Exclusive Excerpt: Flesh and Gold (a Cantor Gold Crime – Book 4) by Ann Aptaker


I’m no saint. I’m certainly no prude. I’ve been visiting cat houses—what the old timers call notch joints back in the States—since I was a teenager and Sig owned a few houses back in our Coney Island days. The professional ladies of pleasure know what they’re doing, and sometimes, on my loneliest nights in my dangerous life, when I miss Sophie so much I’m dizzy with longing, it takes a professional to do what needs doing. And I have a soft spot for the ladies. They and I have something in common: we make our living outside the Law, because the Law dealt both of us rigged hands. The Law says I’m a criminal just because I romance women. And the Law says it’s a crime for the ladies to decide what to do with their own flesh and bones.

I can’t kid myself, though. I know that “the life” can be risky. It’s not unusual for a Lady of Pleasure to have the “pleasure” beaten out of her by rough trade or a vicious pimp who gets his kicks by using her as a slave. The only freedom she can hope for is to grow old, discarded, and die. The idea that Sophie, my Sophie, is caught in such a life scares me to death.

And then there’s the filthy horror that sends its stench through all those other horrors, a scenario twisting me up so bad I can barely breathe: the thought of Sophie pawed over by sweaty tourists and needy locals not only breaks my heart, it makes me sick.

Sure, add hypocrite to my list of sins.

I soothe myself a little by believing that whoever took her would realize Sophie is a class act and would stow her in one of the town’s fancier, ultra-discreet joints catering to the island’s secretive aristocrats and moneyed clientele, the kind of places where the women aren’t batted around, and even protected from violent clients.

It’s been a long time since I was last in Havana and availed myself of its erotic pleasures. Considering the current power shifts in the local underworld, and those gang wars Lansky and Nilo talked about, the Who’s Who of the cat houses is probably not the same Who’s Who I dealt with ten years ago. As far as I know, nobody in the fancier fleshpots owes me any favors, and without an invitation from a regular client or someone else well connected, I can’t get into those joints, and I don’t even know where they are. I can’t get information about those places without help. But until that help comes, I’m on my own, with nowhere to look but the back rooms of bars, the fleabag hotels, and the streets.


Havana, 1952, a city throbbing with pleasure and danger, where the Mob peddles glamor to the tourists and there’s plenty of sex for sale. In the swanky hotels and casinos, and the steamy, secretive Red Light district of the Colón, Cantor Gold, dapper art thief and smuggler, searches the streets and brothels for her kidnapped love, Sophie de la Luna y Sol. Cantor races against time while trying to out run the deadly schemes of American mobsters and the gunsights of murderous local gangs.

Learn more about award-winning author, Ann Aptaker:

click on photo for website

Native New Yorker Ann Aptaker has earned a reputation as a respected if cheeky exhibition designer and curator of art during her career in museums and galleries. Taking the approach that what art authorities find uncomfortable the public would likely enjoy, exhibitions Ann has curated have garnered favorable reviews in the New York Times, Art in America, American Art Review, and other publications.

She brings the same attitude and philosophy to her first love: writing, especially a tangy variety of historical crime fiction. Ann’s short stories have appeared in two editions (2003 and 2004) of the noir crime anthology Fedora. Her flash fiction story, “A Night In Town,” appeared in the online zine Punk Soul Poet. In addition to curating and designing art exhibitions and writing crime stories, Ann is also an art writer and an adjunct professor of art history at the New York Institute of Technology. (Publisher).

EXCERPT: Iron Goddess: A Shea Stevens Thriller by Dharma Kelleher – Lesbian Thriller


In this gritty, fast-paced debut thriller, an ex-con biker chick turned law-abiding citizen risks everything to save her new life—and confront the demons of her past.

Shea Stevens is biker royalty. Her father was the president of the Confederate Thunder Motorcycle Club. Under his watchful eye, she learned how to pick locks, disable alarms, and hot-wire cars like a pro. But all that is ancient history. Or so she thought . . .

