Tuesday, July 10, 2012

Tuesday Buildup--Frankie Post

So, I'm working on the next Frankie Post novel, Borrowed, right now. It picks up about four months after the end of Taken...which you can read right here. Enjoy!


“Honey, I’m home.” Jack’s voice echoed from the front hall. Monster lifted his head from his position on my feet, wagging his tail. “What’s for dinner?”
“Food.” Casey Lynn turned her head away from the stove, shaking the contents of the frying pan. “We’re still waiting for Ian. He got stuck in traffic.”
“I was wondering where that charming specimen of man was.” My former client, Shea MacLeod, took another sip of wine, sighing. “He’s like yummy chocolate.”
“You said the same thing about ex-husbands one and two. And three.” I rubbed my shoulder, grimacing. “Why does physical therapy have to hurt so much?”
“Because if it didn’t, people would go around getting shot all the time.” Jack strode into the kitchen to drop a kiss on the top of my head before heading to the mudroom. His boots made a muffled thud as he kicked them off, shrugging out of his jacket at the same time. “Seriously, what’s for dinner? It smells fantastic.”
“Shea’s been directing Casey Lynn in making curry.” I leaned into Jack when he sat down next to me, resting my head on his shoulder. Monster licked Jack’s feet frantically for a few minutes before falling back asleep. “I think I should take some antacids before we eat.”
The front door thudded open again, followed by Ian’s yell. We all answered him, Jack nudging me. “He’s nuts about something.”
“How can you tell?” Casey Lynn glanced over her shoulder again. Shea gestured with her wine glass and Casey Lynn turned her attention back to the curry.
“His voice gets higher. It’s his tell.” Jack grinned when Ian stormed into the room. “Told you.”
“Have you guys seen the papers back home?” Ian tossed a stack of newspapers on the table. Jack and I both sighed.
“Ian, this is home now. Stop wondering and pining about things back in the States.” Jack took a sip of my wine, grumbling. “Beer. Definitely need a beer.”
“Alexia Mitchell is dead.” Ian dropped into a chair, running a hand through his hair. “They found her body yesterday morning. NYPD is keeping the details under wraps, but it’s rumored to be a mob hit.” He reached over, took Shea’s wine from her limp fingers and gulped down the contents. “And the star witness for the prosecution’s case against International Affairs, Roxanne Murphy, is missing.”
“You’re burning dinner, Casey Lynn.” Rage filled me, making my head spin. “Jack.”
“Yeah.” He finished my wine, the glass clinking on the table when he set it down. “I know what you’re thinking.”
“What?” Ian rose, grabbing the bottle of wine. “What are we going to do?”
“What we said we would.” Jack rapped his knuckles on the table. I finished his thought.
“We fucking finish it.”

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