"Will publication of a bestselling book bring closure for the author -- or something more sinister?"
Reviewed by Tanzey Cutter
Posted August 28, 2012
Romance Suspense
Eighteen years after her sister Susan was killed on a
tornado-filled Memorial Day celebration in Austin, Texas,
Bellamy Lyston has written a book, Low Pressure,
about the horrific occurrence that reshaped her entire
family's destiny. To this day, Bellamy gets panic attacks
during storms, and she's unable to recall a portion of what
happened that day. Writing under a pseudonym, so she can't
be identified with the family, Bellamy is shocked when her
book becomes a bestseller. Of course, this means the author
of Low Pressure is getting a lot of attention,
especially from an unscrupulous tabloid reporter who
eventually uncovers her real name -- and her connection to
the events in the book. The ensuing publicity puts Bellamy
in harm's way and she flees New York City for Texas. Bellamy soon finds she's unable to run from the stalker
who's targeted her for bringing up the past. Figuring she
must confront the key players from 18 years ago, she first
approaches Denton Carter, Susan's bad-boy lover, who then
12-year-old Bellamy had a crush on. Bellamy hires Dent, now
a pilot with his own plane, to fly her and her parents to
Houston where her father, who has cancer, is to undergo
treatment. With her father close to death, Bellamy has more
than she can deal with, so it's nice to have a strong
shoulder to lean on in Dent. But can he be trusted? He has
some real issues with the Lyston family's treatment of him
all those years ago. Dent was the first person Austin detectives grilled about
Susan's murder, and even though he had an alibi, they
treated him rough. Then the detectives turned to Allen
Strickland, who was eventually found guilty of the crime
and sent to prison, where he was killed. But the stigma of
being the first main suspect has followed Dent ever since,
making him a bitter man. Beneath his bitter facade, he's
still just as hot and sexy as Bellamy remembers, and he's
attracted to her, as well. When Dent is also attacked, he
and Bellamy realize this is a bigger problem than they
originally thought. Who could be so upset about the past
being brought to light that they'd go as far as murder? It doesn't take long for Allen's vicious brother Ray
Strickland to become a possible suspect, as well as the
lead detective on Susan's case, Dale Moody, who disappeared
after Allen was killed in prison. Bellamy is sure if she
could just remember that time period she's blocked from her
mind of that fateful day, she'd find the answers to
everything. But will she be able to handle the truth from
those memories, and will it be enough to save her life? Sandra Brown gives her fans another blockbuster
romantic suspense with LOW PRESSURE. Featuring a beautiful
rich heiress who denies her attraction to a sexy bad-boy as
she deals with horrific events from her past makes this
page-turning novel a winner. Yes, we know how it will end
for the couple, but it's the perilous path taken to get
there that makes this a spellbinding and suspenseful read.
SUMMARY
Bellamy Lyston was only 12 years old when her older sister
Susan was killed on a stormy Memorial Day. Bellamy's fear
of storms is a legacy of the tornado that destroyed the
crime scene along with her memory of what really happened
during the day's most devastating moments. Now, 18 years later, Bellamy has written a sensational,
bestselling novel based on Susan's murder. Because the book
was inspired by the tragic event that still pains her
family, she published it under a pseudonym to protect them
from unwanted publicity. But when an opportunistic reporter
for a tabloid newspaper discovers that the book is based on
fact, Bellamy's identity is exposed along with the family
scandal. Moreover, Bellamy becomes the target of an unnamed
assailant who either wants the truth about Susan's murder
to remain unknown or, even more threatening, is determined
to get vengeance for a man wrongfully accused and punished. In order to identify her stalker, Bellamy must confront the
ghosts of her past, including Dent Carter, Susan's wayward
and reckless boyfriend -- and an original suspect in the
murder case. Dent, with this and other stains on his past,
is intent on clearing his name, and he needs Bellamy's
sealed memory to do it. But her safeguarded recollections -
once unlocked-pose dangers that neither could foresee and
puts both their lives in peril. As Bellamy delves deeper into the mystery surrounding
Susan's slaying, she discovers disturbing elements of the
crime which call into question the people she holds most
dear. Haunted by partial memories, conflicted over her
feelings for Dent, but determined to learn the truth, she
won't stop until she reveals Susan's killer. That is, unless Susan's killer strikes her first...
