Excerpt - A Spirited Liaison by Carol McPhee

Erin Parker marches to the beat of her own drummer. With an 18th century privateer running interference, CEO Lance Dalton suffers the consequences.

One
Her heart beating with the ferocity of a jungle drum, Erin Parker struggled for some sense of dignity as she rushed toward a new office tower standing proud above the Halifax waterfront. She thought herself in control—until she reached the front of the building and saw high above the pillared entrance, the gleaming brass letters of Dalton Industries. The twenty-five floors of white concrete and green-tinted glass shouted money...and power.

With concentration, Erin managed to slow her breathing, and entered. Her three-inch, navy stiletto heels echoed as she clicked across the vast marble floor to the information desk. Only by squeezing her coral-lacquered fingernails tightly to her palms could she stop her hands from shaking. She awaited acknowledgment.

The receptionist, a dainty, middle-aged woman with silver-rimmed glasses perched low on her nose, looked up from a file of papers. “May I help you?”


For torturous seconds Erin stood mute, deserted by the words she had carefully rehearsed. “Ah...yes, please? I’m looking for Lance Dalton’s office.” Her eyes darted around the polished granite walls of the intimidating lobby.

“Mr. Dalton’s offices are on the top floor.”

Erin nodded. “Thank you.”

She marched down a short hall and pressed the pearled Up button between a gleaming set of brass elevator doors. When one of the doors whispered open, she stepped into the spacious lift, engulfed by easy-listening music piped in above the padded, black leather walls. The door slid back in place.

Short breaths calmed her anxiety over the claustrophobic confinement as she pressed PH for the penthouse suite. Simmer down; you can’t present yourself as a bundle of nerves. She fiddled with the irritating flyaway strands of hair tickling her temples, trying to bring them under a semblance control. The door whooshed open. Erin braced her spine and stepped out. Her shoes, soundless on the thick, gray carpeting, she walked across the sunlit reception room to a sexy-looking blond ensconced behind a cluttered desk. “I’d like to see Mr. Dalton, please.”

The secretary scanned her appointment book. “Mr. Dalton doesn’t have any appointments scheduled this morning. It isn’t possible to see him without one.”

Erin coughed to clear her dry throat. She noticed an ornate oak door off to the left bore the name Lance Dalton in gold leaf on a wide ebony bar.

“Mr. Dalton never sees anyone who comes in off the street. If you give me your name and the nature of your business, I can set up a meeting in, shall we say, three weeks?”

“No. That won’t do. Would you tell him Erin Parker is here? James Parker is my father. I’m sure he’ll make an exception in my case.”

Miss Sexy Blonde pursed her lips, tossed her pen on the stack of papers and flounced to Mr. High and Mighty’s office door. She knocked, waited a moment and then slipped inside, closing the door behind her. A trail of fruity perfume, heavy enough to overdose the most stalwart visitor, lingered in the air. Erin coughed again to relieve the tickle in her throat. She couldn’t hear a word and doubted she could if she stuck her ear against the keyhole. She wrinkled her nose. What a disgusting picture if I lowered myself to eavesdrop.

Her unease rising, Erin realized she would have to tread lightly. Though she had often visited businessmen in the past, she had been away from that world for some time. Overjoyed at no longer having to cope with embarrassing leers from executives, only a major disaster could have caused her to seek out this particular CEO. She had heard rumblings about his high-handed tactics while researching his background. Nevertheless, once the idea struck her to seek backing for her father in his time of need, she had to start somewhere. Here she was, coming out of the gate chasing one of Nova Scotia’s wealthiest corporate sharks.

The secretary emerged and took her seat behind the desk. “I’m sorry; Mr. Dalton is busy and can’t see you until the end of next week, at the earliest.”

Erin winced at the young woman’s smug grin, but she noticed the office door hadn’t entirely closed. “I’m sorry, too,” she replied as she sidled to the left front corner of the desk. “Sorry, because I can’t accept his refusal. Mr. Dalton will see me...and now.”


In the minuscule seconds that followed, she lunged forward and shouldered the door open before the secretary could jump off her chair. Determined strides carried Erin into the room near a mammoth desk dwarfed by the monstrous plate glass windows behind it. A grand harbor view spread before her but she gave it only a cursory glance. The dark-haired man, bolting upright from his chair, magnetized her eyes directly to him.


