By: Karen Stary
Genre: contemporary fiction
Publisher: Can’t Put it Down Books
Date of Publication: May 15, 2019
ISBN: 978-0-9994623-4-8
ASIN: B07PMDPJ37
Number of pages: 278
Word Count: 127,455
Cover Artist: Eric Labacz
Book Description:
A mercenary, a gambler, and a warlord are drawn together for a high stakes poker game. The trophy: a woman, Christine. They are men of unquestionable wealth, indomitable power, and overwhelming guilt; each is enchanted by Christine’s alluring beauty and each relentlessly desires to have her for himself.
Life has left Christine unable to form meaningful emotional relationships. However, without the ability to appeal emotionally to her male captors she is not only jeopardizing her own fate, but also the fate of other women as well. Alone, with only the three men who have come to mean so much to her, Christine must use not only her wits but her compassion to extricate herself. Will she become one man’s prized possession, or can she regain her sense of self?
Stary’s complex plot keeps the reader guessing as she explores some of today’s most controversial issues for women.
He clears his
throat again. I look up. His head gives a slight tilt as if to suggest, “Why
not?” His eyes squint, inviting me to have faith in the unknown. Charmed by the
smile in those eyes, I relax and take a sip of coffee. He speaks. “So…let me,
at least, introduce myself…my name is Cameron Dawson…and your name is…?” His
pause leaves the question dangling over a precipice of foreboding. I retrieve
the answer before I plummet.
“Christine…Christine
Ledge.”
“Now, that
wasn’t so difficult, was it?”
He seems to know
me too well. I cannot release the shadow of familiarity about this Mr. Dawson.
I had this same sensation the moment I first pressed against his arm at the
concert. I had ignored that feeling because I had thought that I probably would
never see him again. But like a relentless itch, it is a thought that aches to
be scratched. So, I take a breath and scratch.
“Have we met
before?”
“Last night at
the concert and then later in the hall!” a bit too quick and a bit too tidy. I
am not satisfied.
“No, before last
night. I feel that we had met before last night.”
No response. He
sips his coffee. I sip my coffee and allow its warmth to appease his
evasiveness. Obviously, I had just trespassed over some line. Because there is
no need to ruin this moment, I allow his hesitancy to pass. After a moment he
stirs in his seat.
“Did you enjoy
the concert?” It is obvious that he wants to change the subject. But, I am a
female. And his abrupt shifting is troubling. I disconnect from my unfounded
hunches.
“Oh, the
concert…well…yes…of course, I enjoyed the concert.”
Last night’s
images block any coherent reply. Fractured conversations interfere…caressing
words serenaded by the music opened wounds as I recall pressing up against him.
And so, I stare at him now and think about how it would be to lie naked next to
this man, to physically be touched by him. I harangue myself over my intimate
urges. I flip my head back trying to shake off the irrational desire. However,
I cannot let go of last night’s encounter between this Mr. Dawson and some young
man in a questionable financial exchange to obtain the seat next to mine.
Suddenly, I am wary of how much I should trust this man seated across from me.
Watching me carefully, he tilts his head as if
to pardon any past indiscretions. He seems able to read my misgivings. This
veil of deception must dissipate to have more clarity. And for that to happen,
I must be more forthright, too.
“No, Mr. Dawson,
to be quite frank, I did not enjoy the concert last night. I really struggled
to sit through it.” Then to continue this openness, “Was that obvious?”
“I did sense you
were a bit uncomfortable.” His polite delivery seems sincere enough.
Trying to inject
some humor to lift the heavy tone: “You mean since each time I banged into your
arm, you got a new ‘black and blue’?”
“Actually, I
rather liked the banging in spite of all those black and blues.”
“You did, did
you?” There is a pause; I am more comfortable with this exchange. “I’m really
sorry; I didn’t mean to be so abusive.”
“No, no…no
apology needed. What I meant by the banging was not because of that… but, yes,
because of that, too…More because I found you quite intriguing as you squirmed
about like you had hemorrhoids or some serious itch in the seat of your pants.”
His humor releases any lingering veiled suppositions.
“Oh, I hope it
wasn’t that annoying…I should have gotten up and left so that you would have
enjoyed the show better.”
“No, no, really
don’t feel put off…because…to tell the truth… I rather enjoyed watching you
watching the singer.”
Author Karen Stary is a resident of San Diego, California, and a native of New Jersey who spent her summers on the Jersey Shore. She writes about the fragile relationships between women and men in today’s world. Stary asserts that women have yet to realize their true potential: to achieve something greater than any woman who came before them.
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