Spotlight & Giveaway: Trusting the Enemy by Sharon S. Hartley

Today it is my pleasure to Welcome author Sharon S. Hartley to HJ!

Hi Sharon and welcome to HJ! We’re so excited to chat with you about your new release, Trusting the Enemy!

 
Thanks for stopping by!
 

Please summarize the book a la Twitter style for the readers here:

Is the hot Internal Affairs detective an enemy trying to end her career…. or an ally who wants to save her life?
 

Please share the opening lines of this book:

A LINE OF police-driven motorcycles stretched from the steps of St. Hugh’s Church as far as Monroe DiSilva could see. The procession passed before him and curled into a tight semicircle at the base of the marble steps where Patrice Skinner waited.
The riders maneuvered their bikes so that chrome wheels overlapped in a gleaming, graceful arc.
At a sharp command, the riders dismounted in unison. They removed their helmets and placed them on the seats.

Please share a few Fun facts about this book…

• I first started writing this book ten years ago with a completely different plot about a woman waiting for her life to begin.
• The working title was Waiting for the Rain.
• I was living in Miami and waiting for the rainy season to start, which was very late that year.
• That drought is still in the book!
• The happy ending includes a refreshing rain that finally comes

What first attracts your Hero to the Heroine and vice versa?

From Monroe’s thoughts about Trice:
Everything about her pushed his buttons. Her smart-ass sense of humor, her looks, her body. Her sharp mind, her police instincts.

From Trice’s thoughts about Monroe:
But she’d been drawn to him for more than his great body. Monroe believed in always doing the right thing. He exuded stability and calm patience, had made her feel valued and important.
 

Using just 5 words, how would you describe Hero and Heroine’s love affair?

Explosive. Unexpected. Inevitable. Passionate. Dangerous.
 

The First Kiss…

When his lips touched hers, she responded like quicksilver, making the sexiest sound he’d ever heard any woman make. She shifted toward him, opening her mouth for him, exploring his with a clever tongue.
He loved the feel of her, the fragrance of her neck, the strength of her shoulder muscles, the languid, smooth way she reacted to the pressure of his hand on her back.
She pulled him or he pressed her—he was so involved with the pleasure of his first taste of her he wasn’t sure how it happened—but Trice ended up beneath him on the sofa. He hardened, and fought a sudden, terrible need to make her his.
Why was he fighting? He wanted her. She’d never hidden the fact that she wanted him, and he knew he could take her right here, right now on this sofa.
No, he wouldn’t be taking. She was offering herself to him.
He groaned, the noise rumbling in his throat. And damn, it would be so good. Make that effing awesome.
But also very wrong. He didn’t want sex with Trice to be a frantic coupling on a sofa in her living room.
Make that Rudy’s living room. He was in the home of a dirty cop.

Without revealing too much, what is your favorite scene in the book?

Trice is cleaning her dead boyfriend’s SUV, getting it ready to sell and discovers something …..

As Eleanor limped away, Patrice scrubbed the Navigator’s giant windows squeaky clean. One minute she liked the old woman and the next she wanted to throttle her. But she felt that way about everything lately.
Next, she smoothed liquid silicone protection over the black interior surfaces, its chemical odor filling the vehicle. Swiping the cloth across a compartment between the seats, she remembered this was where Rudy had stashed his personal Glock. She’d already cleaned the weapon and placed it inside a dresser drawer in her bedroom. She’d give it to Katie when the little girl grew up.
She released the latch to peer inside the console. Empty. The familiar sensation of loss and time slipping away too fast enveloped Patrice as she ran her fingers along the stiff fabric in the interior of the compartment. She was too young to feel this way.
When her index finger hit a recessed button, one she hadn’t known existed, Patrice pressed down. A door slid away to reveal another compartment.
A compartment that had been specially built in.

If your book was optioned for a movie, what scene would be absolutely crucial to include?

Monroe wakes Trice up in the middle of the day to question her about her dead boyfriend, a dirty cop. She was on the late shift the night before and definitely not expecting him.