“I told Miss Rafferty, I have no time for you today!” The huge man coolly buttoned his navy suit jacket and smoothed its fine fabric. His sober face warned of his annoyance.

Erin wasn’t so shocked at her daring feat that she failed to note how his pictures on the society page didn’t do him justice. Not even close. His strong jaw, braced by the tight line of his mouth, hardened the stare of his ice-laden blue eyes, but his anger couldn’t lessen her purpose.

“When my father’s life is at stake, I don’t take kindly to brush-offs, Mr. Dalton.”

Energy sizzled in the silence of the room.

“I’m a busy man. I don’t make time for theatrics.”

“Might I suggest you make time for me. Five minutes is adequate.”

The secretary nervously stopped at the threshold. “Should I call Security, Mr. Dalton?”

The man’s color heightened. Temper or embarrassment? Either would likely do her in.

“No,” he replied, “I’ll take care of this, Trudy.”

Erin’s heart pounded extra beats at her unexpected success.
Once the secretary was out of the equation, the master of this high-rise kingdom turned his attention back to her. Under other circumstances, Erin might have squirmed under his piercing glare, but the urgency of her quest would not allow her to wilt.

A Spirited Liaison available from www.champagnebooks.com and www.fictionwise.com

Latest release: A Structured Affair
Now available from www.champagnebooks.com and www.fictionwise.com

Strong, smart, sensuous heroines; heroes to die for.
Carol McPhee: http://www.geocities.com/carolmcphee2003

Excerpt - A Structured Affair by Carol McPhee

The Tiverton Tribune's red banner headlines highlighted the article
that all but arrested, convicted, and sentenced the man Detective
Sloane Jamieson most wanted to see again. In charge of the
investigation, Sloane glanced at the newspaper's account: Stephen
Morgan, internationally known artist, will be questioned further today
regarding last night's untimely death of his wife. Found on the
shoreline rocks below his studio balcony, Emily Morgan, 40, was
pronounced dead at the scene.

Last night Sloane interviewed the Japanese gardener who telephoned
headquarters at 8:30 p.m. after finding the body. Takeo, shaking in
his rubber boots at the scene, stated he had gone to the area to
retrieve tools he had used earlier to fix the wooden staircase leading
down to the shore. Stephen Morgan, stoic and barely communicative,
answered only basic questions concerning an alibi for the time period
involved. Sloane intended to interview him further, but he hadn't
mentioned it to the press. The Tribune's reporter simply surmised it
and the paper printed it as fact.

The Tribune ran sketchy details about the victim's husband: 43 years
old, raised on horse farms in various New England states, Morgan was a
high school dropout more interested in painting scenery than wandering
the halls of academe.

Sloane read the next part aloud: "Morgan's paintings sell in the tens
of thousands of dollars. Reliable sources informed this paper that the
police have not substantiated his claim to have been reading in his
home library all evening."

The detective shook his head in dismay. Most people wouldn't have
witnesses if they were home alone. Why is the reporter stressing this?
And why is he going beyond the bounds of good taste? The article's
byline spouts Graham Dunne as the reporter. Ah, yes, the newspaper's
new shock jock.

The report continued: Emily Morgan, heiress to the Thompson chain of
software companies, was an only child and had inherited her father's
vast wealth several years ago.

The column further reported the victim's husband and the couple's
daughter, Stephanie, stood in line for the family fortune. The
reporter had interviewed the household staff and a number of the
couple's neighbors. One neighbor, speaking under conditions of
anonymity, explained, "About eight years ago, pregnant at the time,
Emily married the artist against her father's wishes. But with the
birth of their daughter, all was forgiven."

The news item related that both Stephen and Emily were active in the
community and frequently graced The Tribune's social pages. Sloane
read slowly: The family's seemingly idyllic life was shattered two
years ago on a visit to India, when, as reported in this paper,
Stephanie, five years old at the time, contracted an illness that left
her in fragile health.

The story ended with a brief description of the Morgan home—the old
Fraser mansion—and of Morgan's private art studio–a converted carriage
house perched on the bluff, overlooking the bay.

Sloane folded the newspaper, throwing it in the wastebasket just as
his phone rang. "Hello?"

"Call off your dogs, Jamieson; I'm coming in."

