Spotlight: Decisions: Practical Advice from 23 Men and Women Who Shaped the World by Robert L. Dilenschneider

Decisions includes a foreword from Steve Forbes and afterword by Klaus Schwab, Founder and Executive Chairman, World Economic Forum.

Sorting out our lives amidst chaos, confusion, and innumerable options is a process we all have in common. The decisions we ultimately make can affect our lives and the lives of others. It’s not always easy. In this empowering guide, business strategy expert Robert L. Dilenschneider shares the choices of notable, visionary decision-makers—from Harry Truman and Henry Ford to Marie Curie and Malala Yousafzai—and explains how you can apply their principles to your own personal and professional real-life scenarios.

Resolve, patience, and practical thinking—take it from these politicians, scientists, economists, inventors, entrepreneurs, theologians, activists, and commanders of war and peace. Their inspiring counsel will give you the tools you need to help change your life. Both big and small, your choices can shape the minutes, days, weeks, and years ahead. This book is the first motivating step in the right direction.

Excerpt

Excerpted from DECISIONS by Robert L. Dilenschneider. Reprinted with permission from Kensington Books. Copyright © 2020 Robert L. Dilenschneider.

But there was no decision to make. This was my calling. Some powerful force had come to dwell inside me, something bigger and stronger than me. —Malala Yousafzai

Malala Yousafzai, as the world knows, was shot in the head by the Taliban on October 9, 2012, as she rode home on the school bus in the Swat Valley, Pakistan. Malala was fifteen at the time. She survived the attack, recuperated in England, and has continued her education. She was awarded the Nobel Peace Prize in 2014 for her “struggle against the suppression of children and young people and for the right of all children to education.” 

Can a child, an adolescent, a young person—make a world-changing decision? Is someone ever too young? 

Let’s take a look at Malala’s story, because none of this came out of the blue. The “struggle” the Nobel Committee cited, was a decision that was so deeply embedded into her character that, at age fifteen, it had already become her way of life. And continues to be. 

Seemingly from birth, Malala loved education. Her biographical material makes much of the fact that she sought to emulate her father, Ziauddin Yousafzai, who was so dedicated to education that he had founded his own school, the one she attended. Such “private” schools are not uncommon in Pakistan. 

But Ziauddin’s school and his outspoken daughter became special targets of the Taliban. The fundamentalist group had issued an edict against educating girls and death threats against the entire family (mother Toor Pekai Yousafzai and two sons). The school was forced to close for a time and had re-opened shortly before Malala was shot. 

You might say that the child was merely following the example—or the dictates—of the father (who was supported in all endeavors by the mother). That the child made no decisions on her own. That happens in families all the time. I can think of many examples in my own life—involving my parents and the decisions they made for me when I was young, and about how my wife and I did the same for our sons. None of these decisions involved defying the Taliban and bringing danger to our family. But, that may not be the right way to look at what Ziauddin did. Were his decisions part of doing what parents claim we always try to do—leading by example? 

Do you ever think about the phrase “an accident of birth”? It means that none of us are responsible for the circumstances of our birth—who our parents are, our family, our nationality or state or town, our genetic make-up, economic status and so on. 

Among the things that Malala was not responsible for: That she was a first-born daughter in a culture that values boys over girls; that she was born into a troubled country being over-run by violent extremists. But it was also an accident of birth that she had two parents who were, by all accounts, as dedicated to her welfare, education, and growth as they were to that of her two younger brothers. It seems to me that Malala took what she was given and decided to run with it. 

By the time she was shot in 2012, Malala had shown by her own example that she recognized her “accident of birth.” Her dedication to education for girls was in fact her own decision based on parental example. Consider her words, written just a year later in her autobiography:

“I was very lucky to be born to a father who respected my freedom of thought and expression and made me part of his peace caravan and a mother who not only encouraged me but my father too in our campaign for peace and education.”

At an even younger age than fifteen, Malala was already an ardent activist. She blogged for the BBC on the oppressions of life under the Taliban and was the subject of a New York Times documentary. She made speeches often, including one entitled “How dare the Taliban take away my right to an education.” The year before she was shot, she won both the International Children’s Peace Prize and Pakistan’s first Youth Peace Prize. As the Taliban’s noose ever tightened around her country, her family, and her safety, Malala’s outspokenness and visibility grew. As she wrote in her autobiography, “I decided I wasn’t going to cower in fear of [the Taliban’s] wrath.” 

