Tuesday, March 31, 2015

Win a $30 Amazon/BN GC: Fire Above by C.H. Maclean


This post is part of a virtual book tour organized by Goddess Fish Promotions. C. H. MacLean will be awarding a $30 Amazon/BN GC to a randomly drawn winner via rafflecopter during the tour. Click on the tour banner to see the other stops on the tour.
I love her so much, I'd risk anything.

She and I don't have names. We're just slaves, after all. But our hearts don't care, and we're lucky, we have a chance at a scrap of happiness in our terrible lives. My father is the Queen's pet.

But when my love discovers the lords' newest atrocity, she lashes out, does the unthinkable, and attacks one of them. Her courage is heroic, but now they have stuffed her in prison, getting ready to slaughter her.

With nothing to lose, I dare to dream of a life far from the lords. I fight for our freedom, and escape to the woods with my love. We can do no less than free all of our people in the effort.

Our flight through the woods is only the start of our journey. The lords’ flaming attacks, their deception, the loss of so many of my people—I don't know if I will survive, or if I even want to. But for my love, I will do almost anything, even battle the fire above.

Enjoy an excerpt:

My father opened the small door and his eyes lit up for a brief second. He must be alone. We were still in the hall, though, so I said, “I live to serve.”

“I live to serve,” he said, moving aside and ushering me in.

His office always looked the same. Fireballs hovering in the corners cast flickering but bright light around the small room. Baskets of tally sticks lined the room in an order only he understood, stacks of the thin sheets of metal the lords used to hold language on the one table in the room. No chair or decoration. Looking like a storage closet, this room saw most of the information about the empire.

Inside, my father relaxed a hair. He gave me a half-smile and put one hand on my shoulder. “Where were you?” he said in low tones. “They need a runner to go to the far southeast village.”

“The lords wanted to collect a package from oldest brother's house,” I said. “They Called his youngest.”

“Already?” he said, his eyes falling. All three of my grandsons, I heard him think. I thought I had more time. He thought about telling me something else, something serious. Once again I considered telling him I could hear his thoughts, so he might as well just talk to me. Once again, I rejected the idea. My ability was close to magic, and everyone knew only lords could use magic. I loved my father, but didn't know how he would react.

About the Author:
To young C. H. MacLean, books were everything: mind-food, friends, and fun. They gave the shy middle child’s life color and energy. Amazingly, not everyone saw them that way. Seeing a laundry hamper full of books approach her, the librarian scolded C. H. for trying to check them all out. “You'll never read that many before they expire!” C. H. was surprised, having shown great restraint only by keeping a list of books to check out next time. Thoroughly abashed, C. H. waited three whole days after finishing that lot before going back for more.

With an internal world more vivid than the real one, C. H. was chastised for reading in the library instead of going to class. “Neurotic, needs medical help,” the teacher diagnosed. C. H.'s father, a psychologist, just laughed when he heard. “She's just upset because those books are more challenging than her class.” C. H. realized making up stories was just as fun as reading, and harder to get caught doing. So for a while, C. H. crafted stories and characters out of wisps and trinkets, with every toy growing an elaborate personality.

But toys were not mature, and stories weren't respectable for a family of doctors. So C. H. grew up and learned to read serious books and study hard, shelving foolish fantasies for serious work.

Years passed in a black and white blur. Then, unpredictably falling in love all the way to a magical marriage rattled C. H.'s orderly world. A crazy idea slipped in a resulting crack and wouldn't leave. “Write the book you want to read,” it said. “Write? As in, a fantasy novel? But I'm not creative,” C. H. protested. The idea, and C. H.'s spouse, rolled their eyes.

So one day, C. H. started writing. Just to try it, not that it would go anywhere. Big mistake. Decades of pent-up passion started pouring out, making a mess of an orderly life. It only got worse. Soon, stories popped up everywhere- in dreams, while exercising, or out of spite, in the middle of a work meeting. “But it's not important work,” C. H. pleaded weakly. “They are not food, or friends, or...” But it was too late. C. H. had re-discovered that, like books, life should be fun too. Now, writing is a compulsion, and a calling.

C. H. lives in a Pacific Northwest forest with five pets, two kids, one spouse, and absolutely no dragons or elves, faeries, or demons… that are willing to be named, at least.

Website ~ Facebook ~ Goodreads ~ Twitter ~ Pinteret


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Monday, March 30, 2015

Win a $25 Amazon/BN GC - KAYLEN'S RISING by Yves Robichaud


This post is part of a virtual book tour organized by Goddess Fish Promotions. The author sill be awarding a $25 Amazon/BN GC to a randomly drawn commenter via Rafflecopter. Click on the tour banner to see the other stops on the tour.

Kaylen has been in the dark for fourteen years – in every sense. His people are hunted, so they must struggle to survive within underground caves. His community despises his family, taunting him constantly. His parents keep him housebound, forbidding him from wielding sword or wand.

When he is finally allowed to attend school, the harsh truth reveals he has much to learn – including a unique magical ability. Kaylen can summon and control skeletons!

With surface-dwellers threatening war, he will need every friend he can make, and to stay true to himself if he is to survive what is to come.


Enjoy an excerpt:

Chapter 21: A magician and a snowball

The magician continued to laugh—louder now—as he turned again towards the large chunk of ice hurtling towards him. "What?" He snarled defiantly at the party. "Already run out of your best tricks, and reduced to throwing snowballs at me? And here I thought you were getting interesting..."

He started waving his wand in a small circle, slowly at first and then increasing in speed and size. As he did this, a green fire emanated from his wand and grew until it matched the shape and form of the incoming ice ball perfectly. "Oh, no!" he cried mockingly. "Here I am with nothing but a little match to fight your big, bad snowball! However shall I defend myself?"

As the ice ball began its downwards arc toward the human, he started to twirl his staff, which began to glow with an electric purple shimmer. Oraweth grimaced when she saw the purple glow, because she knew it meant he was going to cast one of his more powerful attack spells: a magical bolt that could slice through individual shields and had required all three elves to focus on a combined shield with the help of the skeletons to block it. But this combined shield took a lot of energy to create, and they were not certain they had the strength left at this point to make one that was strong enough to protect them.

About the Author:
Yves Robichaud is originally from the small Acadian community of Grand-Barachois, New Brunswick, Canada. He has studied Business Administration and Information Technology, currently works for the federal government, and is the proud father of one son: Jeremy. Inspired by a love of fantastical, magical tales, Kaylen's Rising is Yves' first attempt to share this literary passion with his son and the rest of the world.

