Book Trailer |
SynopsisThe Accordo (Book 3): Mickey finds himself in a paranormal nightmare he isn't sure he'll survive. The spirit of Renaissance artist Lavinia Rossi Zanetti has managed to attach her soul to her portrait as well as her lover's soul to his. The intent is for them to spend eternity together. But something has gone wrong and now she's out for blood.
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Praise from Readers
(full reviews can be found on Amazon and Goodreads)
Great characters and storyline. If you're looking for a book to get lost in for a few hours...this is it. Just the right mixture of paranormal, ghosts and mayhem. You'll love it!
Stormy Raine
Liked the different plot with the paranormal twist....Thxs for the creepy good read....plot keeps on moving til the very end.
S. Benoit
I received this book through a First Reads giveaway. I am very happy to have received this book to review! This is the first Mickey McCoy book I've read, and I enjoyed it very much. The story is engaging, and the novel was fine to pick up and read without having first read the previous novels in the series. It is well written, and exciting. Thanks for sending me a copy!
Nick
Through it all Mickey is a point of light.
Highly Recommended!
Melinda
The first Mickey McCoy book I've read. Didn't need the story behind the other books to enjoy this one. The lady in Renaissance Italy painted her portrait, as well as that of her beloved. The stipulation was that the paintings should always be hung together. This story takes place when the paintings have been separated. Spooky stuff, curses and mind reading. A very good combination.
R. Gabor
Although I won't reveal the ending, I can tell you it was brilliant. Smith has a true gift for story-telling.
Tammy Sparks (www.booksbonesbuffy.com)
The first chapter will hook you into an intricate plot full of twists and surprises that pay off in the dynamite ending. Strongly recommend.
A. B. Fowler - Author of The Jesuit Papers
Smith's light, deft prose makes this a real page-turner, with terrific atmosphere, snappy dialog and just the right amount of humor. A pleasure to read!
Sierra Donovan - Author of Meg's Confession
Stormy Raine
Liked the different plot with the paranormal twist....Thxs for the creepy good read....plot keeps on moving til the very end.
S. Benoit
I received this book through a First Reads giveaway. I am very happy to have received this book to review! This is the first Mickey McCoy book I've read, and I enjoyed it very much. The story is engaging, and the novel was fine to pick up and read without having first read the previous novels in the series. It is well written, and exciting. Thanks for sending me a copy!
Nick
Through it all Mickey is a point of light.
Highly Recommended!
Melinda
The first Mickey McCoy book I've read. Didn't need the story behind the other books to enjoy this one. The lady in Renaissance Italy painted her portrait, as well as that of her beloved. The stipulation was that the paintings should always be hung together. This story takes place when the paintings have been separated. Spooky stuff, curses and mind reading. A very good combination.
R. Gabor
Although I won't reveal the ending, I can tell you it was brilliant. Smith has a true gift for story-telling.
Tammy Sparks (www.booksbonesbuffy.com)
The first chapter will hook you into an intricate plot full of twists and surprises that pay off in the dynamite ending. Strongly recommend.
A. B. Fowler - Author of The Jesuit Papers
Smith's light, deft prose makes this a real page-turner, with terrific atmosphere, snappy dialog and just the right amount of humor. A pleasure to read!
Sierra Donovan - Author of Meg's Confession
Excerpt
Prologue
1637 – Country Villa Outside Florence Italy
When they had finished making love, Lavinia Rossi Zanetti held the coverlet to her breast, rose on one arm, and stared at her beloved. He lay on his back, gulping the air, sweat upon his brow. She watched and waited for his breathing to grow calm. Then she leaned down and kissed him softly on the mouth.
Keeping his eyes closed, he grinned.
“You have a pleased-with-yourself smile,” Lavinia said, her voice low, almost a whisper. She still wasn’t smiling, but she added, “You should see mine.”
Agostino reached for her with one hand and stroked her long unruly hair. “I am pleased. Always pleased when I am with you.”
She took his hand, held it to her cheek, and gazed upon his face. Such a beautiful man. I love your fine features. Your strong chiseled bones. Thick eyebrows. Short black beard. You are perfection.
