Hi everyone,
It's September and I'm done with the first drafts of the Unhinged Romance trilogy. The first book will be published in October, Yippee!
Whew! It's been exciting, fun, amazing, overwhelming, sometimes challenging but I'm glad I got these 3 books out of my head in less than a year.
I decided to post the excerpts from each book. Just to give you something to sink your teeth into until October.
Excerpt from Unhinged
by his White Heat, Book #1 in the Unhinged Romance Series
Kema Ekwueme balanced
on the edge of the black leather sofa, her elbows on her knees, aware of
another flash of disapproval from her reluctant hostess whose eyes had returned
yet again to Kema’s spread legs.
Feeling a little
perverse, she jerked her black jeans-clad legs apart even more. In response,
her hostess, Doctor Awolowo shot her another glare.
Kema ignored her. She
was here to fish out the circumstances that led to the death of a sixteen-year
old girl and if she had to face this woman’s judgey glares, she would gladly do
it.
The main reason she was
here—sixteen-year old Nike, daughter of Doctor Awolowo—sprawled opposite on
another black sofa. The young girl’s head was bowed and her legs were flung
carelessly about.
Her mother lingered
unbendingly beside her, and now she had transferred her glares to Kema’s rather
—improper—hairstyle.
Kema pressed her lips
together, fighting to keep her face bland, struggling to keep from laughing.
Yes, she could imagine what this prim doctor was thinking about her punk cut.
Nike’s mother’s slim
frame was draped with a cream caftan which—of course—happened to match the
walls of the room. Her sleek hair was plaited into a neat bun.
Kema leaned forward,
training her focus on the girl sitting in front of her.
Nike continued to look
away, knotting and unknotting her hands, shaking and shaking her legs… restless,
scared—guilty?
“Tell me again what
happened.”
More leg-shaking and
then, she mumbled, “I’ve told the police… I’ve told everyone…”
“Yes, I know—but tell
me. I want to know.”
Nike shrugged. “We had
a day out—she… Rachel... wanted to go to the doctor and r-remove the baby.
After the doctor, we came back. That’s it.”
“That’s not all, is
it?” Kema nudged.
The girl swung her legs
apart; her right foot began a dance.
Her mother suddenly
snapped, “Put your legs together, miss!” simultaneously flicking another
baleful glance at Kema’s unladylike posture.
Nike slammed her legs
together but she twisted her arms, pouting mulishly.
Kema cleared her
throat. This woman was not helping. Her daughter and the school were being sued
by the grieving parents of the dead girl flailing around for anyone to blame
for this tragedy. This wasn’t the time to care about seating postures.
“Please, Nike,
continue.”
The girl shrugged
again, flicking her eyes away. “She was okay when we came back, so I left her
to go and see Sandra in the next room and when I came back, she-she was crying,
complaining of stomach pains. She was s-sweating, I gave her paracetamol. B-b-but she was still crying and-and
blood was just… pouring out. I didn’t know what to do!” She started wreathing
her hands.
Kema watched her
attempt to control herself, to keep from crying. This was a teenager, for
goodness sake. She must be confused, devastated. Her friend had
died—practically in her arms. And to top it all, she was facing a court case.
Yet, Kema could tell—she
was hiding something.
“But why didn’t you get
help in time?” Kema asked, trying to catch the girl’s eye.
“I didn’t know she
would die! I thought she would be fine…”
“But all the blood,
Nike…”
Doctor Sheila Awolowo
sighed noisily. She was getting impatient with this brash girl with the weird
hair, wearing all black in this twenty-nine degrees centigrade heat, for
goodness sake! She was allowing this… this interrogation
only because of Crestamead School. This woman had bamboozled her way into her
house with a letter from the school, claiming she was the head of the alumni
association.
Yes, Nike loved the
school but the truth of this mess was that the school was liable for that poor
girl’s death, even more so than her daughter. They were the ones who allowed
teenage girls to roam the streets of Lagos and get abortions from charlatans.
Kema glanced up at the
sigh and that was when she noticed that Sheila Awolowo gripped the letter of
introduction between her right thumb and index finger as if it was a soiled
rag.
This woman was on the
verge of throwing her out.
No time to waste, then.
Kema zoned in on the girl.
“Nike, do you know who
got Rachel pregnant?”
Nike opened her mouth
to reply, but her mother was there first.
She glared at Kema.
“Excuse me, my daughter is still a virgin and you can’t assume she’s the same
as that… that poor girl because they were friends!”
At the word virgin, Nike snorted and rolled her
eyes.
Doctor Awolowo
pretended as if she hadn’t heard. She continued addressing Kema. “I’m afraid
your time’s up. I will like you to leave.”
