Iggy the Iguana by Melissa M Williams

Iggy recognized the aroma of sautéed spinach and mushrooms coming from downstairs as he nervously washed his face and combed his spines. On this particular morning, Iggy would have much rather crawled back in bed! For some reason, he had lost his appetite for his favorite meal of the day.

As the tired iguana tiptoed down to the kitchen, he carefully held his long, clumsy tail in one hand. Waking up his little sister, Molly, on the wrong side of the bed would be a morning tragedy. Molly was known for throwing major temper tantrums. Iggy sat down and stared hopelessly at his breakfast.

“What’s wrong, son?” asked his mother, when she noticed Iggy hadn’t touched his favorite dish. “Aren’t you feeling well?”

“Mom, what if I’m the only iguana in my class?” “Honey, are those butterflies fluttering around in your tummy again?”

“Uh, I guess,” admitted the shy lizard.

“It’s natural to be nervous about your first day at a new school,” Mrs. Green said, trying to comfort her son.

“I know, but what if everyone is bigger than me? What if I’m allergic to furry animals?”

“Sweetie, you can’t go to an all-lizard school forever!” his mom laughed.

“Why not?”

“Because, it’s time for you to meet animals who are different than you. Now try to eat some breakfast so you will have enough energy to concentrate on your lessons.”

Iggy had attended the same elementary school all his life in a suburban area outside of Houston, called Harris County. He never had to worry about making new friends because he attended school with the same twelve lizards ever since Pre-K. Iggy considered this group of lizards to be more like family than friends. The idea of making new friends was terrifying for the reserved iguana.

As Iggy began to eat his green meal, the back door swung wide open. Iggy perked up to the sight of his dad bouncing in with a huge, open-mouthed smile on his face.

“Good morning, Champ,” said his dad.

“Hi Dad, how was your morning run?”

“It was nice, but a bit humid. I think I got bit.”

“By a mosquito?” Iggy asked.

“Yeah, but I can’t complain. I can take the

Houston humidity and bugs for these flat trails any day. Besides son, we’re lizards. We like this heat.” Mr. Green was a professional runner. Iguanas are known for their speed and great running legs. Mr. Green’s daily life revolved around racing. He trained at Memorial Park and coached other runners on the side. The Green family had to move into the city so that he could be closer to the training grounds. Iggy wanted to be an athlete just like his dad one day.

Just as Iggy started to forget his butterfly problem, his mom walked over to the table and said, “I bet your dad was nervous on the day of his first race,” as she handed her husband a glass of water.

“I’ll say! Nervous and excited at the same time,” chuckled Mr. Green.

Yep, the butterflies were back. “I’m just nervous, Dad.”

“Well, of course you’re going to be a little skittish. It’s that fear of the unknown. But it’s a good fear. It means you’re alive and full of healthy energy, son!”

Fear of the unknown? It sounded like Iggy’s dad was talking about a mission to space or something, not fourth grade! Dad’s words just weren’t helping this time.

After breakfast, Iggy’s mom dropped him off at school, which was right down the street. “Just be yourself, honey. You are such a likeable lizard!” It really did pain Iggy’s mom to watch her son in such an uncomfortable situation.

“MEMORIAL ELEMENTARY,” Iggy read across the front of the school door as he slowly crept through the entrance. Due to the slowness of his creeping, Iggy didn’t have enough time to get his long tail all the way inside before the door

closed. “Ouch!” screamed Iggy. He turned around, trying to shake his tail loose before someone noticed his clumsy move.

“Are you okay?” asked a voice from behind.

Great. He did have a witness. Iggy slowly looked up to see a beautiful lime green and tan lizard.

“Hi,” she said, “I’m Lizibeth. I know how it feels to get your tail stuck in the door!”

Iggy was a bit tongue-tied as he searched for something to say back. “That wasn’t my first time, either,” he shrugged. “I’m Iggy. Iggy the Iguana.”

“Whoa! Your tail is sooo long!” Lizibeth gasped as she looked down to see if his tail was hurt.

Iggy self-consciously pulled his tail close to his body, trying to hide its length. “I hate dragging this useless thing around all day!”

“I hear yah!” laughed Lizibeth. “So what grade are you in, Iggy?”

“Me? Um ... ” he paused, “fourth.”

“Me too!” she smiled.

Iggy quickly added, “And today is my first day at this school.”

Lizibeth tried to put the fidgety iguana at ease. “Oh, you’ll love it here. Everyone is so nice!”

As Iggy looked around, he noticed the clock on the wall. “We don’t want to be late on the first day of school!”

“It’s okay, we don’t have to walk far,” Lizibeth reassured him.

Both lizards started walking toward the fourth grade classroom. Iggy was happy that he had already made a new friend, and she was a lizard. It was nice to have something in common. Hopefully the rest of the animals would be just as friendly.

Chapter 1 - Cafe Tempest: Adventures on a Small Greek Island by Barbara Bonfigli

“Welcome to Pharos. Laugh and dance in the hammock—not the cradle—of Western civilization,” says author, lyricist, and theatrical producer Barbara Bonfigli. “I’ve been falling in love with Greece since I was old enough to drink retsina. But if Sarah hadn’t captured my imagination you’d never know how I feel about friendship, feta, and the abundance of grace that turns friends into lovers and fishermen into kings.”

Synopsis

When Sarah, a thirty-something American theatrical producer, is asked to direct the locals in their summer show, she picks Shakespeare’s play The Tempest. What follows is a hilarious adventure in casting, rehearsing, and consuming. Her neighbors are excited about acting but delirious about eating. Their rehearsals in a deconsecrated church become a feast in four acts.

Armed with a sizzling wit, a dangerously limited Greek vocabulary, and a pitch-perfect ear for drama, Sarah navigates the major egos and minor storms of a cab driver Caliban, a postmaster Prospero, and a host of fishermen dukes and knaves.

When she falls in love, there are even trickier seas to navigate. Her own offstage romance provides an exhilarating, unpredictable counterpoint to Shakespeare’s story of magic, intrigue, and the power of love.

Chapter 1

No one else’s behavior makes any sense.

That’s it! The end of a continuous struggle for meaning since the third grade. That’s when I took a long look at the Brownie pledge. “On my honor I will try . . .” noble and uplifting; “. . . to God and country . . .” I feel like saluting. But then the ending . . . “especially those at home.” Sappy and rambling. I sent off my rewrite to National Headquarters and told them they could use it gratis—a word I may have misspelled. No reply yet, but you can’t expect an organization that sounds like chocolate cake to make snap decisions.

