The Scotland Yard Exchange Series Read online

  The Scotland Yard Exchange Series

  Three Novels of Romance & Intrigue

  By Stephanie Queen

  Between a Rock and a Mad Woman

  Copyright © 2011 by Stephanie Giancola

  The Throwbacks

  Copyright © 2011 by Stephanie Giancola

  The Hot Shots

  Copyright © 2012 Stephanie Queen

  Smashwords Edition

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return it and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author’s work.

  Box Set Contents

  Between a Rock and a Mad Woman

  The Throwbacks

  The Hot Shots

  About the Author

  Stephanie Queen lives in bucolic New Hampshire where writing happy, snappy stories takes most of her time. Right now, she’s busy working on a secret new exciting mystery-thriller series. To find out about new releases CLICK HERE! to sign-up for the Stephanie Queen Newsletter. You are invited to visit her website and the Quirky Quips blog at StephanieQueen.com, or connect with Stephanie Queen online at Twitter or Facebook. You can email her at [email protected]. She loves hearing from readers!

  Stephanie Queen Books

  Between a Rock & a Mad Woman – Prequel Scotland Yard Exchange series

  The Throwbacks – Book 1 Scotland Yard Exchange series

  The Hot Shots – Book 2 Scotland Yard Exchange series

  The Romantics – Book 3 Scotland Yard Exchange series

  The Beachcombers – Book 4 Scotland Yard Exchange series

  Playing the Game – Book 1 The Playing series

  Small Town Glamour Girl Christmas

  Small Town Glamour Girl Wedding – a novella

  Between a Rock and a Mad Woman

  Prequel

  The Scotland Yard Exchange Series

  By Stephanie Queen

  Between a Rock and a Mad Woman

  Copyright © 2011 by Stephanie Giancola

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Praise for Between a Rock and a Mad Woman

  “Absolutely delightful”

  —RomanticLoveBooks.com

  “I was riveted! The twists, turns, surprises & the love story that resulted were outstanding and I can’t wait to read more…”

  —HesperiaLovesBooks.com

  “The writing is excellent. The story smart, funny and poignant by turns, and totally engaging. More, please!”

  —GenreReadr Amazon Review

  Chapter 1

  Madeline squinted, smiled as graciously as she possibly could with squinted eyes, and looked for her way out. She decided, standing there on the platform in front of the self-important crowd, that even if she had known how hard this would be, she would still be here. She let a sigh escape. If these photographers kept up, she might resort to wearing sunglasses soon. Camera flashes popped all around her as if she was a starlet and this was a Hollywood gala.

  But that was all wrong because she was actually a political candidate and this was a gubernatorial convention in Boston, Massachusetts. No matter. Being blinded by a bunch of misguided photographers was the least of her problems. The race for governor was young and she’d just finished her first concession speech. Now that, she acknowledged—stifling the sigh this time—was a problem. Nothing she couldn’t handle of course. But she felt the disappointment threatening her smile if she didn’t get out of there soon.

  As she stepped down off the platform, the delegates applauded louder than she’d expected. She’d have preferred more of their votes. Her campaign manager waited for her on the convention floor with specs of red, white and blue confetti in her hair and the usual frown accompanied by the furrowed brow on her face. If Madeline didn’t know better, she’d never believe her friend actually loved the life of a campaign manager. She glanced over Sarah’s head and zeroed in on the exit sign. Security guards paved the way from here to the exit, but their hold on the crowd was tenuous.

  Madeline let out her breath slowly. She felt like a balloon that had been filled with a little too much helium. High and tense. She knew her current convention-induced high wouldn’t last.

  “You should see yourself. You look like a regular party animal,” Madeline said, flicking a dot of blue from Sarah’s hair. Her comment had the desired effect. A look of horror took over Sarah’s face, and she shook her head wildly. Madeline wanted to laugh, but she behaved for the moment.

  “Let’s go before we’re mobbed by the press,” she said instead. Her concession speech had gone so well that she shouldn’t say another word if she could get away with it. She wanted to leave on that high note. They turned toward the exit. The line of defense was gone. The press swarmed in.

  “It’s okay. I’ve got you covered.” Sarah stood in front of her.

  Madeline winked at the nearest reporter. He happened to be right at her elbow.

  “Time for Plan B?” the reporter asked.

  “Tune in tomorrow,” she said. Sarah pushed forward and they attempted to move.

  “Mad Madeline—you’d have to be mad if you’re planning on continuing against the insurmountable PJD. Or maybe for you, he’s mountable?” another reporter said. She knew the man. Bertrand St. Cyr, the city’s premiere political print reporter and no fan of hers.