Perspiration caused his dark hair to cling to his forehead in ringlets. She drew a finger through the sweat then lightly traced his nose from bridge to tip. She drew her finger along the crevice where his lips met and he kissed it. Her finger went under his chin, traced his throat and stopped in the middle of his naked chest. She extended her fingers and pressed her hand to his body as her mind indulged itself.
Here. Your beating heart. Caged thirty-five years in this chest. Muscle, bone, blood, skin. All temporary. That is for certain.
She sighed so softly she felt, but hardly heard, the vibration of her vocal chords.
And what about our devotion to each other—you and I, Agostino? Has that already been lost? It pains me to think so. But if we live until whatever ripe age we live to be, when we die, does the devotion die then anyway? The church would have our souls exist, but would throw them in hell for our wanton actions, our sins of the flesh. Oh, perhaps not you, my love. For have you ever done anything wrong? Have you ever sinned? Aside from loving me, that is. Perhaps that is sin enough to send you to hell.
I don’t believe the church is right. I don’t. And I have to say, I hate God. But if the church is right, then there is no doubt that we will be separated in the afterlife. And I cannot bear that. I cannot allow that. I will not lose you.
She removed her hand.
The sun had long set and the lone candle in the room cast a shadow with dramatic effect. The contrast of dark and light, the stillness with which Agostino lay, and the rich blue and gold of the divan made the scene worthy of a Caravaggio painting—worthier still, of a Zanetti painting. After all, this man belonged to her.
She reached for a vessel of hearty red wine that sat on a nearby table and poured several ounces into a waiting goblet. She moved the goblet back and forth under Agostino’s nose.
“It is your favorite.”
He opened his eyes, sat up, and reached for the wine. He saw that there was only one cup. “What about you?”
“We shall drink from the same, but I’ve had my fill for now. Sip it. Savor it—as if it were your last.”
She could say those words. He wasn’t a suspicious man. If he were, he might have wondered about her meaning as well as the gentle tone in her voice. Lavinia was a strong woman, an outspoken woman. Gentle was not her approach to life. She guided the cup to his lips.
He swallowed—once, twice. She took the goblet from him and placed it back on the table before he could drink more.
“Please join me,” he told her.
She didn’t answer, but took hold of each of his wrists and pressed them to the divan. She leaned in, forcing him to lie back. Her face and his face were nose to nose. She looked into his eyes and could see that he had no idea what she had done. Light from the candle danced in his dilated pupils.
“You have not expressed your opinion of the painting,” Lavinia said. “It is finished. Did you not notice?”
“Amore mio. You did not tell me, but swept me away with your charms. When I am here, I only notice you.”
She stood, clutching the coverlet about her, and took the candle. She moved to a portrait of Agostino that was propped upon an easel. He adjusted his gaze to have a look.
“Bellisimo. Bellisimo! You have outdone yourself. She will love it.” There was pride in his voice that Lavinia did not like. It was pride in the wonderful gift he would be giving the latest object of his affection, Catherine, not pride in Lavinia’s prowess as an artist.
But his pride did not matter, she reminded herself. It was true that Catherine would love the painting. Lavinia had taken the money and done the work, but the painting would be delivered to the unsuspecting Catherine on Lavinia’s terms. She had gone to great lengths to learn the last name of this Catherine.
“And the portrait of myself?” Lavinia said as she moved to a second easel that supported another painting. In it she looked a good ten years younger than she was now. She had given her eyes a haughty, piercing stare. The clothing was shear and seductive. One tender hand, the left, lightly touched her chest in contrast to the stark nature of the eyes.
“You are a wonder,” Agostino said. “A woman, but still a painter of merit.”
Lavinia’s eyes narrowed. Even with all his years of knowing her, he still believed being a woman made her work inferior to that of a man.
“And you are a great healer—for the male of the species,” she replied, coming back to the divan.
“What do you mean?”
She gave him a calculated smile, placed the candle on the table, and sat.
“Oh, of course,” he said, tugging a lock of her hair. “How you do tease and yet it is true. I am one of life’s mysteries. Why should I be blessed with the gift to heal? Why any man?”
