Meet the Author:
Anita’s rapid paced storytelling style pulls readers into a parallel universe where mystery, mayhem, murder are the order of the day. Her stories are an addictive diversion, trading the heavy, gray world of real life for a fantastically colorful world where bad is good, and cool is smoking hot.
Raised on America’s Rock Coast in Cleveland, Ohio, Anita was born while the river burned. Music, food and family shaped Anita’s life and provide much of the fodder for her stories. Her love of mysteries and puzzle solving came from her Grandpa John, who introduced Anita to her first detective hero – Nero Wolfe. Food was as central a character in Anita’s life as it was in Nero’s, where Sunday dinner at Nonna’s table was a command performance.
Anita has been writing scorching mysteries and suspense since 2006 with stories ranging on the heat index from a “nice spicy little pepper” to “pass a mop for my forehead, please.” Check out tastes of Anita’s stories and like her on Facebook. Anita is a member of Sisters in Crime and Mystery Writers of America.
About the Book:
Private investigator Esmeralda “Peach” Morales watches in horror as the crane her uncle is operating topples into Lake Erie. He disappears and she’s convinced he’ll be the scapegoat. She’ll do anything to prove he’s innocent. Seducing the lead investigator is just part of her strategy, at least that’s what she tells herself.
Thomas Riley is at Elderberry Farm when he learns of a deadly crane accident in Cleveland. The forensic investigator suspects sabotage and amid the rubble and mangled metal he uncovers a web of lies and deception. At the center of it all is a beautiful brunette who always seems to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.
Both fiercely independent, they must learn to work together––inside and outside the bedroom––to unravel the mystery and clear her uncle’s name.
They looked at each other for a second, which stretched into ten. Then it became awkward, neither saying anything. He should leave; he knew he should. “Guess I’ll find out.” He stepped into the hallway, fighting the urge to get his hands on the purple performance wear covering his favorite parts of her body. “I’m next door. If you need anything.”
Peach patted the towel down her torso. “So you said.”
“You know, this doesn’t have to be weird between us because we are here in my house.”
“It is weird to you? Having me here?”
“No. No, it isn’t. I want you here.” He stepped close to her, fingers itching to play in her wealth of curls. “I just don’t want you to feel—I don’t know—obligated or anything because you are here.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Obligated?”
Not what he was going for. He ran both hands through his hair and retreated. “I mean, we got together a few times, and sure, it was spectacular, but that doesn’t mean that we have to keep getting together if, you know, you aren’t good with it.”
She smiled as he babbled.
“So…like I said…if you need anything. Well, you know where I am.” He stepped back into the hallway. “Good night.”
He went back to his room and closed the door. Somehow, in five minutes and fifteen feet he went from out of sorts to outright frustrated.
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