The site of this revelation is the charter terminal at Heathrow, where we’re spending the morning en route to Athens. Icarus Air warns you there’s a price to pay for flying on a shoestring. “Be there three hours before takeoff,” they command. Three hours! Whatever happened to “catching a plane? (I have a little problem with time, which I blame on skipping first grade. “She can already read,” they told my parents. They forgot to mention that first grade is where you learn to tell time, and maybe even understand it.) Nor am I thrilled to be flying with a company named for the only air disaster in Greek mythology. Icarus was the fearless god who flew so close to the sun his wax wings melted. I’m not afraid of flying either. Landing, maybe.

I look over the check-in choices and pick Anthony, sympathetic and snappy looking in a uniform that blends nicely with the ticket counter and carpet. With my French roast and Viennese beans, my pepper mill, yoga mat, and summer reading, I’m probably way overweight. As I get closer to Anthony, I do some tai chi balance shifts and practice sending waves of love in his direction. I also run my fingers through my unruly curls and drag a few over one eye in an attempt to look more vulnerable. And I pocket my sunglasses so my grandmother’s startling blue eyes can destabilize him. Meanwhile my lower mind takes in the drama unfolding between him and the slim-limbed miniskirted French bombshell in front of me.

“May I see your visa for Greece, madam?”

“See my what!?”

Anthony blushes and clears his throat. “Do you have a visa for Greece?”

“Ah . . . Oui.” She nods her blond sheaves vigorously. “I ’ave one partout!”

He smiles a weary, lost-empire smile. “You have a passport for everywhere. A visa is something else.”

“Something else?” She turns to me bewildered. “Comment?”

“Autre chose,” rises from the ruins of my eighth-grade French.

“Pourquoi something autre?” She turns back to him, impatiently clicking her fingernails in time with her stiletto heels.

He reflects, scribbles something, and announces: “I think your French driver’s license will be acceptable.”

Yes! Anthony’s my guy. What’s a little overweight compared to illegal entry?

“Accept a table?” she turns again and practically shouts at me.

“Acceptable?” I try, though I know French cognates are the undergraduate’s Waterloo.

“You are American, no?” she demands. Rude, and crushing. Lots of people think my accent is Parisian. Admittedly they all live in San Francisco.

“I just want to help you,” I say in a soft tone I reserve for crazy people.

“So do I,” Anthony chimes in, picking up my technique of short simple sentences.

“I just want to check in!” says Alex, right behind me. She turns her wheely bag around.

“Where are you going?” I ask in perfect English.

“To a line of my own.”

Alex (Alexandra, if she thinks you’re not taking her seriously) decided to come along at the last minute. But it was Julian’s idea that I take this unscheduled vacation. Julian is my partner in a West End theater company. Our affair ended the same week our play closed. I knew the play had a limited run, so that wasn’t a surprise. As for the Sarah and Julian show, I ignored the critics and willfully overlooked the dwindling returns. Which brings me to the painful conclusion that I’m better at acting than at casting.

Julian thinks it’s a happy coincidence; we can take a break from each other without hurting the business. I think it’s karma, and karma is a rolling stone; better to roll with it than stand in its path. So I’ve been planning a few weeks of uncluttered renewal on a remote Greek island. Uncluttered as in empty beach, cloudless skies, time alone to meditate, work on a novel, and finish an overdue magazine article. Renewal as in retsina. Plus I thought I’d made it clear to my friends that Pharos doesn’t rhyme with Mykonos, Jackie O never slept there, and the nearest mojito is a five-day sail. No burgers, no discos, and as for getting a torn nail repaired, claws would grow first. Whereas the incomparable charms of Pharos I’ve been keeping to myself. So I’m not sure what’s inspired Alex to come. Could it be she’s more tuned in to the state of my heart than I am? Asking would only introduce logic into our relationship—a cheap tactic I abandoned long ago. Is there any chance she’ll last the month? No way, say our friends, who’ve never agreed on anything before. I suspect they’re placing bets; I just wish there were some way to get into the pool. Thanks to Icarus Air, she now has time to plunder in Duty Free. I find her swinging a full basket.

“Why are you buying all this stuff you don’t need and so cleverly didn’t pack?”

“C’mon, Sarah. I thought this was a vacation?”

“It is.”

“Fine. See you.” She slides away.

“And raise you . . .” She doesn’t hear. It isn’t the first time I’ve talked to a wall. But it is the first time the wall replied: GIVE UP trying to understand other people.

(It’s an odd thing about revelations. I’ve meditated at the best places: Ashram in India, hot tub at Esalen, beside the lake in Pokara . . . and I can’t recall the great Aha! hitting me at any of them. Here I am at Terminal 4. Why go anywhere?)

Alex reappears, an outbreak of plastic bags blooming on her carry-on.

“Did he say Gate Fourteen?” she says, chewing on a giant duty free Toblerone bar. “I think they’re calling our flight.”

“I wish I knew,” I say, breaking a piece off the end.

Heathrow’s the summer school for places that teach English as a second language; articles are optional and, interestingly, there’s no future tense. Plus its PA system is a holdover from the Blitz. So the odds of making your plane are roughly the same as colliding with a neutrino. We find another carpet-coordinated employee who says “Leaving! Porto 14 !” Alex races me to the gate, where we stand panting in a line that takes forever to board.

#

We’re flying in Europe, a continent of smokers who’ve recently been banned from lighting up on planes. Everyone around us has the DTs; they’re desperately uploading caffeine and wishing they could just step out on the wing for a puff. The guy on our aisle is shaking his foot and studying the Icarus Air evacuation cartoon . . . In my opinion they should let people light up and drink from takeoff to landing. All this pent-up fear and deprivation would certainly mess up an orderly ditching at sea.

Give up trying to understand other people, I remind myself. Why, I wonder, has this revelation taken so long?

At thirty-nine thousand feet I look around at my fellow man with a new lightness, the enormous burden of comprehension abandoned at Duty Free. They’re all digging into a mysterious seafood starter. Icarus is an airline that serves food for revenge. Fortunately I have the picnic skills to meet this challenge.

“Alex, let’s have our banquet before the headwinds hit.”

I detect a little hostility from the guy on the aisle, sawing uselessly on his seeded roll as Alex lays out our smoked salmon, pumpernickel, Brie, and Chablis. Unless it’s an involuntary reaction to the cheese, with it’s whiff of socks left out in the rain.

“Would you like some smoked salmon?” she asks him.