After a stint in prison, Shea has worked hard to make a quiet, happy life for herself in Arizona. She spends her time bonding with her big-city girlfriend and running her bike shop, Iron Goddess Custom Cycles, with her dedicated team of misfits. But when one of her employees is shot and three of her specially commissioned bikes are stolen, Shea’s new life collides with the criminal underworld she tried to leave behind.

Shea knows better than to trust the police. So, with her Glock on her hip, she takes the investigation into her own hands. Shea’s search for the bike thieves leads her straight to her father’s old gang—and her estranged sister, whose young daughter has been kidnapped by a rival club. The last thing Shea wants is to be caught in the middle of a war—but if she learned one thing from her old man, it’s that when someone comes at you, you push back. Hard. And that’s exactly what she’s going to do.



Sparks exploded from the left footpeg of Shea Stevens’ motorcycle as it scraped against the pavement. She was going too fast through the curves that twisted up the south side of Sycamore Mountain. The road was dark—daybreak still an hour away. Getting up close and personal with an elk at sixty miles an hour would be disastrous. But Shea was in a hurry.

She tried to convince herself the call from the security company was another false alarm—a rat looking for a crumb, or maybe a glitch in the sensors. But she couldn’t shake the fear that someone had broken into the shop. If the three custom motorcycles they’d finished the night before were stolen, it would be a quarter-million-dollar loss.

Please, God, let it be another false alarm.

The cold air blasting through the vents in her jacket caused her teeth to chatter. In her rush to alleviate her paranoia, she’d thrown on her jeans and T-shirt from the night before. Didn’t bother with a bra. Her only precaution had been the .40-caliber Glock she’d slipped into a pancake holster at the small of her back.

Fifteen minutes later, her bike crested the hill and reached what the residents of Sycamore Springs, Arizona, call Olde Towne—a mile-long strip of locally owned shops including a café, a pharmacy, an antiques shop, and Iron Goddess Custom Cycles—her destination.

She screeched to a stop in front of the cycle shop, killed the engine, and ripped off her helmet. The pungent scent of creosote mixed with dead skunk made her nose crinkle. Moonlight reflected off the desert dust on the plate glass window, obscuring the Iron Goddess logo. Her gaze shifted left to the shop’s front door. Shards of glass clung to the doorframe like broken teeth.

“Fuck.” Her hands tightened into fists. She wanted to beat someone.

She climbed off the bike and scanned the street, hoping to spot the intruder skulking through Olde Towne. Fifty feet away at the Kokopelli Café, a Coca-Cola sign flickered on and off. Across the street, a security gate sliced the blue light of a fifties-era jukebox glowing from within the antiques shop. The rest of Olde Towne’s shops slumbered in darkness.

She dug a flashlight out of her tank bag and drew the Glock, turning her attention back to Iron Goddess. She crept onto the cement porch, paused outside the door, and listened for anyone who might be inside. Somewhere in the darkness, a pack of coyotes performed a predawn symphony of yips and high-pitched howls over a recent kill. Two delivery trucks roared past three minutes apart. But no voices or sounds of crunching glass came from inside Iron Goddess. If anyone was in there, they may have hunkered down when they heard her motorcycle. She had to find out for sure.

Drops of a dark liquid on the concrete caught her attention. Was it oil or blood? She brushed it with a finger, creating a crimson smear. Blood. Her pulse quickened.

She pulled on the door handle. It was unlocked. Thief must’ve reached in and unlocked it after breaking the glass. She scolded herself for not getting a double-cylinder lock.

After slipping in through the door, she scanned the place with her flashlight. Tiny bits of glass sparkled like jewels across the floor. A bowling ball–sized rock lay near the front sales counter. The familiar industrial smell of the showroom mixed with the organic tang of blood. Her fist tightened on the grip of the gun.