Website ~ Facebook ~ Twitter ~ Goodreads
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Friday, March 27, 2015

Win a $10 Amazon/BN GC - Afterlife or Bust by June Mayes

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This post is part of a virtual book tour organized by Goddess Fish Promotions. June will be awarding a $10 Amazon or B/N GC to a randomly drawn winner via rafflecopter during the tour. Click on the tour banner to see the other stops on the tour.

MediaKit_BookCover_AfterlifeOrBustLizzie is making the best of her life, er afterlife. She's working hard being a doctor to all things supernatural and for the most part has managed to behave. With her daytime watcher in tow and a very enticing Master Vampire turning up the heat of their romance, things couldn’t be better.

Of course things could get worse and do. Being killed again was not part of Lizzie’s agenda and having to navigate the politics of all things that go bump in the night is just icing on the afterlife cake. But Lizzie has plans. She's going to make her death worth living and she is going to drag everyone else along kicking and screaming.

Enjoy an excerpt:

“Nice scrubs,” Frank said, sounding relaxed for the first time all day, er night. I had to give him credit, he wasn’t laughing.

“Apparently, these were the only scrubs they could rustle up on short notice,” I muttered, determined not to give any one of the cretins I worked with the satisfaction of losing my temper. I pulled my very recently washed blonde hair into a braid and tossed it back over my shoulder in agitation.

“They're cute,” Frank said with a big grin. Behind him, Furball was snickering. While the boys may not get along at the best of times, for some reason, when it came to me being the brunt of a cruel joke, they seemed to find camaraderie. I, on the other hand, was not amused.

“They have bunnies all over them,” I pointed out unimpressed, “which I imagine goes down well in a ward with patients under the age of twelve. This, however, is not the pediatric ward.” I tossed a glare toward Elvis and Abbie. Both were engrossed in their paperwork. I was so not buying it. I leaned up against the counter and crossed my arms to sulk.

Frank kept smiling, and I swear he was leaning closer for a kiss. Oh boy. Suddenly he stopped. Squinting, he moved in. Let me clarify, he leaned away from my mouth and closer to examine my top. Talk about disappointed.

“It looks like someone’s drawn on it,” he murmured. He fingered one of the drawings.

I huffed a sigh and picked up my files again, moving toward my next patient. Frank followed. There was no way he was going to let this one drop.

“Do the bunnies have fangs?” he asked incredulously.

About the Author: June Mayes is a Cape Cod born and bred writer who lived in London for 10 years before returning home. She’s a hopeless romantic with a passion for writing all sorts of genre. Her days are spent juggling family life, walking the dog, writing and reading books, more books and even more books!

Amazon Author Page ~ Goodreads


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Thursday, March 26, 2015

The Writer's View: Alexander Fernandez


This post is part of a virtual book tour organized by Goddess Fish Promotions. Alexander Fernandez will be awarding a $30 Amazon/BN GC to a randomly drawn winner via rafflecopter during the tour. Click on the tour banner to see the other stops on the tour.

The Author's View: Inside/Outside
A. The view inside your writing space


Hi Judy, I really appreciate you having me. This is a fun topic and I’d love to share some photos of my inside and outside writing space. As for the inside, this entire room becomes my work area because I like to act out scenes, so I don’t just sit at the black desk. Do you like the blue jeans computer chair? My wife hates it, but I think it’s cool because of the belt loops and pockets.

The shelves in the corner are stuffed with books, old PS2 games, some anime, and old TV shows. My favorite is Robotech down at the very bottom. I included a drawing I did of Lady Death back in 2001. The picture is from an old comic page, but I wanted to make a sketch on a poster-sized paper so the frame is actually much larger than it looks.

You can see my neglected piano in the corner like a chastised child. If you look closely, you’ll notice that there isn’t even a power cord plugged in anywhere. That’s how little (or no) time I have to ever sit down and practice. I love piano, but I barely have time for writing so my spare time goes to that.

As you may have guessed, the overall theme of the room is creative expression. Music, drawing, and writing. I was always terrible at sports and other activities, so crafting art in a quiet environment has always been more my style. The mood of the room is great when it comes time to write. It helps me relax and get the imagination going. I have my drawings, books, games, and even my jean chair to help find inspiration. It’s a fun little world that supports my writing!





B. The view outside your window


The two windows in the corner of the room provide a decent view of the residential community across the street from my apartment complex. When we first moved here I worried about the noise from the street, but there’s not a lot of traffic and it’s actually pretty quiet. One of the streets about a minute walk from my door is well-known for its amazing Christmas decorations every year. People come by the hundreds to walk and drive along the street to see the lights, animated characters, and music.
I’m no photographer, but in the other picture I just happened to catch the sun going down behind one of the apartment buildings next to mine. I thought the view looked kind of cool in the background. Quietness is something I require when writing, and the neighborhood has helped me in that aspect. There’s no freeway or honking cars outside in traffic to shatter my writing mood.

So there you have my inside and outside view of where my stories take form. I apologize for the clutter on the couch!



The holy artifact bonded around Marisylia Malludar's neck gives her incredible physical and magical powers—at a price. The bloody piece of vein is consuming Marisylia's body inch by inch, her skeletal hands and feet only the beginning of a slow death. A cruel sorceress and her assassins are on the hunt for Marisylia to steal the artifact. Religious fanatics, volatile and unstable in their blind faith, also seek her to exploit the vein’s most dangerous purpose—liberating the erratic Creator of the World, Lysielle, from her 1,000 year incarceration.

With the vein the key to Lysielle’s freedom, Marisylia must use her abilities to survive long enough to find Lysielle first. Then her most grim challenge awaits—deciding if the Creator has truly repented for attempting to destroy all life. To achieve global peace, Marisylia must discover faith in the unpredictable Lysielle or rely on her own instincts to set the world’s fate.

Enjoy an excerpt:

Marisylia blinked and rubbed milk out of her eyes, but the mob wasn’t finished. A stiff hand shoved her from behind and she stumbled against the table. Unfinished slices of pie and rolls of bread pelted her.

With nowhere to hide, she dove into the horde and tried to shove her way out. Most of the people only yelled insults as they let her pass. Others bumped her roughly with their shoulders, tried to trip her, or pushed her around so she bounced back and forth between pairs of hands.

One woman caught Marisylia and carefully steadied her. She peered into the woman’s eyes, one friendly person amid the riled swarm. The lady smiled softly, then suddenly spit into Marisylia’s face.

When the saliva splattered her cheek, Marisylia stopped caring why the citizens acted like this. Whether due to fear of the religious power, worry that it would infest Three Fingers, or simply senseless anger, none of it mattered anymore since the time to quit had arrived.

All of her determination to succeed had been ripped to shreds by the crowd. Each hand that shoved, every object that struck, drained her enthusiasm. Her devotion to the religion had drowned in the woman’s spit. It was all too much. Marisylia didn’t have Milick’s iron skin or Shri Lilyn’s boldness. She had nothing, only the desire to run away and forget everything.