“Signome?”

“No. Salmon,” says Alex, squeezing the lemon.

“Alex, signome is Greek for ‘excuse me.’ ”

“Oh.”

“Thelete ligo—would you like some . . . ?” I try. But the word for salmon escapes me. I point at it.

She looks back. “Pointing is Greek?”

“Oxi, efharisto.” No, thanks. “Eime hortophagos.”

“He’s a vegetarian,” I explain to Alex. “And the Brie is ripe enough to moo, so let’s skip that.”

“We ought to offer him something,” she says, displaying her notorious generosity. “He can have my entire Icarus lunch.” I say in an attempt to imitate her—though you could hardly call this a test.

“Oxi, efharisto—no thanks,” he smiles discerningly.

I pour him a cup of Chablis.

When dessert comes around it’s Turkish delight, in celebration of the three-thousand-year blood feud between Greeks and Turks.

“God, that looks terrible,” she says.

“Not as terrible as it tastes.”

She brings out our crème brûlée. During which I share my revelation, inspiration deleted.

“You mean to say you’ve been trying to understand everyone?”

“Well, not Charles Manson or the Spice Girls . . . but as a rule, yes.”

“What a wild idea.” Alex puts down her spoon. “How’s it turning out?”

“I’ve just given it up.”

She raises her cup of Chablis. “How do you say ‘bravo’ in Greek?”

“I think it is Greek.” And we click.

A few hours later we cross the Corinth channel and drop into the haze of Athens. The landing gear bangs into place. Moments later a stewardess comes over the speaker. “We’ll be coming through the isles to collect unwanted items. Please fasten your cups and throw away your seat belts.”

Sometimes I wish I could follow directions.

To learn about Barbara Bonfigli and Café Tempest, feel free to visit any of these sites.

Order Café Tempest directly from the publisher - http://www.tellmepress.com/pub_ct.php or from Amazon http://www.amazon.com/Café-Tempest-Adventures-Small-Island/dp/0981645313

To see the complete tour schedule visit http://virtualblogtour.blogspot.com/2009/05/cafe-tempest-by-barbara-bonfigli-summer.html

Barbara Bonfigli’s website – www.cafetempest.com

Chapter 1 - The Mind of a Genius by David Snowdon

Chapter One

The phone began to ring and freelance MI4 agent, Jason Clay reluctantly disengaged himself from the girl he was kissing and reached for the phone.

“Hello,” he said, grabbing the receiver.

“Is that Clay?” said the voice at the other end.

It was a posh, home county voice and Clay thought it sounded vaguely familiar. But at that very moment, he couldn’t place it.

“It is,” he said frowning. “You sound familiar, who’s that?” Clay spoke with a mildly posh London accent.

“You’ve got a poor memory. It’s Colin Shooter.” Clay smiled.

Shooter was the assistant head of the MI4 and he knew that Shooter never called him just to say hello. Whenever Shooter called, there was always a reason, and a very good reason at that.

“Hello you,” said Clay cheerfully.

He was grinning now, and the girl sitting beside him on the sofa, a tall, slim blonde with lovely blue eyes, and who was about 24-years of age, was staring at him, a curious expression in her eyes.

“Long time, no see.”

“Listen, Clay,” said Shooter, “I’ve got something that might wet your appetite. “You haven’t got anything on, have you?”

“Only the shirt on me back,” said Clay smiling. “And that’s coming off very soon.” The girl chuckled.

Just like the girl sitting beside him on the sofa, Clay was tall, slim and Handsome with blonde hair, and lovely blue eyes. He was 34-years-old and had a smile that made the girls go wild. All he had to do was smile and within minutes, they’d be telling him the story of their life.

Tonight, he was wearing a white silk shirt and a pair of white cotton trousers.

“I’ve got something that’s right up your alley,” said Shooter. “This one’s irresistible. You’ll love it.”

“Will I?” said Clay jokingly, wondering what it was, and what was in it for him.

“I know you will,” said Shooter, at the other end of the line.

“You know my terms, don’t you?” said Clay, smiling. “I won’t even contemplate getting out of bed for anything less than ten thousand a day.”

“You’d be lucky to get half of that for this one,” said Shooter. “But come and see me tomorrow morning in my office at ten, and we’ll talk business, okay?”

Clay continued to smile. “Ten thousand a day plus expenses or no deal.”

“I’ll see you in my office at ten sharp tomorrow,” said Shooter. “And don’t be late.” And the line went dead.

“That guy,” said Clay, dropping the receiver, shaking his head and turning sideways to stare at the girl sitting beside him. “He drives a hard bargain, but he’s all right.” The girl smiled invitingly, but didn’t say anything.

“Now where were we?” said Clay smiling, as they started to kiss passionately, again.

The time was now 20.47 and they were sitting on a beige leather sofa in Clay’s spacious, luxurious living-room. The TV was on, but the volume had been turned down low. As they continued to kiss, they could hear it raining hard outside, and there was the occasional rumble of thunder. But that didn’t bother them, as they were now in paradise.

At 10.00am the following day, Colin Shooter sat in a conference room, at a conference table, in the MI4 head office in Vauxhall, overlooking the River Thames and worked on his laptop.

At 56, Shooter was tall, well-built, and had light brown hair. He was an ex-banker.

Today, he wore a brown suit, a yellow shirt and a brown tie.

Also in the room, sitting around the conference table was Special Agent, Paul Hudson and Special Agent, Janet Bond.

Hudson was 38, tall, dark and lean with handsome features and dark brown curly hair.

He wore a well-cut, navy blue Italian Suit, a white shirt and a black and blue stripped tie. He was an ex-solicitor, and a very good one, and it was his track record more than anything else that had impressed the M14 into employing him.

Janet Bond was 32, 5-foot-7, slim with a nice curvy figure, and blonde with blue eyes, and Scandinavian features.

She was a beauty, but she was also very intelligent. And it was the combination of beauty and brains that had attracted Shooter to her.

The phone started to ring, and Shooter snatched the receiver.

“Colin Shooter,” he said, speaking into the receiver.

“Mr Shooter, I have Mr Jason Clay here to see you.” The receptionist’s voice came clearly through the receiver.

“Give him a cup of tea,” said Shooter. “I’ll let you know when we’re ready to see him.”

“No worries,” said the receptionist.

And Shooter put the phone down. As he put the phone down, he continued to work on his laptop, and both Hudson and Bond sat in silence, with a blank expressions on their faces. They knew that whatever Shooter was doing on his laptop had to be vital, as Shooter was always very punctual.