More drops of blood led off to the right. She considered turning on the lights, but didn’t want to blow what little stealth she had left. Broken glass crunched under her boots with each step. Moving slower didn’t make it any quieter.

She followed the trail of blood around the counter to where three custom-ordered bikes and several production bikes had been parked hours earlier; they were now gone.

Clothing racks for motorcycle jackets and pants had been cleared. Empty hangers lay scattered on the floor. Shelves that once displayed helmets, boots, and other gear had been stripped bare.

Shea felt sucker-punched. Her mind kept telling her it was a dream.

Her heart leapt into her throat when someone coughed and moaned. She ducked down until she heard it again. Her finger slipped onto the trigger. She swung the flashlight around and found a man lying on the floor in the motor oil aisle. She approached cautiously, ignoring the pulse pounding in her ears.

With the light on the man’s face, she recognized him as Derek Williams, one of her employees.

She slapped on the overhead lights. Derek was a scrawny guy, just shy of his twentieth birthday. His stubbly face was pale and clammy. Blood covered his shirt, pooling on the floor around his chest.

“Aw shit, Derek!” She holstered her gun and knelt down next to him.

He opened his eyes for a moment. “They made me,” he wheezed before coughing up blood.

“Who? Who did this to you?”

His eyes lost focus and closed.

She checked his pulse. Her own heart beat so fast she couldn’t tell if he had a pulse or not. She pulled out her phone.

“Cortes County 911—what’s your emergency?”

“I need an ambulance at Iron Goddess Custom Cycles, 8234 South Sycamore Highway. My friend is bleeding.”

“How is he injured, ma’am?”

“I . . . I don’t know. I just found him. He’s got blood all over his chest. I think someone shot him.”

“Is he breathing?”

“Uh . . . let me check.” She put her ear to his mouth and could hear shallow, gurgling breaths. “He’s breathing, but barely.”

“We’ve dispatched an ambulance. It’ll be there momentarily.”

Shea hung up the phone and checked his pulse again. It was there, but weak. Then it stopped. She struggled to remember the lessons from a CPR course two years earlier. She clasped her hands and compressed in the center of his chest. Blood gushed from his wounds. That wasn’t in the course.

She lifted up his shirt. His chest was smeared with blood. She wiped away as much as she could. Dark liquid oozed from two dime-sized wounds, one right above his heart, the other closer to his left shoulder.


His shirt was soaked. Wouldn’t work to stop the blood, even if she could get it off him. Shea looked for something else to use. The nearby shelves were stocked with bottles of motor oil, industrial cleaners, and cans of chain lube. No shop cloths or clothing.

She scrambled out of her jacket, pulled off her shirt, and twisted it into a tight wad. She pressed it over the wounds and compressed his chest again. The T-shirt kept the bleeding to a minimum. She continued pumping his chest. “Come on, Derek. Gimme a heartbeat.”

After fifty compressions, she checked again. Still no pulse. She continued pounding on his chest, desperately trying to minimize the bleeding and hoping the EMTs would arrive before she ran out of energy.

Her back was beginning to cramp up when the silver bell on the front door jingled.

“Over here!” she yelled.

Two deputies rushed in, guns pointed at her.

“Sheriff’s Office! Get on the floor. Hands behind your head.”

Find Dharma Kelleher on the web:



Excerpt: Barbara Winkes’ “Indiscretions” – A Carpenter / Harding novel

Indiscretions – A Carpenter / Harding novel


Barbara Winkes


After surviving an attack by a stranger, rookie officer Ellie Harding decides to put herself first and make bold moves in both her career and her private life, refusing to let the traumatic incident get her off track.

Detective Jordan Carpenter faces the decision whether to remain in a disastrous, but long-term relationship or give in to the attraction she feels for her younger colleague. Her partner Bethany isn’t willing to let go, of Jordan or the case, a sadistic killer who murders women for behavior he considers immoral.

Can they find him before he strikes again?


