DEBORAH CROMBIE: Yep, I am still plodding along on A KILLING OF INNOCENTS, Duncan and Gemma #19, but I am getting there! I have a cover, too, which is now approved by the sales and marketing crew (the really important people!) at my publisher's, but I can't share it quite yet. I'm so excited about it, however, that I have to give you a little teaser.
The background photo is a pub, so perfect for this book. And not just any pub, but this iconic pub!!
It's the Bloomsbury Tavern, one of London's most historic pubs, reputed to have been the last watering hole for the condemned en route to the hangman's noose a few miles to the west at Marble Arch. Tucked away where Shaftsbury Avenue meets Oxford Street, you could say it sits between Bloomsbury and Soho, the two London areas where most of this book is set. And look at those windows! Are they not gorgeous?
I think this cover is perfect!! Fingers crossed that by the next time WHAT WE'RE WRITING rolls around, I can show it to you. (And that I will have actually typed THE END.)
In the meantime, as I get further into the book it becomes more and more challenging to find little excerpts that don't contain plot spoilers. But here's a snippet I especially like because it's such fun to write Duncan and Gemma "off camera", so to speak. And it's not that this happens to be a bedroom scene, but rather that one of the things I love most about reading and writing is seeing the little details of people's lives, whether it's how they dunk their teabags or what time their central heating comes on.
A faint rattling sound gradually penetrated Kincaid’s consciousness. Blearily, he forced open one eye. The room was dark except for the faint glow of the night light in the bathroom. Gemma lay with her bare back pressed against his side like a human furnace, her shoulder bare where the duvet had fallen away.
He lay, listening to her breathing, which was deep and regular but a bit more wheezy than usual. It came back to him then in little fragments, her outing with Sidana, and the aftermath. Gemma had been tipsy—well, maybe more than tipsy—and he hadn’t objected to her lowered inhibitions. At all.
Smiling at the memory, he rested one hand on the curve of her hip and with the other adjusted the duvet so that it covered her again. With a sigh, he sank back towards contented sleep.
Then the rattling began again. No, not rattling, buzzing, like an angry insect. This time he came fully awake, eyes wide. His mobile, left face down on the bedside table in his haste to get undressed, was vibrating against the hard surface.
Swearing under his breath, he grabbed the offending phone and eased out of the bed, trying not to wake Gemma. He swore again as the cold air in the bedroom hit his nakedness, puckering his skin in a wave of gooseflesh. Reaching the bathroom in two strides, he pulled the door closed and slipped, shivering, into his dressing gown.
Only then did Kincaid peer at the phone screen, checking the time and the missed call log. Half past six. And every call said Simon Gikas, Simon Gikas, Simon Gikas. His heart sank. An early morning call from his case manager was never a good thing.
The radiator clanked as the central heating switched on. Sitting on the edge of tub, he rang Simon back.
Simon picked up on the first ring. “Boss. Sorry to wake you at such an ungodly hour on a Sunday morning.”
“What’s happened?” Kincaid asked.
Well, dear readers, you will have to wait and see!