Lavinia shrugged. She didn’t bother herself with such questions. Why should a person be able to sing or play the piano or write music or books? Why was one man good at amassing money and another good only at having none? In her own case, why had she been born with the ability to paint if a woman was not to do so? From an early age her work had shown brilliance.
Her father had been a painter. Although not of great talent, he had been able to make a living, and he recognized in his daughter the greatness that was not in him. He might have reacted with jealousy and taken steps to thwart her talent except for the fact that he saw her as an extension of himself and wanted her to become known at the right time. He taught her what he could but knew she needed a teacher who was the best if she was to become one of the greats.
He devised a plan. When Lavinia was eleven he had her disguise herself as a male in order to gain access to the art world’s premier instructor, Guiseppe D’Addario. The teacher had a reputation as a brute, one without fondness for females who thought they could do more than raise children and keep a house. But a task master was what Lavinia’s father wanted. Soft words would not help Lavinia become a great artist. Little did he, or she, know that D’Addario’s reputation had been understated.
Their scheme went undetected for just over three years before Lavinia’s feminine charms became too difficult to hide, and once D’Addario realized Lavinia’s true sex, it sent him into a rage. Lie to him? Belittle his stature as a master artist and teacher? A female in his class? He resolved to teach her a lesson she would not forget and it had nothing to do with art.
She fought him off, only to lose, and afterwards her father sued D’Addario in court for having deflowered his daughter. After a lengthy four month trial, Lavinia’s father lost his case. A thumbscrew had been placed on Lavinia’s right thumb and tightened to excruciating effect. It was the court’s way of making sure a person told the truth. Did it never occur to them that a person would lie to stop the pain? Did it never occur to them to apply the screw to Guiseppe D’Addario as well?
She was publicly humiliated and the humiliation did not end with the trial. She was branded a lascivious woman even though she was merely fourteen and had been a virgin at the time of the rape.
In hindsight, even at that young age, she saw that the offensive label had its upside. She was notorious and notoriety helped to sell paintings. The experience may have been painful. It may have left her changed. But she was now a skilled artist and one of renown. She wondered if everything of value came with a price. She wondered if prices were always as steep as the one she had paid. She wondered if somewhere, unbeknownst in her sleep perhaps, she had made a deal with the devil to be a success.
She glanced at her thumb, long healed—not because of time, but because of Agostino—and rubbed it. Advantages aside, the rape and her attacker’s acquittal had left her bitter and ruthless. She did things that no one knew about. Hatred and rage burned within her belly and only three things soothed her: the presence of her beloved Agostino; being lost in the process of creating her art; and inflicting the pain she felt upon men. Yes, sometimes, when she was unable to contain herself, when Agostino missed a visit and when the creative process had been spent, she went into the city in search of appropriate victims.
And now Agostino had told her that she must share him with another. She wasn’t naïve. She had probably shared him with many. But this was the first time he had told her about it. This was the first time he had shared a name. This new woman, this Catherine, meant something to him and that was a reality Lavinia would not live with.
Agostino’s arm fell limp from the divan. Lavinia stroked his cheek. An “ahh” escaped his lips.
She stood up and dropped the cloth that had been covering her body. She was a portrait painter and the eyes of all the paintings in the room were upon her. We are here for you, they seemed to say. We shall be your witnesses.
Lavinia giggled like a girl, clasped her hands to her chin and did a little spin. This was to be her wedding night. Not in the traditional sense, but in a more lasting sense.
Agostino had asked her to marry him many times, but she had liked their arrangement as it was. He was hers and she was his. Of that, she’d had no doubt. Now the situation had changed because of Catherine. Now it was a marriage for all eternity that she desired.
Men were so clueless, she thought. Why did she love such a clueless man? For all the times he had been in the workroom of her villa, whether to pose for her, to look at the work she had done, have a cup or two of wine or to make love, he hadn’t noticed that she’d arranged the paintings in a special way—with the portraits of the two of them at the core.
And if he had noticed, what would she have said?
Nothing. She would have shrugged and smiled cryptically.