"You do that, Morgan. I'll be waiting." His temper rising, Sloane, out
of habit, reached in his inside pocket for a cigarette before
remembering he quit some weeks ago. The newspaper hadn't reported how
Sloane and his men raced to the scene, arriving to see the victim's
husband holding her hand. Morgan suggested offhand she may have
slipped on the wet floor of the studio's second floor balcony and
toppled over. Upon looking up, Sloane wondered how anyone could slide
over the high ornate wrought iron railing. The flesh at the back of
Sloane's neck crawled with unease. Suspicion was his middle name when
it came to a death that could be orchestrated. Involvement of the
filthy rich added to his discomfort.

~ * ~


Dr. Catherine Malloy, enjoying a day off from her new, less than
satisfying job at the police department, had every intention of
sleeping until noon. Alas! With the phone's ring at 7:30 a.m. she
jerked alert, roused from a dreamless sleep. No way am I going to
spoil my day at this hour. "Stop ringing!"

The voice of her superior blared from the answering machine. "Cath, I
know you're there. Pick up this call. You said you wanted excitement,
now prove it."

Catherine fumbled with the phone and, untangling the curled cord,
pulled the receiver to her ear. "Yes, Sloane?"

The husky, authoritative voice droned the latest newsworthy event.
When it sank into her head that she had a chance to get involved in
something other than profiling petty criminals, she sat up, dangled
her feet over the edge of the mattress and crossed her fingers. "I
want in on it."

"Thought so. You can observe my interview with Stephen Morgan and give
me your impression of him."

"Sure, Sloane. I thought you didn't believe in analysis."

"It's about time we put that psychology degree of yours to real work.
See if it's worth the money the town council is paying you."

"Degrees, Sloane. Got my Masters, too, you know."

"Yeah, yeah, I remember reading that somewhere. Some of us had to
learn our profession through the school of hard knocks and numerous
night courses. I foresee the day you could be my boss based on those
pieces of paper. Hope I get to retire first."

"Aww, you'll never quit a job you love so much." Catherine smiled and
fingered a fold on her soft thermal blanket.

"Okay, just so we understand the situation from my point of view—if
you ever should become in charge, I get to retire for the sake of my
health."

"You know, Sloane, psychological expertise speaking here, your bark is
a masquerade of your weak bite."

"On whose say-so?"

"My free professional opinion. I'll be down at the station in a half
hour."

"You'll be down here in twenty minutes, max."

"Yes, sir. Whatever you say. Just tell the guys not to pick me up for
speeding."

"That clunker of yours probably won't do more than the speed limit."

"Guess you got me there. See you shortly. And Sloane?"

"What?"

"Thanks."

***

Catherine's eyes widened at the number of photographers gathered round
the station's main entrance. Making a mad dash, she managed to enter a
side door and avoid their attention. A sergeant stationed there to
prevent intrusion pointed her to the observation room. "Sloane's
waiting for you."

"Thank you." The room's one-way mirror would enable her to watch the
interview without being seen—an excellent chance to study the
personality and characteristics of an alleged perpetrator. Her hand on
the doorknob, she glanced back up the hall and saw a man dressed in
paint-splattered jeans and a baggy grey sweatshirt. He glanced her
way. Their eyes locked for only an instant but, in those few seconds,
she noted his defiance mixed with a touch of reluctance. Under police
escort, he waited for an officer to open the neighboring door. She
looked away, clawing at her memory. Stephen Morgan! She'd seen his
picture in the paper advertising his current art show in town. When
she looked back, he had entered the interview room. She walked into
the observation room.

"'Bout time you got here, Cath. Stop for coffee?"

Grrr. "Listen Sloane, shouldn't you be sitting on a log, fishing,
letting younger officers handle investigations?"

His brown doe eyes narrowed. "Let's not forget who is offering you a
chance to demonstrate what you can do."

Catherine laughed a little too forcefully, aware she didn't know him
well enough to always catch when he was serious and when he was toying
with her. "Comment taken with a grain of salt. You want to see what I
can do. Let's get started."

A Structured Affair
Available at www.champagnebooks.com and www.fictionwise.com

Strong, smart, sensuous heroines; heroes to die for.
Carol McPhee: http://www.geocities.com/carolmcphee2003