone knows vegetables have hardly any calories! So there you go: absolutely healthy then…

 

Ingredients:

 

4 squares of chocolate (I love Galaxy for this!)

1/2 of cup butter

1 cup of icing sugar

2 eggs

2 egg yolks

6 tbsp flour

 

How to have an Orgasm!

 

Preheat the to 425F.

Butter 4  custard or souffle dishes and put on a baking tray.

Microwave the chocolate and butter in a large bowl on high for 1 minute or until the butter is melted.

Stir with whisk until chocolate is completely melted.

Stir in sugar until well blended.

Whisk in the egg and egg yolks.

Stir in the flour.

Divide batter between the prepared dishes.

Bake for 13 to 14 minutes or until the sides are firm but centers are soft. Let them stand for 1 minute.

Carefully run a knife around the cakes to loosen from the moulds. Turn the cakes upside down onto a plate.

Top with some scrummy whipped cream and strawberrys and serve immediately for an instant Chocolate Orgasm!

 

Yoga Is Bad For Your House!

 

 

I went out with this guy once who was a bodybuilder. Actually, he was two-timing me, the bastard! (I seem to have a habit of picking cheating men.) And if you’re reading this, YES, YOU KNOW WHO YOU ARE!

So obviously we broke up, but the lasting memory I have of our relationship was exercise (no, not the bedroom variety!).

Ever since I was a kid I hated exercise. If I could get out of my gym classes at school, I would. Here’s a list of my excuses…

 

I’ve got my period (always a good one, unless you used it every week).

I sprained my arm, ankle, wrist, big toe, ear, knuckle (any body part was quite good for this).

I forgot my gym kit (only worked once as they made me wear second-hand mouldy ones that had been in the spare kit box, festering for a hundred years).

I’ve got a migraine (off to the nurses’ station for some TLC).

I feel sick (ditto).

I’ve got a cold (God, no wonder I had so many at school).

 

 I likened a workout to a Siberian Prison Camp doing hard labour. I mean, what was the point of running when you could walk around a shopping centre for hours on end. You’d burn exactly the same amount of calories and have something nice to show for it!

Even though I hate to admit it, my ex converted me to loving exercise. So much so that eventually I became a fitness instructor.

Anyway, it started off with visits to the gym after we’d split up and I’d stopped using his home gym. It was a bit daunting at first – even the application form to get a membership card was challenging. After the usual name and contact details came the hard ones…

 

1) Sex? Answer: thanks, but no.

2) Age? Answer: thirty but look much younger.

3) Occupation address? Answer: anywhere.

4) Occupational position? Answer: standing, but occasionally sitting down.

5) Do you have a heart problem? Answer: probably will in a minute.

6) Do you suffer from breathlessness during exercise? Answer: sometimes during sex, but that was a long time ago.

7) Do you suffer from palpitations or unusual heart flutters? Answer: only when I think about someone special.

8) Do you have any back problems? Answer: only when I did a handstand when I was very drunk.

9) Are you allergic to anything? Answer: men who cheat.

10) Have you had any operations? Answer: I think I had a lobotomy once, but I can’t remember.

11) Do you enjoy a healthy eating programme? Answer: yes, started an hour ago.

12) Have you suffered from any illnesses? Answer: hangovers.

13) Do you suffer from any other problems? Answer: accidents frequently happen around me.

 

Next came the induction as the gym instructor showed me around. Floor-to-ceiling mirrors covered one wall and various exercise benches were laid out in rows. There was a huge stack of free weights in the corner, ranging from tiny, weedy ones (I’d definitely be using those) to monstrously large, hefty-boy ones. Several of the Hefty Boys, with muscles which rivalled the gym instructor’s, huffed and groaned as they lifted weights in pairs, shouting out the number of repetitions they had done and checking themselves out in the mirror. Scary!

The middle of the room housed quite a few treadmills and exercise bikes and a funny-looking skiing thingamabob. A couple of trendy-looking fit women jogged away on the treadmills without their mascara running or them even breaking into a sweat (so not natural. I break into a sweat reaching for the remote on my TV).

After he showed me the torture chamber of contraptions, some of which looked like inventions Saddam Hussein had come up with, he left me to it.

Omigod! The next day I couldn’t walk. It was bad enough trying to walk on a flat surface, but walking down or up stairs was a definite no-no. I had to sleep on the sofa in my living room for two days before I got the use of my legs back.

Nevertheless, I did persevere. No pain, no gain, and all that. I did weights for a long time but then I turned to yoga.

Now, if you think that yoga is just about doing the splits and headstands or tying yourself up in knots like a demented octopus, then read on; you might be surprised. It could actually be dangerous to your house.

I bought a video (yes, it was a long time ago: no DVD player then), got my yoga mat out and positioned it in front of the TV in the living room, and wey hey! I was ready to go.

OK, so the first part was an introduction. Blah, blah, blah…

 

The good thing about yoga is that it will never get boring because your practice will develop and change with time. Although the actual poses will not differ unless you introduce new ones to your routine, your flexibility and strength will increase and you will find that you are able to get more out of your practice. Yoga is not competitive in any way and some days you will find yourself able to achieve more than others depending on how you feel physically and mentally. It can be as gentle or as vigorous as you want it to be and a good video or instructor will be able to modify poses to suit beginners and advanced levels. It is important not to push yourself too hard. Unless you are a gymnast or ballet dancer, you won’t be able to put your leg behind your head in the first lesson. Many advanced poses takes years of practice and rely on a combination of strength, flexibility and stamina that has been gradually built up. Look after yourself by going slowly in the beginning.

 

Right, got that, now what?

Breathing exercises. No problemo. I’d been breathing for thirty years already. I could do this part standing on my head…or not, as the case may be.

And then we were into the actual poses, which as a beginner were pretty challenging.

I will not give up, I will not give up became my mantra as I shook and wobbled in some of the positions and sweat poured from my forehead. I thought yoga was supposed to be gentle. Hah! And were you supposed to look like a vibrating Superwoman about to take off, or was I doing it wrong?

I was in the middle of bending forward with my legs akimbo and my ass in the air (I was supposed to be touching the floor with my fingers but it wasn’t working out like that!) when my husband entered the room. I could feel his eyes wandering appreciatively to my lycra-clad behind.

‘Hmmm,’ he said. ‘How come you never do that position in the bedroom?’

‘Go away!’ I giggled.

Next was a headstand pose, which the instructor made look really easy. I’d done headstands as a kid, how hard could it be to do one as a thirty-year-old, five-stone-heavier adult? If the calm, no-sweat-on-his-brow instructor on the TV could do it, I could bloody well do it!

‘Kneel on the floor,’ he said.

Yep. Next bit.

‘Lace your fingers together and set the forearms on the floor, elbows at shoulder width. Roll your upper arms slightly outward, but press the inner wrists firmly into the floor.

O.K. Easy.

‘Set the crown of your head on the floor,’ he went on. ‘If you are a beginner, practice this pose for a while.’

‘No, get on with it,’ I told him. I’m a very impatient person. Not a good trait, I know.

‘Press your palms together and rest the back of your head against your clasped hands.’

Check!

‘Inhale and lift your knees off the floor. Carefully walk your feet closer to your elbows with your heels elevated. Then lift through the top of your thighs, forming an inverted "V." Firm the shoulder blades against your back and lift them toward the tailbone so the front torso stays as long as possible. This should help prevent your shoulders collapsing onto your neck and head.’

Ouch. Slight twinge going on there but what the hell. I’m game. I manoeuvred into the position.

‘Exhale and lift your feet away from the floor. Take both feet up at the same time, even if it means bending your knees and hopping lightly off the floor,’ he said.

Hmm. Slight problem there. And that was when it all started to go wrong.

I managed to get my feet off the floor, then do a weird kind of somersault thing at high velocity so my legs went in a fast and furious one-hundred and eighty degree flip, feet banging into the plasterboard wall next to the TV and bashing a big hole in it.

Not to mention I think I’d just cricked my neck!

The only spot of good news was I’d missed the fish tank and stereo system by mere centimetres.

Crap! I peered at the wall, trying to see what I could do as damage control.

I thought about hiding the damage from my hubby by moving the fish tank in front of the hole but it was too high up.

Could I hang a picture over it? No. Damn, it was too low.

Nothing was going to disguise the gap in the once-pristine lilac wall. And it was an outside wall of the house, too. On the other side was just cavity and then the outer brick.

Uh-oh!

‘What the hell was that noise?’ My husband rushed down the stairs.

Oops, too late to hide it now!

After not talking to me for two days, he was OK about it. Really. Well, as long as I promised to rent a padded cell to do any further yoga acrobatics. And unfortunately, he had to re-decorate the whole living room, as trying to find the same colour paint again was like trying to find an orange Christmas tree.

So maybe along with the health warnings on exercise videos and DVDs they should have a house warning.

 

The S-Word and the Lady Garden

 

 

It was that time of year again when the dreaded S-word reared its ugly head. Yes, ladies, the horrible prodding and poking necessary for a smear test. I don’t know about you, but I still haven’t got used to it. Hell, why would I get used to someone wearing a head torch, looking like they’re about to dive into a huge cavern to explore, whilst clamping me open like I’m about to give birth to an elephant. Not my favourite pastime, I can tell you!

Anyway, this time I was in a bit of a rush. I think I’d been trying to put it off for so long in the hope it would slip my mind. Or, better yet, I’d turn into a man overnight and just not need one anymore. I think the shoe sale at Shoe World might’ve had a little something to do with my lateness, as well.

So I rushed into the doctor’s surgery, dying for a pee, wondering if it was possible for a bladder to spontaneously combust.

Damn, I knew I shouldn’t have had two gigantic Starbucks at lunchtime.

I quickly gave the receptionist my name and motioned towards the toilets with a flapping hand, hoping I’d be able to squeeze out a quickie before my torture: I mean, appointment.

I sat down, my bladder breathing an almost audible sigh of relief. But what do you know? No toilet paper in there. No toilet paper? In a doctor’s surgery? Come on, some people had genuine medical emergencies that required immediate use of the loo! Like a mochaccino overdose, for example.

Humph! There was no way I was going to drip dry before someone poked their explorer’s lamp near my lady garden, so I rummaged around in my bag for a tissue.

Why is it that women’s handbags resemble a black hole when you’re looking for something specific? I could find…

 

Two lipsticks.

A mobile phone.

A purse (now somewhat lighter after the shoe sale).

Three and a half toothpicks (not sure what happened to the other half).

A dummy (if desperate I could use it as a no entry plug).

A dried and very manky-looking wishbone from a chicken (I know - what the hell?).

Ten pieces of sundry, scrappy paper (receipts and shopping lists).

Five pens (a girl has to be prepared).

A notepad (might be able to use that if all else fails).

Various coins.

A few headache tablets (good, I could feel a dull ache forming behind my right eye forming).

 

And at last! A packet of tissues that was…empty.

No!

Wait a sec, though, what’s that?

Stuffed right in the corner of my bag, with the fluff and a lone headache tablet that had wormed its way out of its blister pack, was a sad-looking, crumpled up tissue.

I pulled it out, careful not to rip it in the process, and blew a bit of fluff off it before using it.

There! With my bladder business concluded, I flew out of the toilet just as the doctor was calling my name.

So there I was, lying back on the couch, legs wide in the stirrups, in the most unflattering position a girl could be in, and the head-torch explorer was advancing like he was on a mission to win the National Potholing Championships. I briefly wondered if his wife ever asked him if he had a good day at the office, but then tried to shake that thought as quickly as it arrived.

Screwing my eyes shut, I waited for the, “Just relax, you won’t feel a thing,” routine.

Yeah, right!

Then I heard a loud gasp from him.

OK, that did it! How unprofessional to gasp at a lady’s…well, lady garden.

I unclamped one eye, staring at the look of horror on his face. What was with this man? Was he a pervert? A woman-hater? Maybe he wasn’t even the doctor, just some random patient who’d wandered into the examining room to get some cheap thrills.

I know, I know, highly unlikely, but surely a professional doctor wouldn’t just gasp at a poor woman’s exposed bits and bobs with a look of sheer disgust like that. He must see hundreds of lady gardens a week. Hollywoods, Brazilians, hairy 70s muffs, I bet he’d seen the lot. Mine couldn’t be that odd, could it?

He glanced slowly up at me, mouth open in shock, then back to my now rather embarrassed nether regions. In fact, I could feel my face and my fu-fu having a hot flush simultaneously.

Aagh! Maybe I was getting menopausal! Maybe it was something to do with that. I was sure I’d read somewhere that once you started going through the menopause unusual things started happening down below. Was that it? Could he see something weird? Had I gone bald overnight? Something worse? Had all my hair turned green down there? No, that couldn’t be it. I’d made sure my legs were shaved and had a trim up in preparation, and it all looked normal to me.

I sat up on the couch, craning my neck to look down at what he could see, but the stupid blanket covering my legs wasn’t see-through, and unless I was a cat or a contortionist, I had no chance of actually seeing what he could see from that angle. 

‘Hmm,’ he said.