Lavinia walked over to a full-length mirror and gazed into the glass. She appraised her body and face. She was forty-two, had years ahead of her to paint, but without the exclusive devotion of Agostino she felt she had nothing to live for. Her beauty had faded. Her hips looked too wide now and there was superfluous flesh upon her thighs. They dimpled in the flickering candlelight. Her breasts looked fine, but for how long? Time had etched shallow lines around her mouth and downward from the corners of her eyes. The blush in her cheeks had vanished and the once-rich, deep brown color of her eyes had dulled. Was all this the reason Agostino felt drawn to Catherine?
No one ever sees the physical changes as they happen, she told herself. No one feels eyelashes replace or fingernails grow. No one feels it when the brows begin to gray, or the jaw line wants to sag. It’s the internal things you feel. It’s the events that rip you apart that you notice. And any event that thwarts your plans for happiness helps mold you into something you never expected to be.
A thin moan escaped from Agostino’s mouth and Lavinia’s eyes shifted in the mirror so that she could see him lying on the divan. She watched and waited. He did not moan again. He did not move. The drug she had given him must have worked. He was breathing. He was unconscious, but alive. It was very important that he be alive.
She heard footsteps approach in the hall and her eyes went to the door. It was time. She felt her chest heave with excitement. The moon had waxed and the practitioner was here. She had one last plan to carry out—one last arrangement to follow through.
She lifted the goblet from the table and took a swallow. Pulling the coverlet around her, she sat on the divan. She engaged Agostino’s right hand and entwined their fingers. She waited.
The footsteps stopped and there came a rap on the door. The rhythm: Tap. Tap. Tap. A short pause. Two quick taps.
Lavinia took a breath. “We are ready,” she said. “You may come in.”
1637 – Country Villa Outside Florence Italy
When they had finished making love, Lavinia Rossi Zanetti held the coverlet to her breast, rose on one arm, and stared at her beloved. He lay on his back, gulping the air, sweat upon his brow. She watched and waited for his breathing to grow calm. Then she leaned down and kissed him softly on the mouth.
Keeping his eyes closed, he grinned.
“You have a pleased-with-yourself smile,” Lavinia said, her voice low, almost a whisper. She still wasn’t smiling, but she added, “You should see mine.”
Agostino reached for her with one hand and stroked her long unruly hair. “I am pleased. Always pleased when I am with you.”
She took his hand, held it to her cheek, and gazed upon his face. Such a beautiful man. I love your fine features. Your strong chiseled bones. Thick eyebrows. Short black beard. You are perfection.
Perspiration caused his dark hair to cling to his forehead in ringlets. She drew a finger through the sweat then lightly traced his nose from bridge to tip. She drew her finger along the crevice where his lips met and he kissed it. Her finger went under his chin, traced his throat and stopped in the middle of his naked chest. She extended her fingers and pressed her hand to his body as her mind indulged itself.
Here. Your beating heart. Caged thirty-five years in this chest. Muscle, bone, blood, skin. All temporary. That is for certain.
She sighed so softly she felt, but hardly heard, the vibration of her vocal chords.
And what about our devotion to each other—you and I, Agostino? Has that already been lost? It pains me to think so. But if we live until whatever ripe age we live to be, when we die, does the devotion die then anyway? The church would have our souls exist, but would throw them in hell for our wanton actions, our sins of the flesh. Oh, perhaps not you, my love. For have you ever done anything wrong? Have you ever sinned? Aside from loving me, that is. Perhaps that is sin enough to send you to hell.
I don’t believe the church is right. I don’t. And I have to say, I hate God. But if the church is right, then there is no doubt that we will be separated in the afterlife. And I cannot bear that. I cannot allow that. I will not lose you.
She removed her hand.
The sun had long set and the lone candle in the room cast a shadow with dramatic effect. The contrast of dark and light, the stillness with which Agostino lay, and the rich blue and gold of the divan made the scene worthy of a Caravaggio painting—worthier still, of a Zanetti painting. After all, this man belonged to her.
She reached for a vessel of hearty red wine that sat on a nearby table and poured several ounces into a waiting goblet. She moved the goblet back and forth under Agostino’s nose.
“It is your favorite.”
