In the Spotlight: The Deadly Lies (The Delingpole Mysteries #2) by David C. Dawson (excerpt)

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The Deadly Lies (The Delingpole Mysteries #2) by David C. Dawson
DSP Publications
Cover art by LC. Chase

Available for Purchase at

DSP PublicationsAmazon Kindle US  | Amazon paperback US.    | Apple iBooks  | Barnes & NobleKobo Books |  

Goodreads 

Scattered Thoughts and Rogue Words is happy to host DAvid C. Dawson here today on his tour for The Deadly Lies. Welcome, David.

✒︎

The Deadly Lies is the second in the Dominic Delingpole Mysteries series. The first The Necessary Deaths was published a year ago, and won an FAPA award for mystery and suspense.

Blurb

Dominic and Jonathan are on their romantic Spanish honeymoon, and things are perfect… except Dominic has kept a secret from his husband. He’s failed to tell Jonathan that he plans to meet his former lover, Bernhardt, who is speeding on his way from Germany to present Dominic with a mysterious gift. 

But Bernhardt is killed in a suspicious car accident. Shortly before he dies, he sends Dominic a bizarre text message that will take the newlyweds on a hair-raising adventure. 

Lies upon lies plunge Dominic and Jonathan into an internet crime that could destroy the lives of millions of people. What is the mysterious Charter Ninety-Nine group? And will their planned internet assault force Dominic to choose between the fate of the world and the life of his lover?

Excerpt

“What the hell are you two doing down here?”
Steve pushed his head past Sinon’s naked torso, to see a short, red- haired female flight attendant staring furiously at them.
Sinon levered himself up on Steve’s chest and poked his head out from the tiny bunk bed situated eight feet above the floor. It was one of fourteen similar bunks in the compact crew quarters hidden below the plane’s economy deck. “I can explain, really. Charlie said—”
“I don’t for a minute believe Mr. O’Donnell gave you permission to come down here to—” The flight attendant struggled to find words. “— do that.” Her voice, hardened by the edge of a strong Glaswegian accent, seemed to explode across the cramped cabin.
“Right, gentlemen,” continued the flame-haired woman firmly. “You have exactly one minute to put your clothes on and get back upstairs. Otherwise we’ll be getting the flex cuffs out to restrain you two reprobates for the rest of the flight.”
Sinon jumped down from the bunk bed, stretched out his arms to the flight attendant, and grinned. “Flex cuffs? Yes, please. A bit of bondage is always welcome—” He peered at her name badge. “—Margaret. Didn’t know you were such an accommodating airline.”
Margaret looked Sinon up and down with disdain. “I thought that tall boys like you were supposed to be well-endowed. I was clearly misinformed.” Sinon dropped his arms and reached down to pick up his clothes from the floor. Steve jumped down beside him and began to dress. In the cramped space of the crew compartment, he towered over the diminutive woman.
“Well, love,” said Steve, “you should know more than most that size doesn’t matter. It’s what you do with it that counts.” He winked at Margaret, pulled up his briefs and bleacher jeans, and reached for his polo shirt.
“Margaret? Are you all right?” At the sound of a man’s voice, Steve turned. Another member of the cabin crew had joined them. His name badge showed him to be Charles O’Donnell, In Flight Services Manager. O’Donnell looked to be in his early forties, with crew-cut salt-and-pepper hair and a deeply tanned face and forearms. He looked past Margaret, saw Steve and Sinon, and rolled his eyes.
“It’s all right, Margaret,” he said. There was a strong Northern Irish accent in his voice. “I’ll take care of this.”
Margaret looked from her boss to the giggling figures of Steve and Sinon. “If I had my way, I’d tan their backsides,” she said and pushed past O’Donnell to climb the stairs back to the passenger deck.
O’Donnell folded his arms, leaned against a bulkhead, and closed his eyes. “Of all people to discover you, it had to be Margaret the Mouth. I’m really going to be in the shite now.” He opened his eyes. “Couldn’t you two wait a few more hours until you were back on the ground before you got your dicks out?”
Sinon finished buttoning his fly. He stepped forward and clumsily tried to hug O’Donnell. “Sorry, Charlie boy. But you did slip me the key. I didn’t think we’d been spotted.”
“With him dressed like that?” O’Donnell pushed Sinon away and refolded his arms, glowering at Steve. “Shaved head, tattoos, braces, Doc Marten boots—”
“Grinders, Charlie,” interrupted Sinon. “Steve’s got a really smart set of Grinders.”
“Whatever,” Charlie continued. “It might be an attractive look for some people—”
“People like you and me, Charlie,” added Sinon, grinning. “You know it makes you horny.”
“All right, all right.” O’Donnell sighed. “Look, I’ve had several people ask me why we’re allowing a Nazi thug to y with us. He’s been scaring the life out of my passengers. Couldn’t he have toned it down? Just for a few hours?”
“Why should I?” asked Steve, stepping forward. “Why should I be forced to dress like everyone else? I’m Steve, by the way. And for your information, I’m not a Nazi thug. I’ve been a member of Unite Against Fascism since I was sixteen. Just because I like the look—as do you by the sounds of it—”
Charles O’Donnell’s face flushed red.
“—doesn’t mean I like the politics.”
“That’s a bit naïve, isn’t it?” replied O’Donnell.
“No, Charlie boy,” Sinon said. “What’s naïve is judging people by appearances. Just because someone’s wearing a smart suit and tie doesn’t mean they’re a good little boy.” He turned to Steve. “You should have seen Charlie in his leathers during London Fetish Week. On Masters and Slaves night, he had them eating out of his—”