ExcerptPrologue
The rat was dead, but no less horrifying than if it
had been alive.
Bellamy Price trapped a scream behind her hands
and, holding them clamped against her mouth, backed away
from the gift box of glossy wrapping paper and satin
ribbon. The animal lay on a bed of silver tissue paper,
its long pink tail curled against the fat body.
When she came up against the wall, she slid down it
until her bottom reached the floor. Slumping forward, she
removed her hands from her mouth only to cover her eyes.
But she was too horror–stricken even to cry. Her
sobs were dry and hoarse.
Who would have played such a vicious prank? Who?
And why?
The events of the day began to replay in her mind
like a recording on fast forward.
#
"You were terrific!"
"Thank you." Bellamy tried to maintain the rapid
pace set by the publicist for the publishing house, who
functioned as though her breakfast cereal had been laced
with speed.
"This show is number one in its time slot." Her
rapid–fire speech kept time with the click of her
stilettos. "Miles ahead of its competition. We're talking
over five million viewers. You just got some great,
national exposure."
Which was exactly what Bellamy wished to avoid.
But she didn't waste her breath on saying so. Again. For
the umpteenth time. Neither the publicist nor her agent,
Dexter Gray, understood her desire to direct the publicity
to her best selling book, none to herself.
Dexter, his hand tightly grasping her elbow, guided
her through the Manhattan skyscraper's marble lobby. "You
were superb. Flawless, but warm. Human. That single
interview probably sold a thousand copies of Low Pressure,
which is what it's all about." He ushered her toward the
exit where a uniformed doorman tipped his hat as Bellamy
passed.
"Your book kept me up nights, Ms. Price."
She barely had time to thank him before being
propelled through the revolving door which emptied her onto
the plaza. A shout went up from the crowd that had
gathered to catch a glimpse of that morning's interviewees
as they entered and exited the television studio.
The publicist was exultant. "Dexter, help her work
the crowd. I'm going to get a photographer over here. We
can parley this into more television coverage."
Dexter, more sensitive to his client's reluctance
toward notoriety, stood on tiptoe and spoke directly into
Bellamy's ear to make himself heard above the Midtown rush
hour racket. "It wouldn't hurt to take advantage of the
situation and sign a few books. Most authors work their
entire professional lives – "
"And never receive this kind of media attention,"
she said finishing for him. "Thousands of writers would
give their right arm for this. So you've told me.
Repeatedly."
"It bears repeating." He patted her arm as he
steered her toward the eager people straining against the
barricades. "Smile. Your adoring public awaits."
Readers who had become instant fans clamored to
shake hands with her and have her sign their copy of Low
Pressure. Being as gracious as possible, she thanked them
and smiled into their cell phone cameras.
Her hand was being pumped by an enthusiastic fan
when she spotted Rocky Van Durbin out of the corner of her
eye. A writer for the daily tabloid newspaper, EyeSpy, Van
Durbin was standing slightly apart from the crowd, wearing
a self–congratulatory smirk, and giving instructions
to the photographer accompanying him.
It was Van Durbin who had uncovered and then
gleefully disclosed that the writer T.J. David, whose first
book was generating buzz in book circles as well as in
Hollywood, was, in fact, Bellamy Price, an attractive,
thirty–year–old woman.
"Why this native Texan – blue–eyed,
long–legged, and voluptuous – and isn't that how we
like them? – would want to hide behind an innocuous pen
name, this reporter doesn't know. But in spite of the
author's coy secrecy, Low Pressure has soared to the top of
the bestseller charts, and now, apparently, Ms. Price has
come out of hiding and gotten into the spirit of the
thing. She's eschewed her spurs and hat, abandoned the
Lone Star state, and is now residing in a penthouse
apartment overlooking Central Park on the Upper West Side,
basking in the glow of her sudden celebrity."
Most of that was a lie, having only filaments of
truth that kept it from being libelous. Bellamy did have
blue eyes, but she was of average height, not noticeably
tall as his description suggested. By no one's standards
could she be considered voluptuous.