He opened his eyes, sat up, and reached for the wine. He saw that there was only one cup. “What about you?”
“We shall drink from the same, but I’ve had my fill for now. Sip it. Savor it—as if it were your last.”
She could say those words. He wasn’t a suspicious man. If he were, he might have wondered about her meaning as well as the gentle tone in her voice. Lavinia was a strong woman, an outspoken woman. Gentle was not her approach to life. She guided the cup to his lips.
He swallowed—once, twice. She took the goblet from him and placed it back on the table before he could drink more.
“Please join me,” he told her.
She didn’t answer, but took hold of each of his wrists and pressed them to the divan. She leaned in, forcing him to lie back. Her face and his face were nose to nose. She looked into his eyes and could see that he had no idea what she had done. Light from the candle danced in his dilated pupils.
“You have not expressed your opinion of the painting,” Lavinia said. “It is finished. Did you not notice?”
“Amore mio. You did not tell me, but swept me away with your charms. When I am here, I only notice you.”
She stood, clutching the coverlet about her, and took the candle. She moved to a portrait of Agostino that was propped upon an easel. He adjusted his gaze to have a look.
“Bellisimo. Bellisimo! You have outdone yourself. She will love it.” There was pride in his voice that Lavinia did not like. It was pride in the wonderful gift he would be giving the latest object of his affection, Catherine, not pride in Lavinia’s prowess as an artist.
But his pride did not matter, she reminded herself. It was true that Catherine would love the painting. Lavinia had taken the money and done the work, but the painting would be delivered to the unsuspecting Catherine on Lavinia’s terms. She had gone to great lengths to learn the last name of this Catherine.
“And the portrait of myself?” Lavinia said as she moved to a second easel that supported another painting. In it she looked a good ten years younger than she was now. She had given her eyes a haughty, piercing stare. The clothing was shear and seductive. One tender hand, the left, lightly touched her chest in contrast to the stark nature of the eyes.
“You are a wonder,” Agostino said. “A woman, but still a painter of merit.”
Lavinia’s eyes narrowed. Even with all his years of knowing her, he still believed being a woman made her work inferior to that of a man.
“And you are a great healer—for the male of the species,” she replied, coming back to the divan.
“What do you mean?”
She gave him a calculated smile, placed the candle on the table, and sat.
“Oh, of course,” he said, tugging a lock of her hair. “How you do tease and yet it is true. I am one of life’s mysteries. Why should I be blessed with the gift to heal? Why any man?”
Lavinia shrugged. She didn’t bother herself with such questions. Why should a person be able to sing or play the piano or write music or books? Why was one man good at amassing money and another good only at having none? In her own case, why had she been born with the ability to paint if a woman was not to do so? From an early age her work had shown brilliance.
Her father had been a painter. Although not of great talent, he had been able to make a living, and he recognized in his daughter the greatness that was not in him. He might have reacted with jealousy and taken steps to thwart her talent except for the fact that he saw her as an extension of himself and wanted her to become known at the right time. He taught her what he could but knew she needed a teacher who was the best if she was to become one of the greats.
He devised a plan. When Lavinia was eleven he had her disguise herself as a male in order to gain access to the art world’s premier instructor, Guiseppe D’Addario. The teacher had a reputation as a brute, one without fondness for females who thought they could do more than raise children and keep a house. But a task master was what Lavinia’s father wanted. Soft words would not help Lavinia become a great artist. Little did he, or she, know that D’Addario’s reputation had been understated.
Their scheme went undetected for just over three years before Lavinia’s feminine charms became too difficult to hide, and once D’Addario realized Lavinia’s true sex, it sent him into a rage. Lie to him? Belittle his stature as a master artist and teacher? A female in his class? He resolved to teach her a lesson she would not forget and it had nothing to do with art.
She fought him off, only to lose, and afterwards her father sued D’Addario in court for having deflowered his daughter. After a lengthy four month trial, Lavinia’s father lost his case. A thumbscrew had been placed on Lavinia’s right thumb and tightened to excruciating effect. It was the court’s way of making sure a person told the truth. Did it never occur to them that a person would lie to stop the pain? Did it never occur to them to apply the screw to Guiseppe D’Addario as well?
