|
Ross's return to the bayous of Louisiana sizzles with the sensuality and danger fans of her romantic thrillers have come to expect. . . and her deliberate pace pays off in the powerful, action-packed conclusion."
– Publishers Weekly
New York Times Bestseller!USA TODAY Bestseller!No Safe Place Video Award Doubleday bookclub selectionMystery Guild selectionRhapsody Bookclub selection
ReviewsExcerpt | | No Safe Place
February 27, 2007
Pocket Star
ISBN: 1416501665
"No
Safe Place is a page-turner. . . Hop on
the Ross Express for a lightning ride!" New York Times bestselling author, Linda Howard.
In the City That Care Forgot, two passionate opposites discover combustible attraction and danger.
Chicago homicide detective Kate Delaney fiercely defends victims. Which is why -- despite death threats -- she's testifying to a federal grand jury about local police corruption. It's also why she's infuriated by the New Orleans police department's blasé attitude toward her estranged sister's death. But pursuing an investigation in a strange city means allying with someone who knows the territory. And the players. Someone with a total disregard for the rules.
As an ex-cop from a police family in New Orleans, PI Nick Broussard knows that cops live by their own code. You don't rat out a fellow officer. The last thing he needs is some smart-mouthed, by-the-book outsider unknowingly injecting herself into his undercover search for the truth. Even worse is the way she conjures up visions of tangled sheets. . .
Nick and Kate's chase pits them against the criminal underworld of the sultry southern city. And as they peel away layers of deadly deception, they discover a dark secret too many are willing to kill to keep.
This book received a last minute change from its original title, Fallen, which appears on the excerpt in the back of Impulse.
|
EXCERPT
Sheets of lightning trembled against a vermillion sky curtained with rain.
Trying to sort out what to do next, Kate went over to the apartment window and looked down onto the writhing tangle of tropical ploubled cityants. A crumbling stone statue stood in the center of the overgrown courtyard; the trio of satyrs chasing a comely nymph through the green, algae-choked water seemed a perfect metaphor for this sin-drenched, tr.
"She couldn't have committed suicide," she insisted yet again.
"It's been twelve years since you've seen her." Nick was leaning against the bedroom doorframe, thumbs hooked in the front pockets of his jeans. "People change."
"Now there's a pithy observation.”
Outside the window, the smoky neon sign from the strip club next door flashed pink and green shimmers onto the rain-slick cobblestones below. Inside, the burned wax scent of votive candles in red glass, another vaguely unpleasant odor hung in the stale air.
"Maybe you ought to embroider it onto a pillow."
"Dubois happen to say anything about you having a smart mouth, chère?"
“Actually, he did.”
Her back was to him, but Kate had no trouble hearing the humor in his voice. To her mind, there was nothing funny about murder.
"Which I took as a compliment because it goes along with my smart head. Unlike Dubois, who undoubtedly found his shield in a box of Cracker Jacks. Dammit, there’s no way, given the condition of this apartment, any cop with half a brain could've called this a suicide.”
“So you keep saying.”
“Right. And you might as well get used to hearing it because I’m going to keep saying it until I nail her killer.”
“We nail her killer. Teamwork, remember,” he said as she looked back at him over her shoulder.
"Besides,” Kate insisted, “the furniture shoved against the door is proof she was trying to keep someone out.”
“Wouldn’t be the first working girl to suffer herself some drug-induced paranoia."
Kate wished she’d been surprised to learn that her twin had grown up to be a prostitute. If only. .
No! She could give into the dark emotions battering away at her and wallow in guilt later. Right now the objective was to put her sister's killer behind bars. With or without the help of the cops.
“I want her book. If we can get our hands on her client list, we can begin narrowing down the suspects.
"Remy said the cops are lookin' for that," he said with exaggerated patience that grated on Kate's last nerve. "But, being a murder cop yourself, chère--"
"It's Detective."
"Being a murder cop yourself, Detective chère, you oughta know police investigations take time to do right."
Kate snorted. "What you mean is the cops are giving any city hotshots, who may have paid my sister for sex, time to cover their collective asses."
He sighed heavily. Pushed himself away from the door frame and crossed the room to smooth his big hands over her shoulders.
"Hey, darlin'. This is New Orleans.” His drawled Cajun patois was as rich as whiskey-drenched bread pudding. “Folks have a certain way of doing things here."
"The Big Easy."
"That's what we call it, all right," he agreed.
"I meant the movie." She shrugged off his touch. "Dennis Quaid says it to Ellen Barkin."
He brightened at that, his smile a bold flash of white. “You like that movie, chère?"
"I hate any movie that glamorizes crooked cops."
He shook his dark head. "You're a hard woman, Detective Delaney."
"I'm a murder cop."
Rational. Logical. Tough-minded. Where others saw shades of gray, she saw black and white.
Cops and killers.
Good versus evil.