She did have a cowboy hat, but it hadn't been on
her head for years. She'd never owned a pair of spurs, nor
had she ever known anyone who did. She hadn't abandoned
her home state, in the sense Van Durbin had implied, but
she had relocated to New York several years ago, long
before the publication of her book. She did live on the
Upper West Side, across from the park, but not in a
penthouse.
But the most egregious inaccuracy was Van Durbin's
claim that she was enjoying her celebrity, which she
considered more a harsh glare than a glow. That glare had
intensified when Van Durbin wrote a follow–up, front
page article that contained another startling
revelation.
Although published as a novel, Low Pressure was
actually a fictionalized account of a true story. Her true
story. Her family's tragic true story.
With the velocity of a rocket, that disclosure had
thrust her into another dimension of fame. She abhorred
it. She hadn't written Low Pressure to become rich and
famous. Writing it had been therapeutic.
Admittedly, she'd hoped it would be published,
widely read, and well received by readers and critics, but
she had published it under a non–gender specific
pseudonym in order to avoid the spotlight in which she now
found herself.
Low Pressure had been eagerly anticipated even
before it went on sale. Believing strongly in its
potential, the publishing house had put money behind its
publication, placing transit ads in major cities, and print
ads in magazines, newspapers, and on the Internet. Social
media outlets had been abuzz for months in advance of its
on–sale date. Every review had been a rave. T.J.
David was being compared to the best crime writers, fiction
and nonfiction. Bellamy had enjoyed the book's success
from behind the protective pseudonym.
But once Rocky Van Durbin had let the genie out of
the bottle, there was no putting it back. She figured her
publisher and Dexter, and anyone else who stood to profit
from sales, were secretly overjoyed that her identity and
the back story of her book had been exposed.
Now they had not only a book to promote, but an
individual, whom they had deemed "a publicist's dream."
They described her as attractive,
well–educated, well–spoken, not so young as to
be giddy, not so old as to be boring, an heiress turned
best selling author. She had a lot of "hooks" to draw
upon, the chief one being that she had desired anonymity.
Her attempt to hide behind a pen name had, instead, made
her all the more intriguing. Rocky Van Durbin was
relishing the media frenzy surrounding her which he had
helped create, and, never satisfied, continued to feed the
public's voracious curiosity with daily tidbits about her,
most of which were either blatantly untrue, speculative, or
grossly exaggerated.
As she continued to sign autographs and pose for
photographs with fans, she pretended not to have noticed
him, but to no avail. He rudely elbowed his way through
the crowd toward her. Noticing his approach, Dexter
cautioned her in a whisper, "Don't let him get to you.
People are watching. He'd love nothing better than to goad
you into saying something he could print out of context."
When the so–called journalist came face to
face with her, making it impossible for her to ignore him,
he smiled, revealing two rows of crooked, yellow teeth
which she imagined him filing in order to achieve that
carnivorous grin.
Looking her up and down, he asked, "Have you lost
weight, Ms. Price? I can't help but notice that you're
looking thinner."
A few weeks ago she'd been voluptuous. Tomorrow
she would be suffering from an eating disorder.
Without even acknowledging his sly question,
Bellamy engaged in conversation with a woman wearing an
Ohio State sweatshirt and a Statue of Liberty spiked crown
made of green rubber foam. "My book club is reading your
book now," the woman told her as they posed together for a
snapshot taken by her equally enthusiastic husband.
"I appreciate that very much."
"The rest of them won't believe I met you!"
Bellamy thanked her again and moved along.
Undaunted, Van Durbin kept pace, furiously scribbling in a
small spiral notebook. Then, stepping between her and the
next person waiting for her attention, he asked, "Who do
you see playing the lead roles in the movie, Ms. Price?"
"I don't see anyone. I'm not in the movie
business."
"But you will be before long. Everybody knows
producers are lined up to throw money at you for the option
on Low Pressure. It's rumored that several A–list
actors and actresses are campaigning for the parts. The
casting couches have never had turnover this brisk."
She shot him a look of pure disgust.
"No opinion on the subject?"
"None," she said, stressing the word in such a way
as to discourage any more questions. Just then a man
wedged himself between two young women and thrust a copy of
her book at her. Bellamy recognized him
immediately. "Well, hello again. Hmm. . ."