She was publicly humiliated and the humiliation did not end with the trial. She was branded a lascivious woman even though she was merely fourteen and had been a virgin at the time of the rape.
In hindsight, even at that young age, she saw that the offensive label had its upside. She was notorious and notoriety helped to sell paintings. The experience may have been painful. It may have left her changed. But she was now a skilled artist and one of renown. She wondered if everything of value came with a price. She wondered if prices were always as steep as the one she had paid. She wondered if somewhere, unbeknownst in her sleep perhaps, she had made a deal with the devil to be a success.
She glanced at her thumb, long healed—not because of time, but because of Agostino—and rubbed it. Advantages aside, the rape and her attacker’s acquittal had left her bitter and ruthless. She did things that no one knew about. Hatred and rage burned within her belly and only three things soothed her: the presence of her beloved Agostino; being lost in the process of creating her art; and inflicting the pain she felt upon men. Yes, sometimes, when she was unable to contain herself, when Agostino missed a visit and when the creative process had been spent, she went into the city in search of appropriate victims.
And now Agostino had told her that she must share him with another. She wasn’t naïve. She had probably shared him with many. But this was the first time he had told her about it. This was the first time he had shared a name. This new woman, this Catherine, meant something to him and that was a reality Lavinia would not live with.
Agostino’s arm fell limp from the divan. Lavinia stroked his cheek. An “ahh” escaped his lips.
She stood up and dropped the cloth that had been covering her body. She was a portrait painter and the eyes of all the paintings in the room were upon her. We are here for you, they seemed to say. We shall be your witnesses.
Lavinia giggled like a girl, clasped her hands to her chin and did a little spin. This was to be her wedding night. Not in the traditional sense, but in a more lasting sense.
Agostino had asked her to marry him many times, but she had liked their arrangement as it was. He was hers and she was his. Of that, she’d had no doubt. Now the situation had changed because of Catherine. Now it was a marriage for all eternity that she desired.
Men were so clueless, she thought. Why did she love such a clueless man? For all the times he had been in the workroom of her villa, whether to pose for her, to look at the work she had done, have a cup or two of wine or to make love, he hadn’t noticed that she’d arranged the paintings in a special way—with the portraits of the two of them at the core.
And if he had noticed, what would she have said?
Nothing. She would have shrugged and smiled cryptically.
Lavinia walked over to a full-length mirror and gazed into the glass. She appraised her body and face. She was forty-two, had years ahead of her to paint, but without the exclusive devotion of Agostino she felt she had nothing to live for. Her beauty had faded. Her hips looked too wide now and there was superfluous flesh upon her thighs. They dimpled in the flickering candlelight. Her breasts looked fine, but for how long? Time had etched shallow lines around her mouth and downward from the corners of her eyes. The blush in her cheeks had vanished and the once-rich, deep brown color of her eyes had dulled. Was all this the reason Agostino felt drawn to Catherine?
No one ever sees the physical changes as they happen, she told herself. No one feels eyelashes replace or fingernails grow. No one feels it when the brows begin to gray, or the jaw line wants to sag. It’s the internal things you feel. It’s the events that rip you apart that you notice. And any event that thwarts your plans for happiness helps mold you into something you never expected to be.
A thin moan escaped from Agostino’s mouth and Lavinia’s eyes shifted in the mirror so that she could see him lying on the divan. She watched and waited. He did not moan again. He did not move. The drug she had given him must have worked. He was breathing. He was unconscious, but alive. It was very important that he be alive.
She heard footsteps approach in the hall and her eyes went to the door. It was time. She felt her chest heave with excitement. The moon had waxed and the practitioner was here. She had one last plan to carry out—one last arrangement to follow through.
She lifted the goblet from the table and took a swallow. Pulling the coverlet around her, she sat on the divan. She engaged Agostino’s right hand and entwined their fingers. She waited.
The footsteps stopped and there came a rap on the door. The rhythm: Tap. Tap. Tap. A short pause. Two quick taps.
Lavinia took a breath. “We are ready,” she said. “You may come in.”