The Lion’s Den by Katherine St. John | @thekatstjohn @headlinepg | #blogtour #extract

Welcome to my stop on the blog tour for The Lion’s Den by Katherine St. John. Thanks to Emily at Headline for the invitation to join. I have an extract to share with you today but first, here is what The Lion’s Den is all about.

Author : Katherine St. John
Title : The Lion’s Den
Pages : 368
Publisher : Headline
Publication date : May 19, 2020 (ebook)

| ABOUT THE BOOK |

Belle likes to think herself immune to the dizzying effects of fabulous wealth.

But when her best friend Summer invites her on a glamorous girls’ getaway to the Mediterranean aboard her billionaire boyfriend’s yacht, the only sensible answer is yes.

Belle hopes the trip will be a much-needed break from her stalled acting career and uniquely humiliating waitressing job, but once aboard the luxurious yacht The Lion’s Den it becomes clear that all is not as it seems.

The dream vacation quickly becomes a nightmare as Belle and the handful of other girlfriends Summer has invited are treated more like prisoners than guests by their controlling host, and Belle comes to see Summer for what she truly is: a vicious gold digger who will stop at nothing to get what she wants. Belle soon realizes she’s going to have to keep her wits about her — and her own secret close to her chest – if she wants to make it off the yacht alive.

| EXTRACT |

Day  1

Saturday afternoon—Los Angeles

I’ve always thought myself immune to the dizzying effects of fabulous wealth, but the sight of sleek jets lined up on the tarmac ignites an unexpected giddiness in me. How liberating to be able to move about the world so easily, without the inconveniences of mass transportation. No lines at the ticketing counter, no taking off shoes and disassembling carry-on bags, no body scans, no cramped leg space or short connections, no luggage belts or lost bags.

Yeah, I could get used to that. Summer certainly has.

I’m reminded of when I was first introduced to caviar at a swanky dinner party many years ago. My date was a pretentious bore, but I’ll never forget his voice in my ear as I stared with wonder (and perhaps a shade of apprehension) into the little glass bowl of tiny black eggs carefully balanced on a bed of ice before me.

“It’s easy not to crave caviar if you haven’t tasted it,” he said.

He went on to warn me as I put the opalescent spoon to my lips that once sampled, the delicate taste is not so easily forgotten. He was right. I could see how if the opportunity arose to make it a regular part of my diet, I might come to require it. I suppose the trappings of wealth that seem indulgent at first soon become necessities.

But I’m only a guest in this world, and I figure a week is not enough to develop a dependency on grandeur, so: I will not be turning down any caviar.

Nor will I be turning down any bread, cheese, butter, chocolate, or gelato. Or, for that matter, any of the other delicious foods I’ve been denying myself for an entire month. I’ve kicked and punched and crunched and starved myself into the best shape of my life in anticipation of a full week in a bikini, and I am ready to indulge.

I rip my eyes away from the spectacle on the runway to rummage through my bag one last time. Passport, check. Wallet, check. Phone, check. Watch. Shit.

“What is it?” my sister asks as I dump the contents of my purse into my lap.

“My watch,” I moan. “I swear I had it this morning, and now I can’t find it.”

“Do you really need a watch on a yacht trip to the Riviera?” “Just help me find it,” I beg.

She tucks a wisp of blond hair behind her ear and paws through the junk in the center console. Lauren is the spitting image of our mother, petite and blond, while I’m our father, lanky and brunette. And yet our faces are similar enough that she could always get away with using my ID in the four years before she turned twenty-one. Not that she needed it—my little sis spent even more time in the college library than I did. All that studying paid off, because she’s starting law school in the fall, and I couldn’t be prouder.

Finally, I unzip the side pocket of the little round crossbody Gucci insignia bag Summer gifted me and wrap my hand around the watch, right where it should be. “Oh.” I breathe a sigh of relief. “Got it.”

Lauren studies me. “You’re kinda wired this morning. You have too much coffee?”

I fasten the watch on my wrist. “I guess I’m just a little nervous about this trip,” I confess. “I’m not totally sure why I’m still invited. I’ve hardly seen Summer recently.”

“But you guys have been BFFs forever,” she says, surprised. “Didn’t she just give you that ridiculously expensive bag a few weeks ago?”

I nod, fingering the red-and-green stripe down the middle. It’s the most expensive bag I’ve ever owned, and despite myself, I love it.

“What happened?” she asks. “I don’t know.”

But I do.