Ten minutes later, Shooter finished working on his laptop and reached for the receiver.

“Send him in,” he said, when he got through to the receptionist. And he put the receiver down.

Three minutes later, there came a knock on the door.

“Come in,” said Shooter.

The door slid open and Clay wandered into the room. He wore a beige coloured suit, a beige coloured shirt and a red tie. He was looking very smart and there was a cheeky smile on his face, as he wandered into the room, and walked towards the conference table.

“Morning, all,” he said, aware that everyone was watching him.

The others returned his greeting.

“Take a seat,” said Shooter, waving him to a chair.

Clay moved towards the chair and sat on it.

“Thanks for coming,” said Shooter. “This one’s a beauty and you’re gonna love it.”

“That remains to be seen,” said Clay, smiling at him. “Let’s have the details and we’ll take it from there.”

Shooter stared at Clay.

He didn’t like Clay’s cocky attitude. Come to think of it, he wasn’t too fond of Clay. But Clay had his uses.

“Malcolm Prince, the scientist, remember him?”

Clay thought for a moment, then he remembered.

“He died a few months ago, didn’t he?”

Shooter nodded. “And that’s why you’re here.”

“Come off it,” said Clay, his smile turning into a grin as he looked from Shooter to Hudson, from Hudson to Bond and from Bond back to Shooter.

“I didn’t kill him. You’ve got the wrong guy.”

“I wouldn’t put it past you,” said Shooter, smiling at Clay. “You’d do anything for money, wouldn’t you? But if you’ve got your facts right, you’ll know that Prince died of a heart attack.”

“I could have told you that,” said Clay, smiling at him.

Shooter continued to talk. “Malcolm Prince was one of the finest scientist in the world. And at the time of his death, he had just completed a major project; a project that could change the world; a project that could benefit the world.” There was a pause, then Shooter continued to talk.

“We don’t know what the project was about. It was a well-kept secret, but we do know that the project was completed shortly before he died. Shortly before he died, he was on the verge of revealing the project to the world. But now he’s dead, and nobody really knows what that project was based on.”

“That’s sad,” said Clay.

Shooter continued to talk. “We’d like you to try and find out what that project was about.”

“And how do you expect me to do that?” said Clay, changing his position on his chair. Shooter smiled at him.

“Prince has a very lovely wife, and rumour has it that he was very fond of her. We have a feeling that she might have some vital information. Your task is to seduce her and to find out what that project was about.”

Clay gaped at him. “I thought you said I was gonna to love it.”

“You’re a very impatient man,” said Shooter, smiling at Clay.

He was thoroughly enjoying himself. “Patience is a virtue, Clay. Agent Bond has a present for you.”

Special Agent, Janet Bond produce an envelope and slid it across the table towards Clay. Clay opened the envelope, removed a glossy photograph and stared at it.

A beautiful, middle-aged, blonde woman with blue, friendly eyes, wearing a navy blue shirt stared at him.

Clay studied the woman in the picture and a wave of excitement swept through him.

The woman in the photograph looked classy, exciting and sexy. A combination that Clay considered to be irresistible. Shooter was right. He had a feeling that he was going to love this assignment. Here was an opportunity to have a good time, and at the same time, to make some decent money.

Clay smiled as he studied the photograph. It was a passport photo that had been enlarged into a 6 x 4 photograph.

Shooter and the others watched him, as he studied the photograph, and Shooter had a feeling that Clay was hooked.

“Nice girl,” said Clay, dropping the photograph on the table in front of him and smiling at Shooter.

“Laura Prince,” said Janet Bond. “45-years-old, 36-26-36 and an ex-secretary. She has a penchant for handsome toy boys. Had a few lovers when Prince was alive, but isn’t seeing anyone at present.”

“Very nice,” said Clay smiling and looking around the table.

“I told you,” said Shooter. “I wouldn’t lie to you.”

“But what makes you think she gonna fall for me?” said Clay.

“You fit the bill perfectly,” said Hudson, in his posh accent “You have a way with women. You can charm the birds out a tree. We’re sure you can swing it.”

“I can try,” said Clay. “But I can’t guarantee success.”

“That’s good enough for me,” said Shooter. “We don’t know for sure if she knows anything. She may be none the wiser, but all we can do is try.”

“That’s fine,” said Clay. “Ten thousand a day plus expenses, and I’ll see what I can do.”

“I don’t think so,” said Shooter, shaking his head. There was a crafty, little smile on his face. “Five thousand a day plus expenses, and you can take it or leave.”

Clay smiled at him.

“I’ve got a feeling we’re wasting each others time. Ten thousand a day plus expenses, or you can get someone else to do it.”

Shooter stared at him.

There were other agents that he could use, and who would work out a lot cheaper than Clay. But he realized that if anyone could pull this one off, it was Clay. And this assignment was far too vital to be bungled.

“Seven thousand a day plus expenses. Not a penny more, not a penny less. And that’s my final offer.”

“Done,” said Clay.

“Money, that’s all you ever think about, isn’t it?” said Shooter.

“What else is there to think about?” said Clay, smiling at him. “Money makes the world go round. And where would we be without it.”

“Sometimes I wonder why we pay you so much money,” said Shooter resentfully. We’re wasting hard-earned taxpayers money on you.”

“I’m value for money and you know it,” said Clay with his cheeky smile.

“I can get three good agents for what I’m paying you,” said Shooter.

“That’s three for the price of one. But you’re one of my best guys, and I’ve got a soft spot for you.”

“Come off it,” said Clay jokingly. “You haven’t got a soft spot for your own mother, let alone a guy like me.”

Shooter smiled at him, but this time the smile didn’t reach his eyes.

“Watch what you say, Clay. You shouldn’t speak about anyone’s mother like that.”

They regarded each other for a moment, then Shooter continued to talk.

“An advance payment of £70,000 will be paid into you’re account. Spend it wisely. Agent Bond will give you all the necessary details.”

“Cool,” said Clay, grinning at Shooter.

Money was very essential to him and he never got tired of talking about it. The more money he could lay his hands on, the better.

“Has Prince got any other relatives that you know of?”

“He’s got a grown up daughter and a grown up son from a previous marriage,” said Hudson.

“I hope so,” said Clay, looking down at Laura Prince’s photograph. “He was old enough to be this chick’s father.”

“She was his second wife,” said Hudson.

Clay regarded Hudson.

He had been so busy concentrating on Shooter that there had been times when he had forgotten that Hudson was also in the room.