Hmm? What does that mean?

He picked up a huge pair of tweezers-looking thingies  – that could NOT be a good sign.

Eeek!

He leant in for the kill with his pointy weapon of torture and I felt a quick jab.

‘Ow! What the hell are you doing?’ I yelled, then all the blood drained from my face and my jaw dropped open as I saw what was pinched in between the ends of the tweezers.

A Tic Tac!

Yep, that’s right, a Tic Tac, which had probably been stuck in my bag since the 80s, attached to the tissue.

It was my turn to gasp then. ‘Er…I was saving that for later.’

 

Follow That Goat!

 

 

My hubby and I were on holiday in North Cyprus about five years ago and looking forward to having a relaxing day checking out the local sights. We grabbed our map and headed off into the sunshine in our rental car.

Big mistake!

It started off great. We wandered around ancient ruins and cities. Had a leisurely lunch. All the nice, touristy things to do. Until it came to the journey back, and then we got a bit more sightseeing then we bargained for.

‘Oh, look,’ I pointed to a secondary road on the map before I drove back towards our rental apartment. ‘We can save loads of time if we take this shortcut across the top of the mountains.’

So we did.

We came to a junction with six different turnings in a tiny Cypriot village that time had forgotten. The mountains were straight in front of us, but none of the roads led to them. There were no signposts, so it was a case of eenie meenie minie mo, which one shall we take?

‘Let’s go right,’ I said.

‘Left,’ my husband said.

Since I was driving, driver trumps passenger. Right it was.

We drove around in a complete circle and ended back at the crossroads.

‘Told you we should’ve gone left.’ My husband gave me a superior smile.

One left turn later, we ended up back at the crossroads. We did this four more times, in case we’d missed some really big clue, like an arrow pointing the way, but no. We tried each junction, and every time we were miraculously transported back to the crossroads. It was like Groundhog Day.

A group of young kids stood watching us by then, so I asked them the way to the village we were staying in. All of the boys pointed in the same direction to a small tarmac road that zig-zagged over towards the mountains in the distance.

OK, I was game. It was already starting to get dark, and we needed to get a move on, so off we drove up this road that was just about wide enough for two cars.

As we headed up the steep mountain, the tarmac disappeared and was replaced by an old, rubble mountain track. It started narrowing, too. Slowly at first, then after we’d been driving for ten minutes it became just a little wider than the car, with the mountain on one side and a sheer drop on the other. By this point, my hands gripped the steering wheel so tightly my knuckles had turned white, and we were getting bounced around as we drove over rocks and rubble. Not a good idea, really, when you’re that close to the edge. The only spot of good news was that as I was driving, I was closest to the mountainside, so I’d be the last one to see it coming if we suddenly shot off over the edge.

‘Whose stupid idea was this?!’ I said.

‘Yours!’ My husband said.

Oops.

Since the track wasn’t wide enough to turn around, we had no choice but to carry on going. And then…

BANG!

I heard a horrible noise from under the car as I drove over a large rock.

Uh-oh. That didn’t sound good.

‘Be careful you don’t take the sump out!’ My husband yelled. ‘Let me drive! I’m an experience off-road driver.’

‘Fine!’ I yelled back (I was slightly panicky by then).

I’d heard of a sump before. I knew it was something under the car that leaked out all the oil if it got damaged. Not a particularly good position to be in: halfway up a mountain with no one around, really. I got out and scrambled around the small gap between the car and the drop below, and jumped in the passenger seat. But now I was on the side of the sheer drop, and I rated that about as high on my bucket list of things to do before I died as skydiving naked.

Off we go, again. Then…

HUMONGOUS BANG!

Glad it wasn’t me that time. ‘Hmm,’ I said. ‘I think you need a bit more experience.’ Then a few heated exchanges took place over who was the better driver.

Endless jagged-looking mountainside with this thin track dragged on in the distance, and slightly panicky turned into panic overload. It was getting dark (what if they had wolves on the mountain? Or worse, werewolves). My husband was diabetic (knew I should’ve packed some chocolate for him). What if the car broke down? (the sump was taking quite a beating –not my fault, honestly!) What if the tyre exploded, and we didn’t have a spare? (jagged rocks are so not good for tyres!)

Eventually, we came to a wider ledge where the track either carried on straight up to the tip of the mountain, or veered off to the left. A herd of goats milled around at what was obviously the local goat-meeting place. Bleating away, they looked up at us in surprise, and I imagined their conversation in goat language.

‘Hey, do you see that?’ one goat said to the other. ‘A couple of nutters are on the mountain with a death wish.’

‘Baa,’ another one said (that means yes in goat-speak). ‘How did they get that car up that track? Stupid humans. They think they own the whole mountain!’

As we came closer to them, one of the goats hurried off on the track to the left, and the others followed.

‘Follow that goat!’ I said, desperately hoping that they knew their way down for some chow and were feeling a bit peckish after a brisk mountain jaunt. ‘Maybe they’ll lead us back onto a main road.’

More rubble, rocks, bangs, and swear words later, we ended up in a tiny mountain village with the local shepherd. Luckily, he had a car, and we followed him back onto the same main road we’d come off an hour before.

So much for the short cut!

So if you ever get stuck on a mountain in the middle of nowhere…if in doubt, follow that goat!

 

Kismet

 

 

I’ve never really believed in fate…kismet – whatever you want to call it. So when a new guy moved in next door, I didn’t really think much of it.

At first.

A few months after he’d settled in, I was in the garden, trowel in hand, trying to decide how to tell the difference between a weed and a perennial.

I frowned and scratched my head. I didn’t have a clue. This was the first garden I’d had to look after myself. I’d always left it up to Adam. But, of course, he was no longer here.

“What a nicely trimmed bush you’ve got,” a male voice drifted over the fence.

I smiled to myself and turned around.

It was him. The neighbour.

“Well, thanks.” I smirked at him, hoping I hadn’t got mud and grass smeared all over me.

He wasn’t good-looking in the conventional sense, but there was something about him I couldn’t place. He had a presence I was drawn to. You know how every now and then, you meet someone that you have some kind of spooky connection with? It’s like you’ve known them for years, or some weird sense of déjà vu.  That’s how it was with him.

“Thought you might like one of these.” He held a glass of rosé over the fence. “All this gardening can be thirsty work.”

I shook the strange feeling off and wandered towards him, conscious of my bikini top and shorts that had definitely seen better days.

“How gentlemanly of you.” I took the glass and sipped at it. The chilled liquid slid down easily on the blistering-hot summer’s day.

“I’m Steve, by the way.” He smiled. The kind of smile that lit up his whole face: from the full lips, right up to his long, dark lashes.

“I was wondering when we’d get introduced.” I smiled at him, trying to ignore the fingers of electricity tickling up my spine. “I’ve only seen you from a distance since you moved in. I’m Claire.”

“I’ve been trying to keep a low profile,” he admitted, looking sheepish.

“Mmm. I wondered about you. I’ve often heard you banging around next door like a crazed insomniac. It’s led to a lot of speculation about you from the neighbours, let me tell you,” I laughed. It felt good to my ears. I hadn’t laughed in a while.

“Ah, so you’ve heard me. Well, I’d better come clean with my little secret, then.” He paused for effect. “I’m a printer, and I’ve been working from home. I didn’t want anyone to complain to the Council about me so I’ve been keeping myself to myself. It happened before to a friend of mine who was working from home. A neighbour complained, and he got shut down. It’s OK now, though, I’ve found some business premises. It’s pretty hard at first, moving half way across the country to start again. But there’ll be no more strange noises coming from my house now.” He raised his hand in the air. “Scout’s honour.”

“I see,’ I said, noticing some pretty sexy dimples appearing as he gazed at me with amusement. ‘So what were you printing in there late at night?”

“Counterfeit currency,” he said with a straight face.

I looked up at him and laughed. “How’s the house?”

“Fine. It needs quite a bit of work to renovate it. But I like that kind of thing.” His intense brown eyes studied me with interest, drawing my gaze like a magnet.

“So, where are you from?” I asked, feeling the crackling heat simmering between us like static.

“I used to live here a long time ago.” He took a sip of wine and gazed at me over the rim of the glass. “I moved away to the city when I was about five. My dad was sick of commuting to work.”

“Ah.” I nodded. “Do you think it’s changed in all that time?”

“Some things. Some things are still the same.” He rested his elbow on the fence and squinted at me through the low, early-evening sun. “So how about you? Are you from around here originally?”

“I’m afraid so. I’ve been in this village all my life.” I fanned myself with the trowel. God, it was hot! Or was it him that had made my temperature shoot up a few hundred degrees?

“No husband to do the garden?” he raised an eyebrow.

Hint, hint.

I shook my head. “No, he’s long gone.”

“Sorry to hear that. How did he die?”

 “Oh no, he’s not dead! I threw him out. He was a sex-a-holic,” I said seriously. “Just not with me.” I giggled. The wine on an empty stomach was going to my head, making me relaxed and reckless. Was I actually flirting with him? I wasn’t even sure I knew how to do it anymore.

 “Well, that would tend to be a problem.” He winked, and a curious feeling swept over

 me. A feeling I hadn’t had in a long time.

 “How about you?” I hinted back.

“Oh, no, I don’t have a husband, either,” he chuckled softly.

I smiled. “Very funny.”

“Pretty much the same thing as you, really. My wife ran off with our local vicar.” He threw me a can-you-believe-it kind of a look.

I almost choked on my drink. “Really? Wow, a vicar.” I shook my head. “I bet he’ll pay for that one when he gets up there.” I pointed to the sky.

“Well, what’s meant to be is meant to be.” He looked serious for a while as we gazed around the garden. Pensive, almost. “Why don’t you come round, and I can give you a re-fill?” he said finally, nodding to my empty glass.

“OK. Give me half an hour.” I handed him back the glass and wandered into my house, feeling a flicker of excitement.

Three dresses and two skirts later, I’d finally decided what to wear. Was this a date? Something else? Was I reading something into it that wasn’t really there? The last person I’d dated was Adam. We’d been together since I left high school, and look how that had turned out.

I shook my head, trying to clear it of nervous thoughts. I was definitely out of practise.

Hovering in front of the mirror, I scrutinized myself carefully. Would this do? I turned around and studied myself from all angles. At forty I should’ve been comfortable in my own skin, but for some strange reason I felt there was much more at stake here than just a casual encounter.

Pulling my hair into a neat ponytail, I brushed mascara across my lashes and swept a summery shade of coral lipstick over my lips. There. I was ready.

“Here you go.” I held up a bottle of wine when he met me on the doorstep.

He held the door open and waved me inside. “Let’s go through to the garden,” he suggested. “We need to make the most of this weather. It won’t last long, that’s for sure.”

 

Of course one glass of wine led to another, and it progressed from friendship into something real and tangible. There was an easiness that hung between us, unspoken. It felt as though I’d known him for infinity. I would cook him dinners, and we’d eat on the patio, savouring the unexpected wave of heat. He would pull my weeds and give me gardening advice. But there was so much more. Laughter, closesness, fun. (Fun! Yes, that’s what I’d been missing all those years with Adam.) Oh, and, of course, there were some pretty heated and sensual endless summer nights with Steve thrown in, too.

And then a few months later, I nestled into him on the sofa, which had become our familiar position, and we were chatting. Just casual chit-chat – you know the type of thing. And that’s when I really believed in kismet for the first time.

“So tell me about your first kiss.” I looked up at him and snuggled into his warm, strong shoulder.

“That’s an easy one.” He glanced at me, grinning. “It was just before I left here, so I would’ve been about five, I suppose.” He paused. “Her name was Claire, too, actually. Claire Sweeney. I’ll never forget it. It was in the playground at Templewood School. It was only a little peck, of course, but…” He shrugged. “It was pretty special. They say you never forget your first sweetheart, don’t they? I wanted to marry her when I was five.” He chuckled.

I pulled back and gazed at him, slack-jawed in amazement.

So that was why he felt so familiar.

“I can’t believe this.’ I giggled. ‘That was me! I’m Claire Sweeney – well, it used to be Sweeney. That was my maiden name.” I nodded my head slowly. “Steve Wilson. Wow. I always wondered what happened to you. One minute you were there and the next, you’d moved away.”

He took hold of my hand and kissed it. Soft sensual kisses like butterfly wings, hovering for a beat before fluttering to the next spot. “It’s like I’ve always told you. Things always happen for a reason. Life has a funny way of guiding you back to the right one. It’s fate,” he whispered.

 

Chick Lit and the F-Word!

 

My name is Sibel Hodge and I’m a chick lit author!

I was standing up when I said that so should I duck now and wait for the squidgy tomatoes to be thrown at me? Now, I know there are a lot of people who lurrrrve a hefty dose of chick lit, but there are still a lot of chick lit haters out there! Why? Haven’t got a clue, to be honest, because if you think about it, chick lit has been around for years. Just look at Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen! It was possibly one the first romantic comedies – yep, that’s right: Jane Austen wrote chick lit!

