My opening scene for The Housewife Assassin's Guide to Gracious Killing, (the second in my Housewife Assassin series, to be released on September 30, 2012) starts out with my heroine, Donna Stone*, foiling a plot on Prince Harry's life while he's in San Diego, celebrating the completion of his Apache helicopter training.
I've excerpted it here, below.
Well, whattaya know? Just the other day, Harry gets caught with his pants down (in truth, off, along with everything else) while partying in Las Vegas. He was there for a charity fundraiser for the air force base on which he trained.
It's almost as if Handsome Harry, the cheeky sod, said, "That Josie Brown is a sweet bird. Why don't I give her a leg up on the sale of her new book, let her readers sneak a peek of what they're in for?"
A peek indeed!
As these pictures show, which were first released on TMZ.com, he's got a lot to offer some fine lass…
But I'm glad to see he's holding tight to the crown jewels.
You just can't buy this kind of publicity.
Read this excerpt of
The Housewife Assassin's Guide to Gracious Killing,
in bookstores on September 8, 2012.
In the US, just $2.99:
In the UK, just £1.96(Kindle UK) and £1.99 (iTunes UK) :
"This is a super sexy and fun read that you shouldn't miss!"
–Mary Jacobs, Bookhounds
The Housewife Assassin's Guide to Gracious Killing
Chapter 1: Breaking Bad Hostessing Habits
Every woman wants to be the perfect hostess, and frets over
her inadequacies when it comes to the gracious art of entertaining. Pshaw! A little forethought and a few hours
of planning makes it easy as cherry pie!
There is, however, one ironclad rule that every hostess must
follow: make all your guests wish they’d never have to leave.
Especially in a coffin. With a bullet lodged in their heads.
“You’re quite a saucy
minx!” Prince Harry’s ale-slurred
come-on can barely be heard over the techno-vibe emanating from a
starship-worthy console of the Ivy
Lounge rooftop’s head-bobbing deejay.
“What say you give me a peek as to where that tattoo ends?”
His head is cocked
downward, as if it might give him the ex-ray vision he’ll need in order to see
the rattle on the faux-tatt’ed snake drawn from my belly, which ends
somewhere in the nether regions that lay
under my thong bikini.
“You’re a cheeky sod. I
do have a face, you know.” I snap my fingers in front of his nose in order to
draw his eyes northward.
I’ve succeeded, sort
of. But come on, already: the diplomacy
born and bred into the Prince of Wales can’t beat two millennia of innate urges
and four pints of Guinness.
His eyes linger below my
neck, albeit above my abdomen.
When, finally, our eyes
meet, I lean in and whisper, “You show me yours, and I’ll show you mine.”
I’m lying, even if he
doesn’t know it—yet.
His outright laugh is
accompanied with a shake of his head, and a tug at the waistline of his briefs.
“Nothing under these trollies, I’m afraid. Sorry to disappoint.”
I finger his briefs
longingly, then sigh. “I’m sure you’ll make it up to me somehow.”
His smile is his vow not
God save the queen…
It’s no secret the prince
has been stateside with his Royal Air Force unit, learning the latest tricks
and treats of the AH-64D Apache helicopter: his vehicle of choice for his
upcoming tour of duty in Afghanistan. Tomorrow the soldiers complete their
training and head home. To celebrate, the soldiers are here, in San Diego,
which is just a couple of hours west of their training base, the Naval Air
Facility at El Centro.
Seems some chatter,
intercepted by MI-6, has led the Cousins to deduce that the prince is the
latest target of “the Leprechaun,” a notorious assassin affiliated with the
Irish terrorist cell known as 32CSM. If the Leprechaun succeeds in picking off
the spare to the throne, then once again the always thin strand of peace
between Ireland and Great Britain will be ripped to shreds.
If it happens on our
side of the pond, the U.S. will have mud on its face, not to mention the bluest
of blood on its hands.
So yep, I have to stop
the Leprechaun before he gets lucky.
My employer, the
freelance black ops agency known in the field as Acme Corporation, paid big
bucks to the club owners so that I could be up close and personal with the
prince. My goal is not to shag, let alone snag, Harry the Hottie. It’s to save
his adorable hide from a possible assassination attempt.
The prince leans in,
close enough to ask in a seductive albeit ale-sodden growl, “Want me to sign
I look down between my
breasts. “Oops, forgot my pen. But you seem to be carrying one, in your pants
pocket. Or maybe you’re just happy to see me.”
He’s laughing so hard
his last gulp of Guinness goes down the wrong way.
“Prince Charming has a
one-track mind.” Jack Craig’s snarl comes in loud and clear through the tiny
microphone in my ear. As the team leader for this Acme Industries mission, he
is close by, but far enough away that no potential assassin can spot him.
Trust me, there is an
assassin lurking nearby.