About the Author:
Alexander Fernandez was born in Santa Monica, CA and grew up in Rancho Cucamonga. Currently serving over 20 years in the United States Air Force, he lives with his wife Helem in Rocklin, CA.

Alex has been writing fantasy stories since early childhood for both school and for pleasure. He hopes to make a lasting emotional impact in his readers. He thrives in the exhilaration of creating memorable characters and adventures that become a part of the reader’s life.

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Wednesday, March 25, 2015

The Writer's View: K. Williams


This post is part of a virtual book tour organized by Goddess Fish Promotions. K. Williams will be awarding a grand prize of a paperback of OP-DEC: Operation Deceit (US only) to one randomly drawn winner and a digital copy of the book to 10 randomly drawn winners via rafflecopter during the tour. Click on the tour banner to see the other stops on the tour.

The View outside my window is boring. It’s an average street in an average small city. I won’t bore you with the details, other than trucks roll by late at night sounding like juggernauts about to descend upon the house and destroy me and everything there.

My writing space is…eclectic. It’s scattered, busy and dusty, but it is well-used. Who has time to dust? My writing space is what I assume used to be the landing space or master bathroom for an 1850s one family home turned duplex. My writing space may change in the near future, for apartment leases in houses are no sure thing.

I love this writing space. It’s dim, has all the things I could possibly need, and is cramped. I roll out of bed every morning and skitter through it to the half-bathroom there. It has a chilly wood floor, well-worn through the ages and it creaks. I threw down some oriental rugs to save my feet. I wouldn’t change a thing in there…maybe another bookcase?

My writing space has bookcases stuffed with books and DVDs. I have two computers. One is old and I don’t know what to do with it. I’m attached. I wrote my first novel on it. I got acquainted with deviantArt there. We’re friends. It’s in good condition, but operating an old system. I can’t afford to upgrade it. Eventually, I will part ways in a sad turning of my back on the machine that provided me the means for writing what became the key to the kingdom. Beside it sits its replacement. The newer tower is my newer friend. It saw me through graduate school, edits of OP-DEC. It’s seeing me through the interviews and blogs. My friends in foreign lands connect with me there. I have a lone lamp to light it all.

I sit between a blank canvas propped on my filing cabinet and the computer desk. The area is narrow. I’m quite small. When my computer crashed this fall, the gentleman who came to fix it barely fit. My writing space is mine, because no one else fits there, figuratively or literally. On the chair, I keep a memory foam pillow because my bony butt hurts after a while sitting on the old used chair my dad got me over a decade ago. I’ve been looking at new ones, but this is my chair, a brown cloth monstrosity that gives me back aches.

At my feet, I have a folded up fleece throw. I sit for hours and my blood pressure drops so that my feet and hands get cold. In the winter, the lack of insulation makes it terribly cold to sit there, even after buttoning up the window. The furnace blows cold air down on my head. I throw on a hoodie that hangs on the door knob. Just the other side of the room (less than a foot away) is a dog bed. Sadie Sue lays there. Before her, a Jack Russell named Maximillian occupied the spot until Lymphoma removed him from my writing space. His pictures hang just outside.

Upon the walls, I have collected bus shelter posters from the X-Men films featuring Hugh Jackman. I am a comic fan. I’ve had a Captain America shield longer than the films existed. Wolverine and Captain America are long time favorites. From there you can also assume that I love film. I studied cinema in graduate school and wrote about it extensively as I learned how to adapt novels and write my own scripts. Maybe the posters will be replaced by my movie posters one day (bus shelter size of course).

In the narrows and wherever I can fit them are things. Movie props, hats, toys, decorations. I have a red pair of wings on the wall under a “Witch’s Brew Served Here” sign that I picked up from Hallmark one Halloween. A rhinestone key dangles below them both. You can cut the scene with that marker on the opposite shelf. They all have meaning, intertexts between them and the other things I huddle together in my mad laboratory of mess. I hardly pay attention to it all because what I truly need is what’s in my head. They’re there to remind me of that until I remember. For now the Snoopy calendar is on the wrong date, and I have filing to still do. The dust will be there another week…month.

A shadowy past becomes a sinister future… It's 1933 and the height of Boston's social season. Claire Healey overhears a terrible argument between her industrial-tycoon father and her socialite mother. Claire's father sends her mother away, declaring she is hysterical with fatigue. Displaced by this disastrous outcome, Claire is brought to New York by her spirited aunt, to be raised beyond the reach of the damaging turn of events.

Nine years later, Claire returns to her childhood home to face her past once more. The world has long since exploded in war. A mysterious stranger named Carsten Reiniger has infiltrated the scene, placing his commanding presence among the old familiar faces of Boston's elite. Intrigued by the newcomer, Claire struggles to piece together his identity and finds a dangerous connection to her troubling past. When Claire's prying comes to light, she and her aunt are whisked away in the middle of the night to ensure their silence. Can Carsten Reiniger be trusted or is he implacably loyal to duty alone?

Enjoy an excerpt:

Fantasies of jumping from the moving vehicle or pushing Carsten out with a display of sudden and great strength filled Claire’s mind the entire ride back to her father’s house. The night somehow clung more darkly to their street. A roll of thunder echoed in the distance, barely audible above the growl of the engine. The driver steered the car up to the gate, pausing for it to open. The menacing groan of the iron barrier awakened Claire’s need to escape. She moved, but Carsten’s alertness obstructed such notions. His hand tightly grasped her wrist, planting her hand firmly on the seat between them. The concealed gun glinted, catching the reflection of the headlights. Pain and fear played on her face.

“Not just yet,” he said in low tones as the car proceeded slowly up the drive.

Carsten released her hand and patted it, wearing one of his grins. Claire tore her hand away, clutching it to her chest. Her owlish eyes kept a close watch on him. He only chuckled, amused by her fear. She was at his mercy with not a soul to help her.

The driver remained focused on his task. Claire wagered the driver had already known about the plans for the night, and he played along to keep his cushy job. The car coasted up to the overhang and came to a gentle stop. This time, he didn’t get out and open the door. He waited, allowing Carsten to do it instead.

Carsten reached across Claire and opened her door.

“Slowly,” he instructed, brandishing the weapon more boldly.

About the Author: Born in Saratoga Springs, New York, where she continues to reside, K.Williams embarked on a now twenty year career in writing. After a childhood, which consisted of voracious reading and hours of film watching, it was a natural progression to study and work in the arts.