In the years since she survived the Taliban assassination attempt, Malala has become a global symbol for the cause of education for girls specifically and for the welfare of all children. Not even a year after she was shot, she addressed the “Youth Takeover” at the United Nations. Two years almost to the day after she was shot, the Nobel Committee announced that she would share the 2014 Peace Prize with Kailash Satyarthi, who made his name with international peaceful protests on behalf of children. Even with constant visibility while traveling the world to event after event, she completed the studies necessary to be accepted in 2017 into Oxford University (which fact she announced on her new Twitter account). Also in 2017, Malala was designated a United Nations Messenger of Peace “to help raise awareness of the importance of girls’ education.”

Malala is still enveloped in the support of her family, which left Pakistan to settle in the UK. The Economist, noting that “Pakistani education has long been atrocious,” included the following in a detailed and dismal examination of the current status:

“From 2007 to 2015 there were 167 attacks by Islamic terrorists on education institutions . . .  When it controlled the Swat River valley in the north of the country, the Pakistani Taliban closed hundreds of girls’ schools. When the army retook the area it occupied dozens of them itself.”

Malala has written two books. The first, I Am Malala, was published a year after her shooting and tells, with the help of writer Christina Lamb, of her early life in Pakistan and the event that put her onto a new trajectory. Published in 2017, the second book is for children, Malala’s Magic Pencil. In it, young Malala yearns for a special pencil that would let her do all sorts of special, interesting things, including drawing “a lock on my door, so my brothers couldn’t bother me.” I think every child wants a lock like that. Eventually, she describes what we adults will recognize as an intention, a determination, a decision: “I knew then that if I had a magic pencil, I would use it to draw a better world, a peaceful world.” 

Time will tell us how Malala’s decisions as a girl, a teenager, a young adult, and into the future will all play out, how world-changing they will be. My hope is that the answer is— immensely.

Malala’s story offers all of us one overarching lesson about decision-making that will help us all lead better lives:

If you are a parent or other adult in a position to influence children and young people, remember how important your own example is. The decisions you make on behalf of others may turn out to be the template that helps form their lives. 

If that’s all you glean, that’s enough. But there are many other lessons to take:

1. Have courage to do the right thing, whether it is large or small. 

2. Understand you may be attacked and plan for that in advance. I mean physically attacked, as well as the more expected verbal criticisms. 

3. Recognize you may be a symbol for others and prepare for that in ways they will embrace and admire. And behave that way. 

4. Follow your decision. Give it a chance to shape your life. 

5. Do not give up.  

6. Depend on each other. Know whom you can trust, and be that trustworthy person to others to the best of your ability. 

7. Seek education and take every other opportunity to broaden your knowledge of the world and its people.

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About the Author

Robert L. Dilenschneider has hired more than 3,000 successful professionals, and advised thousands more. He is founder of The Dilenschneider Group, a corporate strategic counseling and public relations firm based in New York City. Formerly president and CEO of Hill & Knowlton, he is the author of the bestselling books Power and Influence, A Briefing for Leaders, On Power and newly released Decisions: Practical Advice from 23 Men and Women Who Shaped the World. For more information, please visit https://robertldilenschneider.com   

Spotlight: When Hope Ends by Freya Barker

When Hope Ends (life begins)
Freya Barker
Publication date: January 21st 2020
Genres: Adult, Contemporary, Romance

It’s the best day of his life–the worst of hers.

She left her soul behind in the dead silence of a hospital room.
He is bright with hope after being so close to losing faith.

One moment in time leaves their paths unavoidably entwined.

An invisible connection held by one heart beating between them.

***Previously part of the anthology; Then There Was You.

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EXCERPT:

I pull myself up and run my hands through my hair as I walk down the steps. There I turn back to her. “Stay.”

Her eyes brim with tears. “But the risk is—”

“Every day you get out of bed is a risk. You and I know better than most how true that is. Whether you’re here, or somewhere else, won’t make a difference once the truth is out there. If they dig they could still find us, and all those other families. Leaving won’t serve any purpose.” I’ve been pacing back and forth, but on my last words I stop and face her.

“I don’t know what the smart thing is to do.”

