Casting Samson
By Melinda Hammond
Finding your boyfriend in the shower with another woman isn’t high on Deborah Kemerton’s “best birthday presents ever” list. Her shiny life in London shattered, Debs retreats to her sleepy hometown to heal her broken heart. There, she’s quickly swept up in planning a pageant to celebrate the 700th anniversary of the village church. Tasked with casting the perfect Samson, Deborah may have found her man in Josh Lancaster—onstage and off…
Fellow committee member Anne Lindsay is convinced a 12th-century crusader is buried under St. John’s. As the story goes, Hugo left for the Holy Land after his true love Maude was given in marriage to his brother. Professor Toby Duggan is equally convinced Anne is wrong, and is determined to prove it. Neither of them counts on their mutual passion for history turning into a mutual passion for each other…
When romantic entanglements and small-town dramatics come to a head, local legend proves to be more than just a story…
68,000 words
Dear Reader,
What do you get when you cross summer with lots of beach time, and long hours of traveling? An executive editor who’s too busy to write the Dear Reader letter, but has time for reading. I find both the beach and the plane are excellent places to read, and thanks to plenty of time spent on both this summer (I went to Australia! And New Zealand!) I’m able to tell you with confidence: our fall lineup of books is outstanding.
We kick off the fall season with seven romantic suspense titles, during our Romantic Suspense celebration in the first week of September. We’re pleased to offer novella Fatal Destiny by Marie Force as a free download to get you started with the romantic suspense offerings. Also in September, fans of Eleri Stone’s sexy, hot paranormal romance debut novel, Mercy, can look forward to her follow-up story, Redemption, set in the same world of the Lost City Shifters.
Looking to dive into a new erotic romance? We have a sizzling trilogy for you. In October, look for Christine D’Abo’s Long Shot trilogy featuring three siblings who share ownership of a coffee shop, and each of whom discover steamy passion within the walls of a local sex club. Christine’s trilogy kicks off with Double Shot.
In addition to a variety of frontlist titles in historical, paranormal, contemporary, steampunk and erotic romance, we’re also pleased to present two authors releasing backlist titles with us. In October, we’ll re-release four science fiction romance titles from the backlist of C.J. Barry, and in November four Western romance titles from the backlist of Susan Edwards.
Also in November, we’re thrilled to offer our first two chick lit titles from three debut authors, Liar’s Guide to True Love by Wendy Chen and Unscripted by Natalie Aaron and Marla Schwartz. I hope you’ll check out these fun, sometimes laugh-out-loud novels.
Whether you’re on the beach, on a plane, or sitting in your favorite recliner at home, Carina Press can offer you a diverting read to take you away on your next great adventure this fall!
We love to hear from readers, and you can email us your thoughts, comments and questions to [email protected]. You can also interact with Carina Press staff and authors on our blog, Twitter stream and Facebook fan page.
Happy reading!
~Angela James
Executive Editor, Carina Press
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Dedication
For TGH
Acknowledgements
A big thank-you to my family for their continued support and encouragement, and I am hugely grateful to Deb Nemeth, my editor, for all her hard work and her almost psychic understanding of what I wanted to say in this book.
Contents
Copyright
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
About the Author
Chapter One
“What we need,” Miss Babbacombe said, “is a male stripper.”
A blush softened her stern features when she found the Reverend Bodicote’s startled gaze upon her. This was, after all, a meeting of the Moreton-by-Fleetwater Pageant Committee, and no one would expect to hear such words from one of its most senior members, and an unmarried one at that.
She added gruffly, “What I mean is, someone with a good body. These young men are coming to the Westhaven Country Club next month. Four Front, they’re called. Naturally I cannot condone that sort of thing, but they look to be such well-built young men…any one of them could be our Samson.”
“Oh, Clara, you dark horse!” Godfrey Mullett’s grey eyes twinkled at her across the table, and Miss Babbacombe’s cheeks grew pinker still, but this time with indignation.
“I have not seen them perform, nor do I wish to. I saw their poster when I went to the Westhaven to discuss a donation for our raffle. You must admit it would not do to cast someone too thin or…scrawny for the role.”
“No, of course not.” Godfrey reached into the paper bag beside his notebook and extracted a humbug, pleased with the result of his gentle teasing. He and Clara Babbacombe had a lot in common: both were nearly seventy, unmarried and had more time on their hands than they knew what to do with. Which was why they both took a keen interest in the affairs of the village they’d lived in all their lives. “However, it is always possible that our original choice for Samson will be back from Africa very soon.”
There was a murmur of agreement from the rest of the committee members.
“I very much hope so,” said Miss Babbacombe, “but not having heard anything from him is rather worrying.”
Godfrey gave her a reassuring smile.