And since chick lit and fun go hand in hand, I thought I’d show you my take on how Girls Wanna Have Fun with this amazing genre!

May 2011 was the inaugural International Chick lit Month, and I had the pleasure of hosting a fabtastic giveaway of chick lit books on my blog (http://www.sibelhodge.com/my-blog.php). All people had to do to enter was leave a comment saying exactly what they love about chick lit. And this is where the fun part comes in!

Here are a few quotes from the comments:

 

“I can be sitting here reading a book, laughing out loud, snickering, and more, and I could try to explain to my hubby what is so funny, and he just doesn't get it!!!”

 

“Why do I like chick lit? Because it offers realistic characters, intriguing settings, and often, a good dose of humor”

 

“Reading a chick lit novel is like having a gossip session with a girl friend, and that is a guilty pleasure we all need to have once in a while.”

 

“Why do I read chick lit? Because chick lit is fun :) A light reading which makes you smile and sometimes upset”

 

“Rather like having an enormous box of chocolates that I can dip into at will - or even scoff the lot with no guilt feelings.”

 

“We all need a bit of light hearted fun in our lives! There is nothing wrong with a bit of daydreaming. This is why I like chick lit :o) xx”

 

“I especially enjoy reading about strong women who make their way in men's professions and have fun while they’re at it.”

 

“Other times I'm laughing my face off enjoying the great adventures and interesting situations that some of the characters get themselves into.”

 

“What I love about it is the attitude, that it's all about a woman's journey, but more in a fun, personal way than say, women's fiction”

 

“It is fun, light hearted escapism”

 

Notice the common theme in all of them? Yes, the F word (no, not THAT F word!) - Fun!

So what exactly is chick lit?

Well, the chick lit genre is so diverse, encompassing all the issues that modern women face. And it’s so much more than killer  shoes and pink covers! It can be sad, happy, kick-ass, fun, comical, scary, inspiring, heart-warming, intriguing, romantic, raunchy, sassy, full of attitude, quirky, and tear-jerking. It covers real problems that women go through on a daily basis, so it can never die!

But I think the main theme of chick lit is that it often contains humor, sarcasm, wit, and a fantabulous dose of fun. They are also often told in a more personal and confiding tone. Imagine having a natter with your best mate while indulging in a big dose of chocolate. Think of it as a calorie-free indulgence! And these are the things that set it apart from purely romance or women’s fiction.

Nowadays there are sub-genres such as mommy lit, mystery lit, even lad lit! So whatever type of story you’re looking for there will be loads of chick lit books to suit you.

Authors in the chick lit genre include people like Sophie Kinsella, Marian Keyes, Beth Orsoff, LC Evans. Oh, yeah, and little old moi!

Now, I always say that life is about living, laughing, and having fun. What better way to de-stress from our hectic lives? I’ve always loved making people laugh and that’s why I write chick lit.

So girls, if you do wanna have fun…reach for the chick lit!

 

If you enjoyed How to Dump Your Boyfriend in the Men’s Room (and other short stories) read on for sample chapters from my romantic comedies and chick lit mysteries. All books are available in paperback and all ebook formats.

For more details, please visit

http://www.sibelhodge.com/

 

Fourteen Days Later

 

Fourteen Days Later was short listed for the Harry Bowling Prize 2008 and received a Highly Commended by the Yeovil Literary Prize 2009. It is a romantic comedy with a unique infusion of British and Turkish Cypriot culture. Written in a similar style to Marian Keyes, it is My Big Fat Greek Wedding meets Bridget Jones.

 

When accident-prone Helen Grey finds a thong stuffed into the pocket of her boyfriend's best work trousers, it's time for her to move on. His excuse that he needed to dust the photocopier and just thought that it was a rag sounds like a lame excuse.

 

Helen's life is propelled in an unexpected direction after her best friend, Ayshe, sets her a fourteen-day, life-changing challenge. Helen receives a task everyday which she must complete without question. The tasks are designed to build her confidence and boost her self-esteem but all they seem to do is push her closer to Ayshe's brother, Kalem.

 

How will Kalem and Helen get together when she's too foolish to realize that she loves him? How can he fall for her when he is too busy falling prey to her mishaps and too in love with his own perfect girlfriend? How will Kalem's Turkish Cypriot family react when they find out?

 

Is it really possible to change your life in fourteen days?

 

 

Chapter one

 

 

‘Fourteen days,’ said Ayshe. ‘That’s all it takes to change your life for the better.’

‘You are joking, right?’ I arched an eyebrow. ‘Nobody can change their life in fourteen days.’

‘That’s not what it says in here.’ Ayshe held up the magazine she’d been flicking through, her finger underlining one of the articles.

‘“Orgasms or Chocolate? What do women really want?”’ I read the headline aloud.

‘What?’ Ayshe looked at the magazine and adjusted her finger. ‘Not that. This. “Turn Your Life Around. The Simple Fourteen Day Plan Anyone Can Do”.’

‘That’s ridiculous.’ Tucking my legs underneath me on the sofa, I picked at my frayed jogging bottoms.

‘No, what’s ridiculous is you still moping about over Justin. It’s been six months since you split up with him. You need to move on with your life.’ She rose from her chair and flounced down next to me, resting her arm on my knees.

I wriggled away from her. ‘I’m having another iced coffee; want one?’

‘It’s too cold for iced coffee. It’s the middle of November for God’s sake,’ she called out as I clattered around in the kitchen. ‘Anyway, I thought you’d promised to cut down on your caffeine intake.’

When I returned, I sank down onto the sofa. ‘I still haven’t managed to get a plumber out to fix the dishwasher. Either they don’t turn up when they say they will, or they won’t come out for anything less than a total bathroom refurb.’

Ayshe watched me in silence.

I sat it out for a while, her steady gaze drilling into me. ‘What?’

‘Trying to change the subject isn’t going to work. You can’t avoid this much longer.’

‘I’m not, it’s true. You can never get hold of a plumber these–’

She clamped her hand over my mouth. ‘You need to go out and do things – and don’t give me that rubbish about you’ll never meet another man – he was the right one – he was the love of your life. I know four years together is a long time, but everybody always says that when they split up with people. You will get over him, but not if you keep refusing to move on with your life.’ She pushed me on the leg.

I wasn’t expecting the jolt and spilt my coffee all down my attractive jogging bottoms.

My thoughts drifted back to the time I’d discovered a size sixteen Agent Provocateur thong stuffed into the pocket of Justin’s best work trousers during the usual laundry run. I was pretty sure his company hadn’t suddenly changed their dress-code. I mean, smart trousers, shirt, and thong, wouldn’t sound too good in the staff handbook. I was also sure he couldn’t have picked it up innocently – as he’d told me – because he needed to dust the photocopier and thought it was a rag. And I knew it wasn’t mine because I’d never really fancied a piece of dental floss chafing my bits and bobs.

She lifted her hand away from my mouth.

‘So what else does it say then, this article?’ I feigned interest, rubbing at the coffee stain with my hand.

‘It’s about trying to get more interests in your life if you’re stuck in a rut. It was written by one of those new trendy life coaches who try and get you to organize your life better. Apparently, you have to set yourself challenges to have a brand new experience every day for fourteen days, to gain more confidence; something to do with re-evaluating things and re-balancing your yin and yang – or your Hong Kong Fuey – or whatever it is.’

I snorted. She ignored me and ploughed on regardless.

‘The more things you do, the more confidence you gain, and you become a more focused and better person. You need to be more proactive with your life, and I think this is just what you need.’

I heaved a dramatic sigh.

‘It’s not just about meeting a man. It’s about changing your perspective. Come on, what is there to lose? Worst case scenario, you might discover things that you never knew before, or find something new that you like doing. Best case scenario…’ She shrugged. ‘You might meet a “the one”.’ 

I pretended to ignore her and fiddled with my hair.

‘You never know if you don’t try, and you need to take every single opportunity you can to meet new people, instead of making the usual pathetic excuses you’ve been using for the last six months.’ Sitting back on the sofa, she crossed her arms over her chest. The lecture was over.

‘I don’t know if I’ve got the time for a Hong Kong Fuey experience. I mean what with…work…and…’ I tailed off, staring out of my flat window at the dreary, sludgy winter day outside. How much longer could I make excuses to keep my life on hold, waiting for Justin to come back?

‘Hellooooooooo! Earth to Helen.’ Ayshe poked me hard in the ribs. ‘The most important thing is to keep busy and keep your mind open to new things. Look, I’ll help you. We can even do some things together, but you need to get out of this flat and into the big wide world again and stop hibernating.’

I narrowed my eyes, deep in thought. ‘You’re marrying Atila in a few weeks. You’ll be too busy to baby-sit me. And anyway, I’m not hibernating.’

But if I was honest, truly honest, I knew she was right. I’d spent so much time drowning in self-pity and pining for Justin that I’d lost myself. I needed to find out what I wanted for a change. A fourteen day challenge to myself might not be such a bad thing. Would it change my life? I was pretty doubtful. Would it get my yin and yang back? I felt a flicker of excitement at the thought of unknown possibilities.

‘Actually…I haven’t got any more wedding photos to do until yours,’ I started with caution. No one wanted to get married in November anyway, so my diary wasn’t exactly heaving. ‘Maybe I could give it a try.’

‘That’s my girl. And you never know, come my wedding, you may have a new guy to bring, eh?’

I stood up, catching my reflection in the mirror. Anxious eyes like soggy limpets stared back at me. I must admit, I had let myself go a bit lately. My chestnut curly hair sprang out in all directions. I could do with a trim – maybe even a few highlights, and – aargh! – look at my eyebrows! Denis Healey eat your heart out. And as for my hairy legs and bikini-line – well, I was beginning to resemble a silverback gorilla. The only good thing to come out of it, I supposed, was that I had shifted a few pounds and was now a size twelve, although I wouldn’t recommend The Getting-Dumped Diet to anyone.

Ayshe’s cackling brought me back down to earth. ‘You look fine. Nothing a hair cut and a pair of tweezers won’t fix.’

‘So, if I do this challenge, what will be on the agenda for tomorrow? I might as well start as soon as possible before I change my mind.’ I felt my mood lift slightly.

Relief spread across her face. ‘I’ll think about it and text you later. In the meantime, have a look through the local paper and the internet and get some ideas for new things to try. You won’t regret it. I have a good feeling about this.’ She looked at her watch. ‘Aagh! Look at the time. Me and Atila are going to Mum and Dad’s for dinner, which basically means Dad will be on the whisky again, cooking enough shish kebab to feed a small continent, and Mum will want to read everyone’s Turkish coffee cup, predicting the same things she always sees: babies, rings, and marriage!’ She leapt up from the sofa, grabbing her bag and coat.

‘I love Yasmin and Deniz’s Turkish Cypriot cooking.’

‘So do I. It’s just that fifty-two Sundays a year of shish kebab gets a bit too much. You can come, as well, if you want. You know they think of you as their surrogate daughter.’ Her oval, dark eyes implored me.

‘No, I’m fine. I’ll just have a think about my new life-changing challenge. I’ll do some work on the computer and have an early night.’ I pulled the door open for her.

‘OK then, text you later.’ She kissed me on both cheeks, Turkish style. Her long, sleek black hair fanned out over her shoulders as she dashed up the corridor.

‘Bye – and by the way, it’s feng shui, not Hong Kong Fuey!’ But she’d already disappeared up the stairs to her flat on the floor above.

Just as I was shouting this enlightening piece of information, Charlie, who lived in the flat next to mine, opened his door to collect the paper from outside. I stared at the incredible sight of him wearing nothing but a pair of pink, spandex hot-pants.

‘Helloooo, dahling. What’s feng shui?’ He paused, deep in thought, ignoring my startled expression. ‘Is it a restaurant?’ Without waiting for an answer he peered at the big coffee stain down the front of my saggy jogging bottoms. ‘Is that a new look?’

‘No,’ I said, trying not to look at what must have been a sock shoved down the front of his hot-pants. What a cheek, I thought, as I scrutinized his own rather unique attire. ‘Are you on something?’

‘I’m just high on life.’

I retreated back inside as I heard him calling out, ‘We must do drinkies soon!’

Sitting at my computer desk, I grabbed the paper from the floor where I’d deposited it the night before and read it with renewed interest. If I didn’t find something to do for my challenge, I was sure Ayshe would have a brain wave. An hour later, I’d worked my way through the adverts, the classifieds, and another coffee, but nothing inspirational had pinged out at me.

I switched on the computer and waited for it to bleep and spring into life. I had some photos to enhance and mess around with so I could finish a proof book for the Ponsonby-Smythe’s – a rather eccentric couple whose pictures I’d taken last weekend.

I called up their photos, staring at the happiness which radiated from their faces and a twinge of jealousy tugged at my insides. One of the hardest things since splitting up with Justin had been smiling to all the ecstatically happy brides and grooms who were embarking on a whole new exciting life together, while I was carrying a dull ache around inside.

Fiddling around with the programme, I made all her teeth black. Then I decided to squash the picture down and turn her from a nice size ten into a short, dumpy Sumo wrestler, but this only made me feel slightly better.