She wrings her hands in her lap and her teeth are biting her bottom lip so hard I’m afraid she’ll break the skin.

I’ll examine why it’s so important to keep her here later, but for now I place my hands on the stair railing to brace myself, and lean forward, my nose almost touching hers.

“Stay.”

Author Bio:

Award-winning author Freya Barker loves writing about ordinary people with extraordinary stories.
Driven to make her books about 'real' people; she creates characters who are perhaps less than perfect, each struggling to find their own slice of happy, but just as deserving of romance, thrills and chills in their lives.

Recipient of the ReadFREE.ly 2019 Best Book We've Read All Year Award for "Covering Ollie, the 2015 RomCon “Reader’s Choice” Award for Best First Book, “Slim To None”, and Finalist for the 2017 Kindle Book Award with “From Dust”, Freya continues to add to her rapidly growing collection of published novels as she spins story after story with an endless supply of bruised and dented characters, vying for attention!

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Spotlight: Must Love Forever by Leigh Lennon

Bianca checked all the things for a wonderful life off her list, but always longed for something different. Mick knows that not everything is meant to be. When tragedy strikes the two finally have a shot at a second chance at love. Readers will love this friends-to-lovers romance from Leigh Lennon. The 425 Madison series is back with season two and MUST LOVE FOREVER is now live! 

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Bianca

Handsome husband—check. 

Beautiful house—check. 

Wonderful life...I could never put a check next to this. 

Through it all, I longed for a different life. With a man I had called my best friend. A man who is not my husband. 

When the unspeakable happens and I’m left alone, its Mick who is there to pick me up. 

Mick

Not everything is meant to be. 

Watching the woman who owned my heart start a life with someone else - broke me to the core.

But time goes on and I try too. 

Until one phone call changes both our lives. 

She could have been taken from me forever. Instead, a tragic accident takes away the only man I thought ever made her happy. 

When she starts over again, in my city, in my home; sharing slivers of her story with me it's then that I learn not everything is as it appears. 

None of this matters though, when I’ve been given a second chance to prove we’re meant to be.

After all, 425 Madison is the perfect place to fall in love.

Excerpt 

Copyright @ Liegh Lennon 2020

I’m asleep, or at least I’m faking sleep very well when the door creaks open. Her footsteps move closer and closer, coming around the foot of the bed, pulling the covers back. The second she does, I roll over, bringing her in close to me. But tonight, I don’t care about the beast of my erection poking into her backside. Does she not know what she does to me?

We never speak in bed. We never speak of her sleeping with me. And I’m not sure if I should break our protocol to tell her how much I want her. It goes deeper—she’s shattered, and I don’t know how to fix her, but I desperately want to. 

I come as close to the olive complexion of her back as I can get, and she doesn’t wiggle out of the touch of my erection. The little tease backs her ass closer into it, and it makes me inhale long and deep, exhaling on the back of her neck. She relaxes farther into me, and I can’t resist her, not for a second longer.

I pepper kisses onto her neck, as her hand snakes back over her hip to my cock. The second her fingers make contact with it, though it’s covered by my boxers, my kisses speed up, my own fingers dipping into her low cut tank top. The same whimper she emitted earlier has returned and I push her to her back, bracing myself over her. I should say something, ask her what she wants. When our eyes connect, and we can see each other by the moonlight streaming in, she takes her finger, covering my lips, telling me there will be no talking. With a nod of her head, it’s her way of telling me this is what she wants, and I lower my face to hers, taking control of her mouth.

Her tongue scrapes at my teeth, and she playfully bites the lower part of my lip. Oh, shit, this is sexy as hell. My hands are pushing me up, as to not squish her tiny body. In one fluid motion, I roll over, bringing her with me, her body resting on mine. She’s so light, she won’t hurt me. My arms are wrapped around her, but I can’t resist exploring her whole body. My hands come to rest on her ass when I sneak my fingers between her skin and skimpy shorts. 

Squeezing her pert ass, causes my erection to continue to barrel into her body. Scooting to her side, still on me, she pulls my cock through my boxers. I emit another harsh departure of air, only to suck it in again when her hand wraps around my cock, stroking it from the base to the tip.

I intend on telling her what she’s doing is right—what this is with us is perfect, but I can’t. It’s not what we do, not in the confines of my bed. 