“I don’t think we need be too anxious yet. I propose we discuss it at the next meeting, in two weeks’ time.”
Clara Babbacombe did not look convinced. “That gives us just five weeks until the pageant. Will that be time enough, do you think?”
“Goodness me, of course it will.” Godfrey smiled, reaching for another humbug. “We’ve organised everything now except Samson, and even there I don’t think we need worry. Something will turn up.”
Deborah Kemerton arrived at The Cutting Room Beauty Centre off Edgeware Road and paused momentarily at the door. The spring sunshine had a bleaching effect on the neon colours of the window display but it still gave the appearance of a bright, buzzing salon. The place to be. Deborah summoned up her courage. She knew no one here, but Bernard had booked her a half-day session. “The works, babe,” he’d told her, “So you’ll look your best when I take you out for a birthday meal tonight.”
Dear Bernard, he was so good to her. She’d been working for Appletons Accountants for less than a month when he first began to take notice of her, stopping by her desk for a quick chat, taking her out for a drink after work. Naturally shy and retiring, Deborah was dazzled by the attentions of the suave, sophisticated junior partner. She felt less homesick when she
was with him. And when she confided her worries about leaving home when her mother had not fully recovered from her heart attack, he took pains to reassure her.
“Your parents wouldn’t expect you to give up your career chances for them,” he told her. “They would never have let you come to London if they needed you. And anyway, I need you now, babe.”
It was no wonder that she tumbled headlong into love with him. Like a Prince Charming he snatched her from her lonely bedsit and installed her in his own chrome-and-glass apartment with its view of the Thames. When he’d suggested she move in with him, she’d insisted on paying something towards the rent, although she could only afford a fraction of the monthly charges. The rest of her salary, which she had thought very generous when she first arrived in London, seemed to disappear as fast as she earned it.
Of course she could quite see Bernard’s argument that her country clothes were out of place in London, that the cream suits and cool colours he chose for her were more suited to her new city-girl image, and she’d taken a second job as a waitress to make ends meet. Bernard told her how proud he was of her, promising that as soon as he became a senior partner he would pay her share of the rent, and she would be able to give up the extra work. It would take time, but she didn’t mind—it was worth the hard work to be with Bernard. He was the blond, blue-eyed hero of her dreams and she still could not quite believe that he wanted her, shy little Deborah Kemerton, to share his life.
She took a deep breath and stepped into the salon. Music blared from hidden speakers, and she had to raise her voice to speak to the ruby-haired receptionist.
“Deborah Kemerton. I’m booked in for one o’clock.” She handed over the appointment card and smiled slightly. “My boyfriend arranged it for my birthday.”
The girl’s heavily made-up eyes glanced at her indifferently before she ran a beringed finger over the list of names on the desk before her.
“Yeah, you’re down for a half-day VIP, but there’s quite a wait. Jasmine, our chief beauty therapist, is in Antigua this week, and her stand-in has just gone home with a migraine.” She remembered her training and switched on a saccharine smile. “I am so sorry, we’re running a bit late, can you come back at four? If we cut down on the massage and hurry through the reflexology, you’ll still be finished by six.”
Deborah felt her heart sinking. This was Bernard’s birthday treat for her and she didn’t want it spoiled by rushing. Besides, he’d paid for the full works, and she knew he would insist on getting value for money. Something of her thoughts transferred themselves to the receptionist.
“Or you could always rearrange for another day.”
“Yes,” Deborah said. “Yes, I’ll do that. Can I ring you?”
“Of course.” The girl was patently relieved. “Might be best to leave it until Jasmine gets back at the end of next week.”
Deborah left the salon and made her way to the Underground with an almost guilty feeling of relief. She would go home and do her own beauty routine, a leisurely shower followed by lots of moisturiser and plenty of time to fix her hair and put on her makeup before Bernard returned from the office.
As she crossed the street to the glass security door at the entrance of the apartment block, she noticed that Bernard’s sporty yellow hatchback was already in its parking space. When she’d left the office at noon he hadn’t told her he was leaving early. She ran eagerly up the stairs to the third floor, wondering if he was planning another birthday surprise for her. She let herself into the flat, dropping her bag onto the nearest chair.
“Darling? I’m home.”
She could hear the sound of the shower running and found herself hoping that he wouldn’t use all the hot water. As the bathroom door opened, she smiled.
“They had problems at the salon and—” she was about to explain why she’d come home early, but her words tailed off.
It was a surprise, but Bernard had not planned it. The diminutive figure emerging from the bathroom swathed in towels was definitely not Bernard. It took Deborah only a few seconds to recognise Clarice Andrews, the new accounts clerk at Appletons. The girl stopped in the doorway, hands clutching at the bath towel as she stared, wide-eyed, at Deborah.