K attended the State University of New York at Morrisville, majoring in the Biological Sciences, and then continued with English and Historical studies at the University at Albany (home of the New York State Writer’s Institute) gaining her Bachelor’s Degree. While attending UA, K interned with the 13th Moon Feminist Literary Magazine, bridging her interests in social movements and art.

Currently, K has completed the MALS program for Film Studies and Screenwriting at Empire State College (SUNY), and is the 2013-2014 recipient of the Foner Fellowship in Arts and Social Justice. K continues to write and is working on the novels of the Trailokya Trilogy, a work that deals with topics in Domestic Violence and crosses the controversial waters of organized religion and secularism. A sequel to OP-DEC is in the research phase, while the adaptation is being shopped to interested film companies. Excerpts of these and more writings can be found at: www.bluehonor.com.

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Tuesday, March 24, 2015

Win a $25 Amazon/BN GC - EMP by Wilson Harp


This post is part of a virtual book tour organized by Goddess Fish Promotions. One randomly drawn winner will be awarded a $25 Amazon/BN GC via Rafflecopter. Click on the tour banner to see the other stops on the tour.

In a flash of searing light, the world changed. A massive solar flare has crippled the modern world and brought chaos and destruction. David Hartsman is stuck in the remote farm town of his youth on what was expected to be a short visit to check on his ailing parents. While his wife and his daughter are hundreds of miles away at home in Chicago, David must face the dangers associated with his own survival and the pressures of not being with his family. In a worldwide catastrophe, every struggle is personal.

Enjoy an excerpt:

The rains came in little pulses over the next several days. Storms tore through the first night, darkening Kenton in a way I had never experienced. The northern lights were blocked out by the heavy clouds and the wind howled all the louder for the loss of sight.

The next two days saw a series of short showers. It brought plenty of fresh water to us, but delayed construction of individual latrines and outhouses. It also brought a melancholy that combined with worry and uncertainty.

A bright dawn greeted us on the third day and the sky looked clear in the north and west. The northern lights which had hung in the sky like specters the first two days were gone. Occasionally I would see a ribbon of color out of the corner of my eye, but it seemed more like a phantom feeling one would experience when they saw a bug and then lost track of it. A sensation would run along your leg or shoulder, but you knew it wasn’t really there.

Anne arrived about an hour after sunup with Clyde for me to ride. The gelding was starting to get used to me and for the first time seemed to recognize me as I approached.

“Not wearing your coat and hat today?” Anne asked. She smirked as she kept any tone of mocking out of her voice. I had been forced to wear an old jacket and baseball cap from my high school years during the last couple of days just to stay somewhat dry.

“No, it’s going to be a beautiful day,” I said.

About the Author:
Wilson Harp is a writer based out of the American Midwest. As a military brat, he traveled and met people from many cultures and backgrounds. Exposure to so many different views has led him to an appreciation of an eclectic collection of music, film and literature.

His sense of wonder at stories and folklore started young and continues to this day, often affecting the themes and ideas in his writing. In his works you will find the old fashioned ideas of virtue and honor as the lifeline that pulls many of his characters through the situations they often find themselves.

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Win a $15 Amazon/BN GC: The Gun by Daithi Kavanagh


This post is part of a virtual book tour organized by Goddess Fish Promotions. Daithi will be awarding a $15 Amazon or B/N GC to a randomly drawn winner via rafflecopter during the tour. Click on the tour banner to see the other stops on the tour.

Garda Detective Tadhg Sullivan leads a special unit that investigates politically motivated crime. A man known only as The Deerstalker is a cancer who has infected the Irish political system.

Sullivan teams up with journalist Helen Carty, and together they try tracking down the mysterious killer. Carty adds to Sullivan’s problems, when he finds himself falling in love with her. And further complicating things, he starts losing trust in his partner, Detective Pat Carter, who appears to be on the side of the Garda Commissioner, who Sullivan is rapidly falling out with.

Sullivan’s case is further thrown into confusion when a copycat killer, Tommy Walsh, is shot dead by the CIA. When the CIA discovers that they've killed the wrong person, the two agents involved--Simon, who has become disillusioned by his time stationed in the Middle East, and Joey, a psychopath who confuses zealotry with patriotism--are also in pursuit of The Deerstalker.

Sullivan finds himself in a race against time, if he is to arrest The Deerstalker before the CIA take him out, and use his death as a pawn in a political game of chess. Who will win out in the end?

Enjoy an excerpt:

After parking, he walked through the forest to a clearing, where he knew he could see for miles. He crawled on his belly along a flat piece of rock, dragging the gun with him. The glow was coming off it again, and he could feel its strength. He stared out over the side of the cliff. Once again, he was in luck. He could see the squad cars and a crowd of people gathered around the bungalow a few hundred yards away.

Adrenaline pumped through his body. His heart felt like it would burst from his chest. He put the gun to his shoulder and adjusted the sight, scanning the group of people to find his target. There he was, right in the middle of the Gardaí. How predictable of a politician. The only time they stand with the people is during an election. He stared through the lens at the big red face.

About the Author:
Daithi Kavanagh lives in Trinity, County Wexford with his wife and two teenage children.

He has worked for several years as a musician.

In the last couple of years, after taking up adult education, he began writing.

His debut book is The Gun, and he has now started the second book in the series.
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Friday, March 20, 2015

Win a Historical Postcard: Key to Lawrence by Linda Cargill


This post is part of a virtual book tour organized by Goddess Fish Promotions. A randomly drawn commenter via Rafflecopter will receive a historical, 100-year-old postcard of the Lusitania – a valuable collector's item. Click on the tour banner to see the other stops on the tour.

Water rushed into the four, great smoke stacks of the ship as they, too, hit the waves. Tremendous, churning whirlpools sucked victims inside. A few were ejected, blackened with soot. Propellers rose above the maelstrom. The rudder lifted higher than the smoke stacks. The ship's prow pointed down toward the deep. It looked as if the ship's nose would hit the sea bed hundreds of feet below. The Lusitania sank in only 18 minutes after being torpedoed on May 7, 1915. Dora Benley vowed revenge on the enemy. Key to Lawrence tracks the beginning of her quest for justice in this special edition of the first volume of the Edward Ware Thriller Series. It commemorates the 100th anniversary of the Great War.

Enjoy an excerpt:

Manhattan — Saturday, May 1, 1915

The stranger stared at Dora’s package. A wide-brimmed hat shaded his face, revealing only a dark beard and mustache. Smoking a small, cheap, stubby cigar, dressed in a nondescript, ill-fitting dark suit, the man strutted towards her in a menacing fashion. Blueish-white cigar smoke curled upward in a lazy corkscrew. It vanished into the air several yards above his head.