“Enough, you little shite,” said O’Donnell, holding up his hand. “Get up those stairs, the pair of you.” Steve and Sinon squeezed past him, kissing O’Donnell on the cheek as they went. “And keep a low profile, please,” he continued.

When he heard the hatch slam shut at the top of the stairs, O’Donnell leaned back against the bulkhead and closed his eyes. “For my sake. I’ve got a boyfriend and two Yorkshire terriers to feed.”

 

Links to The Necessary Deaths – The Delingpole Mysteries: Book One 

A young journalism student lies unconscious in a hospital bed in Brighton, England. His life hangs in the balance after a drug overdose. But was it attempted suicide or attempted murder? The student’s mother persuades British lawyer Dominic Delingpole to investigate, and Dominic enlists the aid of his outspoken opera singer partner, Jonathan McFadden.

The student’s boyfriend discovers compromising photographs hidden in his lover’s room. The photographs not only feature senior politicians and business chiefs, but the young journalist himself. Is he being blackmailed, or is he the blackmailer?

As Dominic and Jonathan investigate further, their lives are threatened and three people are murdered. They uncover a conspiracy that reaches into the highest levels of government and powerful corporations. The people behind it are ruthless, and no one can be trusted. The bond between Dominic and Jonathan deepens as they struggle not only for answers, but for their very survival.

Dreamspinner https://www.dsppublications.com/books/the-necessary-deaths-by-david-c-dawson-321-b

Amazon Kindle US https://www.amazon.com/Necessary-Deaths-Delingpole-Mysteries-Book-ebook/dp/B073Q86B5Q/ref=tmm_kin_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=1473457953&sr=1-4

Amazon paperback US https://www.amazon.com/Necessary-Deaths-Delingpole-Mysteries/dp/1634774507/ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=1473457953&sr=1-4

Apple iBooks https://itunes.apple.com/gb/book/the-necessary-deaths/id1135889190?mt=11

About the Author

David C. Dawson is an award-winning author, journalist and documentary maker. He lives near Oxford in the UK with two cats and his beloved Triumph motorbike.

He writes mystery & suspense, with men in love at the heart of each story. His books have been described as “real page-turners” and “un-put-downable”. His debut novel The Necessary Deaths, won a FAPA award for Mystery & Suspense.

