I feel the most effective promotion is the life within OF GOOD AND EVIL itself. To that end, following is an excerpt from Chapter 8 of the novel, an excerpt not before shown elsewhere:
Even before Ron made his way home from Virginia, Metcalfe's demise hit the news; briefly. Officially, his death was reported as a suicide, Sagansky's as a homicide. A homicide-suicide scenario: Metcalfe killing Sagansky, then himself, the shootings reported triggered by severe depression over career developments. Beyond that, the official account provided scant details.
After a brief thanks to Valenti, Vandiver disappeared faster than a shooting star, taking the quickest flight home to Virginia, there to be reunited with his family.
Upon Ron's return, he found Amber in their bedroom. She was sitting on the edge of the bed, engaged, rather unsuccessfully, in the persistent plucking of the strings of an old guitar.
"I'd say you're in dire need of lessons," Ron said, eyebrows raised as he quietly entered the room.
Amber jerked, looking up, her taut face immediately suffused with joy, igniting that special dimension where love rules supreme. "Darling!" She quickly set aside the guitar, leapt to her feet, and rushed over to Ron, tightly embracing him in a long hug. "You're home!" she cried excitedly. "And safe. Thank God."
"What's all the fuss?" Ron grinned, rejoicing again in her fresh, unspoilt beauty and musky-sweet scent. "All I did was kill a couple of jerks who needed killing."
"Well, I'm certainly not crying over Metcalfe," she stated emphatically. "Neither is Keith. He phoned terribly excited. So excited I could barely make sense out of what he was saying. He's on his way home."
"Don't you just love happy endings?"
"I heard about Metcalfe on TV." She looked at him questioningly. "Suicide?"
"The perfect cover-up."
Amber sighed deeply. "Is it over now?"
"Yes. With the election coming up, they won't reconstruct Metcalfe's operation."
"Thank heavens!" She felt her muscles tighten. "I never thought it possible to be thankful for someone's death. I'm still tense just thinking about that evil man."
"We can't have that," Ron said gently. "Here, let me help you relax." He began messaging the back of her neck and shoulders.
"Oh, God, that really feels good! Ummmmm."
As Ron was messaging her, he looked over at the bed. What's with the guitar?"
"Oh, my magic guitar," she moaned. "To keep you safe. I've been playing it ever since you left. ... Ummmmm, a little lower. ... Not very well I'm afraid. Awful, in fact."
"Yes ... ummm. Father gave it to me when I was twelve. Told me that some day it would become magic. Encouraged me to play it, on my own. I tried for a year or so, but never got beyond that awful sound you heard. The magic never happened. So I stopped trying. I haven't played it in ... ummm ... what, thirteen, fourteen years? Not until you left for virginia. But as badly as I played, it must be magic. It brought you home safe and sound."
"Christ, it's a wonder you didn't drive away the staff." Ron ceased his massaging.
"Hey, don't stop! Your fingers have all the magic."
"I think you're becomming too damned spoiled," he grinned.
She giggled. "You're suppose to spoil me."
"How come I've never seen that guitar?"
"When I'm not attempting to play it ... ummmm, God, over to the right a little more ... I keep it locked in that old cabinet in the library. Along with a ... ummm ... few other things father gave me when I was younger. Ohhh, ummm, wow! What a treat!"
Ron chuckled. "Well, don't expect this royal treatment every time you play the guitar. The next time I hear it, I'll need the rub down --- on my ears. Playing the guitar, my love, is not your forte."
"Dominick called. I think he has your first contract."