Twenty-year-old Dora Benley quickly stuffed the surprise birthday gift for her father into her satchel. Holding a green parasol edged with black fringe over her head she skirted crowds of well-dressed, gossiping passengers waiting to board the Lusitania. Dressed in a full-length, aquamarine dress with white lace around the sleeves, Dora moved as far away from the intruder as she could without falling off the edge of the pier.

She searched impatiently for her parents. They were supposed to rendezvous with her at 11:00 AM. By now it was almost noon!

A man and woman reporting team burst upon the crowd at Cunard’s Pier 54. They were trailed by a photographer and his assistants carrying a large folding camera and a tripod. The reporters hurled themselves at the passengers.

“What do you think of the German announcement?” The male reporter thrust a copy of The New York Times at Dora. He pointed to the advertisement prominently displayed on the front page.

About the Author:
The Cargills docked at Southampton and explored the South of England in preparation for this thriller, Key to Lawrence. They also sailed the North Atlantic just like Dora Benley. But their transatlantic voyages were on the Queen Mary 2 instead of the Lusitania. They made use of the American Southwest where they live to depict the Syrian Desert that was home to Lawrence of Arabia. Visit their website. Read their blog. Linda also has a Facebook Fan Page.

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Tuesday, March 17, 2015

Win a $25 Amazon/BN GC - Reconciled for Easter by Noelle Adams


This post is part of a virtual book tour organized by Goddess Fish Promotions. The author will be awarding a $25 Amazon or Barnes and Noble gift card to a randomly drawn winner via Rafflecopter. Click on the tour banner to see the other stops on the tour.

Abigail has been separated from her husband for almost two years. After a marriage that brought her only insecurity, she seeks a life now of peace and independence with their six-year-old daughter. Thomas wants to put their marriage back together, because he liked the wife he used to have, but she never wants to be that person again.

She might need his help with their daughter and start to enjoy his company again, but she just can't trust him with her heart. Even when she discovers that her heart still wants him for a husband.

Enjoy an excerpt:

She looked perfectly respectable for dinner and the symphony for a work function—and nothing like the plain, shy girl she used to be—so she grabbed her purse and headed to the living room.

“Ooh!” Mia squealed at her arrival. “Mommy looks beautiful!”

“Thank you, sweetie.” Abigail ran her hands down her skirt absently, feeling suddenly self-conscious at Thomas’s steady gaze. His face showed no expression, but she knew he missed no detail of her appearance.

“Just in time,” Thomas said, glancing at his watch. “Seven o’clock. I didn’t know you took such long showers.”

Abigail felt her cheeks burning, but she managed not to react in any other way. There was absolutely no way Thomas could know what she’d been thinking about in the shower. “Thanks for coming over early to sit with Mia while I got ready,” she said, pleased when her voice sounded natural.

“Of course.”

“I’m not sure when I’ll be back, but it will be late since we’re going to Dalton.” She glanced outside and saw headlights turning into the driveway of her little bungalow. “That’s Jim. He’s picking me up, and then we’ll pick up the Seymours.”

“I see.” Thomas’s voice was strange, but she didn’t know why.

“All right,” Abigail said in a rush, feeling anxious and self-conscious and at loose ends. “You be good, Mia. Obey your Daddy and go to bed when he says. Eight o’clock.” She said the words with a certain significance to remind Thomas of the girl’s bedtime. “And you can read until nine.”

“I know, Mommy.”

“There are snacks in the kitchen,” Abigail went on. “And I’ll have my phone on vibrate the whole time, so just call me any time if you need me.”

“I know, Abigail,” Thomas said, his mouth twitching up a little.

“Okay.” She glanced down at herself to make sure she had everything she needed. Then she told Mia, “I’ll give you your goodnight kiss now, since you’ll be asleep when I get back.”

She leaned down to kiss Mia, and she was about to leave when Mia said, “You didn’t give Baxter his kiss!”

Abigail hurried back over, flustered by the way Thomas’s eyes never left her face. She kissed Baxter. “All right. You be good and have fun.”

Then she kissed Mia again. “Mommy loves you.”

“I love you, Mommy.”

Rushed and thoughtless, Abigail moved to give Thomas a quick kiss on the lips in sequence. “I’ll be back after midnight probably.”

With a last wave, she left the living room. As she was reaching for the handle of the front door, she heard Mia’s giggle rippling out from the other room.

She paused, wondering what had prompted her daughter to laugh like that.

Then Abigail realized.

She’d just kissed Thomas. On the lips. Without even thinking about it.

With a gasp, Abigail whirled around and took a few steps back, with some sort of half-formed notion to try to explain.

But she caught sight of Thomas and Mia on the couch.

Mia was shaking with merriment, her hands covering her mouth. And Thomas had one finger to his lips as he smiled at his daughter, in the universal signal to keep quiet.

Overwhelmed with confusion, Abigail fled.

It was no big deal. She’d just been in a rush and hadn’t been thinking. Mia probably thought it was funny. She couldn’t let it bother her now.

It had been a really long time since kissing Thomas had been natural.




About the Author: Noelle handwrote her first romance novel in a spiral-bound notebook when she was twelve, and she hasn’t stopped writing since. She has lived in eight different states and currently resides in Virginia, where she teaches English, reads any book she can get her hands on, and offers tribute to a very spoiled cocker spaniel.

She loves travel, art, history, and ice cream. After spending far too many years of her life in graduate school, she has decided to reorient her priorities and focus on writing contemporary romances.

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Monday, March 16, 2015

Win a $40 Amazon/BN GC: The Truth About Lilly by Christy McKee


This post is part of a virtual book tour organized by Goddess Fish Promotions. Christy will be awarding a $40 Amazon or B/N GC to a randomly drawn winner via rafflecopter during the tour. Click on the tour banner to see the other stops on the tour.

Disgraced…

Lilly Talbot never imagined she would be starting her life over again. Losing her good name for something she didn’t do has driven her to move into an old lake house she inherited in Vermont. Upon arrival, she is shocked. Half the roof is about to slide into Lake Champlain. Even more upsetting, the man who can fix it will only agree if she trades him room and board for his labor. What will the good people of Haley think of her sharing a house with the handsome bachelor?

A man with a past…

Connor “Mac” McQueen, once one of the infamous Whiz Kids of Wall Street, spent three years in prison for insider trading. Only one thing sustained him during his time inside, the thought of owning Point Cottage, a home he’d fallen in love with years ago. He plans to turn the house into a stunning showcase for his eco-friendly home construction business.

Secrets and lies…

Now someone’s trying to drive Lilly from her home. Is it someone from her past? Mac has secrets of his own-- that could ruin lives if revealed. But if Lilly and Mac are to have a future together they must first delve into the past for answers and accept some difficult truths about each other. Only then, will they know if true love is in their hearts.
Enjoy this exclusive excerpt:

"Looks like an artist lives here." He sidestepped and entered the room, looking directly at the Mary Cassatt. "She's one of my mom's favorites. I've seen this one at the Metropolitan Museum."