When she moves her body from mine, I miss her warmth but I don’t have to wait long when the tip of her tongue starts to suck up the precum of my cock. Her tongue connects with me, and my body relaxes into what this is, because it’s Bia and the two of us together are unstoppable.

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About Leigh 

Leigh Lennon is a mother, veteran and a wife of a cancer survivor. Originally with a degree in education, she started writing as an outlet that has led to a deep passion. She lugs her computer with her as she crafts her next story. One could say she loves pretty nails, big earrings, and spiky hair. She can be found drinking coffee or wine, depending on the time of the day.

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Spotlight: Finding Our Morning by Mickie B. Ashling

Finding Our Morning
Mickie B. Ashling
Publication date: January 28th 2020
Genres: Adult, Historical, Mystery

May 1977

Ginny Tate bides her time on the family stud farm in San Antonio, Texas, waiting to start veterinarian school in the fall. Bullied as an adolescent, she’s finally shed her old skin, but the emerging beauty still harbors insecurities and would rather hang out with horses than people.

Sponsored by his uncle, the Shah of Iran, Dariush—David—Akbari, a twenty-five-year-old NYU grad with a degree in International Law, is also a skilled polo player. He joins the royal traveling team for a tournament in Plano, Texas.

A decade in America has gradually altered David’s views on certain aspects of his culture. Torn between familial obligations and his adopted country, David resists the idea of returning to Iran so soon after graduation.

At the traditional after-party, David strikes up a conversation with Ginny, who is refreshingly honest. He receives an invitation to visit Tate Stud Farm and, on the pretext of buying another polo pony, persuades the shah to make a detour.

Great horsemanship coupled with self-effacing charm sets David apart from the entitled braggarts who normally populate the sport, and Ginny falls hard. His visit turns into a life-changing week that neither can foresee. Will they walk away unscathed or live to regret their impulsive behavior?

Inspired by events preceding the fall of the Pahlavi dynasty, Finding Our Morning is a love story that catapults us from Texas Hill Country to the epicenter of a monarchy on the brink of collapse.

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EXCERPT:

So much time had elapsed since Ginny issued the invitation, she didn’t know what to expect when David called two weeks later to arrange a meeting. Was he passing through town or was this an intentional stop? Either way, the days leading up to his arrival were pure torture.

On the morning in question, Ginny took longer than necessary to get ready. She left her hair loose instead of tying it back in her usual ponytail. Her luxurious locks were the only thing she could count on to draw eyes away from her face. The dark blond strands fell in a silky curtain to her midback and had been compared to a palomino’s coat on many occasions. As for the rest of her, it was business as usual. Faded jeans, a checked cotton shirt, and her favorite red cowboy boots. Her complexion was clear this morning, thank God, and she took her time applying eye makeup. It was out of the ordinary to get dolled up during the day, and her parents noticed as soon as she sat down to breakfast.

“Going to a party?” Margery asked.

“No, but you know the Shah of Iran is about to grace our doorstep, and I thought I’d look nice for a change.”

“You always look good,” Ray commented. “Anyone who thinks otherwise is a blind fool.”

“Thanks, Dad.”

“What about your chores?” Margery inquired. “Won’t your hair get in the way?”

“I’ll get ’em done,” Ginny promised.

“See that you do,” Margery replied. “I know you want to make a good impression, sweetie, but those foreigners aren’t coming to socialize. We have to present our best, and a clean, well-organized farm is just as important as our livestock. You wouldn’t eat in a dirty kitchen.”

“For Christ’s sake, Marge. Leave the girl alone.”

“Seriously, Mom. You’re overreacting as usual.”

“Then explain why you look more like a debutante than a rancher’s daughter this morning?”

“He offered dinner and dancing the last time we were together. I don’t want him to change his mind.”

Aghast, Margery exclaimed, “The shah?”

“God no,” Ginny said. “David.”

“Which one is he again?”

“Their number-three player.”

“He was good,” Margery recalled.

“Right?”

“What are you going to wear tonight?”

“I’m not sure it’s happening, but I bought a new dress in case.”

“What color is it?”

“Black.”

“You’re too young to wear black,” Margery opined with a tsk.

Ginny rolled her eyes. “Give it a rest, Mom. I’m eighteen.”

“Black is more appropriate for someone older and more experienced.”