I unload my roller suitcase from the trunk of my beat-up Prius and give Lauren a hug through the open window. “Thanks for letting me borrow your car,” she says with a smile. “Have fun. And please don’t come back with a boyfriend twice your age.”

“Haha,” I return. “I’m not Summer.”

She gives me a wry smile. “I’ve never understood what you see in her. But the most exotic place a friend has ever taken me is Lake Michigan, so I guess you win.”

“Okay, now get out of here before anybody sees me with this beater.” I slap the roof of the car for emphasis. “Ow!” I jerk my hand away from the blazing-hot metal.

“Keep me posted!” She blows me a kiss. “Give Grannie my love!” I shout after her.

As she drives away, I feel a twinge of regret I won’t be road- tripping with her to see Grannie perform the title role in Mame for the community theater at her new retirement condo in Lake Havasu. I blame Grannie for passing on to me the acting bug and always relish an opportunity to see her in her element. But as sad as I am to miss her in the part she was born to play, sometimes life demands that you sacrifice senior dramatics for a week on a yacht in the Mediterranean.

I roll my bag past the rows of expensive cars baking in the summer sun to the two-story stucco building that serves as the waiting room for the small private airport and ring the buzzer. The woman on the other end politely informs me that the crew for my plane has not yet arrived and the passenger list has not yet been published, so she can’t yet let me in. “I’m sorry,” she says. “New security measures. Check back shortly.”

Fantastic. I’m three minutes early and clearly the first to arrive, already sweating in the impractical vintage sundress I was so excited to find at a garage sale in Beverly Hills last week. The fabric is too thick for this weather, the bodice too tight. I wish I’d worn something loose and cotton, but I was doing my best approximation of stylish on a shoestring budget, so here we are. At least I have the purse.

Desperate for shade, I haul my suitcase over to the curb and stand in the strip of shadow cast by a lone palm tree, watching the activity on the airfield through the chain-link fence. Shimmering waves of heat rise from the tarmac, distorting the horizon.Past the line of jets, a yellow twin-engine Cessna takes off. Helicopters come and go from a couple of helipads in the distance.

Out on the runway, I count twelve men in suits descending the steps of one of the jets, holding their jackets closed against the wind, and watch an NBA player I recognize but can’t name board another with what must be his wife, three kids, two people who look to be assistants, and four big dogs.

I wonder if that woman is happy. She surely must be comfortable. Certainly more comfortable than I am, melting here in my stupid dress. Money has never been a part of the dating equation for me, but suddenly I have to wonder: What if I’m wrong? What if love doesn’t conquer all and money can in fact solve all your problems? Summer’s clearly placed all her chips on that bet.

My not-so-illustrious acting career has been studded with bit parts and waitressing jobs that have sometimes put me in the path of hunky celebrities, and on occasion I’ve been the recipient of their passing attention. But I’ve never followed through, always horrified by the thought of becoming a witless flavor-of-the-week dangling from the arm of some star until he dumps me for the next famous model. I can almost hear Summer’s voice whispering in my ear, suggesting that this sentiment is only my lack of confidence hampering my Hollywood ending.

I laugh out loud, realizing I must look like a madwoman if anyone’s watching. Surely the heat is going to my head. Or maybe it’s the jets. I’m not Summer. I would never go as far as she has in the pursuit of gold.

Before I can totally lose my mind, a silver BMW SUV pulls into the spot beside me and a voice chirps, “Hey, lady, what are you doing out here?”

Intrigued to find out more? The Lion’s Den is available to buy!

Affiliate link : Bookdepository
Other retailers : Amazon US | Amazon UK | Hive UK | Kobo | Waterstones

| ABOUT THE AUTHOR |

Katherine St. John is a native of Mississippi and graduate of the University of Southern California.

Over the years she has worked as an actress, screenwriter, director, photographer, producer, singer/songwriter, legal assistant, bartender/waitress, yoga instructor, real estate agent, and travel coordinator… but finds she likes writing novels best.

Katherine currently lives in Los Angeles with her husband and children.

8 thoughts on “The Lion’s Den by Katherine St. John | @thekatstjohn @headlinepg | #blogtour #extract

      1. It looks beautiful though! ❤ I should probably do a blog revamp too as I've had the same look for at least 3-4 years now… Somehow I haven't found the courage or inspiration yet to do so. xD

        Like

    1. This is what happens when I put off writing a review 😂. I had the same one for three years so a change was overdue. Can’t get used to it though. I keep thinking I’m on the wrong site 🙄

      Like

Leave a Reply

Please log in using one of these methods to post your comment:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.