That was unexpected. She hadn't pictured the big rugged male as an art lover. Almost shaking her head, Lilly cautioned herself to stop making snap judgments about people.

"I'd planned on tearing off all of the old shingles today and begin installing the new tomorrow," Mac said. "But there is considerably more wood rot than I'd anticipated. It's not unusual with these old houses. It's only going to push us back a day or so." His eyes swept over her walls, taking in everything. "If you've got a minute, I'd like you to pick out your shingles."

"Sure," she replied. "I was ready to take a break."

"I'll bring the samples out to the back yard." He preceded her down the stairs.

Lilly went out the back porch door and walked over to the picnic table. She sat down facing the house, barely aware of the willows rustling overhead and the buzz of jet skis skimming the water. Mac's men were scattered all over the roof like spiders scuttling back and forth, tearing off shingles and prying up wood planks, dropping them over the side. Scott's job was to pick up the scraps and take them around to the dumpster.

Mac circled behind her and sat down beside her, almost touching. His big body radiated such unexpected heat. It was like a magnet, and she wanted to lean closer just to feel his warmth against her. He was a powerful male, and she couldn't pretend she wasn't drawn to his strength and raw masculinity.

"Lilly?" Mac stopped talking and looked at her.

"Oh, sorry," she said. Good lord, girl. Quit obsessing over the first available male you've seen in two years, and get it together.

"Everything I install or use in my new home construction is energy-efficient."

Forcing her attention back to roofing shingles, she turned to a creamy white with charcoal flecks. "I love this color and think it would look good with the gray siding."

"Light-colored roofs like you see in Georgia, the Carolinas and Florida are good for reflecting heat and save on cooling during the warmer months. Up here we use dark colors because they absorb heat and that saves on heating costs in our tough winters." He opened another book to a medium charcoal with some tiny white and silver flecks that gave off a little shimmer. "What about this one?"

She had to admit his color choice offered a rich contrast to the clapboard siding. Not willing to accept his suggestion without looking at all of the other dark choices, she went through the rest of the samples. When she'd checked them all out, she agreed with his suggestion. "Ok, I'll go with the charcoal with the flecks."

"Good choice." He closed the book and turned towards her. "The warranty on these shingles is fifty years and the labor is for twenty-five."

"Why twenty-five?" she asked. "Why not fifty like the shingles?"

He chuckled—a deep purely masculine sound that reached all the way down inside her and warmed her right up. "Because I'm not that far from forty and I don't think I'm going to be going up on roofs after sixty-five." He smiled right into her eyes. "That a problem for you? Me being close to forty?"

Sweet Jesus. Was this man flirting with her? His closeness made her nervous, and it had been a very long time since any man had affected her nerves. The best she could manage was a moderately defensive "no."

"Good to know." He winked at her. "See you later." He stood and walked off towards the house.

Lilly certainly didn't have a problem with his age. It was his larger than life masculine presence that put her on edge. She wasn't accustomed to being around men who were so well endowed—at least in terms of powerful muscles and brawn. Simply sitting beside the man, not even touching, drove her heart rate up. Admittedly, it was not an unpleasant sensation but a little disconcerting. When you'd existed in a sexual wasteland for almost three years, any unexpected titillation would seem overwhelming—wouldn't it?

About the Author:
Christy McKee began her career in TV news and eventually found her way into advertising and finally fiction. She believes a good story should be about characters who win your heart, sometimes move you to tears and occasionally make you laugh. As a reader, Christy hopes you'll be swept into her characters' lives enjoy getting to know them, experience the challenges they endure and be with them when they come out on the other side.

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Friday, March 06, 2015

Summer of Haight '67 by Diane Sager


This post is part of a virtual book tour organized by Goddess Fish Promotions. Diane will be awarding a $15 Amazon or B/N GC to a randomly drawn winner via rafflecopter during the tour. Click on the tour banner to see the other stops on the tour.

Thank you for inviting me to share my crazy world with you and your readers.

I am Diane Sager, although I also use the nom de plume of D.S. Sager when I write under my horror/zombie/vampire genre. For all but my toddler years, I have lived and worked in the San Francisco Bay Area. I reside with Russ my English husband and other animals…LOL

Yours is a very interesting question about dreams. I get a lot of wild and original ideas from my dreams. I keep a notepad by my bed to make notes. As we all know, dreams can be instantly forgotten and I hate that, especially when it’s a great story!

I have also made up stories in my head ever since I was a small child and I wrote sporadically throughout high school and university. I wrote a vampire novel in 2000, which I mentioned earlier, but I never seriously tried to get it published.

SUMMER OF HAIGHT ’67, took me 15 months to complete, and research was a way of life during that time. It’s the most intense and yet the most rewarding research I have ever done. I think of it as one huge history lesson. Thank the Gods for Google and YouTube!

It’s a supernatural time-travel book of sorts which involves a 66 year old KATHERINE RHODES getting into a tragic accident that hurls her back in time to 1967. She wakes up back in her 20 year old hippie body in the Haight/Ashbury district of San Francisco. As many of you know, 1967 in the Haight/Ashbury became known around the world as “The Summer of Love” She gets to re-live this era of hippies, free love, drugs, music, politics and protests, with a wealth of knowledge and the opportunity to right some wrongs.

It’s all fiction but I wanted the setting to be 100% authentic. I immersed myself in the 60’s hippie culture and spent hours and hours on research. The book is factually correct. I listened to music from the late 60’s constantly, particularly the psychedelic era. I even bought a record player (remember those?) I got my old LP’s out and bought even more from eBay…….. Grateful Dead, Big Brother & the Holding Company, Jimi Hendrix, The Charlatans, Country Joe and the Fish, to name but a few. There are Hells Angels, Black Panthers, political unrest and a horrific war in Vietnam. I wrote and researched constantly during the 15 months it took me to complete it. I wore hippie clothes and I even found myself saying 60’s words. I stopped at the drug scene though. It’s just not my bag!

I also have some first-hand experience to back up my research. As a very small child my parents drove me through the Haight district to look at the “freaks” as my Dad called them. I saw them dance around adorned with flowers and beads, obviously high as a kite but I didn’t know that at the time!

Janis Joplin is in my book a lot and I watched as much video footage of her and her band as I could find. There is some awesome footage on YouTube of her singing at the Monterey Pop Festival in 1967. My husband and I even visited the fairgrounds in Monterey to get the feel of the place. I read every book I could find on Janis and even Peter Coyote’s “Sleeping where I fall” based on the same period in time. Peter helped found “The Diggers” who fed the homeless hordes of hippie drop-outs in San Francisco in 1967.

