Camile Carson was kind enough to visit my blog today and without further ado here she is!
I’d like to thank AJ for inviting me to her blog. As a fan of her writing, I’m honored to be in such illustrious company.
I love mysteries, suspense and thrillers. Romance is a new genre for me. Adding spice and a lot of hot flesh to a gripping plot is quite easy. Romance enhances the novel and elevates it to new, orgasmic heights (pun intended.)
I allow the characters to develop themselves. I have grown to love them as if they were real. Letting the cast dictate the direction they want to travel is a unique style. I never use an outline and am quite surprised when I find out “who did it.” On “Lovers and Saints” my latest book published by Siren, I had no idea who the murderer was until the second draft. Combining a cast of suspects and creating a plot utilizing codes, religious icons, and sinister villains is a craft I love. If I don’t know “who did it” the reader might be surprised as well.
I hope you will enjoy “Lovers and Saints” as much as I adored writing it.
Sam loved being a journalist. As a child she always carried a notebook and pencil. Constantly jotting down events at school, Timmy falls off bike, Cindy scratches knee, Mr. Robbins stinks. It was the beginning of her life. She savored the words and flow of graphite over paper. Now, it was the flurry of fingertips on keyboards, tape recordings, and texting. The technology had changed, but not the words. Words wound threads of thought in her creative head, twisting and turning until the perfect tapestry of thought was produced.
Samantha drove to the gas station and picked up two paper cups of black coffee and a half dozen packets of sugar for Carl. Loving his sweets, Sam felt a twinge of pity for the man and picked up a pack of donuts as well. His stomach was bulging and his hairline receding, but that’s not what bothered Sam. Carl always found a way to touch her, whether it be a pat on the arm, a friendly embrace, or a seemingly innocent brush against her thigh. Sensations of nausea would pang Sam as her skin crawled when he invaded her space.
Briar’s park loomed in front of her. The iron gates stood open. Rust prevented the closure of the security barrier. She could see dew dripping from the birch trees. A small current of breath blew each tender leaf. The park was beautiful this time of day. In a few hours, mothers with their children in tow would invade the serenity and stillness that enveloped her.
Briar’s park was close to Sam’s home and work. Actually, everything in Crompton was intimate. It wasn’t a small town like Mayberry, yet far from New York City. As much as she loved the familiarity, Sam yearned to be a reporter in a big city. One day, she would uncover a huge story that would make her byline known globally. Smiling at this thought, she pulled her Honda into the park and replaced her thoughts of fame with the crime scene ahead.
Yellow tape was being set around the pond, the adjacent playground, and the picnic area. Carl had come through for her again. There was no sign of the press. Once again, he had got Sam to the forefront of a big headline.
“Hey, Copperton, what songbird sang for you this morning?” Detective Grant Wilson yelled across the lawn. She waved and gave him a flashing smile.
“Just felt like taking a walk in the park. What’s going on here? Are you decorating for a birthday party?” Samantha liked Grant. He was sturdy in build, tendrils neglected to lay flat against his slightly graying hair. No matter how neatly dressed he was, she was always drawn to his unkempt coif.
Despite Carl’s objections, Grant had introduced Sam to Paul. There was symmetry that attracted the pair immediately. Grant used to tease Sam that he hand-picked Paul just for her. Like Carl, Grant and Paul had been lifelong pals in Crompton. The three played baseball, football, and skinny-dipped in the stream outside of town. They were brothers. There was another musketeer in the group, one that Sam detested. Andre was nothing like Carl the simpleton, Grant the wise, and Paul the delicious.
“And, you brought coffee. That was sweet.” Grant reached out and grabbed Carl’s coffee.
“Hey that’s for…the birds. Go ahead, enjoy.” Sam felt like one of the family around Grant. Her acceptance into the group was smooth and flowing. Sam thought this must be what having brothers was like.
“Where’s my—oh, you have it. A guy can’t even get a cup of coffee anymore.” Carl joined the two. He started to put his arm around Sam, but she moved slightly closer to Grant. Winking, Grant appeared to catch on.
“Sorry”—Samantha smiled—“Detective Wilson thought the cup was his.”
“Grant thinks everything is his.” There was a bit of sting to the sentence.
The three headed toward the crime scene. Samantha could see a platform sandal in the grass. The closer Sam got to the body, she saw pieces of clothing strewn about. Samantha turned sharply when a hand was placed roughly on her shoulder.
“What the hell are you doing here? The press hasn’t been called. Get back to your little office and write an article on the new supermarket opening.”
It was Andre Carson. Samantha cringed at his stark attitude. She hoped he would be playing cops and robbers elsewhere. Andre’s breath was hot against her neck as he moved in closer. Sam could feel her heart beating against her chest. Anger and a bit of sexual tension seemed to mount whenever Andre was near.
“I was taking an early-morning walk and saw the police cars. I’m nosy, remember?” Samantha shook his hand off of her. Glaring into his sienna eyes, she shuddered under his gaze. Scowling at her, the lines around his mouth touched the faint hint of a mustache. Andre always made Sam a bit agitated and out of control. The aroma of his cologne stopped her, jasmine with a bit of spice, she thought. He should be wearing garlic. Sam began to chuckle at her own inside joke.
“You have no business here. Leave so the police can do their work.” His intense voice penetrated her ears and made Sam’s knees wobble. His black linen jacket brushed against her arm as it flapped in the breeze. Chills ran down her back.
“Come on, Andre,” Carl chided in. “You know she is one of the best investigative reporters around. She even broke the Franco murder case last month. If it wasn’t for her, we never would have found the weapon in the wheel well of Arthur Franco’s car.” Samantha was grateful for Carl’s gracious interruption. It seemed that Carl was particularly protective of her when it came to Andre.
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