Dr. Llewellyn Lewis leads a double life, as both an awkward but distinguished history professor and the more flamboyant Ramon Rondell, infamous writer of sensational historical theories. It's Ramon who first sets eyes on a gorgeous young man dancing in a club, but Llewellyn who meets teaching assistant Blaise Arthur formally at an event held for wealthy socialite Anne de Vere, descendant of Edward de Vere, seventeenth Earl of Oxford-who some believe was the real Shakespeare. Anne wants Llewellyn to prove that claim, even though many have tried and failed. And she's willing to offer a hefty donation to the university if he succeeds.
It also means a chance for Llewellyn to get to know Blaise much better.
Not everyone thinks Llewellyn should take the case-or the money. Between feuding siblings, rival patrons, jealous colleagues, and greedy administrators, almost anyone could be trying to thwart his work... and one of them is willing to kill to do it.
When Anne de Vere turns up dead, the police believe Blaise is the murderer. Only the shy, stuttering professor who has won his heart can prove otherwise...
Buy links: Dreamspinner | Amazon
Cat gives this one 4 Meows 3 Purr heat index...
THE MUSIC flowed through him like wine—like freedom—and Ramon threw his head back, letting the swish of hair against his shoulders tickle him as he danced. One of his partners, a big muscular stud with tattoos on his neck, leaned over and kissed Ramon’s cheek. Strutting away, Ramon just laughed. We all love our illusions, and I’m his.
Not to be outdone, the pretty blonde girl who had also leaped onto the floor to dougie with Ramon shook her pert chest against his back. Bless her heart, she’d misjudged her target, but he gave her a butt bump in return, and she giggled.
The music crashed to an end, and Ramon swept a bow at both partners. They both looked like they’d enjoy a second act of some kind, but he tipped an imaginary hat and walked back to the bar, where that handsome dude with the silver hair had promised to save Ramon’s seat. Ramon didn’t get out much. Only rarely did he feel comfortable enough to go out and meet the public. He needed all the good reactions he could soak up, like fuel to keep him going until the next time.
Sure enough, there sat Silver Fox at the bar, gazing at him with open admiration while draping a very expensively clad leg over the empty barstool. Ramon gave him a grin. “For me?”
Silver Fox chuckled soft and low. “If not, I’ve almost lost my leg at the knee three times for nothing.” He gracefully removed his appendage, and Ramon slid onto the seat, grabbing the icy craft beer the bartender had left in his absence. He wrinkled his nose. Yuk, it’s yeasty. He flicked the hair from his eyes with a toss of his head and pushed the glass toward the bear of a bartender. “This is caca, darling. Bring me a glass of champagne instead, please.” He turned on his barstool toward the crowd, where a wall of people had formed between him and the dance floor, all of them clapping and whistling like they were watching WWF with oiled fighters.
A young guy with dark, slightly wild eyes separated from the crowd and stepped toward him, staring at the floor. Kind of cute. Kind of not. The guy glanced up through heavily mascaraed lashes. “Excuse me. Are you by any chance Ramon Rondell?”
Ramon frowned and looked around warily, then tried to return to pleasant face as fast as possible. “Where did you get that information?”
“Uh, I saw you come in and asked the guy at the door who you were. He said your name was Rondell. I was kind of hoping. I’m a huge fan.” He shrugged and extended a napkin and a pen. “May I have your autograph?”
“What if I’m not Ramon?”
The kid grinned. “You’re so gorgeous, I don’t even care.”
Ramon glanced at him. Caught. What can it hurt? He laughed and scrawled his name across the flimsy paper.
The guy gazed at the signature like he’d been given an original copy of Tom Sawyer. “I’m such an admirer.”
“I’m happy to hear it.” He started to turn back to his beer.
“Are you going to write a book on the real identity of Jack the Ripper? You can prove it was somebody from the royal family, right?” The guy’s voice sounded avid.
Ramon’s wacko-dar tingled, and he shook his head. “I doubt it. There’s a pretty extensive record of information from the time. Everyone thinks their theory is conclusive, but gathering new data’s difficult, if not impossible. I confess I don’t believe there’s a royal family connection. It’s more likely that so-called Jack the Ripper was some poor insane person who hated women and killed five in a row before he died or was incarcerated.” He shrugged. “But honestly, no one wants to hear that, so I doubt I’ll take on the project.” He smiled to soften the blow and made to turn again.
The guy frowned darkly. “You’re not gonna prove that those rich bastards used those poor women as guinea pigs? Come on, you’re the one who should do it. You can get ’em.”
Oh dear. “Yes, well, we all have to draw our own conclusions. Thanks for being a fan and saying hello.” He turned his back on the young man and faced the bar. Sadly, writing about the mysteries of history did tend to attract conspiracy theorists and crazies. It went with the territory.
The bartender delivered the glass of bubbly, and Ramon reached for his wallet. Mr. Silver Fox put a hand on his forearm. “Allow me.” He dropped a couple of twenties in front of the bartender.
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Cat gives this one 4 Meows 3 Purr heat index...
