Saturday, September 8, 2018

Both End in Speculation by Nancy Avery Dafoe

Title: Both End in Speculation
Author: Nancy Avery Dafoe
ISBN: 978-1-62420-395-4
Genre: Mystery/Thriller
Keywords: Mystery, Thriller, Crime, Detective, Italy, Rome
Excerpt Heat Level: 1
Book Heat Level: 3
Price: 3.99

Buy at: Amazon, Barnes and Noble


Both End in Speculationis a Vena Goodwin mystery about three murders in Rome, Italy, centered around a previously unknown John Keats’ poem. 

BLURB: Both End in Speculation

Both End in Speculationbegins with two discoveries: a murdered woman found on the Arch of Constantine and the revelation of a John Keats’ poem written at the end of his life in Rome, Italy. Disclosure of the invaluable poem causes events leading to murders with bodies deposited at historical sites in Rome.
The Vena Goodwin mystery is also an exploration of Keats’ concept of “negative capability,” in which intuition and uncertainty are prized over absoluteness. The speculation refers to light and darkness in the plot, bringing in the European refugee crisis, the Keats’ poem, and why we seek out uncertainties, including mystery. 
Familiar characters from book one in the series are the protagonist Vena Goodwin and her Italian lover Elio Canestrini. 

EXCERPT: Both End in Speculation

Professore Giancarlo Pavoni had been to the Coliseum more times than he could count, but on the evening of March 14, Giancarlo was lying in pooled blood inside a body bag at the lowest levels of the Coliseum. From a historical perspective, the Coliseum had always impressed the young university professor of Greek and Latin studies.
A hulking figure dressed in black, pulled up the construction vehicle in pouring rain, and dragged Pavoni’s wrapped body out and, with considerable exertion, lifted the bag over his shoulder. Indifferent to the Coliseum's night lights and cameras, pictures blurred by the downpour, the mysterious man was thinking about body weight. The city’s carelessness about farming out construction on their monuments made everything possible. This man’s specialty was dismantling and dismembering anything and everything. Of course, he could pay a couple of mechanics to do his bidding on a stolen truck. He knew they could be trusted because they owed him money, and owing Guerra money could be a death sentence.
Guerra was surprised the middle-aged man was nearly as light as the young woman had been when he climbed steep stairs inside the Arch of Constantine. Comparing body weights was the straightforward but determined thought process of the man who was immune to risks; a man who knew Webcams would capture his photo, scenes of his crimes, his construction truck. None of the physical evidence mattered because they would not find him or link him to the scene. He had, however, left a conspicuous clue, one designed to confuse authorities. Stapled to Pavoni’s shirt was a note.

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Saturday, September 1, 2018

Wolves and Deer #HistoricalRomance

Title: Wolves and Deer
            A Tale Based on Fact
Author: Catherine Haustein
ISBN: 978-1-62420-374-9
Genre: Historical Romance/Regency
Keywords: historical, regency romance, science, Dora (Dorothy) Jordan, dark humor
Excerpt Heat Level: 1
Book Heat Level: 4
Price: 3.99

Buy at:Amazon, Barnes and Noble


An actress, a secret, and a prince who’s not too charming. Who will get the last laugh?


In 1832, Grace Clare works at the Royal Institution under the direction of the well-known chemist Michael Faraday. But science isn't all she has on her mind. She learns that her birth mother was famous comic actress Dora Jordan. Grace is dangerously drawn into the tale of Dora's mysterious, unjust death after her twenty-year relationship with the prince who now occupies the throne--a man who betrayed his life partner and mother of his children. As the only child free to do so, Grace travels to Paris for work and to view her mother’s lonely grave. Awash with the injustice of the cruel betrayal, will Grace be doomed to a tragic life of seeking revenge or like her mother will she be laughing in the end?


