"There was a moment when I changed from an amateur to a profssional. I assumed the burden of a profession, which is to write when you don't want to, don't much like what you're writing, and aren't writing particularly well." -Agatha Christie
Friday, March 27, 2015
The Beast of Stratton by Renee Blare
He appears the
beast but she sees his heart.
Hart, determined to locate her father, infiltrates Miles Stratton’s engineering
firm as a secretary. Her presence wrenches the shaggy, wounded man from his
penthouse, and the quest begins.
He’s been betrayed
by his best friend. Miles would rather hide than help, especially his daughter.
But it isnt over. Someone’s trying to destroy Stratton Industrial. A war
veteran, he knows how to defend his own, the Beast of Stratton can do it again.
She’d called his
friends, the family. She’d even tried her stepmother who’d hung up on her.
Well, okay, maybe that wasn’t the brightest idea.
A red rose rolled
across her father’s tattered note, caught in the breeze from the open window.
Sliding the pane down, she picked up the flower. The words on the page blurred
as she buried her nose in the soft petals.
Instead of saying
goodbye to his wife in his last letter, he’d simply left explicit instructions
not to follow him. Aimee snorted. Like the woman would care. He’d sent it with
the rose and an antique necklace. She held the thick chain aloft and peered at
the golden key spinning in the light. The jewelry had probably cost a
And her stepmother
was nowhere to be found. Scratch that. According to her, she wanted to be left
alone. It didn’t make a difference to Aimee what the letter said and to whom,
she’d follow. A small smile worked its way to her lips as she fastened the
necklace around her neck.
The zipper stuck
on the edge of the suitcase and she gave it a hard jerk. Dragging the bulging
bag off the bed, it hit the floor with a thunk. She slid her arms into her
jacket and looped her purse over the handle. She dropped the rose, and it
landed beside her plane ticket next to her wallet. Before latching her fingers
around her bag, she tucked the key under her shirt out of sight. “Stratton
Industrial, here I come."
Raised in Louisiana
and Wyoming, Renee started writing poetry in junior high school and that, as
they say, was that. After having her son, a desire to attend pharmacy school
sent her small family to Laramie and she’s been counting pills ever since.
While writing’s her first love, well, after the Lord and her husband, she also
likes to fish and hunt as well as pick away on her classical guitar.
the Black Hills with her husband, crazy old dog and ornery cat, she serves the
community of northeastern Wyoming as a pharmacist and pens her Christian
stories, keeping them interesting with action and intrigue, of course. She
loves to interact with readers and invites you check out her website, blog, and