So I was three pages into the second book in my Denver Homicide series and something didn’t feel right. I knew that, but I didn’t know what until the next morning when my furbabies woke me up at 2 0’clock in the a.m. That is when I realized that Steve doesn’t belong to Laurie. Laurie’s husband does, but we’ll talk about that next book. I deleted everything I wrote and started over. The first scene in the book gave me my title. Yes, that’s how I roll. LOL. Anyway. I’m half done with the first chapter. Introduced my hero and heroine to the story, with just a hint of their backstories–hopefully just enough to keep the reader wanting to know more.
Hero–Steve Morgan of course. My image for him in my head is Simon Baker.
Heroine–Whitney McAllister. I don’t have an image for her yet but she has a three-year-old girl named Kylie. She worked in housekeeping at the lodge where Steve was sent on a forced vacation.
“Hook, Line, Murder”
Steve Morgan heaved a sigh of frustration and again cast his line into the water. His goal that day had been to relax and enjoy an afternoon of fishing at Beaver Lake, even though he’d been forced into this little impromptu vacation to Marble, Colorado by his commanding officer. His blood still boiled about that and would until he was allowed to return to work.
He plopped onto a deteriorating fallen tree on the bank and watched his bobber move listlessly through the current. It reminded him of his emotions–up and down since the accident.
Shaking the thought, he reeled the line in a few feet. He hadn’t caught one damned trout since he’d arrived at Beaver lodge. Maybe he’d bought the wrong bait. The Salmon eggs the guy at the fish and tackle shop suggested might have worked better.
Then again, maybe his heart wasn’t in this particular leisurely activity. But then, what else did one do in a po dunk town, population less than a thousand–at a resort touted the best for rest and relaxation with its hiking trails and small, scenic cabins featuring all the amenities. Too bad he barely knew how to boil water.
Nope. This was not for him. He was like Ava on Green Acres. He loved city life—preferably the hustle and bustle of Denver.
Steve cranked the spindle on the reel, thinking it was a waste of time trying to catch a fish that he couldn’t cook anyway. As his line neared the bank, it snagged on something in the water.
Great. If he broke the nylon string, he’d have to pay for the rented equipment.
He rose and waded into the water. If this was relaxing, he’d have a coronary by the time he left.
A foot or two into the muddy backwash his boot bumped into something on the bottom.
He looked down. What the hell was it?
He worked his boot alongside the thing. It didn’t feel all that solid.
Steve reeled the line in further and leaned toward the surface, literally feeling all blood drain from his face. Under the water, caught on his twelve-pound test line, was a hand and he guessed the rest of the body nested against his foot.
Do you want to keep reading?