After waking in a cold sweat for the second time, Ellie decided she had enough and got out of bed at 4:37 a.m. Bright and early enough for you, Detective? She hadn’t meant to, but she had already changed habits. For the longest time, she’d wear heels in the morning on her way to work and change back into them after her shift. Lately, the sound of heels on the pavement made her uncomfortable. She knew it would abate with time. Why not hurry the process along? They might not be able to catch the bastard who had jumped her, but if she could assist catching the killer Jordan and her team were after, it would go a long way towards making her feel safer again.

Determined, she slipped into a pair of pumps. Sometime this week, she might even go out with her friends again. If Jordan told her no another time, to hell with her. Ellie would have no problem finding someone else in her pursuit for pleasure.

Jordan wore jeans and a white buttoned down shirt this morning. Ellie had little time to admire her, because they dove into the disturbing reality of the case on the table right away.

“The common theme here seems to be some relationship trouble. This is one thing we know about all the victims so far, a recent breakup. Two of the women straight, one lesbian. The question is where does he find them? Lori Gleason told me she found dates in a chat room. She signed up after her divorce.”

Ellie had done her best to get herself up to date with the facts. Gleason was currently recovering in the hospital. Isabel Hayes’ body had been found behind a dumpster five weeks ago, and the first victim, Eleanor Campbell, had been discovered by trespassing teenagers. The trespassing became rapidly irrelevant, and the high school kids had been taught the lesson of a lifetime in what could happen if you walked into a creepy abandoned building.

“How can we be so sure it’s the same killer?” Jensen asked. “I imagine Hayes would not hang out in the same chat room, for obvious reasons.”

Ellie could see the hint of indulgence on the detectives’ faces. Jordan, however, addressed the question. She pointed to Hayes’ crime scene photo.

“You better hope there aren’t more like him out there. The victims’ injuries are consistent. The rope fibers match. You are right insofar as their life circumstances were different. Gleason preferred the chat room. Isabel Hayes preferred bars. Eleanor Campbell, as far as we know, was the only one in a committed relationship, but the husband’s alibi checks out.”

“He hates women. Sexually active women. Maybe he got rejected.” Ellie didn’t realize she’d said this out loud until all eyes were on her. She shrugged. Ellie had done a lot of reading on why some men hated on women, from her undergraduate days on. A lot of those theories had come back to her lately.

“That’s a possibility.” Jordan’s reaction was rather reserved. “It’s all theory at this point. What we need is to find the link between all those women. They lived in different neighborhoods, but in a relatively small distance. He’s probably local, can’t or won’t travel. I want you to concentrate on the dates from the chat room so far. We have the data from Lori’s computer, every date, every conversation. Look closely for anything suspicious.”

“What about Gleason’s ex?” Jensen inquired.

“He’s coming back from a business trip in Europe. I expect him this afternoon. Meanwhile, let’s hope Lori will remember more.”

Ellie got up, but waited until everyone was beginning their own work. Two of the other detectives left. Jordan, sensing her hesitation, came over to her.

“Lori Gleason…was she raped?” Ellie asked. She hated how all of a sudden, her voice sounded small.

“The rape kit came back negative.” Jordan’s tone was calm and detached, but there was concern in her gaze. They both knew that left a lot of other possibilities. “Will you be okay?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Okay then. Go find the perfect match online.”

Ellie couldn’t help it, even the probably innocent suggestion brought heat to her face, and lower regions. What kind of person did that make her? They had a job to do, because some women had suffered far worse abuse than she had, and besides, Jordan had a girlfriend. Reason was not helpful.


“More like a date with the devil,” she said lightly. “Thank you. I really appreciate this.”

“No problem. You still owe me a beer.”

For the next fifteen minutes or so, Ellie kept wondering if she’d really heard her say it. However, her fantasies were certainly not priority. She read pages after pages of emails Lori Gleason had exchanged with potential dates, the tone always ranging from flirty to definitely not safe for work. She felt a bit sick, knowing this was the kind of behavior a man would hardly ever be criticized for. Someone had taken offense, kidnapped, beaten and cut her, would have killed her if the neighbors hadn’t called the police. Because she flirted with men on the internet? Because she enjoyed dating and possibly, sex? The world was fucked up.