One reviewer for his latest book The Deadly Lies described it as “very sexy”. He campaigns hard for equal rights, and sings with the London Gay Men’s Chorus.

SOCIAL LINKS

Website http://www.davidcdawson.co.uk

Blog http://blog.davidcdawson.co.uk/#home

Facebook https://www.facebook.com/david.c.dawson.5

Twitter https://twitter.com/david_c_dawson

LinkedIn https://www.linkedin.com/in/DavidCDawson

TOUR: Whitecott Manor by Emma Jane (excerpt and giveway)

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Title:  Whitecott Manor

Author: Emma Jane

Publisher:  NineStar Press

Release Date: September 11, 2017

Heat Level: 3 – Some Sex

Pairing: Male/Male

Length: 65300

Genre: Contemporary, Paranormal, NineStar Press, LGBT, contemporary, British, paranormal, intrigue, family-drama, ghosts, friends to lovers, humor

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Synopsis

Alistair Ellis is the proud gardener for beautiful fifteenth-century Whitecott Manor, in England’s West Country. His life changes forever following a gas explosion at the manor, in which his boss—and love of his life—dies. However, his boss hasn’t exactly gone for good and Alistair still finds himself involved in conversations with the deceased.

Circumstances improve when he meets Noah, the handsome dog groomer for the manor’s new owners. Although there are some issues: Noah is already engaged and Alistair suffers from cynophobia—an acute fear of dogs!

Excerpt

Whitecott Manor
Emma Jane © 2017
All Rights Reserved

Chapter One

Once I was aware of the cuts, they stung like a bitch. I should’ve worn gloves, really, but it’s so much easier not to. I was almost finished anyway, and the Harpers’ rose borders were nearly ready. They’d look beautiful when they flowered in the summer—they always did. White and red rose blooms flanked the path to the tennis court. I just had one last bush to prune and then I could stop for a cuppa. The cuts were itching now too, right where the thorns had snagged and ripped my skin. I sucked the flesh between my thumb and index finger, tasting blood and mud, and stood there, secateurs in hand, watching the house.

It was a fifteenth-century manor—a beautiful listed building made from warm-yellow stone. It’d been revamped inside, a strange mixture of modern and ancient, and was currently—unfortunately, in my opinion—on the market. I didn’t want it to sell; I didn’t want to lose my job. The Harpers assured me that whoever bought the place would keep me on but, well, it wasn’t down to them.

I took my hand from my mouth and watched as the estate agent led a middle-aged couple from their car—some sort of old classic; light blue with a soft-top—to the front of the manor. Even at this distance, I could see the look on their faces as they gazed up at the building before entering. They loved it already. Everybody did; it was such an impressive place. Bloody hell, I’d buy it if I had a spare eight million lying around.

I glowered to myself and turned back to the last bush, reaching into the branches to snip it into some sort of order. I cut myself on another thorn and swore impatiently.

“Language.”

I turned to see Mr Harper—Emmett—watching me. He stood there, smiling, his hands tucked in the pockets of his ridiculous purple corduroys. He always reminded me of Colin Firth, though he didn’t look particularly like him. He was a similar age, I suppose, and had that same clipped accent and no-nonsense manner.

I tossed rose clippings into my wheelbarrow. “Sorry. It’s these roses. They’re full of thorns.”

“Ah, the roses. Yes. I thought perhaps you’d spotted Mr Daniels showing the Scrantons around.”

“Scrantons?”

“Mr and Mrs Scranton. I don’t know their first names, and I don’t care. Lottery winners, apparently.”

I scratched at my cheek with the edge of my thumbnail and then wiped the back of my hand across my brow. “You really want Whitecott Manor bought by lottery winners?” I asked. It wasn’t really any of my business, but I didn’t want to see the place sold on yet again because the Scrantons squandered all their money and ended up bankrupt within a year.

Emmett shrugged. “My dear, I don’t care who buys it as long as they cough up the money. You know I can’t afford to keep the place.”