After an hour of messing around, I was startled by the sound of my phone meowing, signalling a text message. I leapt up and retrieved it from my bag, which was sitting on the wooden floor, spilling out its contents.

The message read: ‘Your mission, should you choose to accept it, is to volunteer to walk dogs in Hartham Park. Report to the Canine Animal Rescue Centre at 09.00 hours. Do not pass “Go”. This message will self-destruct in ten seconds.’

And that was how this whole crazy thing began.

I relaxed with relief because that didn’t sound too bad. I’d even been toying with the idea of getting a pet to keep me company. Not that I’d had much to do with dogs since I’d made my mum’s dog a birthday cake when I was about four-years-old, and it had exploded in the oven – the cake that is, not the dog. The funny thing was that Rover did die rather suddenly afterwards from some kind of strange gastric complication. But anyway, it didn’t seem too crazy for my first challenge, and nothing as outrageous could happen again.

****

As I got undressed for bed that night, I took off my attractive jogging bottoms and threw them into the bin. In a moment of madness, I also decided I could do with a whole drawer-full of new knickers and grabbed a handful of oversized ones, which didn’t fit my new svelte figure – well, OK then, my almost svelte figure – and threw those into the bin also. Now I had a plan to force myself into action, I decided I needed to be firm with myself and do something to freshen up my appearance. Gazing at my legs, I promised I’d have a grand splurge of de-fuzzing tomorrow.

My eyes wandered down to my neglected toenails. Rummaging around in my bedside drawer, I took out a bottle of quick drying, chip resistant varnish in Pillar Box Red, which still looked useable and commenced toenail-painting duties. After waiting the designated drying time, I crept under the sheets and drifted off to la-la land.

What would tomorrow bring?

 

 

My Perfect Wedding

 

Helen Grey is finally getting everything she wants. She's about to have the perfect dream wedding and begin an exciting new life abroad on the sunny Mediterranean island of Cyprus. But living the dream isn't all it's cracked up to be.

 

After a mix-up at the airport, Helen finds herself drawn into the midst of an elaborate plot to steal an ancient statue and assassinate a local businessman. And as if that wasn't bad enough, her wedding dress is AWOL, the statue seems to be cursed, and Helen is wanted by the police.

 

With the big day rapidly approaching, a roller-coaster of mishaps, misunderstandings, and disasters threatens to turn the newlyweds into nearlyweds.

 

Can Helen prevent an assassination, save the statue, and have the perfect wedding? Or will the day to remember turn into one she'd rather forget?

 

 

Chapter One

 

The customs officer flipped open Kalem’s passport and scrutinized the photo.

I tapped my foot. Come on, come on, don’t you know we’ve got a wedding to get to? My perfect wedding, nonetheless. And on top of that, the duty-free shops were seriously calling my name. We’d already been shuffling along in the security queue for forty-five minutes like a couple of tortoises, and I could almost smell the teasing waft of bargain perfumes, designer lipsticks that stay on for three days, and bumper packs of chocolate sending out silent buy me signals in the shopping area beyond.

Luckily, we’d got to the Airport in plenty of time. Kalem wanted to check in early to try and get a seat with extra leg-room. Not that it bothered me, really. At five foot nothing, I never had a problem with being crammed in like a stuffed sausage, but Kalem’s legs were long and toned and…well, pretty damn sexy.

Kalem ran a hand through his cropped dark hair and nodded towards the passport. ‘I probably had more hair then,’ he said to the customs officer.

I giggled, remembering the frizzy out-of-control footballer’s perm he’d had when the photo was taken, which resembled my unruly curls on a good hair day.

‘I don’t think so,’ the customs officer muttered, narrowing his eyes at Kalem.

I stepped out from behind Kalem and leaned on the counter. A wave of loud tutting broke out from the queue behind me.

‘It’s a serious offence to tamper with a passport, sir,’ the customs officer said in a deadly tone, glaring at Kalem.

‘Pardon?’ Kalem’s eyes widened with surprise. ‘I can assure you that my passport hasn’t been out of my sight. And it definitely hasn’t been tampered with. If you’ll just let me show you –’ Kalem reached out his hand.

The customs officer shot his hand in the air, passport held up high, so Kalem couldn’t get anywhere near it.

‘Sorry… ’ my eyes shot to his name badge, ‘Officer Head. What seems to be the problem?’ I asked, thinking he was obviously some sort of jobsworth with nothing better to do than annoy innocent travellers.

Officer Head tried the same suspicious glare on me and shot his other hand up for silence. Then he picked up a phone on the counter and whispered something into it. I heard the words ‘possible’ and ‘terrorist’ but the rest of it was inaudible.

I gulped. What was going on? This was ridiculous.

‘Right. You two will have to come with me.’ Officer Head climbed out from behind the passport control booth and marched off along the airport floor.

Another loud tutting session erupted from the group of people behind us.

I glanced at Kalem with a questioning look. ‘What’s happening?’

He shrugged. ‘I don’t know. It’s probably just some kind of simple misunderstanding. The quicker we get this over with, the quicker we can get on with our pre-honeymoon.’ He lowered his voice to a whisper. ‘And don’t say anything.’

‘What do you mean, don’t say anything? If he asks me a question, I’ll have to say something, won’t I?’

‘You know what I mean – don’t say anything ridiculous.’

Me? Ridiculous? As if.

We fell into step behind the crazy customs guy. ‘I know.’ I smirked at Kalem. ‘This is the surprise you said you’d organized, isn’t it? I bet we’re really going to be escorted to a VIP lounge, where we can drink champagne and eat those little canapé things. Ooh, great. I love those. I wonder if they’ve got those little smoked salmon rolls with the cream cheese fillings. Yum.’

‘This isn’t the surprise.’ Kalem’s forehead scrunched up into frown lines.

‘Oh, yeah, good one. I bet you’re just saying that so I’ll be even more surprised when we get there.’ I paused. ‘Well done. Good surprise.’ I giggled. Wow, this was going to be such a great start to our brand new, exciting life together.

‘It’s not,’ he hissed at me.

My jaw dropped open. ‘What do you mean, it’s not? What is it then?’ A sudden blanket of fear swept over me.

Kalem was saved from answering as we reached a door marked Customs – Private.

Officer Head punched in a security code on the keypad lock and led us into a massive rectangular interrogation room with a desk at the far end, separated by two chairs on one side and two on the other. The desk seemed miles away from the entrance, like I’d suddenly been transported into a freaky Alice in Wonderland world, where everything was out of proportion. I felt like Kalem and I had turned into tiny little munchkin-type people, but everyone and everything else was ginormous.

‘Sit,’ Officer Head barked so loud that my ear almost imploded.

We dropped down onto the hard plastic chairs. This was not good. Not good at all.

‘Another officer will be joining us shortly,’ Officer Head began, ‘but until then, I’m going to ask you some questions.’ He opened Kalem’s passport again. ‘Right. Let’s start with you.’ He looked at Kalem. ‘What is your name?’

I gazed at Officer Head, who actually looked like Mr. Potato Head – only his nose was a little less red – and panicked. My brain flickered away like a dodgy light bulb. There had to be some completely rational and normal explanation for this mix-up. I mean, yes, normal and rational weren’t words that I could usually associate with my life. I would probably describe myself more as accidentally challenged. But still, this was just a simple mix-up, surely.

‘Kalem Mustafa,’ Kalem replied.

‘Ha-ha.’ I let out a nervous laugh.

Officer Head gave me a narrow-eyed stare, then turned back to Kalem. ‘Is that your real name?’

‘Er…excuse me. Is that a trick question? It’s obvious what his name is. It’s in his passport,’ I said, not wanting to state the obvious, but someone had to do it.

Oh, I get it now. It must be a dream. Yes, that was it. Recently, I'd been having a few of those pre-wedding jittery dreams – well, more like nightmares, actually – where I turned up at the venue in front of all our guests, and my wedding dress had suddenly turned see-through. And, even worse, I'd somehow decided to have my bikini area waxed into the shape of a dartboard, complete with bullseye. This was just one of those nightmares, that was all.

I leaped off the chair. ‘Come on Kalem, let’s go.’

‘You can’t go until I say you can go,’ Officer Head insisted.

‘I can do whatever I want. It’s my dream,’ I said to him with a haughty gleam in my eye.

‘SIT DOWN,’ he shouted back at me.

I heard a loud ringing in my ear. Surely you didn’t hear ear-ringing in a dream? I pinched myself. Ow! Shit. I was still awake. I slumped back in the chair. Uh-oh. This was for real.

The door swung open and another customs official with a toilet brush crew cut walked in.

‘Richard,’ the second officer acknowledged his colleague with a tilt of his head and then turned to us. ‘I’m officer Goodbody.’ He sat down, and I heard a noise like a whoopee cushion exploding. I couldn’t tell if it was him or the chair, though.

‘Let’s start again, shall we?’ Officer Head leaned forward. ‘Is that your real name?’

Kalem swallowed. ‘Of course it’s my real name.’

I looked between the customs men with suspicion. Richard Head? Was this for real? The light bulb was back on full power now. ‘Ha! I know what’s going on.’

They both raised an intrigued eyebrow and waited for me to enlighten them.

‘No one could be called Dick Head and Officer Goodbody. It sounds like something out of a bad Seventies porn movie. This is one of those TV shows, isn’t it?’ My eyes darted around the room like a maniac, looking for any signs of hidden cameras and cabling. ‘It’s like Candid Camera, or You’ve Been Punk’d, or something. Or…I know.’ I squinted at them. ‘Are you Ant and Dec in disguise? Are we going to be on their Saturday Night Takeaway show where they’re always playing practical jokes on people?’ I leaped up and leaned over the desk, so I was inches away from their faces, examining them for signs of false noses and excessive, disguising make-up.

Kalem shot me a horrified look.

‘Give me your passport.’ Goodbody ignored my outburst and held his hand out to me.

OK then, maybe not.

I reached into my bag and handed it to him.

‘Now, where were we?’ Dick Head shuffled in his chair. ‘Ah, yes. Kalem Mustafa. I will ask you again. Is that your real name?’ He glowered at Kalem.

‘Yes.’ Kalem shot me a silencing side glance.

‘And what’s your name, hmm?’ Goodbody asked me.

‘You know what my name is; it’s on my p–’

Kalem stared at me, jerking his head towards Dick Head and Goodbody, silently willing me to just answer their questions.

I sighed. ‘Helen Mustafa.’

‘Ah ha!’ Goodbody waved my passport around. ‘It says Helen Grey here. Is this a fake passport?’

‘No! Sorry, I meant to say that my name’s going to be Helen Mustafa in six days time. We’re getting married. At the moment, I’m Helen Grey. You know how it is when a girl’s getting married: she gets a bit over-excited and starts signing her new married name for months in advance and repeating “Mrs. Mustafa” over and over again.’ I could tell by the look on his face that he didn’t have a clue what I was on about. ‘In fact…’ I glanced at my watch. ‘We’re supposed to be catching our plane in about forty-five minutes. We’re supposed to be having a few days of relaxing pre-wedding sand, sea and s… ’

‘Sharap,’ Kalem interjected.

‘Did you just tell me to shut up?’ Dick Head frowned at Kalem.

‘No, he said sharap. It’s Turkish for wine,’ I informed him. Since I’d found out that Kalem and I were going to be moving to North Cyprus, I’d desperately been trying to learn some Turkish words. So far, I’d mastered the important things like: “More wine please” and “Where are the toilets?” I could also say: “cat”, “thanks”, “very much”, “I’m full”, “cucumber”, “large”, and “melon”. It wasn’t a lot, I know, but it could make for an interesting sentence.

‘Why have you got a single plane ticket? Why aren’t you returning to the UK?’ Dick Head peered at us as if this were highly suspicious.

‘We’re moving abroad. We’re going to live the dream.’ I gave him a wistful smile as I thought about how perfect our new life was going to be.

‘What dream?’ Goodybody said.

‘You know, we’re escaping the dreary British weather and the rat race to experience life in the sunny and relaxing Mediterranean.’ Daydreams rapidly filled my head: walking hand in hand with Kalem on a sandy beach after a leisurely swim in the warm sea; sitting on our orange blossom scented, sun-baked villa terrace with a chilled glass of rosé as we watched the blazing sun set over the sea; sipping tiny cups of strong coffee in a chic waterfront café; eating succulent, freshly caught sea bass or juicy king prawns, cooked to perfection on a barbeque.

‘Your name sounds like a Muslim name. Are you a Muslim?’ Officer Head’s voice broke into my daydreams, sending me spiralling back to the reality of being stuck in a tiny, lifeless room with overpowering lights and a sweaty, stale smell. ‘Well?’ He peered at Kalem, waiting for his answer.

Kalem folded his arms casually across his chest. ‘Not really.’

‘Hmm. Not really. That’s a strange answer. What does “not really” mean?’

‘Well, my parents are Turkish Cypriot. The religion of Turkish Cypriots is Muslim, but we don’t exactly practice it or anything. Most Turkish Cypriots are relaxed in their religious practices and very tolerant of other people’s religions.’ Kalem shrugged.