Sacred to the memory of DOROTHY JORDAN, who, for a series of years, in London, as well as other cities of Britain pre-eminently adorned the Stage. For Comic Wit, sweetness of voice, and imitating the manners and customs of laughing maidens, as well as the opposite sex, she ranked second to none in the display of that Art, wherein she was so pre-eminently skilled. Neither was any one more prompt in relieving the necessitous. She departed this life the 5th of July 1816, aged fifty. Remember and weep for her!
Harry handed Grace the tulips. It was true; he did find her beautiful, her dark eyes mysterious. His fingers ached to touch her hair. But the talk of poison put him off. He had to find something to say as she stood forlornly in front of her mother’s grave.
“Relieving the necessitous. There’s the mark of a fine person, someone who cares for the poor. A hard-working and talented commoner, I hear tell. I’m happy to pay my respects.”
“Yes. This is my mother. Here she rests. I, however, shan’t rest.” Grace climbed over the fence and placed the tulip bouquet next to the stone. There were no other flowers.
“She needs some roses planted to show she died in midlife,” Grace said. “I will come back with roses.”
“My condolences. My parents admired her. There is still a postcard of her as Viola in our kitchen. My mother speaks of her generous heart and her sad fate.”
“I’m overwhelmed by it all. Yes, my dear mother, so far from home.” Grace let the tears come. She crouched down and put her hand on the dirt that separated Dora from the air and the sunshine and from the child who longed so much to know her. The ground was wet as if even the earth wept for her. Grace ran her hand across it as sorrow rose up and shook her like a dog shakes a rabbit. Aunt Hester was right. This grave held a broken heart that caught anyone who came to pay respects.
“Oh, my. It’s so forlorn. So forlorn and forgotten,” Grace said in her ripe peach voice.
Harry wanted to take the broken girl in his arms, to tell her how sorry he was that he’d agreed to bring her here. Instead, he folded his arms across his broad chest, but this gesture didn’t hold in the injustice that grew in it. “The people still speak of how her royal ‘protector’, now our glorious King, worked her like a plow horse, as they’ll do to us all. The powerful expect our sacrifice. It’s nothing to them.”
Grace wiped her cheeks with the back of her hand. “No mention of mate or offspring on that stone. What does that tell you?”
“That her fans laid the stone. It’s known.” This, to Harry, was the most grievous part of the death; no family had come forward to pay for a grave marker. An English couple who had visited her in Paris made the arrangements for the simple memorial, and a mysterious male friend arranged for the gravesite.
“More than that, Harry. It means that her connections wanted her to be forgotten. She didn’t come here to escape swindling sons-in-law, as my aunt has suggested. She was purposely sent here to be disremembered,” Grace said. “How can it be that none of her other children have visited?” Disappointment filled her. There wasn’t anything more to this place. It was just a lonely grave in a damp spot.
“A shame.” Harry climbed over the fence and kneeled beside Grace. “The Royals are beasts. They aren’t better than we are as they wish we’d believe.”
Harry took out a handkerchief, and bent down and wiped her cheeks.
“Here now, Miss Clare, allow me. I don’t mean to be forward, but your face is dirty.”
Grace cried as the softness of the handkerchief stroked her face. “She doesn’t belong here. I’m so melancholy. My insides are like a crumpled letter. Death is meant to bring peace, but even her bones were kept from everything she’d loved.”
Harry went to the carriage and came back with a bag. He took out a trowel and dug a hole six inches deep through the spindly grass. He handed Grace a tulip bulb.
“Mr. Babbage says that the tulip signifies the brevity of life. Place it point up in the hole.”
“Are you giving me advice?”
“I am simply passing on gardening wisdom. Do you want them to grow?’
“Will anything grow in this dank spot? ‘Twill be a miracle if we’re not overcome by miasma. I believe I am sick already.”
Grace put the bulb in the hole while Harry dug another one.
“Do you know why no one was allowed to attend her death?” Grace asked.
“They did not know about it until it was too late.”
“No. It was a way of signaling to the population of England that she was doomed to hell for her sins, for there are but two directions, heaven or hell, and if you are alone, it shows God that you were not loved and to hell you go. My Aunt Hester has told me this much. Not that she believes it, but as evidence that Mother’s death was arranged by the palace to appear as a judgment.” Grace put another bulb in the hole, and Harry scooped dirt over it.