“Can’t Pretty boy, Hudson handle this job?”

“I haven’t got your knack with women,” said Hudson, smiling at Clay.

“You’re tailor-made for the job.”

Agent Janet Bond smiled.

“And why is Agent Bond smiling?” said Clay teasingly.

Janet Bond lost her smile and stared at him. There was something about Clay that she didn’t like.

“I wasn’t smiling at you.”

What a chick, thought Clay giving her his dazzling smile. She reminded him of the girl that he had spent the night with. They both had blonde hair and blue eyes, but Bond was undoubtedly the better looking of the two.

“One of these days, we’ll go for a curry.”

“I don’t like curries and I don’t like you,” said Janet Bond.

“One of these days, you’re gonna love me,” said Clay teasingly.

Bond’s eyes flashed angriliy.

“One of these days, Clay, I’m gonna…”

She suddenly stopped without finishing her sentence, aware that Shooter was watching her with interest. She would have loved to have given Clay a piece of her mind. She would have loved to have told him exactly what she thought of him. But she didn’t want to lose her composure in front of her boss.

“Enough of that,” said Shooter, sensing it was time that he intervened.

“Now Agent Bond will give you the details.”

Special Agent, Janet Bond regained her composure and started to talk in her posh accent.

The Mind of a Genius by David Snowdon

(The Formula That Could Change The World)

Special Agent, Jason Clay from the MI4 is hired to find a secret formula that was invented by the famous British scientist, Malcolm Prince. The only weak element in Clay’s strategy to accomplish his mission is Laura Prince, the beautiful wife of the scientist, who Clay has to seduce in order to obtain the formula.

But the CIA, the Denmark Intelligence, the Australian Intelligence and many other very determined individuals are also after that formula, and can’t wait to get their hands on it. The competition is fierce, but who’s going to win?

The story develops as a travel through the world; with the action starting in London, then moving onto Copenhagen, Hong Kong and Australia.

Clay appears to be the right man for the job; extremely handsome and a natural charmer, nothing could be easier for him than seducing a beautiful woman in order to obtain a top secret.

For more information visit www.the-mind-of-a-genius.com

About the book:

The Mind of a Genius by David Snowdon

ISBN: 978-0-9552650-1-3

Publisher: Pentergen Books

Pages: 288

S.R.P £6.99/ $13.56

Available from Waterstone’s, Blackwells, Amazon.co.uk Amazon.com and from the author at his website http://www.the-mind-of-a-genius.com/order.html

About David Snowdon -

British thriller writer, David Snowdon was born in London, and lives in London. He started writing in 1983, and wrote his first book, which hasn’t been published in 1984. His first published work, Too Young To die, was published in August 2006. And his second novel, The Mind of a Genius, was published in November 2007.

To learn more about David Snowdon and The Mind of a Genius, visit http://www.the-mind-of-a-genius.com and to learn more about his virtual tour in early 2009, http://virtualblogtour.blogspot.com/2008/12/mind-of-genuis-by-david-snowdon.html

Post comments on any of the blog tour stops and be entered in a drawing for a copy of The Mind of a Genius.

Bloodstone Castle - Chapter One

Bloodstone Castle

Chapter One

Genoa, Italy

965 A.D.

The black stallion galloped hard. The thrash of Duke Amoro Dragone's crop landed solidly against the animal's haunches. Sparks flew at each rhythmic strike of horseshoes against the old Roman road. Sweat saturated the stallion's sleek coat. The creature's nostrils flared scarlet. Its breath streamed ribbons of mist into the cold air.

Amoro glanced at the bodyguards who raced to keep up. One carried his family's standard of a scarlet dragon on a black background. He urged the mount faster. His mother needed him. Genoa needed him.

Flames from thousands of torches illuminated the city of Genoa, but grief blinded him to its beauty. He navigated the narrow streets by rote and ascended steep hills into the heart of the port city. Amoro rode across the open drawbridge into the courtyard of Castle Dragone. His bodyguards close behind. He dismounted and tossed the reins to a waiting groom. The stallion panted, its head hung low. Its legs shook with exhaustion. It pained Amoro to put his horse through such effort. “Tend to him with extra attention. He has earned it.”

Without waiting for acknowledgement, Amoro sprinted up the steps of the castle. The spurs of his boots jangled as he passed through the massive oak entrance and dashed through the corridors. He advanced beneath the shadow of an arch to the entrance of the great hall. Two guardsmen snapped to attention then opened the door at his appearance.

People crowded the room. His grief-stricken mother, Caterina, stood by the bier dressed in black. His father, Duke Bartolomeo Dragone, lay in his finery. Heaps of blossoms, aromatic herbs, and pine bows surrounded him. Shock halted Amoro. The man, so active in life, looked unfamiliar in death.

“Amoro,” Caterina hurled herself into her son’s arms and wept.

“I'm sorry.” Amoro embraced his mother. Words caught in his throat. She sobbed against his chest. Amoro's heart constricted to see her so anguished. His arms still about her, he escorted her to a chair near the bed and assisted her to sit. He raised her hand and kissed it.

Caterina ran a hand down his cheek. She turned her swollen eyes to the black and red dragon standard that covered her husband's body.

The Archbishop of Genoa hovered over the body and muttered solemn prayer. His face, serious and pale, contrasted with his brilliant purple vestments. Attendants whispered and emitted muffled sobs. A peculiar chill suffused the room.

I never anticipated this.

He knew no man as a kind and well respected. His heart pounded hard in his chest. At his father's bier, Amoro dropped to his knees. In repose, the body looked waxen and cold. He touched his sire's hand and pulled the stiff fingers to his forehead in one last obeisance, one last farewell. He opened his eyes and studied his father's face. Amoro plummeted into a void of despair. The sound of his sobs suppressed all other sounds. He crossed his father's lifeless hands atop the red and black pall. Amoro let his hand linger until he regained his composure

“Did he receive last rites?” Amoro asked the Archbishop in a voice raw with emotion.

“Yes, your father shall rest in peace.”

“I am grateful.”

“It is as God wished.” The Archbishop made the sign of the cross over Amoro and looked back at Caterina. “I'll keep you both in my prayers.”

Amoro turned to his mother. “They told me he was ambushed. Is this true?”

She stared with lustreless eyes clogged by shock, unable to respond.

Amoro looked beyond her and raised his voice to the assembled vassals arrayed in mourning. “One of you, answer me. Did he face an ambush?”