Ginny refused to take the bait. Her mother was being overprotective, given her dating history, and was understandably worried. Nonetheless, it was too early in the morning to argue. She scooped up the last of her egg yolk on a piece of toast, swallowed it down with orange juice, and stood up to go. “I’ll catch you guys later.”

Standing on the steps outside the kitchen door, she paused and scanned the horizon. The sun was already a bright ball of pulsing heat in the cloudless blue sky, and she could tell it was going to be another scorcher. Ginny hoped the Iranians had the good sense to come early to avoid the worst of it.

As she headed toward the stable where they kept the horses for sale, she scrutinized their property and tried to see it through the eyes of a stranger. Theirs was a small operation compared to other stud farms, but they had a stellar reputation. Margery Tate was the driving force behind their prosperity. The woman was a stickler for order and quick to remind new employees that pride in ownership was as important as a good pedigree.

Margery acquired her code of ethics from her parents who’d started the stud farm with one stallion and a few mares. As their only child, she’d inherited the bulk of the estate, with small portions divided among the loyal ranch hands who had been around until her father finally passed, a year and a day after her mother died of cancer. Her gender had never been a good enough excuse to avoid the hard work necessary to ensure the success of the farm, and Margery expected her only daughter to work as tirelessly as the rest of them.

She did have a point, Ginny conceded begrudgingly, but her advice was often framed in criticism, which usually rubbed people the wrong way. Horse breeding could be a messy business when things got out of hand, and organization was key.

She made the rounds swiftly this morning, inspecting each area with a critical eye, paying particular attention to the horses for sale. This would be their first stop and she wanted the area to be in tip-top shape. She could only imagine what the royal stables must look like with dozens of helpers at the shah’s beck and call. Well, they might not have his manpower, but over the years, the stud farm had gained a well-earned reputation for their excellent stock and integrity.

By the time the shah and his entourage arrived two hours later, her nerves were frayed. The group of six, dressed in casual attire, climbed out of a gleaming limousine. Ginny wasn’t sure what to expect, given their status, but these men looked like any prospective buyer, albeit better dressed. Her parents greeted the Iranians deferentially and offered to be their guides as they toured the premises. While they concentrated on the shah, Ginny walked up to David with an outstretched hand.

“I’m glad you could make it.”

“Was there any doubt?” he asked, stepping forward and clasping her hand in his. He was so close she could smell his sweet breath, overlaid with a hint of coffee. His eyes weren’t black as she’d first thought. They were deep brown with a touch of caramel and were gazing at her appraisingly. Now that he was actually here, Ginny’s confidence faltered as she met his intense scrutiny. Had he come to buy a horse or check her out? Her heart rate sped up as nerves and anticipation made her breath falter. It was at once unexpected and exhilarating. Ginny withdrew her hand and stepped back, laughing off the moment awkwardly.

Author Bio:

Mickie B. Ashling is the pseudonym of a multi-published author who resides in a suburb outside Chicago. She is a product of her upbringing in various cultures, having lived in Japan, the Philippines, Spain, and the Middle East. Fluent in three languages, she’s a citizen of the world and an interesting mixture of East and West.

Since 2009, Mickie has written several dozen novels in the LGBTQ+ genre—which have been translated into French, Italian, Spanish, and German. Lately, her muse has been nudging her in a different direction, and she’s learned through past experience to pay attention to creative sparks that show up unexpectedly. Her pen name is a part of her now, and will travel along on this exciting new journey, wherever it might lead. She promises to be very specific in her book blurbs and cover art to avoid any confusion.

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Spotlight: The Third to Die by Allison Brennan

New York Times bestselling author and gifted storyteller Allison Brennan's new standalone thriller features a troubled female police detective and an ambitious FBI special agent who wind up at the center of a ticking-clock investigation into a diabolical serial killer.

Brennan's novel will launch a book-a-year series featuring a fabulous cast of recurring characters. It’s the story of a troubled female police detective and an ambitious FBI special agent who wind up at the center of a ticking-clock investigation into a diabolical serial killer; and the bond they forge in this crucible sets the stage for the future books in the series.