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Wednesday, August 22, 2018

Ella'sPleasure #Historical/RegencyRomance

Title: Ella’s Pleasure
Twelve Dancing Princesses Book Seven

Author: Christine Young
ISBN: 978-1-62420-393-0
Genre: Historical Romance
Excerpt Heat Level: 1
Book Heat Level: 4

Buy at: Amazon,

TAGLINE: Ella's Pleasure

Ella Hepburn discovers passion and desire can overcome everything she's been taught to resist.

BLURB: Ella's Pleasure


Ella Hepburn was an auburn haired debutant from the harsh Scottish coastline—a wild innocent to be seduced and tamed. A spirited beauty, she captivated Drake Montgomerie's jaded heart—while succumbing to the smoldering desire she felt for her unyielding suitor.


In Drake Montgomerie's glittering world of money and privilege, young Ella discovered passion and desire could overcome everything she'd been taught to resist—entangling Drake, the heir apparent, in a lethal coil of aristocratic family intrigue. But grave peril would only nurse the sparks of a love that knew no limits and a magnificent ecstasy that would not be denied.

EXCERPT: Ella's Pleasure

“Come, let’s take this path.” He settled one hand on the small of her back, directing her to the left. “I want to show you something.”
She gazed at him with wide eyes. “What? It’s getting late, I’m sure The Duchess will be looking for us.”
“Trust me, she won’t have to search for you. Between my men and Scarlett, they know exactly where we are. I mean to elude them for a few minutes of privacy.” He bent close to her and whispered. “I want to kiss you and there are just too many folks here.”
“Kiss me? I like your kisses.”
“I’m glad.” Lord, but he didn’t know what he’d do if she’d told him the opposite. “This way.” They were strolling deeper into the gardens where fewer people walked. Privacy was what he wanted; this was exactly where he meant to steal a real kiss from Ella Hepburn.
“What are those noises?” she stopped and looked at him, searching for the source of the sounds.
He ran one finger between his collar and neck attempting to figure out what to tell her. “They are people enjoying pleasure.”
The expression on her face outlined by the gaslights amazed him. “Is it what I’m thinking?”
“I don’t know. What do you believe you hear?” He laughed inside at the joy he felt about this inquisitive lady.
“Well, I don’t think they are just kissing.” Even in the half-light he watched the blush rise on her cheeks as she covered her mouth as if she understood what was going on all around her.
“Remember our conversation about love making?”
She nodded her eyes huge with wonder. “In public?”
“My darling girl, can you see them?”
“No, but I now know what they are doing.”
“Hush,” he said, guiding her to a spot just beneath a light. “I’m going to kiss you until your Auntie finds us and stops me from having my wicked way with you in those bushes.”
He turned Ella and looking into her eyes, his mouth descended to meet hers. His hands at the small of her back pulled her close. With a surprised gasp she delighted him by opening her mouth. His tongue invaded with a primal urgency, creating a mercuric heat within. Tasting her sweetness and the honeyed depth of her mouth, his groan emanated from deep within.
Ella responded by wrapping her hands around his neck and running her fingers through his hair. Slipping her tongue inside his mouth, she met him with courage and passion. Her tiny feminine cry of surrender gave him confidence she enjoyed him. His hands slipped lower to cover her derriere and pull her tight against his pulsing cock, wondering if she understood the intense desire emanating from him.
He accepted all of her; teeth, tongue, lips, pressed together in an age-old rhythm. Taking her inside himself was heaven on earth. For a moment he pulled away, needing to see her eyes. Her face, flushed with pleasure, enticed him and his mouth found hers once more. Never wanting this to end, his kiss became urgent, and she responded with so much passion he wanted to bury himself deep inside her warmth. For today and this moment the kiss would have to be enough.
A sudden sharp pain shot across his back. “Stop this, Drake Montgomerie.” Another whack hit him in the buttocks and another. “Stop. Unhand Miss Ella before I let my sword slip from its hiding place.”