Roberto, his father's commander-at-arms of his troops, stepped forward. “It is true.” His gravely voice shattered the shocked silence. Amoro clenched his jaw. “How did this happen?”

“Yesterday we returned from Savona. Your father went there to collect a debt. Brigands accosted us. They outnumbered us. One slashed your father across the belly with a broadsword. We tried to stop the bleeding and dress the wound, but he lost too much blood. He died before the sun set.” Raw anger twisted Roberto's face.

Amoro swallowed hard. “And what of the man who felled him?”

“Dead by my own sword,” Roberto growled. His countenance turned grim, yet his eyes glimmered with satisfaction at the redress.

Amoro stepped closer, placed his arm around Roberto's shoulder, and led him away from his mother, so she could not overhear.

Amoro lowered his voice. “Did you know the man?”

Roberto shrugged. “No.” His looked turned venomous. “I ordered the body drawn and quartered. The bastard's head is impaled in the square.”

Amoro closed his eyes. Sangue di Dio. Roberto should have interrogated the man to discover the motive behind the murder. Nonetheless, Roberto defended his father, and for that, he owed the man his gratitude.

“You have been ever faithful to my father and our family. I'm proud to call you a friend. I shall see you well rewarded.”

“My lord,” Roberto said, his eyes gentled by compassion. “The night before he died, your father spoke with me.”

“Of what did you speak?”

“Of many things, but mostly of you.”

“Me?” The extent of Amoro's loss churned at his gut.

Roberto nodded. “We camped outside Varezze. The inn had no vacancy. The men drank too much wine and fell asleep early. Your father couldn't sleep, so he woke me. He seemed preoccupied. He confided in me.” Roberto faltered. Lines of concentration deepened along his brows.

It shocked Amoro to see the brawny man yield to his pain.

“Continue, Roberto, please,” Amoro urged.

“Your father wearied of the feud between your family and the Monterossa.”

Amoro's drew his brows together. “I weary of it. We all weary of it. Father rued the day his own father dishonoured the betrothal with a daughter of the Monterossa family. The wrath of their vengeance denies us any peace.” He paused as something occurred to him. “Do you suppose one of the Monterossa murdered my father?”

Roberto's mouth dipped into a deep frown. He shook his head. “We have no proof it is the Monterossa. We removed the disguise from the face of the lout we killed. None of us recognized him. Your father's men search from town to town to find the rest of the band. We may never learn the identities of the assassins.”

Anger replaced Amoro's grief. Try as he might, he failed to keep it contained. “I swear to hunt down the bastards who did this. They will suffer a worse fate.” Anxiety roughened Amoro's voice. “What else did my father say?”

“He placed all his hopes onto you. He wanted you to end the feud and atone for the past.”

“How?”

“You must honour the marriage contract broken so many years past.”

“How am I to do that?”

“You are to wed Contessa Morena Monterossa of Portovenere.”

“Marry the daughter of our enemy,” Amoro grimaced. With eyes closed, he shook his head. “Father never spoke of such a thing to me.”

“Nevertheless, that is what he said.”

Amoro stared hard at Roberto. Thoughts of Laria, his lover, came to mind. His father knew he wanted to marry for love. He asked the impossible. He returned to his mother. “Did you know of Father's wish for me to marry a Monterossa?”

Caterina nodded. Her voice cracked with emotion. “He spoke of it to me a while ago. He wanted to end the feud and for you to strengthen the Dragone family with sons. He sent a messenger to the king to propose the match and to acquire his permission.” Caterina pulled a small scroll from the pocket of her over-tunic and handed it to Amoro. “The king sanctioned the match.”

A tense silence enveloped the room as he read the document and handed it back to his mother. Hands clasped behind his back, it took Amoro only a few strides to reach his father's side. He glared down at the lifeless face then looked away. He pinched the bridge of his nose and shook his head. What could have possessed his sire to burden him with such a fate – to wed the enemy, someone not of his own choice? A woman he could never love.

He clenched the edge of the pall with his fists and raised it to his face. Raging emotions shook his body. To wed a woman sight unseen? What if she behaved as a shrew or bore an ill temper? If Umberto Monterossa refused? How could he honour his father's request then?

He swung around and stared first at Roberto then at his mother. “The idea of wedding the daughter of our vilest enemy is absurd. I do not believe my father would force this upon me.”

Caterina rose from her chair and rested her hand upon his arm. “Amoro, if that is the woman your father wanted you to marry then doubt him not. No man was more astute at judging the character of men and women than your father. Besides, we have all heard talk of her virtuous nature and beauty. Don't turn away from an opportunity to wed a well–dowered woman.”

Amoro returned to his father. He held his breath. Thoughts in his mind spun like a whirlwind. “Morena,” he tested the name. A torrent of emotions churned in his gut. To wed the enemy, a woman he didn't know. His father doomed him by such a ludicrous demand. His father's favourite proverb haunted him. Figlio mio, one day you must rise to your station. Do your duty and the balance will take care of itself. By the bowels of hell, what had his sire demanded of him?

***

Amoro looked down over Genoa and onward past the port. He watched as the wind blew over the sea and twisted the surface into thousands of broken ripples. Anchored barges rocked against rising tides. The blustery weather whipped through the cypress trees.

“Even in such weather, Genoa is beautiful,” said Laria Malacresta as she enfolded her arms around his waist and pressed her head against his back. “I have missed you these past few days. I didn't think your journey to the marches would take so long.” When he didn't reply, she sighed and murmured, “I regret the loss of your father. I know you loved him well.”

At her touch, he lifted her arms away and faced her. Lush ginger curls dangled about her beguiling face. Mischievous blue eyes sparkled above a delicate nose. Amoro studied the face of the woman who warmed his bed and had captured his heart these past months.

The memory of when they first met two summers ago flooded him. He and his men rode through a forest. They discovered her. Naked, beaten, and bloody, someone had left her for dead, like refuse. He carried her to Castle Dragone and summoned a healer. She lost the child she carried.

A bond developed between them during the weeks she convalesced. He learned she was a noblewoman. Her second cousin was a wealthy count who died childless. Trouble befell her when she became infatuated with the unscrupulous son of a rich merchant who impregnated her. Her family cast her out in shame. In desperation, she turned to her lover who spurned her and denied the child.

Her circumstances gave rise to a profound need within Amoro. Before long, he surrendered to his desire for her. What a temptress. Her carnal appetite matched his. They indulged in each other's flesh, often, the most pleasurable hours in his life.

