"An interesting tale filled with just the right amount of romance and action"
Reviewed by Gabrielle Lee
Posted March 5, 2011
Romance Paranormal | Romance Suspense
When her television show Hoax Hunters is canceled, Kristin
Daniels makes up her mind to prove the Loch
Ness Monster is a hoax. Once she does that, she will show
everyone just what a great show she can make on her own. Yet
when she gets to Scotland, it is not the Loch Ness monster
that grabs her attention but rather Liam. The two find
themselves on the trail of a serial killer. Could it be that
Nessie the Loch Ness monster is killing or is there a real
murderer on the loose? I enjoyed reading about Kristin and her adventures. She is a
feisty woman who can stand on her own two feet and fight for
those she cares for. Liam may be a man with a
sordid past and a secret but he shows Kristin what a good
man he is on the inside. The sparks ignite between them
quickly and they must begin to trust each other. Watching
that trust and love tentatively begin was a nice read.
Adding in many of the myths from Scotland's legends was a
very nice touch. I never knew just who or what a
character might be which kept me turning the pages
to see what would happen next and wondering just who was
the one doing the killing. I have always enjoyed Scotland and its rich legends. Lori
Handeland does a nice job of including some of them into her
story, making MOON CURSED an interesting tale filled with
just the right amount of romance and action. Handeland is a
wonderful writer whether it be her werewolves or any other
paranormal creature she introduces us to. I am always
entertained when I read one of her books and would
definitely recommend this book to other paranormal romance
readers.
SUMMARY
Kristin Daniels is passionate in her pursuit of the truth.
As the host of the television show ,
she’s traveled to the ends of the earth to explore—and
expose—life’s most enduring myths. Her latest undertaking is
no exception: Kris is bound for Scotland, where she intends
to get to the bottom of the Loch Ness Monster legend once
and for all. Instead, Kris encounters something far more
mysterious... For in the ruins of the lake’s Urquhart Castle
lies a heavenly creature—a sleek, muscled man with a
seductive brogue named Liam Grant. One look into his eyes
and Kris is already in danger of falling in too deep. Is
Liam for real? Or has the spell of the moon touched them
both?
ExcerptChapter 1
The first recorded sighting of the Loch Ness Monster was by
Saint Columba in AD 565. The most recent occurred just
last year. "There’ll be a sighting every year," Kristin Daniels
muttered as she peered at her laptop. "Wouldn’t want to
screw with a multi-million dollar tourist industry." Unless, of course, you were the host of the public
television show Hoax Hunters. Kris planned to screw with
it a lot. In fact she planned to end it. Kris scribbled more notes on her already scribbled upon
yellow legal pad. This was going to be her biggest and
best project to date. The debunking of the Loch Ness
Monster would not only put Hoax Hunters on the national
radar—hell, she’d probably get picked up for syndication—
but would make her a star. "Kris?" She glanced up. Her boss, Theo Murdoch, stood in the
doorway of her office. He didn’t look happy. Theo rarely
did. Public television was a crapshoot. Sometimes you won;
sometimes you lost. But you were always, always on the
verge of disaster. "Hey, Theo," she said brightly. "I was just planning our
premier show for next year. You’re gonna love it and so—" "Hoax Hunters is done." Kris realized her mouth was still half open, and shut it.
Then she opened it again and began to babble. She did that
when she panicked. "For the season, sure. But next year
is going to be great. It’ll be our year, Theo. You’ll
see." "There is no next year, Kris. You’re cancelled." "Why?" "Ratings, kid. You don’t have ‘em." Fury, with a tinge of dread, made Kris snap: "It’s not
like we were ever going to compete with Friday Night
Smackdown." "And we don’t want to." Theo’s thin chest barely moved
despite the deep breath he drew. The man was cadaverous,
yet he ate like a teenaged truck driver. Were there
teenaged truck drivers? "Cable’s killing me." Or maybe it was just his high stress and two packs a day
diet. In Theo’s youth, back when he still had hair, PBS had been
the place for the intelligent, discriminating viewer. Now
those viewers had eight hundred channels to choose from,
and some of them even produced a show or two worth
watching. In the glory days Planet Earth would have been a PBS hit.
Instead it had played on The Discovery Channel. Once The
Tudors—sans nudity of course--would have been a Masterpiece
Theater staple. Now it was Showtime’s version of MTV
history. "Who would have thought that public radio would do better
than us?" Theo mumbled. To everyone’s amazement NPR was rocking, even as PBS sank
like a stone. "Not me," Kris agreed. And too bad too. Not that she
could ever have done Hoax Hunters for the radio even if she
had possessed a crystal ball. The show’s strength lay in
the visual revelation that what so many believed the truth
was in fact a lie. Hoax Hunters, which Kris had originally called Hoax Haters,
had come about after a tipsy night with her best friend and
roommate Lola Kablonsky. Kris had always loathed liars—she
had her reasons—and she’d been very good at spotting them.