Historical, Romance, Regency, England


Wednesday, August 15, 2018


Title: Where All Past Years Are
Author: Joseph Allen
ISBN: 978-1-62420-399-2
Genre: Family Life
Key words: generational fiction, family, saga, family ties, LGBT, strong marriages, Americana

Excerpt Heat Level: 1
Book Heat Level: 2

Buy at: Amazon, Barnes and Noble


Saga of the sprawling Chadwick clan from 1954 to 2015. Highly emotional and affecting, the family will make you laugh and break your heart.


Starting on Thanksgiving Day 1954, the Chadwick family encounters wars, financial crashes, 9-11, and the Great Recession. As a family with a WASP history they discover the wider world that is America, marry across religious, racial and ethnic lines, live, love, laugh and celebrate Thanksgiving and Independence Day at the Old Home on the shore of Lake Champlain near the Canadian border in New York.  

The love of husbands and wives, the closeness of relatives who are an increasingly rainbow-like group, the touching beauty of the Old Home on the Lake as some family members move back to the property into new cottages – all are major themes.  Children running a three-legged race watch the young man, Gray Chadwick, drop to his knees to beg his pregnant girlfriend, Melissa, to marry him. Births, deaths, burials, 4th of July fireworks, boating and bass fishing, and the strengthening power of love lead to a final surprising and unexpected reunion of two branches of the family for the first time in over three hundred years.


