Monday, December 2, 2013

Spotlight: Wendy Darlin Tomb Raider ~ Box Set by Barbara Silkstone

Wendy Darlin Tomb Raider ~ Box Set

Until last year Wendy Darlin was a full-time real estate agent for Miami Beach millionaires. Then she met Roger Jolley, world famous archaeologist, Johnny Depp look-alike, and at times the most irritating person on the planet. Join her as she travels the globe in search of lost treasures and antiquities. She’s been told her life is like the movie Romancing the Stone but at times she feels more like Indiana Jones with boobs.


Real estate agent for Miami Beach millionaires, Wendy Darlin, clashes with “SEC Investigator” and world famous archaeologist, Roger Jolley. He follows her out to sea on a mega-yacht owned by Charlie Hook, a Ponzi swindler on the run from federal agents and angry investors. Despite her fear of water, she finds herself a tomb raider on the Caribbean one step ahead of modern day pirates. Will she find the Lost Boys? Will she escape Hook’s clutches? And whom will she find on Nevis Island? Oh… and is Roger a good kisser?

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When we last saw Wendy Darling and Roger Jolley in WENDY AND THE LOST BOYS, they were hot on the trail of Egyptian icons stolen from the British Museum. Wendy is now in a frantic race against time and a murderer as she searches for the last Lost Boy hidden somewhere in London while a killer heat wave invades the city. Wendy is held captive over a fish ‘n’ chips shop while Roger’s life is threatened. Can Wendy escape her captors, rescue Roger, and find the missing Lost Boy before the murderer strikes again?

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CAIRO CAPER ~ Book Three

Part-time tomb raider and full-time real estate broker, Wendy Darlin joins her lover, archaeologist Roger Jolley, in a quest for Cleopatra’s tomb. All they have to do is get from Cairo to the Temple of Taporisi Magna alive. Armed only with a couple of hijacked ashtrays and faced with a trek across the blazing Sahara desert can Wendy out-maneuver Russian oligarchs, a dozen Dark Force mercenaries, and Roger’s chubby ex-girlfriend in time to find the tomb and seal it before chaos erupts in Egypt?

Cairo Caper Exerpt:

Cairo Caper
Chapter One                                                                                    

A loud pop from the other side of the bathroom door startled me so badly that my mascara brush careened up my eyelid and left a racing stripe on my forehead.
If Mister World Famous Archaeologist Roger Jolley thought a bottle of champagne in our honeymoon suite would mellow me, he couldn’t be more wrong. Black gunk hung on my eyelashes. Sometime during the flight from London to Cairo the contents of my mascara cylinder had melted into one big gooey lump.
I ran the brush against my lashes. It hung on my upper fringe like a kindergartener clinging to his mother’s leg. I braced my pinky on my cheek and tugged. Another loud pop gave me a second racing stripe. My forehead resembled the hood of Herbie the Love Bug.
I stuffed the brush back into the tube and put the makeup case in my purse. Roger wouldn’t be opening two bottles unless he was planning on giving me a champagne bath. Hmmm. What the heck was he doing? I banged the door open.
He stage-whispered, “Get down.” He wasn’t in sight. His voice increased to a stage-yell, “Dammit, Wendy, get down!”
Something whizzed by my ear. I hit the floor and scanned the room. Roger lay in front of the peach-colored sofa just this side of an oak coffee table about ten feet from the balcony door. Had he been shot? My heart caught in my throat as a chunk of mascara scraped my eyeball. Blinking it away I cut my eyes to the balcony looking for the shooter. I sensed a presence but saw no one. Using my elbows, I belly-wiggled to Roger.
“Stay put!” He pushed himself up and leapt toward the balcony. The gunman stepped into view. Roger gave a head fake and dove the other way. The assassin got off a shot but missed.
Lying on my side, I stretched my right arm out to the coffee table and grabbed a glass ashtray the size of a hubcap and the weight of a Manhattan phone book. I swung back and pitched the ashtray full-force, pain zinging through my shoulder.
The ashtray thunked the shooter in his nose, knocking him back against the railing. He windmilled then tumbled over.
I belly-wiggled to the patio in case the hitman brought a date.
Roger crouched, checking the sides of the balcony. The patio was killer-less. I scrambled to my knees and then stood, peering over the wrought iron railing. Morning sunlight glared from the muddy surface of the Nile. Six floors down a body in white sprawled in a splat of blood. My first official kill as a tomb raider and it was an ashtray-rubout. How embarrassing.
Roger tried to stand. I put my hand on his shoulder and pressed him back down. He passes out at the sight of blood, a real problem when he was an army medic. He tolerates my fear of getting my face wet and I protect him from plasma.
“Don’t look. Blood,” I said.
The color drained from his face.
 I pushed past him. “How’s this honeymoon working out for you?” I grabbed my purse and threw a scarf over my head. “Get your shoes on. Grab your passport. Let’s make like Houdini before the Cairo cops get here. Out! Out! Out!”
Yanking the door open, I stuck my head out and checked both ways before I ran into any bullets. A room service waiter stood in astonishment with a tray in his hands, and a bullet hole in the wall above his head. The fragments of a crystal sconce littered his platter. His eyes rolled back in his head and he dropped to the floor.
A room door creaked opened between us and the elevator. I caught a bad vibe. It could be another shooter. I slammed Roger into an alcove alongside a potted palm. Our hiding place smelled of mold and other primeval ooze. At the fast count of ten I peaked out.
An elderly gent with Coke-bottle glasses stared at the waiter and blotted his lips with a handkerchief. He cut his eyes to me and stepped back inside his room closing the door with a bang.
“Let’s go!” I said.
We dashed along the blue-carpeted corridor of the hotel, and skidded to a halt at the elevator. The Sphinx was a classic old Egyptian hotel with an elevator dating back to Caesar’s time. The lift worked on the hour, every other hour. I hoped this was the right hour. I didn’t want to hit six flights of stairs in my red Salvatore Ferragamo peep-toe pumps.
Roger joined me in the lift. We exchanged wide-eyed looks as I silently prayed for a safe descent. Gears ground and the ancient box lowered slower than dialup. We hit the first floor with a light bounce. The metal doors partially opened. I wedged through and ran toward the hotel lobby.
The half dozen guests milling around cast curious glances at the staccato sound of my heels on the marble floor. I fought to untangle my ankle-length, loose-fitting skirt and long-sleeved shirt.
The staff scattered, studiously ignoring my hasty exit. The desk clerk busied himself with his fingernails. The bellhop examined an empty luggage rack. The concierge scowled as I streaked passed his desk. Maybe my black eye smears were a local insult.
I skidded to a stop in the foyer, peeked out, and glanced to the left ready to deny the body on the pavement was my handiwork. The doorman was wearing sunglasses, so I couldn’t be sure he was even looking my way. I was expecting a crowd and the wail of an ambulance. Nothing.
Roger came up behind me and hid his eyes in my shoulder. “A lot of blood?”
“A smidge, no… a splat. But here’s the kicker, no body. No corpse.”
He stepped in front of me without looking toward the splat. “What the hell?”
I looked around. Men in business suits and flowing galabia robe thingies scurried along stepping right on the bloody pavement.
Roger tugged at my arm. “Let’s get out of here. There’s a small café near the Museum. We can wait there until noon. I’ve got a feeling someone doesn’t want me to meet with Sir Sydney Street.”
Mister Understatement forged ahead blending into the Cairo street crowd with his archaeologist’s tan, dark brown hair, brown trousers, brown shirt, and brown suit coat.  Someday I’d get him drunk and dress him in baby blue.
The wide road reminded me of Collins Avenue in Miami Beach. Mid-rise apartments lined both sides of the road. The island dividing the road had palm trees and low bushes with pebbles instead of grass. The drifting sand on the street made for a slippery run. I was sure I could hear my six-hundred dollar shoes getting shredded.
A sudden cool breeze sliced through the heat, caught my scarf, and lifted it from my head, exposing my wavy blonde hair. People stared at me. I popped on my Ralph Lauren sunglasses feeling like a slow moving target at a carnival shooting gallery.
Roger took my hand and pulled me along as we squeezed through the sardine-spaced pedestrians. Shouts came from Tahrir Square less than a block away. The yelling built to a scary level. I slipped my purse strap over my head across my chest and clutched the bag to my side. Besides my money, credit cards, and passport, it held the important stuff… my makeup.