As a gust of wind rattled the leafy green leaves of the banana tree in the courtyard, Kate sensed a movement just beyond the lacy iron fence. A man, clad all in black, and wearing a brimmed hat that shielded his face, stood on the sidewalk, beneath an oak tree dripping with silvery-green moss.
The tree's thick, twisted roots had cracked the cobblestone sidewalk; the limbs Tara had crashed through on her fatal fall to the ground clawed at the window, leafy branches scratching against the glass.
"The landlord said other women have been killed in this building."
"That was before my time."
Broussard was standing close enough behind her that she could feel the heat emanating from his body, along with musky male sweat and the tang of lemon, which would've seemed incongruous on a man who reeked of testosterone, if Kate hadn't known the cop trick of using lemon shampoo to wash the smell of death out of your hair.
"The way the story goes, a young slave was found in the formal parlor, her dark throat slit from one pretty ear to the other."
His hands were on her again, long dark fingers massaging the boulder-like knots at the base of her neck.
"Later eight other bodies were discovered buried in the garden. They'd all been raped. Brutalized. And each one had a gad cut into their breasts."
He paused, waiting for her to ask.
The silence stretched between them, broken only by the sound of the wind, moaning like lost souls outside the window.
Kate blew out a frustrated breath. "So, what the hell is a gad?”
"A protective tattoo designed to protect the wearer from evil spirits. The guy who built this place was a bokor. A priest who specializes in the dark arts, what voodoo practitioners call the left-hand way. They're not all that common, though we've got a handful of ’em living here in the city."
"Obviously the tattoos weren't much protection."
Having grown up with a mother who staged fake séances, Kate didn't believe in magic, white or black. Or any other woo-woo things that went bump in the night.
He shrugged. "Hard to stop a man with killin' on his mind."
She couldn’t argue with that.
"Your sister had one."
"One what?" The rusty gate squeaked.
"A gad."
She glanced up at him. "The police report didn't mention that."
"It'll show up in the coroner's report."
"Dubois still should've put it in."
"Like you said, Dubois isn't the sharpest knife in the drawer."
The man was now in the courtyard, staring up at the window. A lightning bolt forked across the sky, illuminating what appeared to be malevolence in eyes blazing like turquoise fire in a midnight dark face.
Kate, who'd always prided herself on her control, tensed.
"What's wrong?" Broussard's fingers tightened on her neck.
"That guy in the courtyard." White spots, like paper-winged moths, danced in front of her eyes. She blinked to clear them away. "He's --"Gone.
Kate stared down into the thorny tangle of scarlet bougainvillea and night-blooming jasmine. The man had vanished. As quickly and silently as smoke.
Copyright © 2006 by The Ross Family Trust
End of online excerptOrder the book
REVIEWS
Linda Howard, New York Times bestselling author
No
Safe Place is a page-turner that plunks the reader down in post-Katrina
New Orleans and makes the changes real and immediate. But the flavor
of New Orleans is still there, from the Old World feel of the Quarter
to the dark under-current of VooDoo, the easy Cajun charm of Nick
Broussard allied with the brisk Chicago cop, Kate Delaney. . . Hop on
the Ross Express for a lightning ride!
Publishers Weekly
Ross's
return to the bayous of Louisiana sizzles with the sensuality and
danger fans of her romantic thrillers have come to expect. . . the
scintillating love scenes it yields shouldn't disappoint . . . and her
deliberate pace pays off in the powerful, action-packed conclusion.
Debbie H., Gottawritenetwork.com
No Safe Place is an action packed roller coaster ride filled with twists and turns that leave you breathless. Absorbed from page one I didn’t want to put the book down. . . The chemistry between Nick Broussard and Kate Delaney sizzles off the page... The secondary characters are once again lively and refreshing, each brin’ging their own edge to the story... Ms. Ross thrills again with No Safe Place, a book guaranteed to please any reader. 5 out of 5 Quills!”
Jeri Neal, The Romance Readers Connection
JoAnn Ross fans will be delighted with this latest offering... a terrific romance with hot, sizzling sexual tension, and some amazing twists and turns that even the most discerning readers of romantic suspense will find shocking.
Jane Bowers, Romance Reviews TodayThe excitement in No Safe Place starts from page one... JoAnn Ross excels at character building. Minor ones, from gangsters to cops to voodoo practitioners, are important. So also is post-Hurricane Katrina New Orleans, which Ms. Ross portrays vividly. No Safe Place is an edgy, first-rate novel of suspense.
Suzanne Tucker, Fresh Fiction
A chilling suspense thriller. . . We're swept into the seedy world of voodoo, black magic and murder. This story is so real, you can feel the 'gator's eyes gazing upon you above the murky waters of the bayou. You can visualize the gnarled limbs of the cypress trees... a spellbinding read with heart-stopping action, a mesmerizing plot and an ending you have to read to believe. Two strong characters singe the pages with steamy heat, perfect for the sultry South. Do yourself a favor and read this spine-tingling, extraordinary novel by JoAnn Ross... It's a page-turner and not just a great read -- it's a re-read. BRAVA Ms. Ross. You had me guessing until the very end and then I was blown away. An amazing author and this latest story proves it, once again.