One could say she had a sixth sense, if a sixth sense
weren’t as much of a lie as all the rest. Why not make your obsession with truth and lies into a
show? Lola asked. And full of margaritas and a haunting ambition, Kris had
thought: Why not? She’d used her savings to fund a pilot, and she’d gotten
that pilot onto the screen through sheer guts and brutal
determination. She wasn’t going to let something as
erratic as ratings get her down. If she debunked the Loch Ness Monster, every station in
America—no, in the world—would want that film. Talk about a dream come true. * * * "Scotland." Lola said. "Does anyone really go to Scotland
on purpose?" Kris tossed a few more sweaters into her suitcase. "Just
me." September was cold in the Highlands, or so she’d heard.
Not that she wasn’t used to the cold. She was from
Chicago. Cold moved in about October and hung around until
June. There’d even been a few July days when the breeze
off the lake was reminiscent of the chill that drifted out
of her freezer when she went searching for double chocolate
brownie yogurt in the middle of the night. "Are you sure, Kris?" Worry tightened Lola’s
voice. "You’ll be all alone over there." Alone. Kris gave a mental eye roll. Horrors! Like that
would be anything new. Her mother had died of leukemia when Kris was fifteen,
insisting to the very end that she was fine. Her brother
had left for college when she was seventeen, swearing he’d
visit often. If "often" was once the following year and
then never again, he hadn’t been lying. Her father hung
around until she turned eighteen. Then he’d taken a job in
China—no lie. He hadn’t been back either. So Kris was used to alone, and she could take care of
herself. "I’ll be okay." She zipped her suitcase. "I’d go with you—" Kris snorted. Lola in Scotland? That would be like taking
Paris Hilton to . . . well, Scotland. Kris could probably
shoot a documentary about it. The film would no doubt
receive better ratings that Hoax Hunters. And wasn’t that depressing? "Aren’t you getting ready for the season?" Kris asked. Lola was a ballet dancer, and she looked like one. Tall
and slim, with graceful arms and never ending legs, her
long, black, straight hair would fall to the middle of her
well defined back if she ever wore it down. However Lola
believed that style made her already oval face appear too
oval. As if that could happen. Kris didn’t consider herself bland or average, until she
stood next to Lola. She also wasn’t a washed out, freckle
nosed, frizzy-headed blond unless compared with Lola’s
porcelain complexion and smooth ebony locks. The only
thing they had in common were their brown eyes. However,
Lola’s were pale, with flecks of gold and green, while
Kris’s were just brown, the exact shade of mud, or so she’d
been told by a man who’d said he was a poet. The two of them were still friends because Lola was as
beautiful inside as out, as honest as a politician was not,
and she loved Kris nearly as much as Kris loved her. In
all her life, Kris had never trusted anyone the way she
trusted Lola Kablonsky. Lola set her long fingered, smooth, graceful hand on Kris’s
arm. "If you needed me, I’d go. Screw the season." Kris blinked back the sudden sting in her eyes. "Thanks." They had met while living in the same cheap apartment
building—Kris, attending Loyola University and Lola
attending ballet classes on the way to her present stint
with the Joffrey Ballet. On the basis of a few good
conversations, and a shared desire to get out of their
crappy abode, the two had found a better one and become
roommates. Kris hugged Lola; Lola hugged back, but she clung. Kris
felt a little guilty for leaving her—Lola wasn’t used to
being alone--but she didn’t have a choice. She couldn’t
start over again with another show. She believed in Hoax
Hunters. She also believed that the Loch Ness Monster was ripe for
debunking, and she was just the woman to do it. Kris gathered the backpack that contained her laptop, video
camera, mini-binoculars and purse. "I’ll be okay," she
assured her friend for the second time. "It’s not like I’m
going to Iraq or Columbia or even the Congo. It’s
Scotland. What could happen?" * * * Though it felt like a week, Kris arrived in Drumnadrochit,
on the west shore of Loch Ness, a day later. She’d been able to fly directly from Chicago to Heathrow,
however unlike the rest of the people on the plane she
hadn’t been able to sleep. Instead, she’d read the books
she’d picked up on both Scotland and Loch Ness. Loch Ness was pretty interesting, even without the
monster. The lake itself was a ten-thousand-year-old crack
in the earth’s surface. Because of its extreme depth—
nearly eight hundred feet—the loch contained more fresh
water than all the other lakes in Britain and Wales
combined, and never froze over, even during the coldest of
Highland winters. There had been over four thousand reported sightings of
Nessie, which no doubt fueled the forty million dollars
attributed to her by the Scottish tourism industry. With
that kind of income at stake, it wasn’t going to be easy to
debunk this myth. Kris certainly wasn’t going to get any
help from the locals. By the time London loomed below, Kris’s eyes burned from
too much reading and not enough sleeping. However, she
couldn’t drag her gaze from the view. She wished she had
the money to tour the Tower and Buckingham Palace; she’d
always dreamed of walking the same streets as Shakespeare.