She winced at the suggestion of a threesome, and Lori’s response, aware of how easy it was to let one’s own sensibilities and boundaries seep into judgment. As long as they kept it safe, who was she—or anyone—to blame them?

“My friend would like to join us,” Lori had written. “When can we meet?” The date had never come to pass, because of Lori’s abduction. Unless…Ellie stared at the printout until the letters started blurring in front of her eyes. Of course two straight people dating and considering a third party was not the same as Isabel enjoying the lesbian nightlife, except to a sexist murderer it might be. Maybe Eleanor’s marriage hadn’t been that happy after all, and she’d had a secret of her own—they could be looking at a hate crime. Jordan was right. This was a theory, and only one of many possible at this point. They had to stick to the facts.

“I know you’ve been hurt before, and the same is true for me. I want to meet someone who’s committed, who won’t let me down. If you can be that person, I promise you won’t regret it,” said one of the answers Lori had gotten. There might be some people going onto these sites who were honestly looking for a relationship, love. It was hard not to get paranoid. Everybody had something to hide. One of them had sent a poem. Another had promised a trip to an exotic location Lori wouldn’t ever forget.

At least Mr. Threesome with whom the most recent correspondence had taken place, had written emails from his work account. This would be an interesting visit, Ellie thought as she looked up the company, a computer firm, and jotted down the address. The location was right in the center of the circle in which the women had been found.

Jordan, much to Ellie’s disappointment, didn’t send her and Jensen to talk to Lori’s date. Instead, and Ellie realized soon that she was getting the much better deal, she took her to see Lori Gleason. The ride to the hospital was a tad awkward, as Ellie sat straight up, trying not to stare, at Jordan, at her hands on the steering wheel, imagining these hands doing something else instead. She forced herself to keep her gaze straight ahead, focus.

The smells and sounds of the hospital hit her hard. She hadn’t been in here since the night she’d been attacked, and the sensory memories put a jarring halt to her inappropriate thoughts.

There was a uniformed officer in front of Lori Gleason’s room, greeting them briefly. He confirmed with Jordan that no unauthorized person had tried to approach Lori, and they went inside.

Ellie stopped in her tracks at her first look at Gleason. The instant panic on the patient’s face that abated only when she realized her visitors were with the police, the bruises…without a doubt, her injuries were graver than Ellie’s had been, but she had a hard time stopping the unwelcome trip down memory lane.

Jordan introduced her to Lori Gleason, and the woman gave a faint smile that slipped from her face so quickly Ellie might have imagined it.

“How are you today, Ms. Gleason?” Jordan asked, keeping her tone soft, non-threatening.

The blank expression, either from medication or self-protection, told Ellie they weren’t likely to get a lot of information out of her. Gleason shrugged and winced, the movement causing her pain.

“We reached your ex-husband. He was on a business trip, and is coming in today.” The news seemed neither helpful nor upsetting for Lori.


“He wouldn’t do anything like that. We had a good marriage.”

“Why did you get divorced?”

“Am I under suspicion for anything?”

Ellie thought to herself that she probably would have reacted the same way.

“No, of course not,” Jordan reassured her. “It’s important for us to figure out why you were targeted.”

“Don’t you think I know that? I’ve been wracking my brain every waking moment. I don’t know anymore than I’ve told you. You probably saw the chats by now. I’ve had a few dates. Those were decent people, or at least I assumed so. There’s nothing else I can tell you.”

“I know it’s hard,” Ellie said, stepping forward. Gleason shot her a suspicious look. She showed emotion, which, Ellie assumed, was better than lethargy. Maybe she knew something that hadn’t come to mind yet.

“What do you know?”