Kema tried to reason
with her. “Doctor Awolowo, your daughter knows something she’s not telling. We
need to get to the bottom of this—”
“We? You’re just here
because of Crestamead! You don’t care about Nike.”
Kema shook her head.
“No, no, you’re wrong. I care about her. We’ve met on multiple occasions—in the
school. She knows me.” Kema waved her hand at Nike but the girl kept her gaze
averted. “She’s a track star, in the one hundred and two hundred sprints just
like I was.”
“I don’t care about all
that! You are here on behalf of the school. Look,” She lifted her hands in the
air and then dropped them, “We’re handling this. Her uncle owns Olympus
Security and he is ready to do all that he can to resolve this issue. His
business partner is here—so we don’t need anyone’s help. Nike, you’re done. Go
to your room now.”
“Doctor Awolowo—” Kema
started to say.
She raised her voice,
“Nike—now.”
Nike scurried out of
the room, still refusing to meet Kema’s gaze.
Kema heard deliberate,
brisk steps moving toward them. Someone was coming. To throw her out?
She jumped up from the
chair. No use, the interview was over, anyway.
Kema strode out of the
room to the door, with the good doctor on her heels.
But, at the door, she paused,
sensing something… peculiar. Static
electricity surged up her spine. Someone else had arrived.
She whirled around.
And came face to face
with him.
He was tall, very tall;
shoulders wide like a nightclub bouncer. With midnight-black hair, piercing
eyes the color of the green grass on the lawn outside this house and sculpted
lips, he was one fine man!
And he was white.
Staring at her…
caressing her eyes, nose and lips with his stare.
What the heck was this?
What did this… this stranger want? Why was he eating her up with his eyes?
Okay, two can play this
bizarre game.
She flared her eyes and
zoomed in on his… soft, turquoise-green eyes that whispered the promise of
unforgettable experiences.
One eyebrow arched, his
lips twitched. But he kept gawking. Still not saying a word.
“Oliver, you’re here.
Please escort Miss … Ekwueme out. I have to deal with…” Doctor Sheila Awolowo
broke the staring match. She thrust the letter at the man and rushed away in a
flurry of cream silk.
He dragged his eyes
away from Kema to scan the letter.
She swallowed a deep
breath. Her lungs hungered for air. His attention had drifted away from her;
she should feel relieved, not deserted… shouldn’t she?
She knew what the
letter said. The school principal, Mrs. Philippa Ochei, had written that
Crestamead was interested in finding out the facts of this case and then she
had gone on to introduce Kema, and had inserted her phone number.
When he lifted his eyes
back to her, her heart tripped. Wow, those eyes…
Then he made it worse:
he smiled, revealing white, even teeth.
Her gaze slid over his
dark suit, white shirt and grey tie. A grey pocket square was tucked in the
front pocket of his jacket.
“Hi, I’m Oliver.”
He had an American
accent. She said, “Okay.”
“You’re Kema?”
“And?”
He laughed softly. The
laughter lines fanned out from the corners of his eyes.
What
was so amusing?
He was saying, “You’re
the head of your—”
“President.”
“Sorry, the president
of your school’s alumni association.”
“Yes. Look, I have to
go. I’d like to have the letter back.”
She stuck her hand out.
Waiting for the letter.
It was as if his eyes
were super-glued to this sunny-skinned, clear-eyed confident beauty sporting a
honey-blond Mohawk cut. She was tiny, maybe a few inches over five feet. She
would fit into his arms quite easily, her head would rest on his chest and his
hands would just as easily grasp both sides of her slim waist…
And best of all, her
fingers were bare. No rings at all.
And then he noticed she
was gaping at him as if he was nuts. He also spotted her outstretched hand.
He should return the
letter. He was here, in his best friend’s sister’s house, for Nike’s sake…not
for a petite goddess with hips and butt that rivaled those of Khloe Kardashian.
A goddess who, at
present, was glaring at him with fiery eyes…
But the letter
contained a vital piece of information—her phone number.
He folded the letter
and pushed it into his jacket’s inside pocket. He said, “I’ll keep this, if you
don’t mind.”
“What? … I do mind—,”
Kema began to splutter but then she changed her mind. “You know what? Keep it.”
She turned her back to him and yanked open the door. If he wanted it so badly,
it was his.
Although, come to think
of it, why did he want it? Anyway, she didn’t care. She was out.
She stamped out of the
house, over the paved footpath to the main gate.
And then, it occurred
to her.
She hadn’t heard the
door slam behind her. Was he… watching
her? What a freak! Men were all the same—no matter their skin color. Her
twenty-seven inch waist sharply highlighted her forty-two inch hips and if she
could count on her fingers the number of men who took one glance at her hips
and instantly expressed their desire to date her, she would need extra fingers
and even extra toes. Yes, that many.