Unfortunately, she was traveling on her own dime, and she
had precious few of them. The city sped by the window of the bus taking her to
Gatwick Airport where she boarded a flight to Inverness. A
few hours later, she got her first glimpse of the city.
Why Kris had thought Inverness would be full of castles,
she had no idea. According to her guidebook, it had over
sixty thousand people and less than half a dozen castles.
Still she was disappointed. Quaint would play very well on
film. She got what she was hoping for on the road south. The
countryside was quaint-squared, as was Drumnadrochit.
White buildings backed by rolling green hills, the place
should have been on a postcard—hell, it probably was—along
with the long, gray expanse of Loch Ness. The village was also tourist central, with a wealth of
Nessie museums, shops and tours by both land and sea. Kris
would check them out eventually. They’d make another
excellent backdrop for her show. The charm of the village
would highlight the archaic myth, illuminating how backward
was a belief in fairy tales. The excessive glitter of
tourism would underline why the locals still pretended to
believe. Kris had once adored fairy tales, listening avidly as her
mother read them out loud to her and her brother. In those
tales, bad things happened, but eventually, everything
worked out. In real life, not so much. Her driver, an elderly, stoic Scot who’d said nothing
beyond an extremely low-voiced, "aye," when she’d asked if
he often drove to Drumnadrochit, continued through the
village without stopping. For an instant Kris became
uneasy. What if the man had decided to take her into the
countryside, bash her on the head and toss her into the
loch, making off with her laptop, video camera and anything
else she might possess? Sure, Lola would miss her
eventually, but by then Kris would be monster bait. An hysterical bubble of laughter caught in her throat. She
didn’t believe in monsters--unless they were human. She lifted her gaze to the rear view mirror and caught the
driver watching her. He looked like anyone’s favorite
grampa—blue eyed, red cheeked, innocent. And wasn’t that what everyone said about the local serial
killer? The vehicle jolted to a stop, and Kris nearly tumbled off
the shiny leather seat and onto the floor. Before she
recovered, her driver leaped out, opened her door and
retreated to the trunk to retrieve her bag. Kris peered through the window. They’d arrived at Loch
Side Cottage, which, while not exactly loch-side was damn
close. Kris would have to cross the road to reach the
water, but she’d be able to see it from the house. The
village of Drumnadrochit lay out of sight around a bend in
the road. "Idiot." Kris blew her bangs upward in a huff. "No one’s
going to bash you over the head. This isn’t the south side
of Chicago." She stepped out of the car, then stood frozen like Dorothy
opening the door on a new and colorful world. The grass
was a river of green, the trees several shades darker
against mountains the hue of the ocean at dawn. The air
was chill, but it smelled like fresh water and-- "Biscuit?" A short, cherubic woman, with fluffy white hair and emerald
eyes stood in the doorway of the cottage. For an instant
Kris thought she was a Munchkin. She certainly had the
voice for it. "I made a batch of Empires to welcome ye." She held out a
platter full of what appeared to be iced shortbread rounds
topped with a cherry. Kris hadn’t eaten since the flight to Heathrow, so despite
her belief that a biscuit should only be served warm,
dripping with butter and honey, she took one. At the first bite, her mouth watered painfully. Crisp and
sweet—was that jelly in the middle—she couldn’t remember
eating anything so fabulous in a very long time. "It’s a cookie," she managed after she swallowed the first
and reached for a second. The woman smiled, the expression causing her cheeks to
round like apples beneath her sparkling eyes. "Call it
whatever ye like, dearie." She lifted the platter. "Then
take another." Kris had to listen very hard to distinguish the English
beneath the heavy brogue. She felt as if she were hearing
everything through a time warp, one that allowed the
meaning of the words to penetrate several seconds after
they were said. She hoped that the longer she stayed, the
easier it would get. "Thanks." Kris took two cookies in each hand. "I’m Kris
Daniels." "Well, and don’t I know that." The plump, cheery woman
giggled. The sound resembled the Munchkin titters that had
welcomed Dorothy to Oz. Kris glanced uneasily at the
nearby shrubbery, expecting it to shake and burp out
several more little people. Then she heard what the woman had said, and caught her
breath. If they already knew her here, knew what she did,
who she was, her cover was blown, and her story was crap
before it had even begun. Why hadn’t she used a false name? Because she hadn’t thought anyone in the Scottish Highlands
would have seen a cable TV show filmed in Chicago. And