Bernard appeared behind her. “Hey, don’t stop there, babe—oh. Hi, Debs. You’re back early.”
Deborah felt the room spinning. Bernard was naked except for the small towel with which he was rubbing his fair hair. He shrugged and grinned at her over Clarice’s head.
“Just showing her round the flat.”
Clarice giggled nervously. Hot tears pressed against Deborah’s eyes and she blinked them away.
Bernard continued to smile at her. “Hey, what’s wrong? Little innocent, not going to get all righteous on me, are you?”
“I…I don’t understand.” She forced the words out, trying to think if she had missed something. Bernard looked so at ease with the situation, surely it could not be what she thought?
He placed his hands on Clarice’s waist, pulling her against him.
“We were just having a little fun, Debs. Now you’re home, you could join us.”
It was exactly as she had thought. Anger and misery welled up, choking her. Unable to speak, Deborah turned on her heel, collected her bag and headed for the door. As she opened it, she heard Bernard’s voice echoing against the white-painted walls, answering something Clarice had said. “Don’t worry about her, doll. Come and see the view from the bedroom…”
Deborah strode quickly through the busy streets, finding some comfort in the exertion. Pain, humiliation and anger warred within her until she felt her head would explode. He was such a bastard. To do this to her on her birthday. How long had it been going on? How many other girls had there been? The questions drummed through her mind as she raced along, trying to outrun the images that filled her brain.
Such energy could not last, and when she found herself in Fleet Street, suddenly the crowds and traffic all seemed too much to bear. She slowed her pace and after a moment’s hesitation, she turned from bustling Fleet Street into the narrow entrance of Inner Temple Lane. Almost immediately the constant roar of the traffic was muted and, as she walked on, the calming atmosphere of the ancient Temple grounds enveloped her.
She leaned against one of the walls of the Temple Church, tears coursing down her cheeks. The few pedestrians using the path cast anxious looks at her and hurried past, unwilling to become involved. She turned her face to the wall and closed her eyes, allowing the hot tears to squeeze through her lashes. She became aware of someone approaching and quickly drew out her handkerchief to wipe her face.
“Excuse me, are you unwell?”
There was genuine concern in the deep, gentle voice.
Deborah shook her head and mumbled something through her handkerchief. She had the impression of a male figure in black robes, but whether he was a priest or a lawyer she couldn’t tell.
“You are clearly distressed,” the voice continued. She felt a light touch on her elbow. “Why don’t you come into the church for a few moments to collect yourself? Don’t worry,” he murmured, sensing her hesitation. “It’s almost empty now. Come, let me show you.”
Deborah allowed herself to be guided around the building to the entrance, her escort talking gently to her, explaining the history of the Temple as he led her into the church. She found his constant murmurings soothing, and by the time they reached the Round Church she was able to show some interest in her surroundings. She was too embarrassed to look up at her companion, but had the impression of a tall man in a monk’s habit, his bare feet protected only by leather sandals.
“I find the atmosphere here very soothing,” said her guide, leading her between the gleaming black pillars towards the centre of the Round Church. Their footsteps echoed on the stone floor, worn smooth with age. “This is the oldest part of the church, built in the twelfth century by the Knights Templar, whose task it was to protect pilgrims in the Holy Land during the Crusades. There are effigies of n
ine knights still here, built into the floor. Not Crusaders, of course, but still very old.” He released her arm. “If you will excuse me, I must go and make ready for evening prayers. You are quite safe here. Stay as long as you want.”
“Yes…yes, thank you.” She glanced up, but by that time the man was striding away, leaving her alone. The silence settled over her, and for the first time since leaving the flat she felt at peace.
Deborah looked down at the figures lying on the stone beds fixed into the floor, their swords clasped before them. There was something familiar about the effigies and she remembered the stone figure in the Lady Chapel of St. John’s, the parish church at Moreton that she’d attended as a child. They had been fighters, these men, standing up for what they believed in. If only she had their strength.
The image of Clarice and Bernard rose in her mind again, and with a groan Deborah sank to her knees. This time she was unable to control her grief, and she began to cry with noisy, gasping sobs that racked her frame. She beat her fists against the stone floor, hoping it would alleviate some of the pain and rage that burned within her. Exhausted by her grief, she finally grew quieter and leaned against the cold stone body of the nearest effigy. She was weeping gently when she felt a hand on her shoulder.
“Dry your tears, Deborah. You should go home.”
She hurriedly sat up but kept her head bowed, ashamed of her tearstained face.
“Oh! I—I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you come back. Sorry—”
“Hush, child.” The hand gently pressed her shoulder. “Your grief will pass, believe me.”
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