I jigged my leg up and down. We were going to miss our flight. My wonderful pre-honeymoon would be ruined.

‘Is that what they told you to say?’ Goodbody leaned in closer, resting his elbows on the desk.

‘Who?’ Kalem asked.

‘Are you a member of Al-Qaeda?’ Officer Head looked deadly serious. ‘We have to be extremely vigilant these days, you know.’

‘What?’ Kalem blustered. ‘Of course not!’

‘Where are you travelling to?’ Goodbody wanted to know.

‘North Cyprus,’ I said, jigging harder. ‘We’ll miss our flight if you keep us here any longer. What’s going on?’ I whined, feeling my heart bouncing around in my chest. I was going to have a panic attack in a minute. Maybe if I fainted, they would let us go. I slouched down further in my chair, so I wouldn’t have as far to fall if I hit the ground.

‘Are you a suicide bomber?’ Dick Head growled at Kalem.

‘He’s a teacher!’ I cried.

‘And who do you teach? Terrorist cells?’ Dick Head beamed with excitement at Officer Goodbody. ‘I think we’ve got one of the Al-Qaeda’s main men here.’

Kalem shook his head in amazement. ‘I teach woodcarving and sculpture!’

‘Is that a code name of some sort?’ Goodbody asked Dick Head. ‘I seem to recall one of the Bin Laden breakaway groups had a code name like that. What was it now?’ He scratched his toilet brush head, deep in concentration. ‘Ah yes! The Splinter Group.’

‘I haven’t heard of that one before.’ Dick Head frowned. ‘But it’s possible. Woodcarving… splinter…yes, it sounds possible to me.’

‘Why are we here?’ I furrowed my brow and gazed at both of them, interrupting what seemed like the most surreal conversation I’d ever heard in my life.

Dick Head ignored my question and stood up. ‘Hand over your bags, please. I want to take a look inside.’

I gave him mine. Kalem lifted his rucksack and put it on the table in front of us.

Goodbody rummaged around in my bag with interest and then pulled out my camera. ‘Why do you need such a big camera? Are you going to be taking surveillance photos?’

‘I’m a photographer,’ I said.

‘Hmm. A likely story.’ Goodbody’s eyebrow shot up.

Dick Head started on Kalem’s rucksack, pulling out a book, a couple of apples, and a tub of edible chocolate body paint. He held up the body paint to Kalem. ‘What’s this?’ He unscrewed the lid and glared at it as if it were packed full of Semtex.

Kalem shrugged. ‘Well, it is going to be our pre-honeymoon.’

I felt my insides turn to goo. He still had that effect on me. Oh, yes, bring on the chocolate body paint!

‘Was that the surprise you were talking about?’ I said to Kalem, turning my head away from the customs men who were busy scouring our bags for hidden compartments.

Satisfied there was no Semtex, suspicious looking shoes, or packets of nails in our hand luggage, they returned their attention to us.

‘We’re going to miss our flight.’ I looked at my watch again, desperately hoping they’d hurry up.

‘Why has your passport been tampered with?’ Dick Head asked Kalem again.

‘It hasn’t,’ Kalem insisted.

‘Well what do you call that then?’ Dick Head turned the passport around to face Kalem.

I gulped and my brain did a silent mental shriek. ‘Oops,’ I squeaked, suddenly feeling nauseous.

Kalem stared at the photo section on his passport. The picture of a footballer-permed Kalem had been replaced with a picture of an old, fat, bald man with huge black square glasses.

‘I think I’m going to pass out,’ I muttered. If I caused a distraction, maybe we could just make a run for it.

‘What’s that?’ Kalem gasped, turning his head slowly to me with dread.

Dick Head and Goodbody gave me an icy glare.

‘Ah,’ I croaked. It was all my fault. How was I going to explain this one?

‘Well?’ they said in unison.

‘Erm…well…what happened was…Kalem is always playing practical jokes on me,’ I paused, thinking how this was going to sound. ‘Anyway, about four months ago I bought this hair dye…’

Goodbody snorted.

‘What does hair dye have to do with this?’ Dick Head growled.

‘It’s very relevant, actually,’ I started again, running a shaky hand through my hair. ‘So, I bought this hair dye, and when I got it home, I realized I didn’t like the colour.’ My eyes darted to Kalem, who gawped at me. ‘A few days later, I took it back to the shop and asked the woman at the counter if I could return it. But when she took the box back off me, she stared at it for a while with a puzzled look and then turned it around to show me.’

Dick Head and Goodbody had deadly straight faces.

‘Do go on. This is thoroughly enlightening,’ Goodbody said in a voice that clearly meant it wasn’t at all.

‘Well, that was when I noticed that someone had drawn a moustache and beard on the picture of the woman on the front of the box.’ I narrowed my eyes at Kalem, who chuckled under his breath, remembering.

 ‘Anyway, I was really embarrassed and had to pretend that it must have been like that in the shop when I’d bought it.’

‘Is there a point to this?’ Goodbody asked, glancing at his watch.

‘I wanted to get Kalem back, and I knew he was going to the building society a few days later to get some money out, and he needed to take some ID. He can never find his driving licence, so he always takes his passport,’ I paused. ‘Because I’m a photographer, obviously I’ve got loads of old photos lying around, so I thought it would be really funny to pay him back for all the practical jokes he plays on me. I found this photo, cut it out, then stuck it over his passport photo with removable adhesive and put it back in the drawer. Then, of course, I forgot all about it.’ I tried to swallow, but my throat felt like I’d swallowed a Brillo Pad. ‘Until now.’ I tucked my hair behind my ears with shaky hands.

Kalem coughed. ‘Actually, I managed to find my driving licence and took that to the building society instead.’

I cast him a sheepish look. ‘Yes, I realize that now.’

‘You see! This is all perfectly innocent,’ Kalem said to Dick Head and Goodbody. ‘Can we go now?’

‘Not yet. Are you a Muslim too?’ Goodbody asked me.

‘No, I’m not a Muslim,’ I said.

A confused glance passed between Dick Head and Goodbody. ‘Well you certainly look like one. Can you please explain why you’re wearing a burka if you’re not Muslim,’ Goodbody asked me.

I glanced down at the floor length, head-to-toe black burka that I’d almost forgotten I was wearing. Even if the rest of the stuff sounded slightly odd, there was at least a perfectly reasonable explanation for this.

‘Well, there’s an ancient tradition with Turkish Cypriot families. When a new bride-to-be arrives in North Cyprus to get married, it’s good luck for her to be wearing a burka, isn’t it?’ I glanced at Kalem, willing him to explain this peculiar custom further. Instead, he kind of gave me a small shake of his head, and his jaw dropped.

Oh, God. I recognized that look. There was no such custom. This was another one of his wind-Helen-up practical jokes. If they could’ve seen my face, which of course they couldn’t because I only had a two inch rectangular slit for my eyes, they would’ve seen it completely drain of colour. Luckily, they accepted this explanation, and neither of the customs officers seemed to notice that my eyelids had just pinged open in surprise or that Kalem’s face had turned a scorching-hot shade of pink.

Dick Head picked at the adhesive on Kalem’s passport photo and pulled it off, examining the official picture of Kalem underneath. ‘What do you think?’ He handed the passport to Goodbody.

‘Mmm.’ Goodbody scrutinized it. ‘It looks legitimate.’ He sounded disappointed.

‘That’s a shame,’ Dick Head huffed and turned to Officer Goodbody, frowning. ‘Seems like we’ll miss out on our CAT bonus.’

‘What’s that?’ Kalem asked.

‘Catch-a-terrorist bonus,’ Dick Head grumbled at us. It was clear from the look on his face that he’d already worked out what he was going to spend it on.

‘Can we go now?’ I pleaded.

‘OK,’ Goodbody said with much reluctance. ‘But don’t let this happen again.’

‘Thanks, Dick.’ I yanked Kalem’s arm and hurried him away to catch our plane before they changed their minds.

We arrived at the gate with minutes to spare, just as a rather harassed looking baggage handler was about to search for our luggage to offload.

OK, maybe this wasn’t exactly the kind of start to our perfect life together that I had in mind, and one day I was actually going to laugh about this, but I couldn’t allow myself to relax until we were sitting in our allocated seats and the plane was taxiing down the runway. We were on our way to an exciting destination, full of possibilities. Living a life abroad that most people just dreamed about but never got to experience. An amazing adventure that nothing was going to spoil.

Nothing will spoil my wedding. Nothing will spoil my wedding. Nothing will spoil my wedding.

Or so I thought.

 

The Fashion Police

 

The Fashion Police was a runner up in the Chapter One Promotions Novel Competition 2010 and nominated Best Novel with Romantic Elements 2010 by The Romance Reviews. It is a screwball comedy-mystery, combining murder and mayhem with romance and chick-lit. Written in a similar style to Janet Evanovich and Harlan Coben, it is Stephanie Plum meets Myron Bolitar.

 

Amber Fox has been making too many mistakes lately and something's got to give…

 

For starters, Amber accidentally shoots Chief Inspector Janice Skipper and gets thrown off the police force. The only one who knows the truth about the incident is Amber, but no one will believe her.

 

After accepting a job as an insurance investigator from her ex-fiancé, Brad Beckett, it turns out that Brad thinks they've still got unfinished business and the job description includes sexual favours that come with a price.

 

When fashion designer, Umberto Fandango, goes missing, Amber becomes embroiled in a complicated case. But Amber's arch-enemy, Chief Inspector Skipper, is also investigating his disappearance, and it's a race against time for Amber to solve the mystery before Skipper does and get her old job back. And just when Amber thinks things can't get any worse, she's being stalked by some crazy mobsters.

 

Who is Umberto Fandango? Is he dead? And can Amber stay one step ahead and stay alive?

 

 

Chapter One

 

If life is like a box of chocolates, then mine is the mother of all coffee creams. You know – the ones that always get left in the box because no one wants them? Today I felt like a coffee cream, too. On the outside I was sleek and hard, but on the inside, I was just a lump of mush.

I sat in Brad’s office, trying to ignore the queasy tingle that gurgled in the depths of my stomach. As he droned on about my assignment, I tuned him out and debated whether or not things could get any worse. I tried giving myself a pep talk, but I’m not sure it worked.

Come on, Amber, get a grip. It’s no use wishing you could get the hell out of here. You can do this new job with your eyes closed.

Suddenly, something Brad said caught my attention and I snapped back to the conversation. ‘Hang on a sec. Let me get this straight. You want me to plant some bugs?’ I asked, wondering if I’d misheard. ‘I take it we’re talking about bug bugs and not the creepy crawly variety.’ I shuddered at the thought. Spiders were a definite no-no.

Brad gave me a cool nod of agreement. The owner of Hi-Tec Insurance, Brad was a former Special Forces operative whom I’d know for years. He was also my former fiancé. I’d accepted a job as claims investigator at Hi-Tec after being let go from my position on the police force. Not the ideal situation, I know, but it paid the bills.

‘Exactly why does an insurance company want to plant bugs in its client’s offices?’ I asked as I sat back in the chair opposite Brad’s, my right leg jigging up and down like a pneumatic drill.

‘This is the twenty-first century. We’re in the proactive insurance age now,’ Brad replied.

‘So you’re trying to avoid an insurance claim before it happens?’

‘You’ve got it in one, Foxy. Claims are money, and if there’s one thing I hate, it’s losing money.’ An amused smile played around the corners of Brad’s mouth as he looked at my knee aerobics. ‘Am I making you nervous?’

I stopped jigging and gave him the eye roll to beat all eye rolls. ‘I think we’re way past the stage of you making me nervous, Brad.’  He raised an eyebrow at that but continued, handing me a manila folder as he spoke.

‘I’ve had a tip from one of my informers that this particular client is into something a bit dodgy – actually, a lot dodgy. I need to get a handle on the truth before I find myself involved in a multi-million pound insurance payout.’

I took the folder. ‘And what informer would that be?’ I asked as I flicked through the file, watching out of the corner of my eye as he rolled up his shirt sleeves. The familiar action brought a reluctant smile to my face. A suit, dress shirt and trousers didn’t fit Brad. He was more at home in desert camouflage and chunky-soled boots. As I read the client’s name, I knew my jaw had fallen to the floor but I couldn’t help it. I barely heard Brad’s response to my question. 

‘The usual – the seedy, underhanded kind.’

‘Umberto Fandango, the fashion designer? He’s one of your clients?’

‘Hi-Tec Insurance has a very diverse clientele, ranging from the scum-bag lowlifes to the rich and famous ones.’ Brad rested his feet on his huge, mahogany desk, looking pretty pleased with himself. He picked a piece of fluff from his trousers, examining it with distaste before depositing it in the trash bin.

‘His bags are to die for!’ Maybe being a claims investigator wouldn’t be so boring, after all. ‘Have you seen the ones with–?’

‘Here.’ Ignoring my amazement, he tossed me a packet of black ballpoint pens.

Distracted, I examined the packet with interest. ‘What are these?’