As he headed back up the stairs from the basement with the first of three cases of a good St. Estephe, he could smell biscuits cooking, and chattering women’s voices. When he got to the top of the stairs he could smell coffee too, and in the warm hallway with the excited sound of voices in the kitchen, he thought to himself that it was at moments like this that he really loved being who he was and being there in the Old Home with the genially snobby but sweet-natured Chadwicks; even Pop, who had a sour side, but looked forward to holidays with the eagerness of a child waiting for Santa. It was as though he pumped himself back up and lost at least ten years driving up from Manhattan—which was a long, boring drive for most people. 
He put the wine by the door to the dining room and went back and hauled the other two up, one at a time. Then he went back downstairs and finally found a case of Puligny Montrachet; a dry white for those who didn’t drink the hearty reds, especially the meaty, chewy St. Estephe. Then he staggered exaggeratedly into the kitchen and the women handed him a basket of biscuits and a mug of hot coffee. There were three kinds of jam open on the butcher-block table: marmalade, a reddish berry that was probably raspberry, and a dark one that almost had to be grape jelly. All home-made. There was something about Thanksgiving that dictated home-cooking and homemade everything.
It couldn’t last, he thought with a touch of sadness. This house, this time, this group, had more in common with the past than with Ike’s America. All but the children had been through the Depression and at least one World War, maybe two. There was actually a surprising mix of political opinions in the family (mostly Republican, spanning the spectrum), but everyone was agreed that Ike was the right man at the wheel. They learned from Truman, who couldn’t resist a war in Korea, that no one could keep the United States out of war better than Ike, who commanded the troops in World War II. And, he thought with the beginning of a smirk, Ike and the Chadwicks had one thing in common—a wife who at least seemed to be slightly tipsy a lot of the time.   
There were no Christmas decorations, because usually there was no one here at Christmas other than the caretaker’s family. The winter around Lake Champlain could be severe, and since there were no mountains, there was no skiing. The house was used a lot in the summer, with Rich and Lizzie keeping a calendar of family members who wanted a week on the lake. There was an optional family gathering for the Fourth of July, with fireworks over the lake, but Thanksgiving was more or less mandatory. He looked around at the beautiful dark wood molding that ran along the tops of the walls, the enormous Persian carpets, and the probably hand-made Chippendale dining table and twelve chairs. Like a movie set. A world on the way out. It would be ruinously expensive to maintain a house like this, but fortunately Pop seemed to have an endless fortune.
“Penny for your thoughts,” a voice behind him called out. 
He turned to see Jane smiling from ear to ear. “Just thinking how lucky we are to be here, year after year, and wondering...” He turned away.
“How long it will last? Me too. Pop is the one who keeps it going, and he’s certainly not young.” She put her hand on his forearm, kissed him lightly on the cheek and led him back toward the kitchen. He gestured at the cases of wine and she smiled again and took his arm. “Biscuits and jam in the kitchen, and you can help singe the birds.”
“Maybe Rich will step up when Pop gets too old,” he said. 
“Or you,” Jane said, holding his arm with her free hand. “Maybe you’ll step up.”
The bottle of vodka was gone. He peered into the parlor as they passed the door, and a couple of the guys—Connecticut cousins—were sitting on a couch with tumblers of tomato juice. Good for you, he thought. 
There were two big turkeys to be roasted, and two big hams. Pies were baking in the two ovens, and the cloying smell of mincemeat floated in the air. He looked over the first turkey to see where the pinfeathers needed to be burnt off. He found a stack of newspapers in the butler’s pantry and spread some of them on the back porch, shivering a bit at the chill. Then he rolled up about an inch of newspapers into a torch and lit the end with his lighter. As it flamed up, he passed it over the areas of the bird where the little hairlike feathers were, and they disappeared as the flame went by, with an unpleasantly pungent smell. Ugh. He tamped out the newspaper torch, took the carcass back into the kitchen and grabbed the other one, repeating the process. He was a little like Lizzie, he thought, a consort rather than a family member. Meant he had to work harder.
“What’s next?” he asked the kitchen.