She would not look
back. His gaze seared her back but she refused to look; Lot’s wife turned back
and became a pillar of salt. Not she.
She reached the gate.
The security man opened the pedestrian side-door.
And then she—oh fickle woman, thy name is Kema—swerved
around to glance behind her.
The door gaped open,
framing his impressive stature. Yes, he’d been checking her out.
Then, he waved.
Kema snorted and
then—fled.
***
“This is becoming
almost common-place… young girls having sex, getting pregnant—” Adaeze said,
expert eyes scanning the tray and mentally counting the middle-sized,
transparent plastic containers sitting on the kitchen counter in front of her.
“… Having abortions…”
Kema added. She was in elder sister’s kitchen, waiting to have what promised to
be another delicious lunch, courtesy of her sister. Adaeze was the best cook in
the world, even better than her best friend, Wumi.
If she could have
breakfast, lunch and dinner here every day, she would… but that would be too
much. She had her own flat, her very own place… where she cooked the same three
meals of beans porridge, Jollof rice,
and Okra soup nearly every week. That was as far as her expertise went.
Adaeze ladled a mixture
of beans flour, spices, crayfish and groundnut oil into each of the containers,
managing not to spill any on the counter.
Without looking up, she
asked, “And no-one knows who the father is?”
Kema shook her head.
“No-one knows… except Nike, but she’s not telling.”
“After she let her
friend die.”
“She did not let her
friend—”
“Yes, whatever. But the
girl’s still dead.” Adaeze moved on to inserting bite-sized bits of kidney,
liver and a boiled egg each into each container. She was making moi-moi, a dish Kema loved but was
absolutely terrible at preparing.
Kema watched her
sister’s fluid and practiced movements. This was typical Adaeze. Mrs.
Perfection. She was the archetypal first-daughter. Great at everything. A
thirty-four year old mother of two children and a pharmacist who happened to
always find time—and energy—to clean their house and cook for her family…
despite the fact that her husband was home only two weeks in a month.
But the four year age
gap between them notwithstanding, Adaeze was not just her sister. She was also
her friend.
Kema wriggled about on
the hard chair, remembering her meeting with… him. She hadn’t mentioned him yet and she had to find a way to
bring it up without tipping Adaeze off about the effect he’d had on her. Adaeze
was canny about such things.
Adaeze cleared her
throat, keeping her gaze on her task. “I… er…
spoke to Dan yesterday. He called.”
Kema’s spine stiffened.
Dan, Mr. Bossy Older-Than-Every-Child-In-The-Family Brother.
“What did he want?”
“Kema…,” Adaeze chided.
“I know he called to
complain about something else I’ve done. He didn’t call me.”
“Because you two will
just end up screaming at each other.”
“It’s gotten worse
after my break-up with Ikenna… like it’s my fault… Ikenna left me!”
Adaeze heard the pain
in her sister’s voice. She sighed, her busy hands paused. Then, in a milder
tone, she pointed out, “It’s been almost a year…”
Kema bit her lip. Ten
months and three weeks precisely that the love of her life walked out on her
and into…well, wherever he is now… taking her heart with him. And now she was
having trouble understanding why the sight of this oyibo man, Oliver was lighting fireworks within her.
Oliver…
Adaeze was saying, “Dan
only wanted to know how you’re doing. You’re his baby sister. He asked about
your work at Storm Tech. I told him you’re on vacation—though I didn’t mention
you were asking questions about the death of a student of your former school.”
“Yes… thanks.” Tapping
a meaningless tune with her fingers on the table, while keeping her gaze
focused on the plastic containers as they journeyed into the steamer, she
continued, “I met someone from a security firm that Nike’s uncle owns. I think
his name was… Oliver?”
“Oliver!” Adaeze
squealed.
Kema frowned at her
sister. “You know him?”
“Yes. He’s oyibo. His firm, Olympus Security does
some work for the company that employs Harrison.”
“Harrison, your
husband?”
“Yes… a bit deaf, are
you? Anyway, I heard they’re making quite a name for themselves in Nigeria,
even in Africa. Oliver’s a business partner, an investor. The other guy is a
Nigerian, Steven… something… Oh, so you met Oliver. He’s a great guy. His
daughter is in my Bibi’s class—”
It spewed out of Kema’s
mouth before she could stop it. “Daughter?
He has a daughter?”
So much for concealing
from Adaeze her inexplicable attraction to a man she had only met this
afternoon.
Adaeze’s head swung
toward her sister, her pretty eyes narrowed. “Is there something you want to tell me? What happened between you two?”