"Jerry," he said, smiling broadly.
"Jerry, yes." He had an open, friendly face and
thinning hair. He'd come to several book signings, and
she'd spotted him in the audience when she lectured at a
book store on the NYU campus. "Thank you for coming out
this morning."
"I never pass up an occasion to see you."
She signed her name on the title page which he held
open for her. "How many copies does this make that you've
bought, Jerry?"
He laughed. "I'm buying birthday and Christmas
presents."
She also suspected that he was
star–struck. "Well, I and my publisher thank you."
She moved on and, while Jerry fell back into the
crush, Van Durbin boldly nudged people out of his way so he
could stay even with her. He persisted with the question
about a possible movie based on her book.
"Come on, Ms. Price. Give my readers a hint of who
you see playing the key characters. Who would you cast as
your family members?" He winked and leaned in, asking in a
low voice. "Who do you see playing the killer?"
She gave him a sharp look.
He grinned and said to the photographer, "I hope
you captured that."
#
The rest of the day was no less hectic.
She and Dexter had attended a meeting at the
publishing house to discuss the timing of the release of
the trade paperback edition of Low Pressure. After a
lengthy exchange of opinions, it was decided that the book
was selling so well in the hard cover and e–book
formats that an alternate edition wouldn't be practical for
at least another six months.
They'd gone from that meeting to a luncheon
appointment with a movie producer. After dining on lobster
salad and chilled asparagus in the privacy of his hotel
suite, he'd made an earnest pitch about the film he wanted
to make, guaranteeing that if they sold him the rights, he
would do justice to the book.
As they'd left the meeting, Dexter joked, "Wouldn't
your friend Van Durbin love to know about that meeting?"
"He's no friend. T.J. David's true identity was
supposed to be a carefully guarded secret. Who did Van
Durbin bribe to get my name?"
"A publishing house intern, an assistant to someone
in the contracts department. It could have been anybody."
"Someone in your agency?"
He patted her hand. "We'll probably never know.
What does it matter now who it was?"
She sighed with resignation. "It doesn't. The
damage has been done."
He laughed. "‘Damage' being a matter of opinion."
Dexter had dropped her off at her apartment
building with a warning. "Tomorrow's going to be another
whirlwind day. Get some rest tonight. I'll be here at
seven a.m. to pick you up."
She'd waved him off with a promise that she
wouldn't be late, then entered the lobby of her building.
The concierge had called to her from behind his desk. "A
package for you was delivered just a little while ago."
It had looked innocent enough when she'd set it on
her dining table along with a stack of mail. The box had
been sealed with clear packing tape. She'd noted that the
label was printed with her name and address, but not the
sender's information. That was curious, but she didn't
think too much of it as she spilt the tape, folded back the
flaps, and lifted out the gift–wrapped box inside.
She never could have prepared herself for the
hideous surprise it contained.
Now, sitting on the floor with her back against the
wall, she lowered her hands from her eyes and looked at the
box with tissue paper blossoming out the top of it. That
festive touch was so incongruous with the contents, it had
to have been planned that way as part of the joke.
Joke? No. This wasn't funny. It was malicious.
But she couldn't think of anyone whom she had
offended, nor of anyone who would hold her in such
contempt. Would Rocky Van Durbin, even having sleazy as a
middle name, do something so low down and dirty as to send
her a dead rat?
Slowly she worked her way up the wall, sliding her
spine along it for support as she unsteadily came to her
feet. Standing, she was able to see the rat nestled in
the shiny paper. She tried desensitizing herself so she
could look at it. She tried to objectify the corpse, but
because each of its features were so grotesque, they seemed
extraordinarily detailed.
She swallowed bile, chafed the goose bumps on her
arms, and by force of will pulled herself together. It was
only a dead rodent, after all. Rats were a common sight in
the subway stations. Seeing one scuttling along the tracks
had never caused her to have this kind of violent
reaction.
She would replace the lid on the box and carry it
to the garbage chute at the end of the hall. Then she'd be
rid of it, she could forget about it, and go on about her
business, having refused to let the prankster get the best
of her.
Steeling herself, she took a step forward, and
another, and another until she was almost upon it.
And then the rat's tail flicked.
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