Detective Kara Quinn is visiting her hometown of Liberty Lake, Washington, after being placed on administrative leave by the LAPD, when she comes upon the mutilated body of a young nurse during an early morning jog. The manner of death is clearly ritualistic; she calls it in. Meanwhile back in DC, special agent in charge Mattias Costa is meticulously staffing his newly-minted Mobile Response Team. One of his first recruits is the brilliant FBI forensic psychologist Catherine Jones. When word reaches Matt that the Washington state murder appears to be the work of the Triple Killer--it will be the first case for the MRT. Jones has done the only profile on this serial killer, but she is reluctant to join the unit, still shaken by the death of her sister a year ago under circumstances for which she holds herself responsible. But only she holds the key to understanding the killer's obsessive pattern--three murder victims, three deep slashes a piece, each three days apart, each series beginning on a March 3rd--3/3, then a three-year hiatus before he strikes again.

This time they have a chance to stop him before he claims another victim strikes, but only if they can figure out who he is and where is is hiding.

Excerpt

Wednesday, March 3 

Liberty Lake, Washington 

12:09 a.m.

Warm blood covered him.

His arms, up to his elbows, were slick with it. His clothing splattered with it. The knife—the blade that had taken his retribution—hung in his gloved hand by his side.

It was good. Very good.

He was almost done.

The killer stared at the blackness in front of him, his mind as silent and dark as the night. The water lapped gently at the banks of the lake. A faint swish swish swish as it rolled up and back, up and back, in the lightest of breezes.

He breathed in cold air; he exhaled steam.

Calm. Focused.

As the sounds and chill penetrated his subconscious, he moved into action. Staying here with the body would be foolish, even in the middle of the night.

He placed the knife carefully on a waist-high boulder, then removed his clothes. Jacket. Sweater. Undershirt. He stuffed them into a plastic bag. Took off his shoes. Socks. Pants. Boxers. Added them to the bag. He stood naked except for his gloves.

He tied the top of the plastic, then picked up the knife again and stabbed the bag multiple times. With strength that belied his lean frame, he threw the knife into the water. He couldn’t see where it fell; he barely heard the plunk.

Then he placed the bag in the lake and pushed it under, holding it beneath the surface to let the frigid water seep in. When the bag was saturated, he pulled it out and spun himself around as if he were throwing a shot put. He let go and the bag flew, hitting the water with a loud splash.

Even if the police found it—which he doubted they would— the water would destroy any evidence. He’d bought the clothes and shoes, even his underwear, at a discount store in another city, at another time. He’d never worn them before tonight.

Though he didn’t want DNA evidence in the system, it didn’t scare him if the police found something. He didn’t have a record. He’d killed before, many times, and not one person had spoken to him. He was smart—smarter than the cops, and certainly smarter than the victims he’d carefully selected.

Still, he must be cautious. Meticulous. Being smart meant that he couldn’t assume anything. What did his old man use to say?

Assume makes an ass out of you and me…

The killer scowled. He wasn’t doing any of this for his old man, though his father would get the retribution he deserved. He was doing this for himself. His own retribution. He was this close to finishing the elaborate plan he’d conceived years ago.

He could scarcely wait until six days from now, March 9, when his revenge would be complete.

He was saving the guiltiest of them for last.

Still, he hoped his old man would be pleased. Hadn’t he done what his father was too weak to do? Righted the many wrongs that had been done to them. How many times had the old man said these people should suffer? How many times had his father told him these people were fools?

Still, he hoped his old man would be pleased. Hadn’t he done what his father was too weak to do? Righted the many wrongs that had been done to them. How many times had the old man said these people should suffer? How many times had his father told him these people were fools?

Yet his father just let it happen and did nothing about it! Nothing! Because he was weak. He was weak and pathetic and cruel.

Breathe. Focus. All in good time.

All in good time.

The killer took another, smaller plastic bag from his backpack. He removed his wet gloves, put them inside, added a good-sized rock, tied the bag, then threw it into the lake.

Still naked, he shivered in the cold, still air. He wasn’t done.

Do it quick.

He walked into the lake, the water colder than ice. Still, he took several steps forward, his feet sinking into the rough muck at the bottom. When his knees were submersed, he did a shallow dive. His chest scraped a rock, but he was too numb to feel pain. He broke through the surface with a loud scream. He couldn’t breathe; he couldn’t think. His heart pounded in his chest, aching from the icy water.

But he was alive. He was fucking alive!