how, exactly, would she present herself as Susie Smith,
when her credit cards and passport read Kristin Daniels? "You know me?" Kris repeated faintly. "I spoke with ye on the phone. Rented ye the cottage. Who
else would be arriving today bag and baggage?" Kris let out the breath she’d taken. She was no good at
cloak and dagger. She liked lying about as much as she
liked liars, and was therefore pretty bad at it. She
needed to get better and quick. "You’re Ms. Cameron," Kris said. "Euphemia," the woman agreed. "Everyone calls me Effy." Effy’s brilliant eyes cut to the driver, who was as thin
and tall as she was short and round. "Ye’ll be bringing
that suitcase inside now, Rob, and be quicker about it than
a slow-witted tortoise." Kris glanced at the old man to see if he was offended, but
he merely nodded and did as he’d been told. Very slowly. Kris’s lips twitched. She’d have been tempted to do the
same if Effy had ordered her around. Rob came out of the cottage, and Effy shoved the plate in
front of him. "Better eat a few, ye great lummox, or ye’ll
be starvin’ long before supper." He took several. "If ye didnae cook like me sainted
mother, woman, I’d have drowned ye and yer devil’s tongue
in the loch years ago." Looming over the diminutive Effy, deep voice rumbling like
the growl of a vicious bear, Rob should have been
intimidating. But there was no heat to his words, no anger
on his face. He just stated his opinion as if he’d stated
the same a hundred and one times before. Perhaps he had.
The two did seem well acquainted. Effy snorted and shoved the entire plate of biscuits into
his huge, worn hands with a sharp, "Dinnae drop that, ye
old fool," then she reached into the pocket of her
voluminous gray skirt and pulled out a key, which she
presented to Kris. "Here ye are, dearie. And what is it
ye’ll be doing in Drumnadrochit?" "I’m . . . uh . . . " Kris glanced away from Effy’s curious
gaze, past Rob, whose cheeks had gone chipmunk with
cookies, toward the rolling, gray expanse of the
loch. "Writing." "Letters?" Rob mumbled. "Why would she need to travel all this way to write a
letter?" Effy scoffed. "Some do." "I’m writing a book," Kris blurted. There. That had even sounded like the truth. Maybe the
key to lying was thinking less and talking fast. No wonder
men were so good at it. "A children’s book?" Effy asked. Kris said the first thing that popped into her
head. "Sure." Silence greeted the word. That hadn’t sounded very
truthful. "Mmm." Rob gave a throaty, Scottish murmur, drawing Kris’s
attention away from the loch and back to him. Luckily for
her, it also caught Effy’s attention. "Ye ate them all?" She snatched the empty plate from his
hands. "Ye said not to drop them. Ye didnae say not to eat them." "And if I didnae tell ye not to drive into the water would
I find ye swimming with Nessie of an afternoon?" Rob didn’t answer. Really, what could he say? "Nessie," Kris repeated, anxious to keep their attention
off her inability to lie. "Have you seen her?" "Mmm," Rob murmured again, this time the sound not one of
skepticism but assent. "If ye live in Drumnadrochit," Effy said, "ye’ve seen her." Kris laughed. She couldn’t help it. "Everyone’s seen her?" Effy lifted her chin to indicate the loch. "Ye have but to
look." Kris spun about. All she saw were waves and shadows and
rocks. * * * Not long afterward, Effy climbed into Rob’s car,
admonishing him all the while. "I need to get home, but
dinnae drive too fast. Ye give me a headache. And—" Rob shut the door on the rest of her comment. "Ye give me
a headache," he muttered, moving around the rear bumper
toward the driver’s side. "Effy lives close to you?" Kris asked. Rob lifted sad eyes. "The woman lives with me." Kris’s eyes widened. "You’re—" "Cursed," he muttered, and opened the driver’s side door. Effy’s voice came tumbling out. "Ye can walk anywhere ye
like, dearie, but stay away from the castle." "There’s a castle?" Kris forgot all about Rob and Effy’s
living arrangements—were they were married or living in
sin? What did it matter? There was a castle. "Urquhart Castle. Ye must have heard of it." Kris had read about it. The structure overlooked Urquhart
Bay, where many Nessie sightings occurred and had figured
prominently in the history of the Highlands, with many
famous names like Robert the Bruce, Andrew Moray and Bonnie
Prince Charlie sprinkled through the tales. "Is it dangerous?" Kris asked. Effy’s munchkins-in-the-shrubbery laugh flowed free. "Ach
no. But they charge a fee, and the place is naught but a
ruin. If ye want to know about Urquhart or the loch or
even Nessie come to me." "Why not me?" Rob climbed into the car. "I’ve seen her
more than you have. I drive this road every day." "I’ve seen her twice as many times as you, ye old goat." Thankfully Rob shut the door on the rest of the argument,
then drove away. The sun was setting, though it was hard to tell considering
the gray, gloomy sky and incipient threat of rain. Still,
by her calculations, Kris had an hour of daylight left.
