Welcome Karalee Long, Passion in Print author of Love and Murder in Red Satin
Karalee's novel is available now from Passion in Print and other third party retail sites.
Welcome, Karalee!
Love and Murder In Red Satin
Blurb:
Allie Blair, a divorced marriage counselor
accused of murdering her ex-husband, tries to prove her innocence but
unwittingly accepts the help of the one man who wants to prove her guilt.
Greg Weston, a Denver homicide detective,
vows to bring his cousin's accused murderer, Allie Blair, to justice. To
win her trust, he signs up for a class she's teaching, "What Women
Want."
When Allie becomes a target of the actual
killer, her sizzling chemistry with Greg ignites passion too hot to ignore.
But Greg knows even if they survive, he'll lose Allie when she learns
he's a cop.
Excerpt
from Love and Murder In Red Satin
Prologue
Ian Feldman had confessed his desire
to Allie Blair over coffee an hour ago, but nothing had changed. He sucked in
his gut and tugged harder on the zipper. He’d put on a couple of pounds, but
slowly the fabric came together encasing him, transforming him.
He puffed out his chest, admiring
his reflection in the full-length mirror. Satisfied, he glanced at his watch,
ten-thirty. At least a half hour before Laura would be home. Maybe it was time
to tell her. Would she still love him? Would revealing his secret eliminate the
rush he got from doing this and he’d be normal?
A noise downstairs made him flinch.
Oh, my god, Laura was home early. He grabbed the zipper tab then stopped. He’d
told Allie how this made him feel, and she wasn’t repulsed.
“Courage,”
he said to his reflection and went downstairs to tell his sweet wife.
But it wasn’t Laura.
Chapter One
Next morning
At
seven forty-five Friday morning, Allie Blair turned her six-dollar purse upside
down, dumping the contents on the sun-heated asphalt at the back door of Jake’s
Grocery.
“Where’s the damn key?”
Crap, she didn’t have it. Looking
back the way she’d come, across the field separating her uncle’s house from his
store, she pulled the cell phone he’d loaned her from her jeans pocket. She
hoped he’d be the one to answer, but naturally, Hazel answered, clearly
perturbed at having to do so. The woman was nothing like Aunt Christine had
been, but Allie didn’t blame Uncle Jake for remarrying.
“I forgot the key,” Allie said,
hoping she hadn’t lost it. She hadn’t lost anything in a week and thought that
was a sign she was getting her life back together, but signs, like husbands,
could be deceptive.
“Could I borrow yours? I’ll run back
and get it.”
“You’re late enough as it is. I’ll
have to bring it to you.”
A loud click in Allie’s ear
punctuated Hazel’s attitude. If the store didn’t open at eight, Hazel would
rail at Uncle Jake again to kick Allie out of their house. Not that he’d ever
do it, but she hated causing him more trouble.
With perspiration trickling between
her breasts and head pounding from the Colorado July heat, she put everything
back in her purse and almost cut her finger on a piece of glass. Noticing more
pieces, she looked up at the light above the back door. Broken.
She scraped the glass to the side with her foot and heard
Hazel coming down the worn path through the field. The woman had four inches
and fifty pounds on Allie’s five-foot, six-inch and a hundred and twenty
pounds. At least her husband, ex-husband, had relieved her of ten pounds along
with nearly everything else. For all the good it had done him.
She rubbed her temples, trying to
vanquish the headache along with the bitterness. How many times had she told
her therapy clients that bitterness only harms the person who harbors it? Besides,
even though her ex had destroyed her financially, she would’ve never wished him
dead. But someone had.
Hazel’s arrival dispersed the images
of her ex. Unlocking the back door, Hazel pushed ahead of her into the
stockroom and did a left-handed uppercut to the light switch.
The air conditioning chilled the
perspiration on Allie’s skin, making her shiver, and the dust and stale odor
made her sneeze. Hazel pointed to some blue goop spilled on the cement floor
outside the office.
“That mess wasn’t there when I
closed up last night,” Hazel snapped. “Did you come back after that class of
yours?”
“No. Maybe some kind of vibration
caused a bottle to fall and break.”
Like Hazel slamming the back door as
she locked up last night, venting her anger over Uncle Jake taking the class
Allie taught on Thursday nights, “What Women Want.” But it was abundantly clear
all Hazel wanted was Allie out of their lives.
“Well, clean it up. I’ll take the cash drawers up front and
unlock the doors before those snobby old women break in.”
They’re about your age, Allie
thought. Well, except for Thelma Hurst. She was seventy-five but young at
heart. And none of them were snobs. Hazel was just pissed because they hadn’t
invited her to join their Just For The Hell Of It Club after she married Uncle
Jake a year ago.
Allie put her purse in Uncle Jake’s
office where memories of Aunt Christine dying of cancer sent her to the
restroom that also served as the custodial supply closet. Cleaning was good
therapy for blotting out bad memories. Of course, some would never go away.