I’m also lucky enough to still live less than an hour away from San Francisco, so my husband and I would go there and see where Janis Joplin or Jerry Garcia and the Grateful Dead lived. We drank in the Dogpatch saloon near the Hells Angels HQ. On another occasion my daughter and I rode the bus from the top of Haight Street to the Hells Angels house, all in the cause of authenticity. KATIE and her friends FROG and MOONBEAM travel this route in my book to attend a Hells Angels party.

I wanted to take my readers back nearly 50 years and be sure it was authentic, especially those that are too young to have been there. Even the weather is accurate in the book – I checked.

There’s a saying, “if you can remember the 60’s you weren’t really there” I think it was quoted by Paul Kantner of Jefferson Airplane. I take my readers back to the real deal so they WILL remember it.

Soooooooooo, it was fun to research, fun to write and so far it’s fun seeing people enjoy it and tell me about it. Summer is coming, PLEASE take the time to read this book. I know you will love it.

KATHERINE RHODES has a tragic accident which sends her back in time. She wakes up as the 20 year old hippie she was back in 1967 in the Haight/Ashbury district of San Francisco. This was the period known globally as the “Summer of Love”. It’s all here, Hippies, Hells Angels, Black Panthers and the abhorrent war in Vietnam. “KATIE gets the chance to re-live this era with her friends FROG and MOONBEAM. This time she knows what to expect and tries to change things……….. Can she?

Enjoy an excerpt:

Katherine Rhodes drove through the mountain range too fast. The rain was brutal and made visibility nearly impossible. She knew she was endangering herself, especially in this weather, but she didn’t care. If she crashed, so be it. In her present life there wasn’t much to live for. She’d turned sixty-six years old last week and her life was a farce.

She had two grown children, both too busy in their own lives to bother with her. Her husband Mark had cheated on her numerous times during their thirty-eight year marriage. She had gotten used to the infidelity, but recently he’d actually run off with one of his “flings”.

Katherine thought the novelty would wear off and he’d be back. It wasn’t the first time Mark had taken off with one of his girlfriends, but he always came crawling back. It had taken her totally by surprise when she was served with divorce papers that morning.

According to a mutual friend, Mark was starting a new family and “they”, meaning him and Tiffany, wanted to be married before she gave birth. A baby! The man was sixty-seven years old and the mother-to-be was twenty-six. She was younger than both of his adult children for God’s sake.

When Katherine was presented with the divorce papers she was numbed. She had never really been happy with her marriage, of course, but she was secure. Mark had his life, his work clientele, his friends, his private vacations, and his work related trips to Mexico. She had her own friends, her hobbies, and an occasional trip to an exotic location. She knew that Mark had his girlfriends, but she had lived with his indiscretions. Never in her wildest dreams did she imagine he would divorce her.

About the Author:
Author Diane Sager was raised and resides in the San Francisco Bay Area with her awesome husband Russ, three dogs, two cats and an African grey parrot named Storm. She holds a fascination for all things macabre and has developed a deep knowledge of serial killers, vampires, zombies, the Tarot, world religions, witchcraft, horror and the occult.

However, her latest indie release, SUMMER OF HAIGHT ‘67 is none of the above albeit a little supernatural……..This story is nestled between her zombie series “EVIL VEIN” published by Permuted Press and penned under her “apocalyptic” name of D.S.Sager.

A former high school teacher of emotionally disturbed and high-risk youth, Diane is now dedicated to full time writing.

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Thursday, March 05, 2015

Enter to win a $25 Amazon/BN GC - Pretty Poison by Lynne Barron


This post is part of a virtual book tour organized by Goddess Fish Promotions. Lynne will be awarding a $25 Amazon or B/N GC to a randomly drawn winner via rafflecopter during the tour. Click on the tour banner to see the other stops on the tour.

What’s an American heiress to do when a pair of britches, a plunge into a pond in the dead of winter and a broken betrothal force her to set sail across the ocean to an arranged marriage with a fortune hunting Englishman?

With her hopes and dreams sinking to the bottom of the sea like so much lost treasure, Emily Calvert falls into the pretty poison she finds in a little blue bottle.

Can Nicholas Avery, a charming aristocrat with a faulty memory for names and a family in dire need of financial salvation, convince the wounded lady that the blessed oblivion she finds in his arms is sweeter than opium?

Enjoy an excerpt:

Emily plopped down onto a chair in the corner of the hall and tugged off her muddy boots while the guests began to retreat into the front parlor. She watched as Lady Bernice looped her gloved hand through Nicholas’s arm and laughed up into his smiling face before they disappeared behind the others.

Well, that was surprisingly easy. Nicholas hadn’t even looked at her, not once since he’d seen the lady standing in the hall surrounded by the welcoming throng.

Suddenly weary right down to her bones, Emily rose and made her way slowly up the long curving stair case and down the quiet hall. She found Tilly in her room bent over a hot iron.

“You’re back,” Tilly exclaimed. “Hurry, you must dress. We’ve another guest and she’s a pretty thing, for all that she’s a giant.”

“Yes,” Emily agreed.

“You’ve seen her then?”

“She’s quite impossible to miss.” Emily fell back onto her bed with a groan.

“What are you doing?” Tilly demanded. “Luncheon is in an hour and you need to bathe and I’ve to do something special with your hair. I thought this fine lavender dress would do nicely, makes your bosom look bigger.”

“Oh Tilly, are you thinking to dress me up to compete with that amazing creature?”

“What? That bovine is no competition for you! Get into the bath,” she nodded to the open door across the chamber and the steamy bathing room beyond.

“I’m tired. Just have a tray brought up.”

“And let that one steal your man right out from under you?”

“He is not my man and she’s welcome to him.”

“You listen to me, Emily Ann Calvert,” Tilly ground out between her teeth as she marched over to the bed. “You get your skinny butt into that bath.”

“All right, all right.” Emily held her hands up in surrender as she climbed off the bed. “Good Lord, child, when did you become a harridan?”

“When you lost sight of your wits.”

“I assure you I lost sight of my wits months and months ago.”

“Don’t I know it,” the girl muttered as she whipped off her mistress’s guernsey and went to work on the buttons of her shirt. “And enough is enough, miss. You’ve been wallowing in self-pity all these long months.”

“I have not.”

“Oh boo hoo, my worthless fiancé dropped me flat as a flapjack.” Tilly pushed Emily’s breaches down her legs, drawers and all.

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Oh woe is me, Da dragged me across the ocean to marry a stranger.” Tilly herded her into the bathing room and into the tub.

Emily laughed at the ferocious frown on the girl’s caramel-skinned face.