“I was attacked some weeks ago. Would you mind?” She pointed to the visitor’s chair, and Lori shook her head.

“Why are you telling me this? You got away—obviously.”

“So did you. I want you to know that it will take some time, but details will come back to you, and that’s not a bad thing. It means you’ll be able to work through them, now that you’re safe.”

Lori’s expression spoke volumes. At this point, it would be hard for her to believe she’d ever feel safe again. Ellie could sympathize. “I’m sure the last thing you want right now is for us to bother you with questions,” she continued. “I hated everyone who asked me about it, I wanted them all to forget about it, so I’d be able to. First of all, I learned it doesn’t work that way. Second, we want this man in prison, so he can never hurt anyone else. So, if there’s anything you can think of, that comes back to you, please let us know.”

“It was dark. He was wearing a mask. I woke up in that basement, and I never saw his face. I’m trying, damn it.”

“I know.” Ellie suppressed the urge to take the woman’s hand. There were situations when touch meant no comfort, on the contrary, it could make a person want to jump out of their skin. “Please know that we’re doing everything we can. You beat the son of a bitch already. You lived.”

Due to a coincidence, but still. Ellie had the uncomfortable feeling that the woman was able to read her mind. They both had been lucky to benefit from the quick thinking and kindness of strangers. What did it mean? The world wasn’t ever safe, no matter how much you tried to prepare for the worst.

“Did they get him?” Lori asked, startling her. “The guy who attacked you, was he arrested?”

Ellie was tempted to lie to her, but she thought the woman deserved better. “No.” Lori’s face fell. “Which doesn’t mean anything for your case. He left traces, people like that make mistakes. We’ll catch him. I promise.”


Interviewing author Lynn Ames, creator of some tough, kick-ass lesbian protagonists

Lynn, thank you so much for taking time to answer some questions for members of the Gay Mystery-Thriller-Suspense Fiction Facebook group. 

It’s my pleasure, Jon. Thanks for asking. <g>

Let’s start off with, where do you live?

I’m originally from New York, but I live in Phoenix, Arizona.

As you probably know, writers rarely like to toot their own horns…lol, but what would you say is your greatest accomplishment?

You’re right. This is always a tough question. Do you want to narrow that down to “as an author?” If so, I would say my greatest accomplishment is being able to write what’s in my heart—to do something I love to do—and being able to make a living at it.   

Without getting too personal, would you share a little about your home life?

I work out of my house, so it’s a long commute—all the way two doors down! You can’t believe the traffic. <g> I share my life with my two beautiful golden retrievers, Parker, who is nine, and Dixie, who is three. Parker is my Zen man. LynnAmes
And Dixie should be playing the outfield for the Yankees. She’d be less expensive than Carlos Beltran. Just sayin’…

Do you fly by the seat of your pants when writing or plot out your storylines in detail?

I am a pantser from way back. I usually know three or four things that are going to happen in any book, and then the rest of it falls into place organically as I go along.

Have had you ever had to deal with homophobia after your lesbian-themed novels are released, and if so, what forms has it taken?

I’ve been so fortunate. My books have been well received and I haven’t gotten any backlash in terms of the fact that my protagonists are lesbian. Of course, my philosophy about such things is, “If you don’t like it, don’t read it.” In those instances where straight people have asked about my books, I disclose up front that there are lesbian characters in the book and invariably no one seems to have a problem with that. As I said, I recognize that this is not always the case, so I feel most fortunate, indeed.

Many of your plots include espionage, secret paramilitary organizations, diplomats, political officers, politicians, the U.S. President – among many others spanning the gambit of high-stakes mystery, action and adventure. Where do you get your ideas?

LOL. Well, in some cases, I’ve lived them. Not the espionage part, but I spent many years working in high level politics, so it’s a world that’s familiar to me. So I have some inside knowledge of how these worlds function, which means I also understand all too well how things can go awry. So, where the average person might read something in a newspaper or magazine or see a story on television about a current event and see only what is being presented to him/her, I see the moving parts behind the curtain and fill in the back story. Or, something will lead me to ask the question, “What if…?” Once my curiosity is aroused, I can start to imagine the plot I can create from it.