  “If it isn’t the saintly in-sin-Cyr.” Mad could not stop herself from saying it. Tension won out. The balloon had popped. At least the comment drew plenty of chuckles, but St. Cyr ignored it.

  “You would have to be irrationally optimistic, at the least.” St. Cyr said it as if optimism were a worse sin than being mad.

  “I am an optimist. I think that’s exactly what people need and deserve in their political leaders. Responsibility and optimism. There are far too many cynics already in this business.” She turned away from him and would have moved forward but there was now nowhere to go except straight into the mouth of the lion. Nothing but more press ahead. She turned back. Especially you. This time she only thought the words. She’d learn yet.

  Men and women with microphones attached to who-knew-what manner of recording devices yelled, shouted and pleaded with her to answer their questions. They were all asking the same thing.

  “Does this mean you’re staying in the race for governor, Ms. Grace?” A young, but professional reporter with a pen asked in a rhyme. She was a sucker for rhymes.

  “There’s more than one way to skin a cat, time for Plan B so hold
onto your hat,” she answered.

  “What’s this? The Dr. Seuss school of political campaigning with whimsy?” St. Cyr quipped back.

  There were laughs all around. Laughter was good. She joined in. It wasn’t all bravado, but she wasn’t sure how much longer she could stay on this ledge hovering over ridiculousness before she fell off—or maybe even took a leap. So much for her high note. She needed to get off the convention floor.

  “What’s Plan B?” another reporter called out.

  Then the avalanche of voices clamoring to know everything deteriorated into unintelligible noise. Madeline turned to Sarah. They didn’t have a press secretary yet, but could they ever use one right now. They stood surrounded by all manner of media who swarmed like a cloud of giant gnats. Her hope to make a quick exit looked dim. She prodded Sarah to say something.

  “Peter John Douglas won. We lost. But this is only check, not checkmate.” Sarah delivered her lines, albeit in a monotone.

  Madeline turned away. Trying not to laugh or cry, she wished the game of politics were as clean and simple as chess. Not that she was about to get squeamish now, but sometimes she herself had a hard time believing she was in this ridiculous game as a player. Of those who are given much, much is expected. Her father’s mantra since she was four years old haunted her. She’d been given far too much. She needed to give back and politics was the best way to have the most positive impact.

  She had known all along she would not win the nomination at the convention, but then there were the primaries. The question was, would she have a shot at winning the primaries? One of the nearby TV news anchors went on camera and she and Sarah watched, standing in the background. They were too hemmed in for her to do more than take another quick and wistful look at the exit.

  “From the convention floor, Madeline Grace gave a remarkably gracious concession speech, but of course there are hints of more to come from the remarkable Pulitzer Prize-winning psychologist turned politician. And back to you Tad, at the studio.”

  Madeline cringed at the reporter’s tag line, but at least the woman put a hopeful spin on her loss. She’d have to send her some chocolates.

  “It could have been worse,” Sarah muttered. “They could be calling you a beauty queen too.”

  “There’s that. And I’m not a professional wrestler.” Mad deadpanned in a whisper, “That should make this campaign a walk in the park.” Speaking of walking, it was past time to make a graceful exit after her gracious speech. She looked around the convention floor. They may as well have been inside a circus tent. The lights were too bright. The zillion bold-colored placards and bouncing balloons were starting to give her a headache. That never happened.

  Glancing at the exit sign with longing, and half listening to Sarah’s half answers to the reporters’ questions, they waited for the rest of their group to catch up to them so they could break through the throng. Then she made the mistake of sneaking a glance at her opponent.

  He won. The buff and charismatic Peter John Douglas won the party nomination for governor of Massachusetts. She couldn’t afford to think about him right now, especially not those thoughts. Not wanting to be taunted by remnants from their past, she squeezed him out of her mind and did her best not to acknowledge that he was all too real and present in the flesh.

  Taking a deep breath, she tried valiantly to dispel the disturbing thoughts. It wasn’t working. Struggling against the mother of all butterflies fluttering in her gut, she decided it was time to make their getaway. It wouldn’t be long before everyone in the place read her disturbing thoughts. That was, after all, her hallmark. Her chief distinction in this campaign was being the open, honest politician with an open, honest face. The trait had served her well enough to gain her a respectable showing tonight. But the last thing she wanted was people peeping into her personal life through her wide-open expression.

  Turning to Sarah again, all she needed to do was tilt her head slightly, and Sarah knew it was time to go. What’s more, she knew why.

  Trying not to appear as distracted as she felt while the cameras continued to flash, they pressed through the noisy crowd. With her eyes cast down toward the confetti-littered floor, she managed to hide her too-expressive face.