He went under once more, rubbed his hands briskly over his arms and face in case any blood remained. He would take a hot shower when he returned home, use soap and a towel to remove anything the lake left behind. But for now, this would do.

Twenty seconds in the water was almost too long. He bolted out, coughed, his body shaking so hard he could scarcely think. But he had planned everything well and operated on autopilot.

He pulled a towel from his backpack and dried off as best he could. Stepped into new sweatpants, sweatshirt, and shoes. Pulled on a new pair of gloves. There might be blood on the ATV, but it wasn’t his blood, so he wasn’t concerned.

He took a moment to stare back at the dark, still lake. Then he took one final look at the body splayed faceup. He felt nothing, because she was nothing. Unimportant. Simply a small pawn in a much bigger game. A pawn easily sacrificed.

He hoped his old man would be proud of his work, but he would probably just criticize his son’s process. He’d complain about how he did the job, then open another bottle of booze.

He hoped his father was burning in hell.

He jumped on the ATV and rode into the night.

Excerpted from The Third to Die by Allison Brennan, Copyright © 2020 by Allison Brennan. Published by MIRA Books. 

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About the Author

Allison Brennan is the New York Times and USA Today bestselling and award-winning author of three dozen thrillers and numerous short stories. She was nominated for Best Paperback Original Thriller by International Thriller Writers, has had multiple nominations and two Daphne du Maurier Awards, and is a five-time RITA finalist for Best Romantic Suspense. Allison believes life is too short to be bored, so she had five kids. Allison and her family live in Arizona. Visit her at allisonbrennan.com

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Spotlight: Seduced by Snowfall by Jennifer Bernard

Dr. Bethany Morrison is used to being the responsible one. The serious doctor everyone relies on. She isn’t used to needing a rescue--especially from a sexy, lighthearted firefighter like Nate Prudhoe. And yet ever since she moved to Lost Harbor, Alaska, he’s been there for her. Is it any wonder she turns to him in her most embarrassing moment—when she needs a fake boyfriend?

Nate’s more than aware that Bethany doesn’t take him seriously. And that’s fine; relationships, a family of his own…those things aren’t for him. Not when he knows how painful the loss of a loved one can be. But when he discovers a mysterious injured runaway hiding out in the firehouse, it’s his turn to ask the lovely doctor for help.

As winter closes in, the line between fake and forever keeps disappearing. How could Nate know that every moment spent with Bethany would chip away at the shield around his heart? How could Bethany guess that Nate’s brand of laid-back fun was exactly what she needed? It may take more than a snowstorm to make them see it’s okay to want it all…and to grab it before it disappears forever.

Excerpt

First dates were always awkward, but a hundred times more so when the man across the table had already seen her in nothing but a towel. 

Oh yeah—and a plunger. 

Bethany Morrison tried not to think about that mortifying moment, but Nate wasn’t making it easy. As he stood to greet her, the gleam in his gray eyes told her he remembered every second. 

“Hi, Bethany. Nice to see you again.”

Again. An obvious reference to the locked-out-of-her-house-in-a-towel incident.

“Here we go,” she muttered under her breath. Commence the teasing. Mustering a smile, she gave Nate a dignified nod of her head. She was a doctor, after all. Doctors had dignity. “Hello, Nate. How are you?” 

“Good, how—” 

She cut him off. “I don’t have a lot of time before work, so how about we get our orders in?” She sat down in the chair that he’d pulled out for her. They’d met for dinner at Lost Harbor’s best seafood restaurant, the Nightly Catch. Heavy silver, scarlet linen tablecloths, servers dressed in black. But since this was Lost Harbor, a town of hardworking fishermen and women, fish-and-chips and mac-and-cheese were also on the menu. 

Obligingly, Nate sat back down and signaled for the waitress. Bethany looked at the menu cover, which featured an etching of a fishing boat against the backdrop of Misty Bay. Beautiful. 

She opened it and stared at the menu options, but couldn’t make herself focus on food. Everything was a jumble in her head—which was ridiculous because so what if Nate Prudhoe had seen her practically naked? As a doctor, she’d seen various body parts of thousands of people. It was no big deal. 

“Do you have to get back to the hospital?” Nate asked, his tone nothing but polite. Which he’d been ever since she walked in, come to think of it. She was being rude, not him. Somehow that irritated her even more. 