“Poor opium addled me, I’ve gone and stabbed myself right through the heart.” Tilly dunked her head under the water.

Emily came up sputtering and coughing water.

“Oh, it’s just so unfair, I’ve got a big strapping handsome man wants to marry me.” Tilly rubbed lilac-scented soap into her hair, digging her little fingers into her scalp.

“It’s my fortune he wants to marry,” Emily ground out.

“So what?” Tilly demanded before she dunked her head once more.

“Stop that,” Emily sputtered, water dripping into her eyes. “Are you trying to drown me?”

“Who cares if you use your fortune to catch him? The real trouble is you don’t think you can keep him once you’ve landed him.”

Emily had no argument. It was true. She did not believe for one moment she could ever hope to keep Nicholas Avery. And she would not share him.

“When did you begin to doubt yourself?” Tilly gently rubbed a soapy linen square over her mistress’s back, down her long arms. “You were always so sure of yourself, Em. As long as I’ve known you, my whole life, you never thought there was one thing on God’s green earth you couldn’t do. No matter who told you otherwise, no matter that maybe you shouldn’t ought to be doing them things. You always knew you could.”

About the Author: Write About What You Know.

Every Creative Writing Teacher and College Professor said these words to Lynne Barron in one form or another. But what did she know?

She knew she enjoyed the guilty pleasure of reading romance novels whenever she could find time between studying, working and raising her son as a single mother.

She knew quite a bit about women's lives in the Regency and Victorian era from years spent bouncing back and forth between European History and English Literature as a major in college.

She knew precious little about romance except to know that it was more than the cliché card and a dozen red roses on Valentine's Day.

Then she met her wonderfully romantic husband and finally she knew.

Passion, Love and Romance.

And she began to write.

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Tuesday, March 03, 2015

Exclusive Excerpt: The Second Lie by Anna Richland


This post is part of a virtual book tour organized by Goddess Fish Promotions. Anna will be awarding a set of En Route notecards, gorgeously illustrated by Kate Pocrass (because falling in love with an Immortal Viking is a wild journey!) to a randomly drawn winner (INTERNATIONAL) via rafflecopter during the tour. Click on the tour banner to see the other stops on the tour.

A woman desperate to achieve her dreams.

To reassure wealthy clients, Christina Alvarez Mancini invented a jet-setting British owner for her Napa Valley wine collection service. Success has brought her close to buying her own winery, when irregularities at a London wine auction threaten her business.

A man in love with a good plan.

Stig, an immortal Viking thief, knows he’s found the perfect role. The California woman who created his character won’t discover what he’s up to in England until after he’s pocketed the money he needs. Then Christina walks into the auction preview, ready to ruin his plans, and he knows his boredom has ended.

Secrets that turn deadly.

By the end of the night, these two rivals must cooperate to escape kidnappers, British authorities, media and a pair of mysterious watchers. That’s when a game Stig’s played for a thousand years puts Christina’s life at risk.

Can two people whose identities are based on lies trust each other enough to survive?

Enjoy an exclusive excerpt:

Christina came to the London wine auction to unravel a fraud that might ruin her business. The man claiming to be her employer Geoffrey Morrison is a liar and a mystery, but that’s only the beginning of her problems.

He brought the glass to his lips. His jawline was firm and square, not a hint of softness around his chin. All of him would be that honed, she suspected. His throat worked when he swallowed, the only movement in their tableau.

Intellectually, she knew he was deliberately distracting her, just as she was trying to do to him. She cursed herself for letting his pheromones send her into the same softening craving other women at the preview had displayed. Like them, her body had become putty.

Unlike the rest, she knew he was a liar and a fraud.

She shivered. The cave was colder without other people, and as a female she was beginning to feel like the prey of a much larger hunter. Time to hit hard and leave. “You counterfeited dozens of my wines, didn’t you?”

His grin was lazy and slow, as if he couldn’t or didn’t want to abandon the tension that had been flowing between them a moment ago, even as fake as it had been. “Check the labels. Corks. Capsules.” He shrugged. The movement emphasized how perfectly fitted his clothes were, because they moved with him like skin. “Call a glass expert if you wish.” One hand gesture encompassed the wall of bottles behind him. “Taste them. I guarantee not one of these will fail whatever examination you choose.”

“You’re too smart to pour a substitute at Bodeby’s, I’ll give you that.”

“Then what will you do?” His grin made her back teeth hurt.

“I’ll prove it.” She had her records, and the director was on the other side of these walls. She could unwind his scheme in five seconds.

“Will you? With expensive tests that show the world Morrison and Mancini sold Spanish tempranillo doctored with oak essence as premier Napa cabernet?” He held out the mostly full glass. “Or will you use a handful of flimsy receipts signed by the disgruntled employee I recently sacked?”

The pinch of her fingernails digging into her palms only made her angrier. He’d ruin her business. She’d never have her down payment for a vineyard, never make her own wine, if he didn’t pull the bottles. “You can’t sell fakes.”

“I have paperwork to prove they’re genuine. Signed by Christina Mancini. Some of it signed by Geoffrey Morrison.”

“There is no Geoffrey Morrison!” She’d said it.

“I beg to differ.” One-handed, he reached inside his tuxedo jacket and retrieved a flat rectangle with the familiar wavy gold color scheme of a California license. Geoffrey R. C. Morrison. His face on the blue background. An address on First Street in Napa, above her store and café. “Here he is. Did I get any of it wrong?”

Her mouth opened, she thought, but she couldn’t speak. He’d used the shop address. What else had he done?

“Sorry to be presumptuous with your little creation, but Geoffrey needed middle initials. I chose Robert and Charles. Three names sounds more English, don’t you think.” It wasn’t a question.

“How could you?” She stumbled two steps backward until her hip bumped a shelf. “How?”

“You provided excellent credentials. The internet did the rest.”

“You’re an imposter. A liar.”

“Miss Mancini, so are you.”

About the Author:
Anna lives with her quietly funny Canadian husband and two less quiet children in a century-old house in Seattle. The perpetual drizzle is a good excuse to drink more coffee. She’s a former US Army officer who now writes The Immortal Vikings series from Carina Press and also the author of His Road Home, a novella which Publishers Weekly called “Tantalizing … a raw, emotional story” and the website SmartB*tchesTrashyBooks gave an A rating.

She donates a portion of her book proceeds to two charities: the Fisher House Foundation, which provides housing for families of wounded soldiers in the US and Great Britain, and Doctors Without Borders, which delivers emergency medical care in more than sixty crisis zones world-wide.

To sign up for Anna's newsletter, find out more about her books, and read longer excerpts, please visit her website at www.AnnaRichland.com, her Facebook page, or her Goodreads page.

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