You have written some seriously kickass lesbian mystery/thriller/suspense fiction with the Classified Series and Kate and Jay series; What was your inspiration behind creating such tough, kickass female protagonists and how do you keep them fresh?

Thank you for that! Having spent so many years in male-dominated fields where I was often the ONLY woman, I understand what it takes to stand strong and hold your ground. It requires a level of toughness and a proficiency at one’s job that goes beyond normal expectations. So I tend to imbue my characters with that level of proficiency at their jobs and with that strength and toughness. In the fields in which my characters work, in their jobs, in their lives, they are exactly who/what they need to be. Also, I want to present role models to girls/women that let them know that they can be anything at all that they want to be.

How do I keep my protagonists fresh? Like real people, the characters in a series must evolve and grow over time. That growth takes place either in their relationships, or the situations they encounter, or both. So I try to create situations, plots, and human interactions for the characters that allow them to continue to grow and evolve. As long as they are growing and evolving, they’ll stay fresh. And I really hope they learn some things along the way about life, and that the readers and I learn right along with them. 😉

In the first Kate and Jay release, The Price of Fame, protagonist Kate was outed and lost her job as a TV anchor. In the second book, The Cost of Commitment, Kate’s lover, Jamison “Jay” Parker cannot depend on her anonymity being guarded. Was any of their experiences autobiographical?  

Interesting questions. Although I did spend half a decade as an award-winning broadcast journalist, I never got outed in that context. I was once threatened to be outed. That was when I held Kate’s job in The Cost of Commitment. In that same context, the person who threatened to do the outing would also have been outing my partner at the time. <g>

And here’s a bonus tidbit: The riot I describe in The Cost of Commitment really did happen. What I describe (except for the kidnapping) is a moment-by-moment accounting of a riot in which I held the position Kate holds in the book. Harrowing.

Which living actors would you cast to play your protagonists, Katherine Kyle and Jamison Parker from the Kate & Jay series?

ValueofValorBecause I think life should be about choices, I’ll give you a choice of Jennifer Lawrence, Keira Knightley, Kate Beckinsale, Angelina Jolie, or Emily Blunt for Kate, and maybe Natalie Portman for Jay. Of course, there’s always Lucy Lawless and Renee O’Connor, too.

Last question; can you share with us a little about your current release and/or WIP?

My current release actually has nothing to do with thrillers or suspense. It’s a contemporary lesbian romance titled, All That Lies Within. Here’s the synopsis:

How far would you go to hide who you really are inside? And what do you do when you find the one person from whom hiding your true self isn’t an option?

Glamorous movie star Dara Thomas has it all—an Oscar nomination, dozens of magazine covers proclaiming her the sexiest woman alive, and people of both sexes clamoring for her attention. She also has a carefully guarded secret life. As Constance Darrow, Dara writes Pulitzer Prize-winning fiction, an outlet that allows her to be so much more than just a pretty face.

Rebecca Minton is a professor of American Literature in love with the work of the mysterious, reclusive author Constance Darrow, with whom she strikes up a correspondence. A chance phrase in a letter leads her to a startling conclusion about the author.

What happens next will change the course of both of their lives forever.

And my current work-in-progress is a historical romance titled, Bright Lights of Summer. It is about the heyday of women’s softball in the 1940s. That book should be out this coming summer.

On behalf of the Facebook Gay Mystery-Thriller-Suspense Fiction Group, thank you for giving us a little of your time today, answering questions fans of the genre want to know.

Thank YOU, Jon, for the invitation, the opportunity, and for the wonderful questions.


Find Lynn Ames on the web:


Friend me on Facebook (Author Lynn Ames)

Follow me on Twitter (@lynnames)