“Yes, I’m working an overnight shift tonight.” 

“I know that drill. I recommend protein, no carbs. Carbs can make you sleepy, sneaky bastards. Before you know it, you’re nodding off and forgetting routine things.” 

She looked at him sharply over the edge of the menu. Forgetting routine things…was that a reference to her locking herself out that night? 

But he was studying the menu, a picture of innocence. With his laughing eyes and lean face, she had to admit he was good-looking. Not her type, obviously. She went for the overeducated brainy types, not the players. 

 “Call me crazy, but you don’t seem like you want to be here,” Nate murmured.

She started. Were her anti-date thoughts written across her face? “Sorry. It’s just…I’m not a fan of setups.” 

“Mrs. Bellini is hard to say no to.” 

After they’d placed their orders, Nate sat back in his chair, forcing her to notice his wide shoulders and lean physique. He wore a thick blue cable-knit sweater, which was about as dressy as men got here in Lost Harbor. She had yet to spot a single blazer or dress jacket around town. 

“We could always drop the date part, and just have a conversation,” he suggested.

“What about? I’m sure we have nothing in common.” She slanted a glance toward her phone to check the time. One hour until she had to get to work. But one hour in “date time” could seem like five in normal time. 

“Really? We’re both in the medical field. We could talk triage techniques and blood pressure readings.” 

“I might need triage after that,” she murmured. 

Nate laughed. He had one of those contagious laughs that made everyone around take note. “You have a sneaky sense of humor, don’t you? It kind of springs out from the bushes when you aren’t expecting it.” 

And there it was. Another reference to the night they’d met, when she’d been hiding behind some alder bushes in her towel. “Would you please stop doing that?” 

“Doing what?” He cocked his head at her. He had a thick thatch of brown-butter hair that never looked entirely smooth.

“And now you’re playing innocent. It’s very annoying.” 

A bit later, Moira, the waitress, appeared with two steaming plates of scallops. Plump and lightly browned, they were the largest scallops Bethany had ever seen. The fragrance of lemon and garlic and butter made her stomach rumble. “Is Nate annoying you? He has a knack for that.” 

Nate scowled at the waitress. “Turncoat. See if I babysit for you guys again.” 

“Don’t get me wrong,” she added. “He’ll make you laugh too. Through the tears.” 

Moira made a sassy little face at Nate as she positioned the plate in front of him.  

“That’s just great, Moira. I should come here and get all my dates sabotaged. And this isn’t even a date. It’s just a conversation between two people with nothing in common.” 

Bethany laughed. Then stopped herself the second she realized Moira was right. Nate did have her laughing. 

“Welp, I’ll leave you two to your scallops. At least you have that in common.” 

Moira smiled and left them to their meal. 

Nate shook a cloth napkin across his lap. “Okay, before we plunge in, I should apologize.” 

Plunge? Was that a plunger reference? 

Bethany stabbed a fork into her scallop. “You just did it again. You can stop it with the innocent act.” 

Nate actually looked confused for a moment, then he laughed. “Oops. That one slipped in there, I swear. Sometimes things just happen without you planning it.” 

Was that another one? She pressed her lips together, refusing to fall for his baiting anymore. Besides, her mouth was full of the most delicious scallop she’d ever tasted, so she couldn’t stay mad. The butter-lime sauce was tart and sweet and made her practically moan with happiness. 

She zoned out for one blissful stretch of time, finally coming back to herself when she realized that Nate was watching her with a slight smile and attentive eyes. “What?” 

“You’re not frowning at me. I’m just soaking in the moment. It may never happen again.” 

“That’s ridiculous. I’m usually very cordial.” She dabbed the napkin to her lips. “People have to make a real effort to get on my bad side.” 

“Really? For me it comes so easily.” 

“What can I say, you’re a natural,” she said dryly. 

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About the Author 

Jennifer Bernard is a USA Today bestselling author of contemporary romance. Her books have been called “an irresistible reading experience” full of “quick wit and sizzling love scenes.” A graduate of Harvard and former news promo producer, she left big city life for true love in Alaska, where she now lives with her husband and stepdaughters.  She still hasn’t adjusted to the cold, so most often she can be found cuddling with her laptop and a cup of tea. Sign up for her newsletter for book news and fun exclusives. 

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