As his father's heir apparent, Amoro understood that he must wed to increase his family's wealth or political standing. A marriage to Laria could never be. Not because she lacked noble blood, but because she could not enhance his family's political standing. He pondered about keeping her as a mistress, but mistresses brought discord between a man and his wife and he yearned for contentment in wedded life.

He didn't expect the day of their parting to arrive so soon. The worst of it would be to see her face crumble at the news that he must send her away. Amoro swallowed and fixed his gaze upon hers. “Si, I loved and respected him well. My father will be missed by many.”

“Time heals, Amoro. No one knows that more than I.”

“My life from this day forward will change.”

She caressed his cheek with her hand. “You are your father's heir, Genoa's Grand Duke now. Of course it will be different.”

Amoro turned to face the sea. Laria came to stand at his side. They stood in silence for a few moments.

“Laria, there is something we must discuss.” Amoro turned to face her.

Laria forced a smile. “Tell me, amore. There is nothing we cannot say to each other.”

“I must marry.” It broke his heart to see hope come to life in her eyes. He knew she loved him and secretly hoped to become his wife, but her ruination prevented such a union. How he hated to hurt her. He inhaled a deep breath. “Before my father died, he made it known he wanted me to marry Contessa Morena of Portovenere. I leave in two days to honour his wish.”

Laria paled. She furrowed her brows and tilted her head. Tears filled her eyes.

“Laria, I...” Amoro reached out to her.

She raised her arm to stop him and turned away.

Amoro waited, unable to ease her hurt. Moments passed. He watched as she squared her shoulders and raised her head. She faced him. He noticed ruddiness in her cheeks and bitterness in her eyes. Pain etched her expression.

“Laria, I'll see to it you are well cared for. You will want for nothing.”

Laria's face contorted. “You believe I want your money!” Her voice grew shrill. “It is you I want. I believed that you overlooked my lack of chastity. A union between us would have restored my respectability. These past months you took your pleasure and now you discard me? I believed you to be different from other men, but I erred. You are no better than those who preyed on me then left me for dead.”

“I don't have a choice, Laria. I never made you any promises.”

“No, you didn't. Even so, I hoped that you loved me enough that when you became Duke you would discard convention, make your own decisions, or break whatever protocol to do what is right.” Laria hurled the words at him with fury. She drew a breath and paused. Her chest heaved with emotion. “I blundered in harbouring such thoughts.”

“I understand how this must hurt you.”

“Hurt? You know nothing about hurt.”

“Try to understand. I cannot disregard my father's last wish. I loved him.”

“And I love you. If you presume to rid yourself of me that easily, you are wrong. Seek this woman, but remember this – we belong together, and if I must fight to keep what is mine, then so be it.” Laria picked up her skirts and fled the palisade.

***

Two days later, in the crypt of his ancestors, Amoro stood alone at the foot of his father's tomb. He placed his hand on the cold marble and clutched the hilt of his sword to his heart. Since his father's death, he barely left his mother's side. After he placed his mother in the care of life-long servants and kin, he bid her farewell and promised a swift return.

He envied the love between his parents. Never did they speak an acrimonious word between them. Kindness and respect ruled their time together. Laughter filled the air when they strolled in the evening together. His father always advised him to wed for love. It confused him that his father changed his mind. To ask him to live without love? Could love bloom in the cold heart of an enemy? If a Monterossa murdered his father, could he wed into that family? Could he use the alliance to seek his revenge?

The time for grief passed. The time for action arrived.

“I pledge my oath upon your grave, Father. I swear to avenge your death and fulfill your final wish to end the feud with the Monterossa.” The words seared his heart. “I will marry Morena Monterossa.”

The rasp of his sword as it glided into the scabbard broke the silence. After a final sweep of his hand over the crypt, Amoro strode away.

His bodyguards waited outside. Amoro took the reins from Roberto and leapt onto his horse. Roberto shouted a command for the cavalcade to ride.

Amoro galloped away, entourage in tow, a cloud of dust in their wake. The horses of his cavalry wore black and scarlet blankets with ornaments of silver that dangled. Every item of his wardrobe and that of his bodyguards, from the black silk tunic to the luxurious scarlet cape trimmed in gold leaf, sparkled with jewels.

Villagers stopped all activities and lined the road to view the spectacle. Children scrambled into the street to collect any silver ornaments that fell. They thundered down roads and through meadows.

Fragments of doubt about the Monterossa woman swirled like a maelstrom in his mind. Could he stand firm to the oath he just foreswore, if unfair of face, or if plagued with a physical ailment? He must, because he valued his word as much as his life.

For years, he avoided his father's requests to marry and beget a son. When his mother paraded maiden after noble maiden before him, he paid scant attention. Perhaps he might have discovered on as his true love.

Fate doomed him to wed the daughter of the enemy. He must defeat his prideful arrogance and do his duty. Amoro rode into Portovenere under the afternoon sun. Crowds of people lined the streets to watch the spectacle of their arrival. Cobblestones disappeared and the road withered into dirt with boulders strewn on either side. The road ended at the edge of a very large hill. Another road to the right led down to Bloodstone Castle.

Amoro halted the men and studied the Monterossa family's castle. An azure sea sparkled like a brilliant gemstone in the background.

Amoro admired the architecture. Poised on the tip of a peninsula of rock, the structure soared above a landscape of breathtaking beauty. The Ligurian Sea surrounded the castle on three sides. He admired the fact that no enemy could arrive by sea unnoticed. The fortress stood sentinel over the sheltered harbour, for centuries.

Amoro understood why so many legends abounded about the ancient stronghold. The rose-colored edifice sat upon land and rocks richly veined with bloodstone. Rumours of a Roman casket filled with unimaginable treasures buried somewhere beneath its turrets and walls, intrigued Amoro most of all. He collected ancient Roman jewellery. To discover it, would be an additional benefit to wedding.

He appreciated the sweeping vistas of snug wood and stone houses with terraced gardens, abundant orchards, and three small islands in the nearby waters. A cool mist blanketed the fortress in an amethyst haze. The evening sun descended over tides and white-foamed waves. Clouds streamed across the sky.

Amoro ordered the white standard of peace unfurled. He led his men over a bridge to the gatehouse. Two large towers sat at each end. The roof of a large keep hovered behind, higher than the walls.

They rode into the barbican and stopped before the locked gates. Loud shouts and the urgent blow of a trumpet sounded from within.

“Who goes there?” The voice came from somewhere above.