She didn’t want to waste it. She hurried inside, casting a quick glance around the
cottage as she moved to the bathroom to throw cold water on
her face and smooth back her wildly curling hair. The damp
air in Scotland was going to ruin any prayer she had of
keeping it smooth. The house possessed a living area that shared space with a
small kitchen, a bedroom complete with a decent-sized bed,
a chest of drawers, night table and a teeny-tiny closet.
Luckily she didn’t need, and hadn’t brought, very many
clothes. The place was warm, Effy must have turned on the heat, and
it smelled of cookies. "Biscuits," Kris murmured, and her stomach growled.
Thankfully Effy had also been kind enough to stock the
small refrigerator with a few staples to tide her over
until she could get to the market. Kris made a quick jam sandwich, slugged a glass of milk,
then armed with her video camera, a Loyola University
sweatshirt and her best pair of walking shoes, she set out. The western horizon glowed a muted pink and orange, the
tourist boats that had bobbed in the distance now
disappeared. Nevertheless, Kris filmed a bit of the loch.
She had to start somewhere. The water slid past, dingy in the fading light and
pockmarked by several bits of wood. Kris could see how
someone with an active imagination might invent a lake
monster, especially when everyone else was. Just as she lowered her camera, something splashed. Kris
froze, squinting into the gloom, but she could see nothing
beyond the first several feet of flowing, murky water. "They grow the fish big here," she muttered. From the sound of the splash and the suddenly larger swell
of the waves, they grew them as big as a tank. Kris was tempted to return to the cottage. Not because she
was afraid, but because she hadn’t brought the proper
equipment needed to film in the fast approaching night. Kris cursed her lack of foresight. She wasn’t used to
being her own cameraman, and she hadn’t thought she’d find
anything so soon. But if she wanted to have clear, perfect
footage of whatever—make that whoever—had made that noise,
she’d need the light she’d left in her backpack. Then she heard another splash, nearer the shore, just past
that next grove of trees, and before she could think any
more about it, Kris plunged into the gloom. The ground was slick beneath the cover of the branches, and
she slid a bit, had to slow down. But it wasn’t even a
minute before she popped out on the shore of Loch Ness. She looked left, right, across. The far side was hazy—too
far away to really see, and she’d forgotten her binoculars
along with the light. But still she was pretty certain she
saw-- "Nada." Either the culprit was track star fast, or there
really was a fish the size of Cleveland in the loch. Which would explain a few things. Kris frowned. One of the theories about Nessie was that an
unknown creature lived in the depths. Current
cryptozoological speculation set the amount of undiscovered
species between half a million and ten million—no one
really knew. Which meant— "There could be damn near anything out there." And that was fine. That was good. Proving that Nessie was
a big, toothy, prehistoric fish would debunk the lake
monster theory too. Kris emerged from the trees, intent on returning to the
cottage, then unpacking and taking a shower until the hot
water gave out, before jumping into bed and sleeping until
the jet lag went away. She even made her way up to the
road and turned in that direction. Then she noticed the castle below. Despite the fading sun, Kris lifted her camera. The ruins
were too spooky to resist—all Gothic and Jane Eyre-ish—
perched on a precipice. She could well imagine locking a
mad wife in that tower. Back when it still had enough
walls to keep someone in rather than allowing them to
tumble right out. A shadow shimmied at the edge of her screen, and without
thought Kris zoomed in— On a man slipping through the ruins of Urquhart Castle, the
last of the light sparkling in his glistening wet hair.
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