“Take a breather,” Jane said. “If we need help, we’ll yell.” There were too many cooks in the kitchen, but these women didn’t get to talk to each other often and they never ran short of news or breath. The youngest was about twenty, he estimated, and most of the worker-bees were, like Jane, closer to thirty. Two of the older women were punching bread dough on a flour-covered plank sitting on the counter. Looked like a Saturday Evening Postcover. 
He ambled into the parlor and grabbed a newspaper. Premier Mendes France had struck a deal with Habib Bourguiba for Tunisia to be independent. He was set on getting rid of the French colonies. 
He had agreed with Ho Chi Minh after the massacre at Dien Bien Phu to withdraw French troops from Vietnam and turn the government over to the locals. Of course he was a Jew, everyone knew that—he looked like a Jew, too—but he had been a fighter pilot in the war and the French liked him. 
The French were always unpredictable. They had owned most of north Africa and he was just giving it away, back to the natives. Well, not natives like in the movies, you know, but the locals. Camel drivers or whatever.
Well, Britain was starting down the same path, from the greatest empire the world had ever seen, to a small island with some trade agreements with places they used to own. Look at India. Look at Burma. That Nehru, he was almost British, about as good as India was going to get.
“Where’d you get the tomato juice?” he asked the two men on the couch. “Hi, I’m Ted Semple. I’m here with Jane.”
“In the kitchen,” the blond one said. “I’m Eric Chadwick, and this is my brother Antony.”  They stood up and the ritual of handshaking was taken care of. “We met a year or so ago, here in this room, I think.”
“I’m sorry, there are so many people here at Thanksgiving, and my memory of names from last Thanksgiving is faulty. I’ll try to be better.”
“Most people call me Ricky, and everybody calls him Tony. Don’t worry about it. We have an advantage. We’ve been coming to Thanksgiving here all our lives, so we grew up knowing a lot of the people here. Even so, I have a hard time remembering some people—even people I recognize. Just the names go away. We’re from the Massachusetts side of the family. Jane is the Virginia side, or what we call the Virginia side, even though she and her parents and grandparents and probably great-grandparents at least were all born around here. They’ve been living around New York City since before the Civil War.”
Ted smiled and nodded. An advantage, he thought. You bet. The advantage is being a Chadwick and being rich. Who was it said the rich are different from the rest of us? Fitzgerald. And Hemingway said, yes, they have more money. That gets to the bottom of it. He quick-walked back to the kitchen and one of the women poured some tomato juice into a tumbler from a quart can she took out of the refrigerator that had been opened with a churchkey. He headed back to the parlor and asked “Do you have the vodka?”
Ricky shook his head and looked puzzled.
“Oh, sorry. There was a bottle of vodka sitting on the buffet earlier and it wasn’t there anymore. I just assumed when you were drinking tomato juice that you’d picked up the bottle,” Ted said. He looked at the tomato juice and though, hmmm, I don’t even like tomato juice, tastes metallic. He took a swig. At least it was cold. He wandered back to the dining room and looked around. No vodka. 
“Looking for this?” It was Sam, and she was holding the vodka bottle. She was always pretty and looked especially fetching with a ruffled apron on and her hair in a bun. 
“Thanks,” he said, holding his glass out to her. “I was wondering if I would have to drink this plain.”
“Say when,” she said and started to pour. 
“When,” he said. “Just a blessing, not a real drink. I don’t want to be drunk and I would be if I started drinking this early.”
She wrinkled her forehead and he realized what he said had been awkward.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean…”
She smiled and wiggled her nose and smiled. “Don’t worry about it. We’re all drinkers, especially at the holidays. Comes with the genes.”
“I smell pies,” he said. And craned his neck around the corner toward the kitchen. The table by the kitchen window was covered with pies. He counted eleven pies. “Help me escape from the mincemeat; there’s something about it.” He shook his head with a shiver.
She tilted her head back and laughed. “Me too. Problem is you have no idea what’s in it, yesterday’s meat or last week’s meat, and could be anything. And so sweet and spicy. That’s why there are so many spices in it, and the raisins and the brandy, because otherwise it would stink. Here, have a dividend,” she said, and held the bottle out. 
He poured more into the remaining tomato juice. “Just this once,” he said. 
“Right,” she said. “Just this once.” She opened the cabinet door in the center of the buffet and put the bottle inside. “If it’s gone, I’ll know who took it.” And she swept back into the kitchen.
There was a sound of feet running in the hallway above the dining room, and then Lizzie appeared at the top of the stairs. “Help me,” she stage-whispered. “I can’t get Pop to wake up.”

