One Word At a Time by Lian De La Cruz

One Word At a Time by Lian De La Cruz

These are four stories about completely different people. They are connected by an interesting plot and vivid emotions. The first story tells about a wife who is capable of much in order to find her mean ex-husband and take revenge on him. This is an interesting and vibrant noir style story. The next chapter is much more melancholic and the events are developing slowly. The main character returns to her hometown after many years. She is ill and hopes to make peace with the last dear person who survived. The third story is a funny and unusual look at the life of Henry the Eighth. And the book ends with a fantastic tale about vanity and humility. After reading this book the reader can understand how completely different stories can perfectly harmonize and complement each other.

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One Word At a Time by Lian De La Cruz

Overlooking the quiet town of Hialeah, Margaret Watkins joined Hector Romanov in the balcony of one of the cheerless rooms of the small inn. She greeted him and helped herself to some ice and scotch from the small decanter on the balcony’s table after taking a seat.

“I apologize for the last minute summoning. The last time we spoke, well,” Margaret

tipped the tumbler and closed her eyes as the liquid copper hit her lips. “It was quite unsettling.

What were you trying to say, Romanov, that you can’t do it?” The light of the small lamp gleamed off the buckle in her heel when she shifted one leg over the other. “I’d assumed a man with your… credentials would be able to get the job done in no time. I mean, it’s not like I don’t pay you well, don’t I?” She smiled before taking a dainty sip and peered at Romanov from the rim of her glass.

One Word At a Time by Lian De La Cruz

“You do, Mrs. Watkins. It-It’s not that.” Romanov fumbled inside his jacket and produced a handkerchief which he used to dab at the perspiration, making a small comment about the Florida heat, and cleared his throat. “W-We just haven’t been able to track him down. I still have my men set up in the Maldives. If your husband so much as sneezes, we will find him.”

Romanov tugged at his shirt’s collar and eyed the spare tumbler next to the decanter.

“Is that so?” Fixing her gaze on the distant town, Margaret twirled her scotch. A small ripple of satisfaction tried her lips as she heard over the clinking ice the sound of Romanov’s slacks rustling against the seat’s fabric in his weak attempts to find a comfortable position.

Setting her drink down on the small table, a gust of wind brought a fresh respite from the perpetual odor of stale cigarettes. She could see his eyes follow her every move like a mouse who strayed too close to a cat.

“Do you see that chair over there?” she asked. She gestured to the odd wooden ensemble by the kitchenette. “I chose this fine establishment as our meeting location because of it. We had one just like it back in Tahoe.” She searched his unchanging expression. “And do you know what happened in Tahoe, Mr. Romanov?” Shifting her legs again, she ran her hands up her ankles and followed Romanov’s gaze as her fingers traced the welts in her skin. “I did a lot of waiting. They say patience is a virtue and I deemed myself a virtuous woman during my time in Tahoe. Even today, I am still waiting…

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