Wendy and the Lost Boys had some special first week!
* She was published on Kindle on Tuesday.
* On Wednesday Wendy and the Lost Boys was featured on Daily Cheap Reads
* Big Red Chair featured Barbara Silkstone on Wednesday Mesmered's The Big Red Chair
* Wendy made the top 100 Kindle books in humor and women sleuths on Thursday.
* Wendy made the Hot New Releases List in humor on Thursday.
Wendy's big sister Alice is about to release her new book cover.
For all those fans who were slightly freaked out by the Thugs Bunny, you'll be happy to see him modified and mollified... but still threatening. Now Alice and Wendy are a matched set in the Fractured Fairy Tales by Silkstone series.
But enough prattling. Let's get onto the excerpt from
Wendy and the Lost Boys
It started almost two years ago as what had become a normal poison-ivy-like night for me. Standing at the window of our suite at The Plaza, I gazed out over the pink and white blossoms of June in Central Park wondering when I would learn to say “no.” It was a hellacious sacrifice to drop what I was doing, leave my clients in Miami and haul up to New York to be at my husband Croc’s side as he pursued investors for his hedge fund Privateer, LLC.
I thought I’d finally found a good man when I first met James Crocowski at a fundraiser for hurricane victims. We continued to bump into each other at a series of charity events over the next few weeks. After a few months of frantic dating, I woke up in the bridal suite at the Luxor Hotel in Vegas. I was Mrs. Crocowski, the thirty-nine year-old wife of a hedge fund manager. I was ready to admit I’d made a mistake.
“How do I look?” Croc did a spin in his tux.
I turned from the window to study him. The man was an optical illusion. He looked intelligent, hardly the picture of a guy who’d just lost triple-digit millions. And obviously to him he looked primo. I bit off a really nasty comment and settled for, “Stop panting. You sound like a dog.”
“Yeah, but how great do I look? We’re going to a Charlie Hook party. It’s important.”
The name meant nothing to me. This was not a charity event, despite the embossed wording on the invitations. Croc, aka the Crocodile, was set to snare a new pool of investors with his welcoming grin and promises of extraordinary returns. I was sick to my stomach with what I suspected were his less than honest guarantees. I regretted my last minute decision to join him, torn between wifely loyalty and rat-sniffing instincts.
Dressed in my size-six little black dress that screamed designer original, while I screamed inside my head, I grabbed my velvet coat and struggled into it. My highlighted hair swung loose on my shoulders. “You look fine.”
“Didn’t I buy you some bling to wear to these events?”
I shot him my dirtiest look, feeling unclean being in the same room with him.
The doorman helped us into the hired limo, and we headed to a private party in Montclair, a city in northern New Jersey. I settled back and watched the cars rat race along.
Somewhere on the Jersey side of the George Washington Bridge we were sideswiped by another vehicle. First there was a thump and then a shattering crunch.” What was that?” I yelled to our driver. The limo bounced over rough pavement, hit gravel, and came to rest against the guardrail.
Crack! A gun shot and then another ricocheted off the front right fender in a splash of sparks.
Croc threw his weight against the limo door but it didn’t open. I yanked his sleeve. “Don’t leave me here, you chicken-shit!”
We were still struggling when a tall thin man reeking of cologne and cigars got into the front passenger seat. He aimed a large gun at my husband. “Don’t move or I’ll blow your head off.”
I pegged his accent as Russian.
My precious mate tried for the door again, knocking me in the ribs with his right elbow.
The Russian flashed me a quizzical look. “You married this coward?”
“I was drunk at the time.”
He smirked. “I could never get that drunk.”
“Nobody asked you,” Croc snapped. His smart mouth was about to get us both killed.
I put my hands in the air and slid into the far corner of the car trying to fold into the upholstery.
The limo driver sat stone still, almost blasé.
“We told you three weeks. You have until Monday. Ninety-three million dollars,” the Russian said.
“I promise 18% on your money if you wait until Thursday!”
Had my husband lost his mind? Facing a gun he negotiates interest rates?
The Russian cut his eyes to me and left the car.
Croc exhaled in a whoosh. “I guess they want their money back.”
“Give it to them.”
“I don’t have it. We had operating expenses.”
It dawned on me. “Are you involved in a Ponzi?”
“No, it’s a creative new-age investment opportunity and my tireless efforts are under appreciated.” He avoided eye contact and stepped out of the car.
“Doesn’t this shake you up?” I asked the driver as I dialed 911 on the car phone. “By the way, shut off the engine.”
“Lady, welcome to the new Wall Street. You get used to it after a while.” He yawned.
Outside the limo, Croc puffed on a cigarette. I’d never seen him smoke before. There was a lot I didn’t know about this man I married after I’d downed three bottles of champagne. Drink in haste. Repent in leisure. I put my head back and closed my eyes. It was time to see a lawyer.
The police arrived in less than ten minutes. By then Croc had disappeared. Maybe he walked off into the night or maybe the Russians decided not to wait until Monday. Either way, my wish had been granted. I was Croc-less.
Along with the details of the mugging, I filed a missing person’s report then went back to the Plaza and did a happy dance in our suite. My husband had abandoned me. Confirming my morning flight back to Miami, I changed rooms and for safety’s sake registered under my maiden name… Wendy Darlin.