Jack is also my main
squeeze, which is why he’s growling about my having to play the coquette while
under deep cover (in this bikini, I’m talking figuratively if not literally) as
one of the nightclub’s VIP bottle girls, and more specifically, the world’s
most eligible prince ’s pick-up du jour.
Needless to say, the
club’s real bottle girls are pea green with envy. They can’t figure out how
this newbie became Cinderella of this Century.
If I told them that my
aim and my 1st degree black belt status had something to do with it,
would they believe me? Probably not. All they see is that I’m just this side of
Cougarville, which means Harry is less discriminating than they had hoped.
For once I’m glad Jack
is not here with us, in the cordoned-off VIP section. One involuntary muscle
flex and prince’s all too obvious brawny goon squad—three of his Royal Air
Force mates—would be on top of him, like suds on ale.
At MI-6’s behest, we’ve
kept that a secret from Harry, for now anyway. Which, I’m sure, is why he feels
so cocksure. This mission wouldn’t have been so hard if the prince weren’t so
insistent about partying “like an ordinary surfer bloke,” is how he so
preciously puts it.
Thus far the natives
have been awed as much by his title as his regular dude personality.
Just as the deejay
ratchets up the hip hop club mix, six drunken sorority sisters stroll our way.
One of the girls, a Kate Middleton lookalike, pierces me with a jealous glare.
I stare back and smile,
as if to say Take the hint. Get lost.
Her eyes shift from me
to one of Harry’s RAF buds. She waves coyly at him, and he’s smitten. Smirking
back, he nods her over. She squeals and grabs the hand of one of her
In fact, they’re
snapping their fingers at me with drink orders for their new arm charms.
“Not good.” Jack’s
warning in my ear is just loud enough for me to here.
“Tell me something I
don’t know,” I mutter back.
“How about this?” Jack
is now shouting into my earpiece. “You’ve
lost Prince Harry.”
The prince seems
captivated by a petite, busty blond beauty. Even in heels, she barely reaches
his chest. She had pulled him out onto the dance floor for a throbbing
sex-drenched hip grinder, Andree Belle’s Go Go Gadget
The strobe lights and
smoke machine make it hard to follow them in the crowd. Then I see them,
against one wall. The buxom little tart has draped her arms around his
shoulders and hugs him close, as if she’ll never let him go.
Apparently too close. I
shove my way through the crowd until I’m close enough to I hear Harry’s woozy
cry: “Blimey, you’re no bird! You’ve got
Before I can pull him
away, the prince is pricked on the neck with something his partner has pulled from her cleavage.
Harry’s groan is loud—
Then the smell of smoke,
and the lights go out—
But not before the last
strobe catches the triumphant look on his partner’s face.
“Oh my God, Jack! The woman with Harry—she’s—not a she! She’s—”
“I know, I saw it, too!
Proof it pays to hit the
M.A.C. counter before a night on the town.
And to hang out where the lights are always
Everyone is screaming
and shoving their way to the exits, leaving me room to follow the Leprechaun,
who was shoving Harry in the opposite direction, up against a wall.
“It’s too dark to see
where they went. Does anything show up on the club’s security cams?”
“I’m looking now. In the
meantime, check the wall for a hidden pocket door. The schematic of this club
shows a few of them on every level. I’m sure the Leprechaun had his exit scoped
out in advance.”
While he scans the feeds
from the security cameras, I skim the walls with my hands. Finally I find it: a
tiny catch, waist high.
I pull it open it just
in time to see the Leprechaun heaving Harry down a long corridor.
He may not be used to
running in heels, but I am. If only I wasn’t running in a bikini, too.
“Too many wobbly bits,”
I mutter under my breath.
It is inappropriate for
Jack to be laughing now, but he can’t help it. “Just two. And they’re a sight
to behold. Prince Charming will be upset he slept through it.”
The thought of Harry in
the French-manicured hands of an assassin who can start the United Kingdom and
Ireland down another bloody path of un-neighborly relations has me picking up
my pace. Unlike the Leprechaun, I’m smart enough to ditch my high heels—
But I’m still not fast
enough to reach them before the Leprechaun rolls him into the backseat of a
dark BMW and screeches off.
I can hear Jack slapping
the wall with his fist. “Aw, damn! We lost them!”
“Nope, I slipped a GPS
tracker in the prince’s trollies.”
“You did what?…In his—what?”
“Oh, don’t worry, I
didn’t peek. I’ll meet you around the corner.”
What’s a little white
lie between fake husband and wife?
Before he can say
another word, I snap off my earpiece and run down the block.
(c) 2012 Josie Brown. All rights reserved. This excerpt may not be resold or
redistributed without prior written permission from Josie Brown or
Signal Press Books (email@example.com).
The Housewife Assassin's
Guide to Gracious Killing
In bookstores on September 30, 2012.
In the meantime, order Book 1,
The Housewife Assassin's Handbook
Murder. Suspense. Sex. And some handy household tips.
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