Pow! Firecrackers? I pressed Roger’s hand in a white-knuckled grip. A group of men in galabias were run-walking in the opposite direction from where we were headed.  They picked up speed as another firecracker sounded from the square.

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Praise for the Series:

The way Ms. Silkstone plays with words is unrivaled and the way she incorporated segments from favorite movie clips is genius. She uses sharp wit throughout her stories, her plots are strong, and the action nonstop. ~ Big Al’s Books and Pals

Be aware, this is not the Peter Pan story you want your kids reading, it is clearly intended for adult readers. Yet it appeals to the childlike part of us that loved the classic original stories. Combine that childlike love with modern politics and technology, and you get this smart, snarky, hilarious mystery. The story is richly developed and leaves you guessing until the very end. I am liking this grown up version of Peter Pan even more than the original.
~ Tiffany Harkleroad Top 500 Reviewer VINE VOICE

Author Silkstone’s writing has been described as “perfectly paced and pitched - shades of Janet Evanovich and Carl Hiaasen without seeming remotely derivative. Fast moving action that shoots from the hip with bullet-proof characterization.”

Barbara Silkstone is the best-selling author of:

Wendy Darlin Tomb Raider series:

Wendy and the Lost Boys

London Broil

Cairo Caper

Miami Mummies – coming in 2014

Criminally Funny Fables series:

The Secret Diary of Alice in Wonderland, Age 42 and Three-Quarters

Wendy and the Lost Boys

London Broil

Zo White and the Seven Morphs

Cold Case Morphs.

Wendy and the Lost Boys topped the charts in comedy, climbing over Tina Fey, Sophie Kinsella, and Ellen DeGeneres. The Secret Diary of Alice in Wonderland, Age 42 and Three-Quarters has been a consistent best seller in comedy. Both Wendy and Alice have been in the top 20 Amazon comedies at the same time.

About the Author:

Barbara Silkstone is the best-selling author of the Wendy Darlin Tomb Raider series that includes: Wendy and the Lost Boys, London Broil, Cairo Caper, Wendy Darlin Tomb Raider Boxed Set. Her Criminally Funny Fables series includes: The Secret Diary of Alice in Wonderland, Age 42 and Three-Quarters; Wendy and the Lost Boys; Zo White and the Seven Morphs; Cold Case Morphs.

Silkstone’s writing has been described as “perfectly paced and pitched – shades of Janet Evanovich and Carl Hiaasen – without seeming remotely derivative. Fast moving action that shoots from the hip with bullet-proof characterization.”




Barbara Silkstone’s Amazon Author’s page


Barbara Silkstone said...

Thank you for hosting me. This is such a lovely site.

Sapphyria said...

You're welcome and thank you, too!