A Little Bit of Sin

by Beth McMullen

Genres: Action & Adventure; Family Life; Spy Thrillers

Synopsis

“McMullen’s breezy style conveys both humor and emotion and is perfectly suited to her stylized spy adventure. An exuberantly entertaining start to what could become a wildly popular series.” — Booklist, starred review In the hilarious and utterly entertaining Original Sin, a former U.S. spy turned stay-at-home mother of a toddler tries to find a most elusive work-life balance when the USAWMD (United States Agency for Weapons of Mass Destruction) wields her back into action. The perfect summer read, Beth McMullen’s spy-mom adventure story is on sale July 12, heralding the beginning of a delightful series. Please enjoy this sneak peek of the first four chapters, where you’ll be introduced to the incredible adventures of Lucy Hamilton, aka Sally Sin—a heroine as irresistible and sassy as they come. No one will have to put a gun to your head to keep you reading—a predicament Sally has found herself in more than a few times.

Release date: June 28, 2011

Publisher: Hachette Books

Print pages: 42

Sample

Chapter 1

I know I’m not crazy. I know this because it said so in my file, which I stole out of Director Gray’s office on a drunken dare from a guy who eventually disappeared in Somalia. Somewhat emotionally detached, the file said, and loose with the truth, yes, but in the eyes of the Agency, these were positive attributes. A red star at the top of the file corresponded to a note stuck to the inside cover. Refer to Simon? the note said. The question mark has always troubled me. They were never sure I could cut it.

So how to explain what I’m doing right now. Gardening? Searching for a lost contact lens? Seeing if there is a stranger crawling around under my shrubs waiting to sneak into my house and strangle me with a length of piano wire?

It is Tuesday morning, the San Francisco sun is shining and the fog is starting to recede back toward the ocean. It’s as regular as any other morning except that on this morning rather than sitting at my kitchen table sipping a scalding cup of coffee, here I am in the backyard crawling around on my knees under the juniper trees, muttering to myself like one of the local shopping-cart pushing, bottle-collecting loonies.

“There is no evidence here,” I whisper. I am holding tightly to a brightly painted set of Matryoshka dolls, shaking them as if to make a point to my invisible audience. If I were really thinking, I would have picked up the cast-iron frying pan, still warm from this morning’s pancakes. Cast iron is generally accepted to be a better choice of weapon than a bunch of Russian nesting dolls. I continue to crawl forward under the scrubby trees.

“There are no tracks, no shell casings, no cigarette butts or discarded coffee cups. You are simply having a paranoid attack that, most likely, a hit of caffeine will alleviate. Now get up and go back in the house.” Yet from my position here in the garden, I can’t help but notice that the palm tree in my perfectly landscaped backyard is situated in just such a way as to allow direct spying in through my kitchen window. Someone with skills could even figure a way into the house from here. How could I not have noticed this?

My neighbor Tom, a British gentleman who always looks slightly past his “use by” date, watches me from his own backyard, a curious expression on his face.

“Problems with the trees, Lucy?” he asks as I crawl out, pulling twigs and needles from my unwashed hair.

“Yes. Well, no, actually. I thought I heard a cat.” Oh please. “It sounded like it was in trouble. Lost maybe?”

“No cats here,” Tom says. He looks left and then right with an exaggerated turn of his bald head. “None that I’ve seen anyway.”

“Well, thanks for checking. Gotta go. Left a child inside unattended. You know how that can end up.”

Tom stares at me blankly. I guess not. I start to pull the debris from my hair, trying not to look too particularly crazed on this fine morning. And then I see it, off to the side of the back stairs. Five years ago I would have known immediately the height, weight, eye color, and sexual orientation of the owner of this footprint. But today, I am not sure. Is it my husband’s footprint, the washing machine repairman, the woman who comes to read the meter? I haven’t a clue. But I have that sinking feeling it is not supposed to be here.

I head up the stairs throwing Tom a half-assed wave over my shoulder. I know he is still watching me and will continue to watch me until I disappear into the house. Sometimes I think everyone knows and that I should hang a neon sign outside my bedroom window that says: YES, YOU ARE ALL RIG. . .