Thursday, August 9, 2018

#StonePonies #Crime #Mystery

Title: Stone Ponies
            John Howard Novel Book Four
Author: Ronald C. Paxton
ISBN: 978-1-62420-371-8
Genre: Mystery/Crime
Excerpt Heat Level: 1
Book Heat Level: 4
Price: 3.99


Howdy Doody is out of prison and gunning for the man who ruined his life. John Howard knows he’s coming, and he’s ready.

BLURB: Stone Ponies

A threatening letter in the mail shatters the fragile tranquility of John Howard’s world. The note is unsigned, but the meaning is clear. Howdy Doody is out of prison and gunning for the man he blames for ruining his life. John was the one who caught Doody cheating at a major rodeo event and got him kicked off the national circuit. He was also the one who hired and then fired the disgraced cowboy when he caught him stealing from the Wild Pony Ranch cash box. Fifteen long years have passed, and now Doody was back. When a trusted employee is murdered John knows it’s time for him to find and stop the former rodeo cowboy or die trying.

EXCERPT: Stone Ponies

John glanced at his watch as he left the parking lot. He was getting used to the drive. It was long enough for him to organize his thoughts and prepare for the day ahead, but not so long that he was tired by the time he reached the ranch. Sometimes he and Sarah Jane talked; sometimes they made the trip in companionable silence. This felt like a silent day.
“We need to talk.”
John groaned.
“I’ve told you before, Sarah Jane, those are four words no man ever wants to hear.”
“You’re not getting any better, John. I thought the move to the lake would help, but it hasn’t.”
“I’m fine.”
He flinched as Sarah Jane’s hand slammed the dashboard.
“You are notfine, John! You think I’m blind? The nightmares haven’t gone away. As soon as we get within five miles of the ranch, you start to tense up like a twelve-year-old boy trying to talk his way out of a poor report card.”
“It’s not that bad, Sarah Jane.”
“Not that bad? Not that bad? It’s gotten to the point that you don’t want to leave the house once we get to the ranch. How long has it been since you took JB out for a ride? That horse misses you, John. The men miss seeing you too.”
“I’m in my office working, Sarah Jane. I don’t have the time.”
“You’ve always made time for the horses, John, and the men. That’s what you’ve always been about.”
John remained silent. His stomach began to churn, and he could feel sweat forming under his arms despite the weather. The truck was eating up the miles. There was little traffic on the road this morning. The ranch was twenty minutes away.
“I want you to see Linda Smythe. Maybe she can help.”
“Who is Linda Smythe?”
“You’ve met her. Jason gives her private lessons. She usually rides Tulsa.”
John shook his head.
Sarah Jane sighed.
“She’s a drop dead gorgeous blonde in her late thirties with big breasts, full lips, and a perfect ass.”
“Oh,thatLinda Smythe,” John said.
“That’s right, smartass. She’s a psychologist. You need to talk to someone about this, John.”
Fifteen minutes to the ranch. His pulse started to gallop.
“Fine, set it up. Nowcan I have a donut?”
Sarah Jane smiled and touched his arm.
“No, but I’m glad that’s settled. You have an appointment late this afternoon. We’ll stop by her office on the way home from work.”
His cell phone interrupted a smart remark that was on the tip of his tongue.
“It’s Jupiter. He says it’s important.”
John slowed the truck and pulled onto the shoulder of the road.
“What’s up? We’re on the way in.”
Sarah Jane watched her husband. She could read John like an open book with large print. The news was bad. She fought to maintain a neutral expression.
“We’ll be there in ten.”
He put the phone away and eased back onto the road.
His hands felt clammy on the wheel. The perspiration under his arms was running freely now. He drew a deep breath and looked at his wife.
“We’ve got trouble.”


southern mystery; suspense; thriller; horse ranch; cowboys


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Wednesday, August 1, 2018

Feathers #YA #Fantasy

Title: Feathers
Author: Courtney Rene
ISBN: 978-1-62420-385-5
Genre: YA/Fantasy
Excerpt Heat Level: 1
Book Heat Level: 2
Price: 3.99

Buy at: Amazon, Barnes and Noble


What happened to the angels that fell from heaven?  Do they still live among us?  Gracie is about to find out, whether she wants to or not.  

BLURB: Feathers

Feathers, brings you into the world of fallen angels. Orphaned since birth, sixteen-year-old, Grace finds her teenage world crumbling around her. Her home is burned to the ground. Her foster siblings and housemother are killed. Her life falls apart and there is nothing she can do to stop it. Her dreams have become dimensions where she can be hunted and hurt. Words like fallen angels, halflings, and nephilim are tossed around without explanation. When Grace sprouts a pair of wings, things go from bad to worse, as the fallen angels believe she may be the key to them returning to the side of God, but only upon her eradication.