  Then she caught a flash of movement in the spaces between the pressed bodies of the crowd. A small boy careened toward her through the sea of legs. She reached for him at the last second, trying to catch him before he crashed, but not quite in time. He slammed into a photographer toppling him and his camera to the ground. At least she managed to sweep the boy out of the way of the crashing equipment. She smiled at him, standing and straightening her skirt.

  “Shit!” the photographer bellowed. “What the hell—” Madeline wanted to smack the photographer, but instead focused on the wide-eyed child whose chin quivered with a threatened sob.

  “Are you all right, honey?” She kept her arm around him and continued to smile, hoping he didn’t break out into sobs because she might join right along with him if he did. Too many suppressed emotions let loose.

  “They shouldn’t allow children…” Sarah started to say in an agitated tone.

  Madeline found her friend’s foot with hers and then stomped on Sarah’s toes hard enough to stop her in mid-sentence. That was satisfying. Hiring a press secretary just became her new top priority. In the meantime, she never took her eyes off the little boy.

  “Let’s find your parents, okay? What’s your name?” Madeline stroked the child’s back with one hand and reached into her skirt pocket with the other to find a chocolate from her stash. The boy looked up at her without a word, apparently too scared to speak. The commotion and attention grew around them with the frequency of flashing cameras. Ignoring the questions peppering her for the moment, Madeline looked around for a possible adult to claim the boy.

  “I know just how you feel, honey.” And she did. Then she pulled out a bright red wrapped Lindt chocolate ball with a flourish and presented it to the boy. He rewarded her with an instant smile that disappeared in the next second.

  “Don’t you like chocolate?”

  “I’m not allowed to take candy from strangers.”

  Hoots of laughter erupted from the crowd around them. Madeline couldn’t help her own small smile from escaping. The well-trained boy needed his parents.

  “That’s right. I forgot…” She patted the boy on the shoulders and spotted a likely parent.

  “I think it’s okay for you to take a piece of candy from this stranger, son.” The man had just squeezed through and the boy leapt into his open arms. Madeline recognized the stalwart Douglas supporter, one of her many so-called enemies in the campaign war. They nodded at each other and Madeline winked at the boy before turning at long last to the exit with renewed determination. Her team assembled to plow through the line as if this really were a football game and she needed blockers to get to the end zone.

  She heard the boy ask, “Who was that pretty lady, Daddy?” But she didn’t hear the man’s answer. She didn’t need to. She knew who she was, no matter what the enemy thought of her. There, that pep talk ought to hold her till she escaped.

  A TV camera and several print reporters zoomed in to follow them as they made their way off the convention floor toward the doors to the back hallway. They were headed for the bank of elevators that would bring them up to her suite.

  “Do you always carry candy, Ms. Grace? Was the rescue of the boy staged to make you look good?” One very young reporter holding a small spiral-bound steno pad asked with his pen poised. Print media, Madeline figured, and clueless. She stopped, tried not to look too amused and gave it up. Sarah nudged her to keep moving. Madeline nudged back and stood her ground.

  “Yes, I do always carry chocolates around. And no, I didn’t stage the ‘rescue’ of the boy.” Then she arched her brows. “But don’t take my word for it. Ask his father to make sure. Maybe you remember him. He’s the delegate who nominated Peter John Douglas.”

  The others clicked th
eir recorders on and tapped notes into their smart phones while laughing merrily. The young reporter turned bright red. Maybe she should have gone easy on him. She leaned over to him and spoke quietly. “Call my office tomorrow and I’ll give you an interview.”

  Producing a card and a chocolate ball to the young reporter in magician-like fashion, she patted him on the back and resumed her push to the end zone. Miraculously, a hole had opened up and she slid through. Bless her front line.

  Madeline pressed the up button and stood in studious silence contemplating where she was. Plan B. She wondered belatedly if she would have enough nerve to carry it off. Purposely avoiding speaking to any of her entourage, she instead listened. The press was still in earshot and they spoke about her as they all stood waiting for the elevator.

  “The story of the night: Is Madeline Grace going to stay in the race for the primaries—or is she going to accept the nomination for lieutenant governor and run alongside Peter John Douglas? Or is she going to make a bid for governor of Massachusetts as an independent candidate? That would be history making in this state. That is one very amazing lady…”

  Madeline smiled at the voice of the familiar newswoman for the local PBS station, Mary Porter. Mary had been a long-time supporter of hers. Fan wasn’t too strong a word.

  Sighing, she stepped onto the elevator with her team. The doors slid shut, enveloping them in sudden silence. Then all at once the talking started as if they’d been holding their breath for too long and were now gasping for air.

  “Hey, Ms. Pulitzer-winning-psychologist-turned politician—they missed the tag about being a child prodigy.” Jonathan cracked a wide grin.