I knew. Emmett was swimming in debt. His daughters—all five of them—had now moved out and he had to pay for everything on his own since his wife had left. Old Mrs Harper, Emmett’s mother, lived in the house with him, but she was in her eighties and, I think, had about as much money as he did. They wanted to move to a little cottage somewhere, with a nice granny annex and a garden that didn’t require much attention. Certainly not enough attention to take me with them.

I hadn’t said anything. Emmett came and put his hand to the small of my back. “Whoever ends up here would be mad to let you go. They can see how beautiful the gardens are.”

I nodded and stared into the rose bush.

“And you’re beautiful,” he added. “Who would not want you around?”

“You don’t need to flatter me.” I snipped at the bush and tossed branches into my wheelbarrow.

Emmett chuckled and moved away. “Cheer up, Alistair! You’ve got your whole life ahead of you. I’m off to take Mother her tea.”

I watched him stroll back to the house as if he didn’t have a care in the world. I’d miss him most of all. Well, maybe he wouldn’t move far. I’d probably still see him around—at the local fair or plant show perhaps. Besides, house sales took ages; I knew that from experience. If the Scrantons bought the place, it’d be a while yet before they moved in. And if they decided they didn’t want a gardener—if—then I had plenty of time to look for a new job. I could always audition for the X Factor and see where that got me—Emmett said I had a great singing voice, and I’d often dreamed of performing on stage.

I picked up the wheelbarrow and went to empty the clippings on the compost heap. I was just trundling back to the roses when I spotted the estate agent leading the Scrantons out into the gardens. I’d make myself scarce; I didn’t want to have to smile politely while they stood and gawked, so I downed tools and headed to the potting shed.

The cabbage seedlings were coming on nicely, I noticed, but my beetroots were depressingly small. I’d never had much luck with beetroot. They never grew much larger than rat testicles. I shrugged out of my overalls and tied the arms around my waist, singing an Elvis track softly beneath my breath.

I’d just reached for a watering can when an almighty bang made me jump out of my skin. The windows blew out the front of the manor, followed by tongues of fire licking the frames. I stared, heart frozen and mouth open. Then my heart started again, blood thumping in my ears. I threw open the shed door and ran.

“Emmett!”

I dashed towards the building, pulled open the door, and hurried down the hall to where the explosion had come from—the kitchen. Flames crackled in the room, red and angry and louder than I would’ve expected. Smoke and heat billowed outwards, and I coughed and covered my nose. My eyes watered.

“Emmett!” I yelled again.

Something crashed—maybe part of the ceiling falling—and I took a step to go after Emmett when somebody grabbed my arm and hauled me back.

“Mr Harper’s in there,” I shouted at the estate agent, fighting the man’s vice-like grip. “Emmett! Emmett!

The estate agent pulled me away, forcing me bodily back down the hall and outside. He was speaking—shouting, I think—but I yelled too, my voice hoarse, and I couldn’t hear him, couldn’t see, couldn’t… Emmett.

Sirens screamed in the distance, and then I saw the lights flashing through the trees that flanked the lane beside the manor. Fire engines arrived in a cacophony of noise and colour. The estate agent held me in a bear hug, and all I could do as firefighters jumped from their vehicles was stare at the flames roaring from the broken windows.

Purchase

NineStar Press | Amazon | Smashwords | Barnes & Noble | Kobo

Meet the Author

Emma Jane has been writing stories since primary school, some of which still survive in notebooks in her dad’s attic, and wanted to be an author as soon as she realised it was a possible career choice and ‘Pony’ or ‘Ninja’ weren’t viable options.

Her first short story, Club Freak, about an anonymous woman’s determination to find her husband’s killer, was published by Park Publication’s Debut magazine in May 2009. Since then, she has gone on to write many short stories and poems for various small presses and has achieved an Honourable Mention in the 2011 Writers of the Future competition.

In 2014, writing as Emma Jane, she signed her first publishing contract for not one, but two novels. Otherworld formerly published by Torquere Press, and Shuttered by Dreamspinner Press.

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