EXCERPT: Feathers

We made it to the wireless store and quickly found the cells we were looking for. After being talked into a basic phone with full keyboard and a card for one hundred minutes, we were out the door in less than half an hour, cell phone set up and ready to rock. I was a bit lighter in the purse, but seventy-five dollars for the lot sounded pretty good.
“I wonder how long a hundred minutes will last?” I said.
Tory smiled at me and said, “Well, you’ll find out soon enough. Hey, what time is your curfew?”
“Eleven.” I looked at my watch. It wasn’t even ten yet.
“Want to get something to eat before we head back?” Tory asked as she pointed across the street at a pizza place.
“Sure,” I said. Before we could cross the street though, I felt it. He or it, whatever it was, had returned. I felt their stare. The hard feel of it firm against my skin. Goosebumps lifted along my arms. I looked over to see if Tory noticed it. She didn’t seem to, so I pretended I didn’t either. I didn’t even try to locate it that time. I ignored it. Completely. If they wanted to spend their Friday night staring at me, fine. Let them waste their time.
“You should come over tomorrow. We can go through my clothes. See if we can find you anything to add to your…wardrobe.”
“Hey,” I said and gave her a friendly shove. “My wardrobe isn’t that bad.”
“Yes. It is.”
Yeah, it was. “I wish I could, but I work most of the day tomorrow. I could on Sunday? After church.”
“You go to church?”
I laughed. “Mrs. Brown’s rules. Church every Sunday, no excuse, unless you’re dying or dead.”
“Okay, how about…Jesus! Gracie, look out!” Tory screeched.
I turned to see what had made her eyes widen to the size of saucers and grab my arm in a grip as tight as a cinch. Two blinding lights were barreling down on us. A car, a big one, was headed fast, right to where we stood, in the center of the crosswalk.
A heavy weight hit me from behind with a hard-smacking thud. The impact pushed the air from my lungs in a woosh. I flew through the air to land in a sliding grinding halt on the sidewalk in front of the overcrowded pizza place. Every eye right on me as I lay in a heap on the ground
“Ow,” I said, trying to hold back tears of pain as I got slowly to my feet. Blood ran down my arm where it had rasped against the concrete. My knees stung. I most likely skinned them as well. My shoulder ached. I had a feeling it took the brunt of my weight on the walkway when I landed.
I saw Tory in the same condition next to me. “Tory? You all right?”
“Yeah. What happened?” she asked as she tried to smooth her hair back into a semblance of order.
Before I could answer her though, I was roughly grabbed around the upper arms by a huge dude. He lifted me up to dangle with my feet off the ground and shook me like a rag doll.
“You stupid…girl!” he shouted right in my face. His dark blue eyes sparked in anger.
“Hey!” Tory yelled and shoved him from behind. “Get off!”
He whipped around to stare down at Tory. His long straight blonde hair flew around his shoulders like a cape. “Don’t,” was all he said.
Tory’s face turned white and she took several quick steps back. With a shaky voice she said, “Gracie?”
My feet finally back on the ground, the guy shoved a finger almost in my face and said with such quiet anger that I felt the blood wash out of my face as well, “Get home where you belong. Now.”
I looked at Tory and shrugged at her. Who the hell was he? I was shaking in my sandals, but something made my back straighten and my pride set in. I slowly but firmly shook my head at him and said, “No.”
I watched as disbelief and maybe a hint of rage crossed him face. I stepped quickly around him and grabbed Tory by the hand and made to go inside the restaurant.
“Grace Ann,” he growled. “Don’t push me anymore tonight. Go home, where you are safe.”
How did he know my name? I glanced at him once more. He was tall, well over six feet. He was stocky with muscles and bulk, but not quite huge and overwhelming. It was his face that drew me in though. It was beautiful. Even as angry as he was, he was lovely. Big dark eyes surrounded by long full eyelashes snapped at me with anger. His eyes, they pulled at me. Spoke to me. With surprising effort, I pulled my gaze away from those eyes and stepped inside the pizza place. The dark shadowed interior wrapped around me like a blanket and hid me within its depths.
“Is he gone?” Tory asked.
I tried not to, but I couldn’t help but glance outside where he’d stood, to see if he was still there. “I don’t know. I don’t see him.”
“Who was that?” she asked as she craned her head around me to do her own looking.
“I have no idea.”


Angles. Nephilim, Fantasy, Young Adult, Religion