What the hell was Monroe DiSilva doing on her front porch?
She opened the door, and a blast of hot air assaulted her. Still no rain. “DiSilva?”
“Good afternoon, Patrice.” Standing with his weight balanced on both legs, DiSilva crossed his arms and pressed a file to his chest.
This is how a man should look.
She pushed away the unwelcome thought, hating that she still found the bastard so attractive. His thick black hair hadn’t turned gray yet from working the rat squad.
“May I come in?”
“Uh, sure.” She opened the door, trying to remember the last time she’d seen him. At the funeral. Hadn’t he said he needed to speak to her after the service? That whole day was a confused blur.
A quick glance around her living room reassured her that the outer trappings of her life didn’t reflect her inner turmoil.
“Did I wake you?” DiSilva asked, his intense gaze sweeping her disheveled appearance.
“Yeah, actually you did.” She hesitated. Why did DiSilva always unsettle her? He’d been one of her instructors at the academy before his transfer to Internal Affairs. Infatuated with his dark good looks and brilliantly blue eyes, she’d been mortified by his negative assessment of her performance.
She needed to find out what DiSilva wanted and get rid of him.
“I was on first shift last night,” she said, thinking he could have checked her schedule. Where the hell is the aspirin? “I’m going to make some coffee.”
“Probably a good idea.”
DiSilva followed her into the kitchen where she dumped the grinds from yesterday and started a new brew. Has Major Solera reported me to IA?
When finished, she turned to face DiSilva. Drumming his fingers across the file he’d placed on the counter before him, he sat in a chair at the pass-through bar.
“So how are you doing, Patrice?”
“I’ve been better.”
He nodded, as if that were obvious. He removed a small spiral-bound notebook from his pocket.
“I’m sorry about Rudy.”
“Thanks, but I know that’s not why you’re here.”
“In a way, it is.”
“Are you here for grief counseling?”
The ghost of a smile played at his lips. “No.”
“So what’s going on?”
“I need to ask you a few questions,” he said.
“About what?”
DiSilva opened his file. “Rudy.”
She stared at him. “You’re here to ask me questions about Rudy three weeks after his funeral?”
“Just routine. We’re doing a net worth investigation.”
Routine? Patrice doubted that, but didn’t say so. “Is this something Internal Affairs does?”
“I’m not here in an official capacity. If so, I would have come to your station. I thought you’d be more comfortable doing this at home.”
“When did you become Mr. Nice Guy?”
“I’ve always been a nice guy.”
“Yeah, that’s why you flunked me in patrol procedures.”
He shook his head. “I thought you needed some additional training.”
She cut him a quick glance. “I remember.”
“You’ve turned into a fine officer, Patrice.”
“Yeah, well, my sergeant doesn’t agree with you.”
He nodded again, as if he’d been reading her performance evaluations. “You’ve been having a rough time.”
“I thought you weren’t here for counseling.”
He couldn’t stop the smile this time. “I see you haven’t mellowed any.”
“And something tells me you’re here to criticize me again.”

Readers should read this book …

Because the villain is oh, so very evil … making him so much fun to bring down. Readers will enjoy seeing his fall.

What are you currently working on? What other releases do you have planned?

I’m working on something completely different… a novel set in the future that deals with the results of global warming and rising seas on the state of Florida. The world is run by mega-corporations, one of which genetically bred the heroine as a telepath. Knowing they’ll use her, she hides her skill as long as she can. The book should come out late this year or early next. (The pandemic has slowed me down a bit!)

Thanks for blogging at HJ!

Giveaway: A print copy of Trusting the Enemy to five readers. (US only)

To enter Giveaway: Please complete the Rafflecopter form and Post a comment to this Q: How are you coping during the pandemic? I admit I’m having trouble writing, but repotting orchids and attending a lot of virtual yoga classes has helped. And there’s always chocolate!

 
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Excerpt from Trusting the Enemy:

AT A KNOCK on his office door at Beautiful Bear Modeling Agency, Alexi Lomonosoff looked up. The woman on the sheet of proofs he’d been examining bore a haunting resemblance to his sister.
His bodyguard stuck his head inside the door. “Todd’s here.”
“Send him in.” Alexi placed his ornate magnifying glass on the proofs and pushed the stack aside as Serge and the punk entered.
No question Todd Ewing was attractive, in that boring American down-on-the-farm style. Women liked him because of his smooth skin, dark hair and clear blue eyes. Eyes that photographed intelligent, but weren’t. Men loved him because of a tight, muscled body. He wore beige tailored slacks and a dark blue shirt, purchased on the Beautiful Bear account.
Todd had been an excellent addition to his stable. Stupid, but useful.
When Todd sat, Alexi slid a file across the smooth surface of his massive mahogany desk.
“How are you, Todd?”
The young man crossed his legs and smoothed the crease in his slacks. “Good, Mr. Lomo. How are you?”
“I’m fabulous.”
The kid looked nervous. Alexi smiled. Maybe that was why his judges had allowed Todd to win the Nashville Supermodel contest. Of course, raging ambition didn’t hurt. Yes, very useful.
Motioning, Alexi said, “Serge, get Todd a vodka.”
“No, thanks, Mr. Lomo,” Todd said.
“That’s right, you don’t touch alcohol. Then a Perrier. Please. You look dry.”
Serge opened a small refrigerator hidden in a wall of mahogany bookcases, removed a bottle and twisted off the cap. Alexi frowned. Serge needed a manicure.
“What’s the matter with you?” Alexi demanded as Serge set the cold drink on the desk. “Put something under that.”
Todd jerked the bottle high. Serge wiped the spot with a white handkerchief then slid over a cork coaster. “So, Todd, how do you like Miami?”
“It’s great, sir.”
“Good, good. No homesickness for—where is it—Tennessee?”
“No, sir.”
“Good weather here, yes?”
Todd fidgeted. “A little hot. We need rain.”
“You don’t miss your girl still?”
The kid hesitated.
“I’m wondering because my people have reported a lot of long distance phone calls.”
Todd uncrossed his legs. “You said it was okay to use your phone card.”
“Oh, of course. Nothing serious.” Alexi opened Todd’s file and removed a receipt from Mayor’s Jewelers. “But there is the matter of the diamond ring. An engagement ring, no?”
Todd’s blue eyes focused on the receipt. “You gave me permission to use your account the night of the wrap party at Oasis.”
Alexi nodded. “Yes, I did. Although I didn’t expect to be quite so generous.” He handed the receipt to Serge. “Any woman would be delighted to receive such a gift, don’t you think, Serge?”
The bodyguard’s thick, dark brows rose appreciatively. “Yes, boss.”
Alexi removed several more receipts from Todd’s folder. “And such an amount of new clothing.” He glanced up and smiled. “Of course, you do look quite nice. Good for the agency.”
Todd swallowed hard. “Thank you, sir.”
“But we have a problem.”
“A problem?”
Alexi pulled the spreadsheet itemizing Todd’s expenses from the file, opened it on the desk and smoothed the folds. At times like this he loved his job. “You’ve gone way over your prize money.”
“But—”
“Way over, son. You don’t mind if I call you son, do you? I consider my new models my children. Especially the ones I bring in from out of state.”
“No, sir. I don’t mind.”
“Of course, I’m not old enough to actually be your father, am I?”
“No. I know I’ve gone over budget, but you said I didn’t need to worry.”
“Did I say that?”
Todd nodded.
“Doesn’t sound like me, does it, Serge?”
“No, boss. You always worry about money.”
“So, as I said, we have a problem.” Sighing dramatically, Alexi swiveled his chair. Outside, palm fronds swayed in the light summer breeze. Ah, South Beach. Heaven as far as he was concerned. Full of beautiful people, clothing, buildings. Nothing like the old country where everything was cold and in dark, desperate decay. He’d never go back.
Alexi faced the center of the room again. He removed Todd’s contract from the file. “Did you read the agreement you signed?”
“Yes, sir, Mr. Lomo. I was to live off the prize money until modeling could support me.”
“I’m sorry that hasn’t worked out. I know it’s hard. I started as a print model, you know.”
Todd scooted toward the edge of his chair. “You need to give me more assignments.”
Alexi smiled. “You want more assignments?”
Leaning forward, Todd said, “Of course. You know I’m eager to work.”
“Excellent.” Alexi pretended to think. “I may have something special for you, son.”
Todd’s shoulders tightened. “I don’t want to do nude work.”
“Ah. Too bad.” Alexi shrugged.
“The shoot I did for Ocean Drive Magazine went very well.”
“I thought so, too. But they didn’t ask for you again.”
Silence hung in the air as Alexi placed the papers back in the file and closed it. He drummed his fingers across the manila surface. “Did you know I’ve loaned your parents money?”
Obviously startled, Todd said, “When did—”
Alexi waved a hand. “I was happy to do it. Something about an addition for an ailing grandmother, I understand, rather than a nursing home.”
“I’ll pay you back, Mr. Lomonosoff.”
“Of course you will, but that could take some time. At present your family owes me over one hundred thousand dollars.”
Todd stood. “That’s not possible.”
“Interest mounts very quickly. Very quickly. Right, Serge?”
When Alexi nodded at Serge, the giant bodyguard moved to stand behind Todd’s chair.
The sick look on the model’s face made Alexi smile. There were much easier ways to get what he needed, but a man should be permitted to enjoy his little pleasures. Especially when difficult associates didn’t want the police involved.
“Sit down, Todd.”
Todd collapsed into the chair.
“I want you to entertain a young lady.”
“I’m not a prostitute.”
“Please. How you entertain her is up to you. All I want you to do is get inside her house and copy files off a computer. Preferably without her knowing.”
“Why?”
“That’s very rude, Todd. I didn’t ask you why you bought the ring.”
“I’m not a spy. I don’t even know how to—”
“Serge will explain everything. And of course we have drugs to knock her out.”
“This sounds illegal.”
“The young lady in question is a police officer. How could it be illegal?”

Excerpts. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
 
 

Book Info:

He can clear her name—if she can trust him.

Patrol officer Patrice Skinner is still reeling from the death of her lieutenant boyfriend when internal affairs detective Monroe DiSilva starts asking questions—ones that paint Trice as a suspect. When another man with ties to Trice turns up dead, cooperating with DiSilva feels as inevitable as the growing attraction between them. Trice knows her truth, but with danger closing in, she’ll have to trust DiSilva, or the next dead body might be hers.
Book Links: Amazon | B&N |Goodreads |
 
 

Meet the Author:

Sharon Hartley is so fascinated by cops and the dangerous people who complicate their world that she attends every citizens’ police academy she can find. Having worked as a court reporter for many years, Sharon plays “what if” on her old cases and comes up with fictional ways to inject them into her stories. After time on the computer creating plots where good always prevail over evil, she calms herself by teaching yoga, plus hiking and birding in the natural world. Sharon lives in St. Petersburg, Florida with her soul mate, Max, hundreds of orchids and a Jack Russell Terrorist. Please visit her website at sharonshartley.com
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