Jill Smith, Romantic Times
The human tragedy that continues in the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina gives extra poignancy to this gritty and terrifying romantic thriller. Heroine Kate Delaney is about to be thrown headlong into a world filled with voodoo and magic, as well as the ever present human greed and murderous intentions. This book is patented Ross storytelling, jam-packed with emotion, passion, and dark drama!
Detra Fitch, Huntress Reviews awarding No Safe Place FIVE STARS
JoAnn Ross has done an outstanding job... once I began reading, I could not stop. I HAD to know what was going to happen next and I HAD to know NOW! Therefore, I read as fast as I could. The pages slid by so quickly that I could have sworn they were greased. . . very m emorable and highly recommended.
Barb, Joyfully ReviewedA tale of suspense and romance. From the first moment I picked up No Safe Place, I was held enthralled by her characters and their search for answers. . .I could not stop reading it.
top Behind the Scenes
Dear Reader,
On August 26th, 2005, my husband and I drove to Wetumpka, Alabama, where I’d agreed to speak at a luncheon to raise funds for the library. As we left East Tennessee, Hurricane Katrina came ashore in Florida as a Class 1 hurricane, and was
quickly downgraded to a tropical storm.
During the long drive we talked about my book in progress, which was, at the time, titled Impulse. Those of you familiar with my books know that New Orleans is one of my favorite cities – to visit and to write about. But even loving it as I do, I was still planning to have it hit by a major hurricane.
When I arrived at the event on the morning of August 27th, I discovered that while we’d been away from newscasts, Katrina had turned back into a hurricane and the National Hurricane Center had issued a hurricane watch from Morgan City, Louisiana to the Louisianna/Mississippi border. By the time lunch was over, the watch had been extended eastward, across southern Mississippi to the Alabama/Florida border. Given that Wetumpka’s 190 miles from the coast, I never felt in any personal danger, but concerned about people in the watch area, I decided to take the hurricane out of my story.
Later that night the watch was changed to a warning and while we were driving back home to our mountains on August 28th, NHC was warning people of a “catastrophic Category 5 hurricane” with “devastating damage” expected. New Orleans declared a state of emergency and the mayor called for the first ever evacuation.
Katrina made landfall in Louisiana on the morning of August 29th and hell broke loose. Like much of the country, I spent days glued to my television watching as 80% of New Orleans became flooded – the water in some places twenty feet deep -- and decided there was no way I could finish writing that particular book at that time. Even without the fictional hurricane, there were other events in my story I felt would be perceived as “piling on” a city already reeling. (Making things worse, New Orleans was rocked again by Hurricane Rita on September 24th.)
So, I put my story on the shelf, and began an entirely different book set in Wyoming, which kept the title Impulse. After I finished that story, I decided enough time had passed to get back to work on the book you’ve just read. Coincidentally, I finished No Safe Place in the early morning of August 29th, 2006, during the same hours Katrina had come barreling ashore a year earlier.
I’m writing this letter on September 29th, thirteen months after Katrina. Although the situation remains fluid, and numbers are always changing, at least 1,740 Louisianans died, 135 are missing, there are 52 unidentified corpses in the Orleans Parish morgue, and bodies are still being found. One-third of the hospitals and libraries remain closed. The residential Lower 9th Ward, once home to 14,000 people, remains a devastated and abandoned ghost town, the only neighborhood in the city still lacking drinkable water and other basic utilities.
Less than half of the pre-Katrina 460,000 population has come home; again, numbers are hard to pin down, but the Postal Service puts the figure at 171,000, which is equivalent to the population of 1880. Only 56 of the 128 schools have opened and more than 18,000 businesses have closed permanently since the storms.
Daily life in New Orleans can be a struggle. In a recent poll, only 16% of the citizens felt their lives had returned to normal.
But there’s also good news. Tourists are returning; the city has celebrated Mardi Gras and Jazz Fest; the Port of New Orleans is nearly back to normal; the convention center has bookings; the Saints won their home opener in a newly refurbished Superdome, which had been the site of so much suffering and despair; and although, according to the Louisiana Restaurant Association, 1562 of the city’s 3414 restaurants are still closed, Commander’s Palace, a famed new Orleans landmark since 1880, finally reopened this weekend with a celebratory jazz brunch.
One of my favorite things about New Orleans has always been its fabulous food. It’s the only city in the world where, as soon as I finish one meal, I begin planning where I’m going to eat my next. People in my Louisiana stories are always cooking and eating, and Cajun and Creole recipes from my novels and local restaurants can be found on my website.
Which is why I’m going end this letter with a quote from Charles Bohn, a talented New Orleans potter and optimist who owns Shadyside Pottery on Magazine Street: “Hell, you can’t let New Orleans die. The food’s too good.”
JoAnn Ross
top
|
|
