About your Book:
In this sequel to Hoodoo Money, Charlie Cooper is a reluctant teacher by day and broken-hearted wanderer by night â and a man desperately in love with a dead woman. But is Angeline St. Cyr really dead? The supermodel fell victim to an auto-pedestrian accident in New Orleans. Police reports and medical records substantiate the severity of her injuries. Cosmetics mogul Mathieu Fournier, her former boss, orchestrated a cremation and memorial service. The paparazzi swarmed celebrity attendees. Fans mourned.
Call it gut instinct, call it what you will, but Cooper is convinced Angelineâs death was an elaborate scheme Fournier sold to the world. He isnât buying it, nor is his heart. A tenuous lead draws him to the Caribbean island of Jacqueme Dominique. Only he isnât alone in his quest. With the unsolicited help of Angelineâs brothers, Nick and Brent, and by chasing his dream of rekindled love, Cooper becomes embroiled in murder, treachery and abduction at the hands of his old nemesis Willem Voorhees â a merciless killer.
For five long years Cooperâs love survived while he searched for Angeline. Will finding her cost him his life?
Targeted Age Group: 17+
Genre: romantic suspense
The Book Excerpt:
Brent dumped the canvas on the ground, almost had the snarled hammock untangled when the sky opened. Gray clouds snuffed the sunâs rays; rain peppered the landscape.
Great. More humidity.
His inherent St. Cyr stubbornness took over. After several tree-hugging tries, he slapped the end of the rope around the treeâs giant trunk and began tying off his hammock.
âWhat are you doing?â
He whirled at the sound of Katâs raised voice.
Her face appeared ashen, her eyes round with something akin to panic in them.
He dropped the rope like a hot poker. âHanging my hammock?âÂ
She grabbed his arm, draggimg him after her as she broke into a run.
His foot caught in a twisted vine, and he tripped over tree roots protruding from the ground.
Kat hauled him up. âThereâs a river ahead.â
They stumbled toward the overgrowth.
âWhatâd I do?â He ducked, and a low-hung branch grazed his cheek. As he raised his hand, he felt the ooze of blood.
She knocked his hand away. âDonât touch your eyes.â
âWhy are you so pissed?â He heard the sound of rushing water. They plunged forward.
âManchioneel tree,â was all she said before shoving him into the icy river.
He came up sputtering and coughing. âAre you crazy?â
She dove in after him, shoving him under, massaging water into his hair, splashing it in his face and eyes. âI must be,â she shouted. âTaking someone as green as you into the bush.â
He swiped water from his face. âTell me what I didâ
âShow me your hands.â When he held them out, she turned them over, checking his palms and wrists, knuckles and fingertips. âYou scared me, Flyover.â
âWhat is this?â he croaked. âSome backwoods initiation? Next thing I know a tribe of howling pygmies will jump out of the trees, yell âËGotcha!â before they toss me in a cauldron of bubbling gunk.â
She extended her hand. âGive me your shirt.â
âIâm not takinâ my damn clothes off.â
âNow you get shy.â She pointed her finger at him and said, âDonât move from this river. Iâll be right back.â She sloshed out of the water and tromped up the bank, slipping, sliding, shoes squishing. Sopping fabric clung to all the right places. âShit!â was the last word he heard her say before she disappeared into the brush. When she returned, his skin had pimpled blue with goose bumps, and his chattering teeth sounded like Morse code. But he still stood in the waist-deep water.
She dumped a towel and blanket on dry ground. Gesturing to an outcrop of flat rock at the riverâs edge, she popped the oversized towel in her hands. âTake your shirt off and sit there.â
He sat, unbuttoned his shirt, and shrugged out of it.
âThe manchioneel tree is poisonous. Deadly poisonous.â She yanked the shirt from his hands and tossed it on the bank nearer the rushing water. âYou donât climb the manchioneel. You donât touch it, sniff it, or go within a mile of it.â Squatting, she scrubbed his shirt on a large rock, and then beat the drenched fabric with a small branch. âYou donât pluck its leaves or eat its devilish apples.â She eyed him over her damp shoulder, still pounding. Anger heightened the Irish in her brogue. âYa ever seen Snow White?â She didnât give him the chance to answer. âThat old wart-nosed crone doesnât hold a candle to the wickedness in this tree. My da always said itâs the devil himself thatâs rooted in the manchioneel.â
His shirt got dunked in the river. She lifted it and dunked again. âYou donât use the manchioneelâs branches for firewood, ever, and you sure as blazes donât stand under it when itâs raining. Jesus, Joseph and Mary, Flyover! The manchioneel can blind you. Itâll blister the skin right off you. Give me your pants.â
Blistering skin, blindness?
Brent kicked off his shoes. He hopped on one foot, then the other, tugged off his socks, and shimmied out of his jeans. He handed them over, flinchng when Kat beat them on the rock the way she did his shirt. The woman had anger issues.
âWhat am I going to do with you?â She averted her eyes and extended her arm behind her.
Brent took the towel from her outstretched fingers, then a green army blanket. He sniffed. It smelled like hay . . . and chickens. He didnât see any point in telling her the rain had stopped. She was river-drenched. Besides, the view of her bouncing breasts draped in thin, wet fabric wasnât half bad.
She kept his socks but handed back his shoes. âPut these on so you donât step on a snake on the way back to the plane. Iâm going to lay our clothes in the sun. While we still have sun.â
Our clothes?
He wrapped the blanket tighter around him. âWhat will you wear?â
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