‘The bugs are cunningly disguised as pens. I just need you to go to Umberto’s office, plant a few of these around the place, and leave the rest to me. To activate them, you just have to click the top of the pen. Do you think you can handle that?’

‘No problemo. I’m Amber Fox, Miss Hot-Shit Investigator. I can do anything.’

Brad glanced over at my leg, which was now bouncing up and down, Space-Hopper style. ‘I’d definitely agree with the “hot” part.’ He arched an eyebrow. ‘Janice Skipper might agree with the “shit” part.’ 

I cringed. Janice Skipper was the reason I’d been let go from the force. She had carried a vendetta for me around for a long time, and had taken pleasure in making my life hell. To say Janice was a sore point for me was an understatement.

‘Urgh! Don’t mention that woman. If it weren’t for her–’

‘I know, Foxy – you wouldn’t be here now.’ Brad stood up and moved around the desk. ‘Come on, I’ll introduce you to Hacker. If you want anything technical done, he’s your guy.’ He strode toward me, six feet of solid muscle that backed my five-and-a-half-foot frame into the wall. He stopped mere inches away from my face.

I caught a musky waft of his aftershave and sucked in a breath. A tingling sensation erupted in my stomach.

Calm down, Amber. Nothing to worry about. You’ve just got a case of gas, that’s all. What else could that peculiar sensation be?

‘It’s good to have you back, Foxy,’ he whispered, staring down at me with haunting grey eyes. They’re the kind that are lined at the corners, giving you just a hint that he’s seen more in his forty years than most people would see in ten lifetimes.

I matched his stare pound for pound, and swallowed hard, feeling goose bumps springing to attention on my skin. My throat felt constricted and dusty. ‘Don’t call me Foxy,’ I finally managed to croak out.

‘It’s either Foxy or Sexy. You choose,’ he said. His words caused his breath to tickle my cheek.    

‘And Brad? You haven’t got me back,’ I told him, hoping he couldn’t see the pulse that was booming away at the base of my throat.  Just when I thought I was going to have to do something to make him back off, he slowly leaned past me and opened his office door.

‘We’ll see about that,’ he drawled as he pushed away from me and went out the door, beckoning for me to follow him to meet Hacker.

A few minutes later, I rushed to the restroom. Cold water by the bucket load was in order. I leaned on the sink, staring into the mirror at my flushed face. My heart was still banging out a tribal drum beat. I hoped Brad hadn’t seen it through my T-shirt.

OK, so this probably wasn’t a good idea, working for my ex, but then I hadn’t exactly had many job offers in the last six months. No, scratch that. I’d had zilch, and I still had to pay my mortgage, so I didn’t have a choice, really. The sensible part of me thought it was a positive and productive sign that Brad Beckett didn’t affect me in the slightest anymore. By ‘affect’ I mean I’d managed to get through a whole half-hour conversation with Brad without crying, fainting, or molesting him. Then again, maybe it was the crazy part of me who thought this was progress. It was definitely one of the two. I just hadn’t worked out which was which yet.

OK, Amber, this could work. I’d be professional about my job and just solve this one case for him before I found a new job. I wouldn’t be here long enough to fall in love with him again. Anyway, my curiosity had been piqued so I couldn’t quit straight away. I just hoped that curiosity didn’t kill the Fox. 

I took a deep breath, squaring my shoulders. Right, here we go then. Onward and upward, and all that rubbish.

I turned on the cold water to splash onto my face, expecting a trickle. I shrieked with surprise as the water gushed out, tsunami style, splashing up and soaking the front of my T-shirt.

‘Great!’ I looked for some paper towels, but the restroom only had dryers. Before I could move to it, the door opened and closed behind me and I glanced up in the mirror.  Brad was standing behind me, examining the reflection of my wet chest with great interest. I could feel my nipples straining through the tight fabric. And even worse, judging from Brad’s smile, I knew he could see it happening.

‘Nice look,’ he said, a husky note entering his voice.

I rushed to the dryer, frantically flapping my top underneath it. ‘What are you doing in the women’s bathroom?’ I hissed.

‘Oh, didn’t I tell you? This building has unisex toilets.’ He shot me an overly innocent grin.

A searing hot tingle rippled through me. How the hell was a girl supposed to have any secrets around here, if even the bathrooms weren’t safe havens from his presence?

Brad winked at me. ‘There aren’t any secrets around here.’

It wasn’t until I’d barged out of the restroom that I realized I hadn’t actually said it out loud. So how did Brad know exactly what I was thinking?

****

The home of the Fandango Empire was a converted flour mill in Ware, Hertfordshire. According to the file, Umberto had a pretty impressive set of offices that took up the whole of the building, which included a runway for the models to practice on.

I cruised down Ware High Street in my blend-in-with-the-rest-of-the-world silver Toyota, silently rehearsing my fake spiel about how I needed to check and make certain his insurance coverage was meeting his needs, which was a laugh. What I knew about insurance could fit on the head of one of the pens Brad wanted me to leave. Still, I could BS with the best of them, and I promised myself that if I pulled this off, I’d be having a super-duper celebratory lunch afterwards – ooh, maybe I’d even throw in a monster chocolate muffin, too. My stomach gurgled loudly, although I couldn’t tell if it was from nerves or hunger.

Squaring my shoulders, I pushed open the front door and stopped cold in the reception area. I looked around, soaking in the crazy decor. The theme seemed to be ‘If it didn’t move, leopard skin it.’ Don’t get me wrong, I love leopard skin. I’m a real leopard skin kind of girl – as long as it’s fake, of course – but a leopard skin reception desk, sofa, chairs, rug, curtains, and phone were a tad overkill.

Trying to act casual, I wandered over to the receptionist. ‘Hi, I’m here to see Umberto Fandango. I’m from Hi-Tec Insurance.’ With my hand in my pocket, I tried to look calm as I felt for the pens. Grabbing one, I covertly clicked the top to activate it and waited for my moment.

The receptionist looked around her computer screen at me, forehead pinched in a harassed frown. She appeared to be in her early twenties, and was attractive in a subtle way that probably went unnoticed in this kind of industry where obvious beauty takes center stage. ‘Do you have an appointment? I didn’t see one for you in the book.’ She ran a finger down the page of a leather bound diary in front of her.

‘No, unfortunately not.’

She glanced up at me again, the frown looking more harassed. ‘London Fashion Week is next week, and we’re all very busy. Mr Fandango is rushed off his feet.’

‘Look, I’m sorry to just turn up like this, but I really need to talk to him about his insurance. We wouldn’t want to find out he didn’t have the coverage he needed for something, would we? It’ll just take a few minutes.’ I flashed her a conspiratorial smile and placed my hand face down on the desk, willing her to turn her head for a second.

She sighed, seeing I wasn’t going to give up. ‘Let me just buzz him, then. Hang on a sec.’

Her momentary glance at the leopard phone was all it took for me to deposit the pen under the bottom of her monitor.

‘Thanks,’ I said.

While she spoke to someone on the other end of the line, I gazed toward the glass doors off the reception area, where an echoing male voice shouted out instructions. I followed the sound and moved to peer through the door to get a better look. Some female models with scary wigs stalked up and down the runway, covered in very spangly, glittery creations, as a tall woman stood yelling at them. On second thought, maybe the male voice I’d heard wasn’t really male. Maybe it was just a giant woman wearing size-thirteen stilettos with a gruff voice. It was hard to tell. In the background, a woman who looked to be about five times over the required model weight limit of three stone sat at a desk, hot-fixing rhinestones to a white swimsuit.

A tall, blonde woman, so thin she looked like she’d been photocopied, clicked her spiky heels in my direction. She eyed me from head to toe with disdain, studying my usual uniform of khaki combats, black T-shirt, and very comfy sneakers. ‘You’re obviously not one of the models,’ she said as she tilted her head back. Her cheek bones were so sharp, they looked like they could put out an eye, and I had to stop myself from leaning backward, just in case.

‘Hi, I’m Amber, from Hi-Tec Insurance.’ I held out my hand to shake hers.

 She ignored it and crossed her arms in front of her. Was it me, or was the atmosphere getting noticeably colder? I glanced over at the receptionist who was chewing on the end of her pencil, a sympathetic look on her face.

‘And?’ the blonde woman said through lips painted a shade that Dracula would have been proud of.

‘That’s it, just Hi-Tec Insurance. There’s no “and” after it,’ I said.

The woman rolled her eyes. ‘What do you want?’ Her voice sharpened, and she frowned at me; the really wicked, twitchy-eye, wrinkly forehead kind, except her forehead didn’t wrinkle when she did it.

‘Hey, you’re fun! Isn’t Botox amazing?’ I asked, fascinated by her un-wrinkly forehead.

This earned me something eerily close to a snarl. ‘What do you want? We’re very busy.’

Properly chastised, I answered. ‘I just need a few moments with Umberto Fandango. It’s about his insurance.’

‘What about it?’

Good question. Here comes the BS.

I cleared my throat. ‘I’m just checking out the business premises for security reasons. Obviously, you have some very expensive and high-profile merchandise here, so I need to have a look around the entire area, as well as inspect your alarm system to make sure there’s no possible breach of security. Don’t worry, it’s just routine information for our files.’ I gave her my most sincere smile, pulling out my camera to make my claim look authentic.

She weighed my words with an icy stare. ‘Hmm.’ A pause. Then: ‘Follow me.’ And off she clicked toward a corridor at the far end of the reception area.

I made use of my trigger finger, snapping off a few pictures as I followed behind her.  We stopped when she paused outside a door at the end and punched in a sequence of numbers on a keypad.

The door clicked. ‘Wait here,’ she said.  She slipped inside the room, returning a few seconds later. ‘Mr. Fandango will see you now.’

I followed her into the ultra-modern office, which was decked out with a chrome and glass desk, chrome and leather chairs, a chrome lamp, chrome pen tidy, and a silver leather sofa. Wow, when this guy liked something, he really went to town. I quickly sneaked a peek at the pen tidy, crammed full of biros, as a man dressed in a purple smoking jacket stood behind his desk and pumped my hand. I didn’t think smoking jackets existed in real life, I thought it was just a myth, but no, they were alive and well and living in Hertfordshire. And this guy had to be in his fifties, far too young for a smoking jacket, in my opinion.

‘I’m Umberto. What can I do for you, honey?’ he asked in a weird, Lloyd Grossman mix of an American and English accent. He was on the short side, with thick, dark brown hair that was swept back with a touch of gel, dark brown eyes, and a spray-on tan that bordered on the Tango variety. Although he was clean shaven, he had a hint of five o’clock shadow, and I suspected he would have to shave more than once a day to keep his beard in check.

I went through my spiel again and gave him a dazzling smile for good luck, all the while casually gripping one of the bug pens in my pocket.

‘Knock yourself out. Just make sure you don’t get in the models’ way, or I’ll have one hell of a cat fight on my hands. Actually, I’ve got a few spare minutes, so why don’t I show you around?’ He flashed me a bleached-tooth grin and led the way out of his office.

In a split second, pen number two was secretly stashed in his pen tidy, and I was following behind him. The Ice Queen bared her teeth in an imitation of a smile, examining me like I was a piece of road kill stuck to her thousand pound shoes as she sat down at the desk opposite Fandango’s.

I resisted the urge to stick my tongue out.

As Umberto led me through the offices and the huge storage area upstairs which housed his fashion collection, I took notes and photos galore.

‘So, waddaya think?’ he asked as we entered the runway area, where the stiletto-heeled He-She was busy screeching at one of the models.

‘I think I need to see the bags before I make my mind up,’ I told him.  Maybe he’d give me a freebie while I was here.

‘Beg pardon?’ 

‘You know – those gorgeous handbags you make. Can I have a little peek at them? They’re so cool. I love the ones with–’

‘Sorry, honey, we don’t make the bags here, they’re all sent in from the States.’

‘Oh,’ I muttered with disappointment. Well, it had been worth a try.

‘Waddaya think of the security then?’ he asked.

‘It looks pretty secure to me.’

‘Aw, shit!’ Fandango looked across the sea of prancing female models toward a dark-haired man in a crisp blue shirt and an expensive-looking suit. He was pretty hot, too. In fact, if I had to rate him out of ten, he’d be a nine and three-quarters. The man wore an air of expectation, and I watched as Fandango’s demeanor changed abruptly. ‘OK, that’s your lot, honey. You need to leave now.’ As he made his way over to Mr. Hottie, I took the opportunity to drop a pen to the floor, casually kicking it under the runway. Based on the way Fandango had reacted, I assumed the man in the suit was a model.

A Kodak moment of a yummy model and a famous fashion designer seemed too good to miss, so I snapped a few pictures while I studied them through the viewfinder. They seemed to be involved in a heated argument about something. Maybe someone had forgotten to put all-white lilies in Mr. Hottie’s dressing room, or the blue M&M’s had been left in his chocolate selection by mistake. Oh, well, I thought, it’s not my problem. Operation Bug was complete, which was all that mattered to me. I smiled as I headed out of the building. Way to go, Amber. Bring on the chocolate muffins. My first assignment had been a success.  Nothing could possibly go wrong now.