The case if the Sexy Shakesperean is a fun, easy to read, page-turning mystery. I liked Llewellyn a lot. His lisp gave him extra character, though I wondered how he got by as a history professor and speaking, however, brushing that aside since its fiction, I fond that trait made him adorable. There are many likable characters in this story such as his assistant Maria. As in all cozies, there are a lot of characters and that helps throw you off the who did it. I didn't connect with Blaise for some reason like I should have but I did like him and towards the end, he redeems himself in my eyes.
There are lots of twists and I didn't guess the outcome. If you are looking for a fun cozy mystery, like sexy professors, lots of twists, some sweet man-love, and three adorable cats, you will like this.
Excerpt..
THE MUSIC flowed through him like wine—like freedom—and Ramon threw his head back, letting the swish of hair against his shoulders tickle him as he danced. One of his partners, a big muscular stud with tattoos on his neck, leaned over and kissed Ramon’s cheek. Strutting away, Ramon just laughed. We all love our illusions, and I’m his.
Not to be outdone, the pretty blonde girl who had also leaped onto the floor to dougie with Ramon shook her pert chest against his back. Bless her heart, she’d misjudged her target, but he gave her a butt bump in return, and she giggled.
The music crashed to an end, and Ramon swept a bow at both partners. They both looked like they’d enjoy a second act of some kind, but he tipped an imaginary hat and walked back to the bar, where that handsome dude with the silver hair had promised to save Ramon’s seat. Ramon didn’t get out much. Only rarely did he feel comfortable enough to go out and meet the public. He needed all the good reactions he could soak up, like fuel to keep him going until the next time.
Sure enough, there sat Silver Fox at the bar, gazing at him with open admiration while draping a very expensively clad leg over the empty barstool. Ramon gave him a grin. “For me?”
Silver Fox chuckled soft and low. “If not, I’ve almost lost my leg at the knee three times for nothing.” He gracefully removed his appendage, and Ramon slid onto the seat, grabbing the icy craft beer the bartender had left in his absence. He wrinkled his nose. Yuk, it’s yeasty. He flicked the hair from his eyes with a toss of his head and pushed the glass toward the bear of a bartender. “This is caca, darling. Bring me a glass of champagne instead, please.” He turned on his barstool toward the crowd, where a wall of people had formed between him and the dance floor, all of them clapping and whistling like they were watching WWF with oiled fighters.
A young guy with dark, slightly wild eyes separated from the crowd and stepped toward him, staring at the floor. Kind of cute. Kind of not. The guy glanced up through heavily mascaraed lashes. “Excuse me. Are you by any chance Ramon Rondell?”
Ramon frowned and looked around warily, then tried to return to pleasant face as fast as possible. “Where did you get that information?”
“Uh, I saw you come in and asked the guy at the door who you were. He said your name was Rondell. I was kind of hoping. I’m a huge fan.” He shrugged and extended a napkin and a pen. “May I have your autograph?”
“What if I’m not Ramon?”
The kid grinned. “You’re so gorgeous, I don’t even care.”
Ramon glanced at him. Caught. What can it hurt? He laughed and scrawled his name across the flimsy paper.
The guy gazed at the signature like he’d been given an original copy of Tom Sawyer. “I’m such an admirer.”
“I’m happy to hear it.” He started to turn back to his beer.
“Are you going to write a book on the real identity of Jack the Ripper? You can prove it was somebody from the royal family, right?” The guy’s voice sounded avid.
Ramon’s wacko-dar tingled, and he shook his head. “I doubt it. There’s a pretty extensive record of information from the time. Everyone thinks their theory is conclusive, but gathering new data’s difficult, if not impossible. I confess I don’t believe there’s a royal family connection. It’s more likely that so-called Jack the Ripper was some poor insane person who hated women and killed five in a row before he died or was incarcerated.” He shrugged. “But honestly, no one wants to hear that, so I doubt I’ll take on the project.” He smiled to soften the blow and made to turn again.
The guy frowned darkly. “You’re not gonna prove that those rich bastards used those poor women as guinea pigs? Come on, you’re the one who should do it. You can get ’em.”
Oh dear. “Yes, well, we all have to draw our own conclusions. Thanks for being a fan and saying hello.” He turned his back on the young man and faced the bar. Sadly, writing about the mysteries of history did tend to attract conspiracy theorists and crazies. It went with the territory.
The bartender delivered the glass of bubbly, and Ramon reached for his wallet. Mr. Silver Fox put a hand on his forearm. “Allow me.” He dropped a couple of twenties in front of the bartender.
Tara Lain writes the Beautiful Boys of Romance in LGBT romance novels that star her unique, charismatic heroes. Her best-selling novels have garnered awards for Best Series, Best Contemporary Romance, Best Erotic Romance, Best Ménage, Best LGBT Romance, and Best Gay Characters, and more. Readers often call her books “sweet,” even with all that hawt sex, because Tara believes in love and her books deliver on happily-ever-after. In her other job, Tara owns an advertising and public relations firm. Her love of creating book titles comes from years of manifesting ad headlines for everything from analytical instruments to semiconductors. She does workshops on both author promotion and writing craft. She lives with her soulmate husband and her soulmate dog (who’s a little jealous of all those cat pictures Tara posts on FB) in Ashland, Oregon. Passionate about diversity, justice, and new experiences, Tara says that on her tombstone, it will say “Yes!”