“Amoro, Duke of Genoa,” he shouted back and looked upwards. The afternoon sun blazed in his eyes. He could not make out who spoke. “I come in peace to speak with Umberto Monterossa.”

The sounds of men scurrying into place emanated from inside. Amoro shielded his eyes against the sun and looked up at the bastions. The hot sun beat down hard as he waited.

The voice shouted down at him again. “Umberto Monterossa refuses to see you.”

Amoro clenched his reins tighter and shouted. “Then I'll wait.”

A heavy silence fell. Amoro held his ground as if he commanded each moment. The lack of response convinced him they scrambled to find another method to rid themselves of his presence. Amoro could not prevent the grin that touched his lips as he called out, “Advise Contessa Morena I seek an audience.”

Time passed.

“The Contessa is indisposed and cannot see you.”

Amoro ignored the snickers from behind the castle walls. The corner of his mouth twisted. “Inform the Count and his daughter I shall return on the morrow, and every day thereafter, until one or the other speaks with me.”

No response.

Amoro clenched his jaw and reined his horse around. Entourage in tow, he departed.

***

Amoro returned the next day with a small wooden casket bejewelled with coral and pearls. Secreted within was a parchment upon which he wrote some kind, persuasive words. An intaglio brooch of multi-coloured rock set in a golden shield bordered with twisted gold and engraved with two Roman goddesses lay upon the document. It was the most exquisite piece in his collection of ancient Roman jewels. He purchased it from a shrewd Venetian merchant after much negotiation and cost.

Before he announced his presence, a voice shouted down.

“Contessa Morena will not see you today.”

Amoro recognized the voice as the same one as the day before. He gritted his teeth and inhaled a hearty breath. “I brought her a gift.”

“Leave it outside the gate. I'll take it to her.”

“Think you I'm a fool?” Amoro shouted upwards. “I wager she will not see it. No, I'll tarry for her personal response.”

The castle gate creaked open. An unpleasant looking man with a surly face and fat cheeks walked out and halted two paces in front of Amoro. The man drew in a breath to speak.

Amoro waved him to silence. “I'll not tolerate any further stalling. See to it that you place this into the hands of the Contessa. I await her answer.”

The man sneered.

Amoro's eyes narrowed as he passed the man the casket. He held it longer than necessary before he released it. He fixed his eyes on the man's back as he lumbered back to the castle and the gates slammed shut behind him.

Amoro waited. An eternity passed before the gates creaked open and the same man strode out. In a hardened voice with no vestige of sympathy, the man shoved the casket back at him. “The Contessa refused your gift.” His eyes shifted when he spoke as if he guarded a secret.

Amoro lifted the lid of the casket to examine the contents. All appeared intact. He raised his eyebrows and suppressed angry words. He cast a venomous glare at the man and held the man's gaze. When the man could no longer bear it, he looked away.

Satisfied, Amoro leapt onto his horse and cantered off.

***

Amoro dispatched a parade of messengers to Bloodstone Castle. Each bore extravagant gifts: pearl necklaces, bracelets of fine Saxon silver, a lock of Saint Peter's hair, a Psalter illuminated with inks of purple and gold, a velvet mantle lined with ermine, and numerous gemmed garments of silk. Each gift carried a well-crafted note that proposed marriage and described his desire of peace. Each endowment returned to his hands unopened.

He took residence at a nearby inn. The innkeeper and his wife treated him well. They befriended and encouraged him. The couple practically salivated over the many gifts he sent to Morena and shook their heads at each refusal.

Word of Amoro's benevolence spread. The villagers took notice. Their wariness towards him faded. Each day, townsfolk gathered in greater numbers to watch his liveried messengers depart for the castle with new, extravagant gifts. They took great interest at his campaigns to win the heart of their Contessa.

If only they knew the truth. Let them think him a forlorn romantic for it mattered naught.

***

A fortnight passed. Amoro made no progress. He sat alone at a corner table in a crowded, raucous inn, and brooded. He finished a meal of roasted venison and fresh bread and downed his second goblet of red wine.

A man approached.

Amoro stared at him with deliberate sternness. In no mood for trouble, he poised his hand on the sheathed dagger on his thigh.

The tall, muscular stranger with fair hair and brown eyes gazed back at him. “May I sit?”

Amoro looked around the room. “I see several unoccupied chairs. Take one of them.” He returned a dark gaze to the goblet in his hand in dismissal.

“I believe you will be interested in what I have to say.”

Amoro glared at him.

The man did not waver.

The display of confidence impressed Amoro. He studied the man's face to judge his trustworthiness. “Say what you have come to say, then be gone.”

“I know of your intentions to wed the lady Morena.”

“Hah. That is no secret.” Amoro raised his goblet to toast the comment. He downed a swallow and looked away to dismiss the man again.

“I can help you.”

Amoro twirled the stem of his goblet. He leaned back into his chair. “How?”

The man grinned. “My reasons are my own, but suffice it to say that I would rather see the Lady Morena marry you than that scoundrel, Ernesto of Savona, to whom she is betrothed.”

“Betrothed?”

“A betrothal document exists already, made many years before.”

“Then why do you wish for the lady to marry me?” Amoro leaned forward. Perhaps something this man knew might release him from the trap of marriage that hung over his head.

The man stopped a serving-maid who walked past with a tankard and two empty goblets. “I'll take one of those.”

He grabbed one of the cups and held it out for her to fill. He raised the glass to her and returned his attention to Amoro. “I owe Umberto Monterossa a great debt. As a lone child, after the murder of my parents, he took care of me as if I were his son.” With every word, pain showed in the man's face.

“And you want to discharge your debt by seeing the lady wed to me?”

“If she marries Boccanera, she will suffer.”

The man captured his full attention. Amoro gestured with his arm to the empty chair across the table. “Who are you?”

The man grinned as he straddled the chair and leaned forward. He looked to either side to ensure no one could overhear. “My name is Massimo Baronno. I'm a close friend of the Monterossa family. I know of a secret door into Bloodstone Castle.”

~*~

The Complete Tour Schedule – http://virtualblogtour.blogspot.com/2008/05/mirella-patzer-virtual-book-tour.html

During the tour, we encourage people to visit each tour stop shown on the schedule. Each comment on any of the tour stops is an entry in the book giveaway. Several copies of Bloodstone Castle will be given away at the end of the month. One will be given to the “best” comment, one for the “most unique and relevant” question. In addition, the blog host where the winning comments were posted will also win a copy of the book. So, visit Mirella, learn more about Bloodstone Castle and post comments. Mirella looks forward to getting to know her readers.