Could it?

 

Be Careful What You Wish For

 

For fans of Janet Evanovich, Kate Johnson, and Gemma Halliday…

 

Armed with cool sarcasm and uncontrollable hair, feisty insurance investigator Amber Fox is back in a new mystery combining murder and mayhem with romance and chick lit…

 

Three deaths.

A safety deposit box robbery.

The boxing heavyweight champion of the world.

 

Somehow, they’re all related, and Amber has to solve a four year old crime to find out why.

 

As she stumbles across a trail of dead bodies and a web of lies spanning both sides of the social divide, it’s starting to get personal. Someone thinks Amber’s poking her nose in where it’s not wanted, sparking off a game of fox and mouse – only this time, Amber’s the mouse.

 

Amber’s forced to take refuge in the home of her ex-fiancé, Brad Beckett, and now it’s not just the case that’s hotting up. So is the bedroom…

 

All Levi Carter wanted to be was the boxing heavyweight champion of the world, but at what cost?

 

All Carl Thomas wanted was to be rich, but would his greed be his downfall?

 

All Brad Beckett wants is to get Amber back, but there’s a reason for the ex word.

 

Be careful what you wish for…you might just get it.

 

 

 

Chapter One

 

When I was about five, I always loved losing myself in fairytales where the handsome prince would come charging up on his white horse and save the fair maiden. I frequently imagined that I was Rapunzel, although there were two problems with this daydream. 1) I wasn’t into heights in a big way; and 2) My hair was destined to be more flyaway than flaxen.

Fast-forward thirty years, and now I had an even bigger problem. I had two handsome princes in my life, and I didn’t know what to do about either of them. I know, I know – be careful what you wish for, right?

In my thirty-five-year-old-daydream, there was Romeo, my boyfriend and all-round Mr. Nice Guy. Then there was Brad, my boss and ex-fiancé. There was a reason for the “ex” word, though.

I sprawled on my sofa, staring at the ceiling and contemplating this little conundrum. Marmalade, my ginger cat, lay next to me. He purred away, mirroring my ceiling stare. I absent-mindedly stroked his head, wondering whether he was contemplating a two-pussy scenario.

I know what you’re thinking – two gorgeous men after little old moi. Lucky me. I wish! It wasn’t lucky, it was way more complicated than you can imagine. In fact, it was as complicated as trying to assemble flat-pack furniture with a stupid amount of screws and no instructions. Not that I couldn’t assemble flat-pack stuff, you understand. I’m a very practical kind of girl. But, you know, flat-pack can beat even the most enthusiastic DIYers. Or is it just me who ends up with a big bag of screws left over, wondering what the hell I’m supposed to do with them?

I was so deep in thought that I didn’t hear my mobile ringing straight away. When it finally registered in my conscious, I tumbled off the sofa, dislodging Marmalade in the process, and grabbed it from the wooden floorboards.

I glanced at the caller ID.

Think of the Devil. The last person I wanted to talk to when I was doing my contemplation thing was Brad. He might sway my decision about things, and I was pretty easily swayed at the moment.

‘Hey, Brad. What’s up?’

‘Foxy,’ Brad said, his Australian twang sounding more pronounced tonight. ‘What are you doing?’

‘Stroking my pussy.’

‘Mmm. Don’t give me ideas.’ I heard the smile in his voice.

‘You don’t need any ideas,’ I said. He probably heard the smile in mine, too.

‘No Romeo tonight, then?’

I rolled my eyes. Even though he couldn’t see it, he’d know I’d done it. ‘Stop fishing for information.’ I grabbed a fluffy cushion from the sofa and hugged it to my stomach, as if somehow that could put more distance between us.

His voice lowered. Deep and slow, he said, ‘I need you.’

A tingling sensation worked its way through my spine, not to mention other parts. I tried to ignore it. I didn’t really trust myself to speak so I gnawed on my lip for a moment, thinking of something witty to say. My wit had suddenly upped and vanished for some reason, so I just chose to ignore his words instead and pretended to be huffy.

I cleared my throat. ‘What do you want, Brad? It’s Saturday night, and I’m a very busy girl.’ My voice came out huskier than I intended as I glanced around my empty, poky apartment, which was very unbusy at this moment in time.

Yeah, right, Amber. Since when did thinking about Brad constitute being busy?

‘I need you for a job,’ he said.

I didn’t know whether to believe him or not. ‘Why do you need an insurance claim investigation done on a Saturday night?’ Was he just trying to lure me around to his place for some other, totally un-work-related reason? And if so, how much will-power did I have to resist it? ‘Can’t it wait until Monday?’

‘I’m afraid not, Foxy.’ More serious this time.

‘OK, what sort of a job?’

‘Have you ever heard of Levi Carter?’

I thought for a moment. ‘He’s a boxer, isn’t he?’

‘Yes. He’s the world heavyweight boxing champion,’ he said. ‘He’s also one of our clients.’

Brad owned Hi-Tec Insurance. He wasn’t just a successful business owner, though: he had a mysterious SAS past, too.

‘I’ve been watching Levi’s fight tonight on pay per view,’ Brad carried on. ‘He’s just gone down in the sixth round by TKO, but something about it doesn’t look right.’

‘What’s a TKO?’

‘Technical Knockout. You’ve never watched a boxing match before?’

‘A few, but that was mostly because I wanted to see two fit guys with six packs and hardly any clothes on. I don’t know anything about the rules.’

‘It’s a knockout declared by the referee when he judges one of the boxers unable to carry on with the fight.’ Brad paused, waiting for me to take this in. My mind was still on the fit guys, though. ‘It means the other guy won because Levi couldn’t continue with the fight.’

‘So why is that unusual? Doesn’t that happen a lot?’

‘It’s not unusual, but something feels off to me.’

‘OK. What happened to Levi Carter so he couldn’t carry on fighting?’ I sat up on the sofa, all ears. Brad’s instincts were as good as my own. If he thought something was off, it probably was.

‘He had a bad cut on his eye by a blow from his opponent. He’s at the hospital at the moment, and the doctors say he’s got a torn retina. It’s quite a common injury for boxers.’

‘And let me guess… Levi’s insured with Hi-Tec for any medical expenses due to boxing injuries?’

‘Yep,’ Brad said. ‘Although the expenses covered by his policy are fairly limited. Any payout we make is pretty low – minimal, in fact. There aren’t many insurance companies who would give a boxer high risk medical insurance.’

‘Huh?’ My eyebrows furrowed. ‘So if any payout we make to him for medical expenses are negligible, why all the fuss on a weekend? Why not just wait for the medical reports to come in and see if he makes a claim. Aren’t you getting a bit ahead of yourself?’

 ‘Let’s just say I’ve got a personal interest in this one.’

That got my interest aroused pretty quick. Brad didn’t do personal, unless it involved a few select people – me included. ‘OK, I’ll play. If he’s got a common boxing injury, what is it that doesn’t look right with the fight?’

‘That’s why I need you. I’ll have to show you at my place.’

‘I’m on my way.’ I grabbed my rucksack, which was filled all sorts of investigatorish tools, like a stun gun, my SIG Sauer handgun, camera, voice recorder, notepad, and headed out the door.

****

Brad’s place consisted of a spacious – and very expensive – barn conversion. Huge ceilings and windows, stark white walls, lots of exposed wooden beams, minimal furniture, and no personal knick-knacks gave it a show house kind of feel. Brad didn’t do clutter. I couldn’t live like that. Give me clutter and stuff any day. In fact, give me five minutes with this place and I could clutter it to death. The place was spotlessly clean, as usual. A guy who could kill people with his bear hands and do the housework – a rare find indeed.

‘Here.’ Brad opened the door and handed me a glass of red wine.

‘Trying to get me drunk?’ I arched an eyebrow and dumped my rucksack on the floor.

‘Me?’ He faked a shocked look. He looked like he was fresh out of the shower – his cropped hair was damp around the edges and he smelled of… I sniffed…I wasn’t sure, but it was pretty scrumptious whatever it was. Something sexy and manly. Pheromones Pour Homme. He wore butt-huggingly sexy jeans and a black T-shirt that showed off his muscular body. I secretly thought that SAS stood for Sexy Arse Soldier.

I took a sip of wine and followed him into the huge downstairs living space. ‘OK, what’s so important you have to entice me here tonight?’ I rested a hand on my hip.

Brad pointed to his humongous flat screen TV that took centre stage on one wall. A freeze-frame picture of a boxing match caught my eye. Two sweaty, well-defined black men took up the whole screen.

‘I’ll replay it for you,’ he said.

I tilted my glass towards the TV. ‘Which one’s Levi?’

Brad sat on his black leather sofa opposite the TV and patted the empty space next to him.

Hmm. Probably not a good idea to sit that close considering the last time I’d had a drink in his company. What if I lost control of myself and we ended up doing something I’d regret in the morning? Not that we actually did do anything that time, but, well…it was complicated.

I eyed the spare seat. OK, what was the worst that could happen? We’d just talk about the case and that would be that. Hey, it was Saturday night, after all, and maybe I could fool myself into thinking that a hot-blooded woman should live dangerously sometimes.

I sat down, my thigh close enough to feel the heat from his. He glanced at me, haunting grey-blue eyes seemingly piercing my thoughts.

I coughed and leaned away from him, keeping my eyes firmly locked on the screen.

‘Levi’s on the left,’ he said. ‘The other guy is Ricky Jackson.’

Levi looked in his early twenties. He was good looking, unless you counted a nasty bruise around his swollen left eye with blood gushing from a cut above it. Ricky had a few cuts and bruises, too.

‘That’s the eye with the torn retina?’ I asked.

‘Yes.’ Brad reached for a remote control on the arm of the sofa. ‘Let me show you what happened before the injury.’

He rewound the fight at high speed and stopped it. ‘OK, watch it from here.’

I watched Levi dance around Ricky in the centre of the ring. For a guy who must’ve weighed about two hundred and twenty-five pounds, Levi was very light on his feet. I was mesmerized by his speed and agility. I thought back to Muhammad Ali’s catchphrase, “float like a butterfly, sting like a bee.” If Ali had still been in the ring, Levi looked like he would’ve given him a run for his money. He looked at the peak of physical fitness, too, like he was buzzing with energy, whereas his opponent, Ricky, was more out of breath as he dodged Levi’s quick jabs.

Ricky managed to catch Levi with a punch from his right hand, his glove smashing into Levi’s left eye and opening a nasty gash just above it. Blood mingled with sweat, trickling down Levi’s cheek and spraying onto the ring as he danced out of reach, before coming back and connecting with a right and left punch to Ricky’s head. A succession of fast blows by Levi followed with Ricky struggling to move out of reach. Levi backed Ricky onto the ropes with nowhere to go. Levi was in the middle of a bout of short punches to Ricky’s head when the bell sounded and each boxer returned to his corner where frantic activity took place on both of them.

A close-up shot showed a man in Levi’s team pressing an ice bag to his cut eye as another man squeezed water into his mouth from a bottle. Levi swirled the water around and spat it into a bucket. The man with the ice applied something to Levi’s cut with a cotton bud, then rubbed some sort of gel on his face.

Levi came steaming out of his corner at the sound of the bell, ready for action. He was just about to land a punch to Ricky’s head when it looked like he was distracted by a sound from the outside of the ring.

Levi’s outstretched arm was aiming well to hit Ricky on the cheek, but his punch seemed to falter through the air, skimming off Ricky’s ear. Levi whipped his head around towards a middle-aged man who was now in full frame of the camera behind the fighters. The man stood in front of the ring, shouting something, his arms pointing up at Levi and waving frantically. The man’s face had turned a shade of red that was a cross between tomato and eggplant. Levi’s face froze in a scared mask, and his ebony skin seemed to lighten several shades in front of my eyes. As the man carried on shouting, Ricky made use of Levi’s distraction, taking his chance to land a forceful punch to Levi’s left eye, opening the gash further. Blood poured from the wound, dripping onto the floor of the ring.

Levi sagged to his knees before rolling onto his back. The referee moved forward, ordering Ricky to one of the corners while he took up position next to Levi’s head. Then he started counting to ten.

One!

Levi squirmed on the ground, his gloves pressed to his face.

Two!

Levi’s right arm came away from his face and, eyes closed, he rolled onto his side.

Three!

Levi removed his left hand from his left eye but kept his eyes closed.

Four!

Levi scooted into a sitting position and squinted through his right eye.

Five!

Levi managed to drag himself to a standing position on wobbly legs. He clamped his left glove over his eye again.

The referee got in Levi’s face, saying something I couldn’t hear over the shouts from the crowd. He whispered something to Levi, who removed the glove, giving the referee a good look.

The noise from the crowd got louder as the referee led Levi back to his corner, where a guy with Doctor sprawled in yellow letters on his jacket was waiting to check him out.

Levi’s team crowded protectively around him like vultures circling carrion, blocking any view by the cameras.