She discarded the ruptured, plastic
container of liquid Tide. It had toppled off a pallet of detergent waiting to
be shelved, and someone had tracked through it. On her hands and knees, she scrubbed
the sticky blue goop that smelled like clothes being laundered.
The cement floor was old and pocked. Not only was the
affected area now lighter than the rest of the floor, the accumulated dirt and
dried goop in the gouges left a polka dot pattern. And she smelled like Tide.
Finishing, she washed her hands,
aimed an exhaled breath upward to lift her bangs off her throbbing, sweaty
forehead, and glanced at her watch. Twelve minutes after eight.
Hazel would’ve let the early-bird
sales shoppers in by now, along with the other cashier. That allowed Allie a
few minutes. She liked to check the produce area before Thelma Hurst met her
seventy-nine-year-old admirer, Earl Evans, for their fruit and vegetable
tete-a-tete. Bruised bananas, shriveled peppers, and spongy tomatoes didn’t make
for a romantic tryst locale. Leaving the stockroom, she nearly ran into Elise
Sawyer, Thelma’s daughter.
“Oh, sorry.”
“Have you seen my mother?” Elise asked.
Allie felt like K-Mart bumping into Nordstrom. Elise always
dressed well, but a gray silk suit and matching pumps to shop for groceries?
“Uh, no, but she might be in the dairy section. Excuse me.”
Allie hurried in the opposite direction, knowing Thelma
would be headed for the produce and Earl. True romance was hard to come by at
any age, and if a little misdirection could help, she was all for it. As far as
she knew, Elise didn’t know her mother and Earl were sweet on each other, and
apparently, the couple was content to keep it that way.
Heading for the produce, she saw Greg Weston reaching for a
box of Wheaties in aisle six, his muscled arms and chest threatening to burst
his blue T-shirt. She hurried past. It was bad enough he was taking her class,
his handsome face smiling at her even though she’d turned down his offer of
dinner. He had to shop here.
After aisle twelve, she wended her
way through the islands of produce and snatched a moldy peach and two bruised
plums from the table on her left. Checking the grapes as she rounded another
table, she slipped and nearly fell. Congratulating herself on not dropping the
peach and plums, she looked down to see what she’d stepped on.
A tomato. Another one sat on the
floor a few feet away, its dried leaked contents promising more cleaning
opportunities. Skipping the oranges, she hurried around the corner. Smashed
tomatoes were all over the floor.
And among them sat Ian Feldman, president of High View’s
Chamber of Commerce, his head and shoulders leaning against the tomato table.
His eyes were closed, and they’d never see anything again.
She screamed and dropped the peach
and plums.
She heard people coming, but everything
moved in slow motion. Except her. She couldn’t move at all.
“My God, that’s Ian.”
Allie recognized Earl’s voice.
“Good heavens, he’s dead.”
That was Thelma’s voice.
“He’s wearing my red dress!”
Oh, no, that was Laura Feldman. She
shouldn’t have to see her husband like this. Allie started to move to block
Laura’s view, but that didn’t work out too well.
“I’ve got you,” a deep voice said
behind her.
She found herself in the arms of the
man she’d been trying to avoid. Greg Weston’s dark eyes jerked her back to
reality.
“Let go of me.”
“You were about to faint.”
“I don’t faint.” She’d never fainted
in her life. Not even when her husband – her dead ex-husband – had demanded a
divorce.
Greg didn’t let go of her. Just as
she started to protest, Hazel pushed through the small crowd.
“Allison, what did you do? Aaaghhh.”
“Go to the front of the store, all
of you,” Greg ordered. “Call 9-1-1 and wait for the police there. And don’t let
anyone else in.”
Allie twisted free of Greg, lost her
balance, and found herself back in his arms.
“My poor Ian,”
Laura gasped. “Ohhh …”
Greg let go of her to catch Laura. Standing
unsupported, Allie looked at Ian again. And saw the bullet hole in the red,
satin evening gown where a woman’s left breast should be.
All she could think was, oh, God,
not again.
This was the second dead man she’d
discovered in the last three weeks.
BUY LINKS
Karalee
Long’s Bio
Karalee Long has been writing stories since
second grade. Reading comic books taught
her story structure while her imagination conjured characters to talk with and
adventures to plot. She now writes
romantic suspense and paranormal romantic suspense novels.
She lives at the foothills of the Rocky
Mountains with her husband, an alpha male cockatiel who owns the family room,
and Bad Boy Bones who came to visit at Halloween and now resides in the living
room—and doesn’t pay rent. She and her
husband are blessed with a wonderful son, amazing daughter-in-law, and lovable
grandson.
She loves to hear from readers at www.karaleelong.com. Or
catch her at www.facebook.com/karaleelong or www.twitter.com/KaraleeLong.