Shortly after, the referee declared Levi unfit to carry on fighting due to the deep gash above his eye and pronounced Ricky Jackson the winner by TKO. Ricky bounded around the ring like an excited puppy, punching his arm in the air and smiling so wide I could see his gums.

I downed the last of my wine and Brad paused the playback before pouring me another.

‘OK, did you see that Levi was distracted by that guy who was shouting at him?’ Brad said.

‘Yes.’ I thought about the scene I’d just witnessed. ‘Did you see the look on Levi’s face when he heard him? Levi’s head whipped around to face the guy, and he looked really shocked by whatever he was saying. Scared almost.’

‘That’s the impression I got, too. Levi is a professional boxer – he’s trained to not let anything going on outside the ring distract him, but he was certainly distracted by that. It doesn’t seem right to me.’ Brad turned to face me on the sofa and stretched his arm along the back so his fingers were within easy reaching distance of me. They radiated heat like a furnace.

‘So, what, you think that little scene was staged to make Levi throw the fight and go out deliberately in the sixth round?’

Brad thought about this, head on one side, for a moment. ‘Probably not. I don’t think any boxer would want to risk unnecessary injury by not keeping his defence up. There are easier ways to throw a fight, if that was the intention.’

‘What then?’ I sipped my wine, staring at the screen to avoid thinking about the crackling tension I could feel through the small gap between us. ‘Do you know the guy who was shouting at Levi? I recognize him from somewhere.’

‘You should do. He’s Carl Thomas: he and his wife live near your parents.’

I nodded. ‘Yes, that’s it. He’s the CEO of that bank…what’s the name of it?’

‘Don’t you remember? It was plastered all over the newspapers last week.’

I turned and rolled my eyes at him. ‘When do I have time to read the papers? My boss has me worked off my feet!’

‘You love it.’ A grin danced around the edges of his mouth.

Well, yes, I suppose he had a point there. In between debating my love life, I lived for my job catching bad guys. Actually, no, that wasn’t strictly true anymore. When I was a cop, I caught bad guys. Now I investigated insurance claims, but somehow I always managed to catch cases that still involved the bad guys. Lucky or crazy? I’m not sure which. This was precisely why I needed my investigatorish tools of a stun gun and my SIG handgun. I was a good shot, too. I’d even popped a cap in my ex boss’s ass. Not that I’m proud of it, really. OK, maybe just a little bit. It’s a long story and she more than deserved it.

‘OK, I’ll help you out,’ Brad said. ‘The bank is Kinghorn Thomas, owned by Carl Thomas and Edward Kinghorn.’

My eyes widened. ‘The same bank that had a safety deposit box robbery last week?’

Brad gave me a cool nod. ‘The very same.’

‘Romeo is investigating that case.’

‘What did he tell you about it?’

I tilted my head down and avoided his steady gaze. ‘Not much. The only thing I know is they haven’t caught anyone responsible yet.’

Brad raised an eyebrow. ‘Aren’t you discussing cop talk in the bedroom anymore?’

I suddenly found my nails incredibly interesting and stared at them until my eyes watered.

‘Well?’ Brad said.

Damn. He wouldn’t stop until I gave up some information. ‘Well if you must know, we’re on a break at the moment.’ I fixed my eyes firmly back on the TV. I really didn’t want to get into this discussion with Brad. Bad things might happen if I did.

Slowly he reached out and twirled a strand of my hair around his fingers. ‘Interesting. And why are you on a break?’

I tried to ignore him, but it was becoming increasingly impossible. I studied him from the corner of my eye. If I had to rate Brad out of ten, he’d be so far off the scale he’d be hitting quadruple figures. There was no denying how attractive he was. All the elements were there: the grey eyes that had a hint of blue when the light hit them just right, lined at the edges, giving him a dangerously sexy look; the solid cheek bones; the toned sleekness of a big cat; the full and particularly kissable lips – lips which at this moment in time looked like they wanted to kiss me.

Did I want him to kiss me, though? That was the question.

I batted his hand away to stop him molesting my hair any further, but he slipped his fingers through mine before I could stop him.

‘I told you before – stop fishing for information.’ I looked up and my eyes caught his.

I couldn’t tear them away from his. It was like he’d turned on some kind of invisible magnetic pull.

‘I’m not going to give up until I’ve got you back.’ His eyes darkened with determination.

I gulped hard. Yes, that was exactly what I was worried about. Brad could win a stubborn competition easily. Then again, so could I. But who would be the best man/woman standing?

For a moment, I struggled for words, which was very unlike me. Usually, the only time that happened was when I was asleep. Brad was the only person I’d ever met who seemed to have the power to render me speechless.

The sensible part of my brain said, Don’t even go there, Amber. The hot-blooded woman side of my brain said, Stop being such a wimp and go for it. They met somewhere in the middle, and I broke eye contact before the hot-blooded side took over and my brain turned to mushy goo.

‘We’re talking about Carl Thomas, remember?’ I released my hand from his and swirled the wine around in my glass to try and take my mind off lusty thoughts before I pounced on him and ripped his clothes off. ‘So, Carl Thomas’s bank had a robbery last week where a lot of safety deposit boxes were ransacked and property was stolen. What’s that got to do with Levi Carter?’

Brad shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Maybe nothing at all. But there’s something else that feels weird. I’ll replay it again. Keep your eyes on Levi’s manager sitting in the first row in front of the ring next to where Carl is standing. Watch his face when he hears what Carl is shouting at Levi.’ He rewound the fight again to the frame just before Carl arrived ringside.

‘There,’ Brad pointed and paused the frame. ‘That’s Levi’s manager.’ He pointed to an overweight guy around sixty years-old with creepy pale blue eyes and a freshly shaven head. He had the face and body of an ex-boxer himself – chunky and squished around the edges.

I let out an involuntary gasp. ‘Shit! That’s Vinnie Dawson. Better known as Mr. V to his friends or VD to his enemies.’ I chuckled. Childish, I know, but I couldn’t help myself.

‘You know him personally?’

‘Oh, yes, I know all about VD. I put his cousin, Lee, away for armed robbery about ten years ago. Lee and a few other lowlifes robbed the First National Bank.’ I pressed my lips together, trying to recall all the details of the case. ‘That kind of pissed Vinnie off. He and his cousin are like brothers.’ I tucked a stray curl behind my ear. ‘Vinnie did his own time in prison about forty years ago, too, for manslaughter. He beat someone to death who owed him money. He only served five years, though. He got time off for good behaviour.’ A fake laugh slipped out. ‘Good behaviour?’ I shook my head. ‘Somehow I can’t imagine Vinnie getting brownie points for offering to do extra washing up in the prison kitchen.’

Brad nodded. ‘When Vinnie came out of prison he got into the fight promotion industry. He’s made a hell of a lot of money over the years promoting boxers, wrestlers, cage fighters, and Thai boxers. In the fight world, he’s a powerful guy. He also has a lot of inside connections to other sports like football and rugby.’

I snorted. ‘Powerful and corrupt.’

‘Did you know that, as well as being the number one fight promoter in the UK, Vinnie is also a manager? In fact, he acts as both manager and promoter for Levi,’ Brad said.

‘So what’s the difference?’

‘The manager’s job is to look out for the best interests of the fighter. The promoter’s job is to look out for the best interests of the promoter.’

‘So what does the promoter do exactly?’ I tossed the last dregs of wine down my throat.

Brad nodded to my glass, asking for my approval to refill it as he spoke. I held it out and watched it fill the glass as he spoke.

‘The promoter’s job is to set up and pay for everything involved in a fight – from publicity right down to the chairs in the corner of the boxing ring and the drinks served at the venue. Because he assumes all of the financial risk involved in the event, he gets a bigger cut of the winning purse than the fighters.’

‘And what does the manager’s job entail?’ I asked.

‘Well, the manager will usually sort out gym schedules, travel and fight arrangements, approve the contracts for upcoming matches, paying the trainers – that kind of thing. But if a manager isn’t on the ball, many fighters could get a low cut from their fights and end up broke after years of fighting.’

‘Isn’t it illegal for a manager to be a promoter as well, then? It sounds like there’s a big conflict of interest.’

Brad shook his head. ‘Well, in boxing, as long as the boxer agrees, they can have the same manager and promoter.’

‘I don’t get it.’ I scrunched up my face. ‘Why would any fighter agree to having the same manager and promoter if there’s such a conflict?’

‘OK, let’s take boxing, since we’re talking about Levi here.’ Brad leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. ‘When a boxer is just starting his career and is hungry to be the next champion of the world, I would imagine he’s prepared to take the risk. There’s a lot of politics in boxing, and some of the top promoters can put obstacles in the way to stop or delay fighters getting a title shot.’

‘Hmm. A few years ago, when I was working on the special operations squad, there was a big investigation into Vinnie’s involvement in illegal sports betting. There were allegations that Vinnie was responsible for football match fixing, as well as rigging various fights. I wasn’t involved in it, though, so I don’t know what happened – only that they couldn’t get any solid evidence against him. Guess who was running that investigation?’

‘Who?’

‘Janice Skipper.’ I mimed poking my fingers down my throat and throwing up. Janice and I had history and it wasn’t pretty. ‘Considering she couldn’t investigate her way out of her front door without help, it’s not surprising that they never found anything to stick to Vinnie.’

Janice Skipper was my ex-Detective Chief Inspector and my arch-enemy. She was also the reason I left the police force. Correction – she had me thrown off the force before I got my job back and quit. I seemed to be collecting exes of all varieties. She was also the one I’d accidentally shot in the ass. Who knew I was such a good shot? She deserved it, though. Big time.

‘It’s also possible that the witnesses were too scared to implicate Vinnie in anything,’ Brad said. ‘Rumour has it he’s eliminated a few rivals or people who’ve tried to stand in his way in the past. But Vinnie is involved in it up to his eyeballs, aided and abetted by Lee, who runs a betting shop,’

That sounded about right. If you looked up the definition of a psychopath in the dictionary, I’m pretty sure you’d find Vinnie’s name. ‘What a great family business. I bet their parents are really pleased. What do you do for a living, son? Oh, I kill and torture people who get in my way. Good work, son. I’m really proud of your career choice.’ I snorted.

Brad pressed the start button on the remote control, and this time I wasn’t watching the actual fight, I was concentrating on what was going on outside it.

I saw Carl Thomas stride down the aisle in between the crowd, towards the ring, stopping inches away from where Vinnie sat. Engrossed in the match, Vinnie unwrapped a toffee and popped it in his mouth, chewing slowly. He discarded the wrapper on the floor. When Carl started shouting and pointing at Levi, that got Vinnie’s attention pretty quick. Vinnie’s jaw hung open, his cheeks puffed out and burned red like his head was stuck in a pressure cooker, and he glared at Carl with all the venom of a funnel-web spider. If looks could kill, Carl would’ve been boiled alive, decapitated, and stabbed with a thousand knives simultaneously.

The next minute, Levi was on the floor, clutching his eye, and security guards were wrestling Carl away from the ring and back up the aisle towards the exit. Vinnie whispered something to a huge thuggy looking guy with a bald head sitting next to him, and Thuggy disappeared up the aisle as well.

‘It looks like Vinnie understood exactly what Carl was shouting at Levi,’ I said.

‘Yes, but what was so important to make Levi lose his concentration and risk injury?’

‘I don’t know.’ I tucked my legs underneath me on the sofa, making myself comfortable. ‘But, anyway, you said yourself that Levi’s medical insurance payout would be negligible, so why the big interest in this?’

‘Like I said – I’ve got a personal interest in this. I had a call from Levi’s dad tonight. EJ says something’s going on with Levi and he’s worried.’ Brad glanced down at the ground, his eyes focusing on something I couldn’t see. ‘EJ was in my unit in the SAS. He’s a good guy, and I owe him a favour. I promised I’d do anything I could to help, and I always keep my promises.’

I locked my eyes on his and took a deep breath. The air felt cool on my lips. ‘Not always.’ I immediately regretted saying it the moment it flew out of my mouth. That’s the trouble with me: sometimes my mouth is a hundred miles ahead of my brain.

Brad opened his mouth to say something, but I cut him off before this conversation headed somewhere I didn’t want it to go. There was no point going around in circles. Been there. Done that. I was so not doing it again.

‘Well, what does Levi’s dad think is going on?’ I asked.

‘EJ said Levi’s wife, Letitia, told him that Levi’s been acting jumpy and nervous lately and making rash decisions about things, which is apparently not like him. EJ’s tried to talk to Levi, in case he’s in some sort of trouble, but Levi wasn’t giving anything away. Levi and EJ don’t have a particularly good relationship anymore.’

‘I see.’ My mind whirred away, working overtime. ‘So you have a boxer, a banker, and a boxing promoter. The boxer gets injured – which may or may not have been staged – the banker has his bank robbed, then suddenly turns up at Levi’s fight; the promoter is involved in illegal sports betting, and about a squillion other criminal activities; and his cousin was done for armed robbery fifteen years ago. Interesting.’ I tapped my lips. ‘The question is: what do they all have to do with each other?’

‘That’s what I need you to find out, Foxy.’