Thom Collins's Blog, page 7

The Other Angel by Ann Covell

Historical FictionPublished: February 2019Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers

The Other Angel is a dramatic, startling tale of how four young people from diverse backgrounds, each with their own aspirations and values, become unlikely though firm friends. It is an absorbing story that will attract readers as they get to know the characters, whose disparate lives intertwine before the Civil War splits them up. The Gettysburg battle aftermath brings them back together. It is an exciting story filled with breathtaking scenarios of plots, war and espionage, as well as romance and pathos. The story will resonate with readers as it unfolds to an emotion-charged conclusion that will invoke their empathy.


About the Author

Ann Covell is a British citizen and lives in England's glorious south-west. Ann had a long career with the British health service research section, and also served as a Justice of the Peace in England.  Her interests include history, writing and politics. She is the author of "Remembering the Ladies" (a book of unique essays on the 19th century U.S. First Ladies,) and "First Lady, Jane Pierce," who was the 14th U,S, First Lady".

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The Killing Girl Blitz by Summer Prescott

ThrillerPublished: March 2019Publisher: S. Prescott Thrillers


‘Til death do us part…
Obsession can be a dangerous thing.
Susannah dabbles in darkness, finding sadistic solace in the death of those who deserve it. But now she wants something more. Or, more to the point…someone.
She’s on a manhunt. She will possess him, one way or another, whether in life, or death. She hasn’t made up her mind yet.
He’s the only one who ever accepted her. Who even maybe loved her, in his own strange way. And then, he left her, which could turn out to be a deadly mistake.
Her husband Tim, a mild-mannered mortician, has packed his bags and fled, a fugitive from his homicidal wife. She wants him, and what Susannah wants, she gets.
Will Tim continue to elude his murderous mate? If he doesn’t, will he survive her peculiar form of love?
This journey through the mind of a stone-cold killer will leave you on the edge of your seat. Close the doors, lock the windows, and get ready for a bloodcurdling ride.




About the Author


Summer Prescott is a USA Today and Wall Street Journal bestselling author of over 100 popular books. Her first Thriller, The Quiet Type, debuted in the top 50 of its genre.


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Teaser: Hide Not Seek by D.E. Haggerty

Cozy Mystery, Romance, HumorDate Published: April 18th

I know who you really are.
Pru has a secret, which she has no plans to reveal – ever. But after a woman is murdered and all clues point to her, she has no choice but to disclose her true identity. When her revelations help thwart the killer’s plan to frame Pru for the murder, the killer begins stalking her. With each note he sends, he gets closer. The police are stumped. Pru wants to run away. She really, really wants to run, but Ajax has found the woman of his dreams and he’s not letting her go anywhere. He can be patient. In the meantime, he’ll protect her with his life. Pru isn’t feeling very patient, and her friends, Mel and Terri, are definitely not willing to wait until the police discover who the stalker is. The three friends take matters into their own hands and jump headfirst into the investigation.
Will Pru and her friends uncover her stalker before he turns his violence on Pru?




Excerpt
“What the heck are you wearing?”
In response to Pru’s question, Mel stuck her hip out and struck a pose. “You like?” She strutted off a few paces and then twirled around before swaggering back as if she were at a fashion show. Only women at a fashion show normally didn’t wear dark blue men’s pants suits. And they certainly never showed off bulky, black oxford shoes.
“Um…” Pru could think of nothing nice to say.
Terri, who was giggling next to her, didn’t have the same problem. “Did you raid Owen’s closet?”
Mel ignored her and reached into her pocket and pulled out a pair of glasses.
“When did you start wearing glasses?”
Terri leaned over and whispered to Pru, “she doesn’t.”
“This is my detective look,” Mel explained.
“Because all detectives wear glasses?” Terri turned to Pru. “I have no idea where she gets these ideas.”
Pru shrugged. “Not from books. Detectives in novels never wear glasses.” There may be some modern-day detectives who wore glasses, but Sherlock certainly didn’t although Hercule Poirot did use a pince-nez for reading. “I thought you said they would talk to us because we aren’t detectives. And now you’re dressed up as an extra on Law & Order.”
Terri bumped her shoulder. “Mel will do almost anything to buy a new outfit.”
Mel ignored them and picked a briefcase up for the ground. Another item she’d acquired for her detective ‘look’. “Let’s go.” She didn’t wait for a reply before marching off to the entrance of the Daily Grind, the coffee shop where Kathy Greene had been killed. Pru and Terri stood in the parking lot staring after her.
“Aren’t we going to come up with some kind of plan before parading in there?” Pru asked Terri.
“I’d say Mel is going to wing it, but I’ve learned there’s a method to her madness.” With a shrug, Terri followed Mel.
“Please tell me this method won’t end up with us at the police station again.”
Terri shook her head. “Sorry, can’t do that.”






About the Author

I grew up reading everything I could get my grubby hands on, from my mom's Harlequin romances to Nancy Drew, to Little Women. When I wasn't flipping pages in a library book, I was penning horrendous poems, writing songs no one should ever sing, or drafting stories which have thankfully been destroyed. College and a stint in the U.S. Army came along, robbing me of free time to write and read, although on the odd occasion I did manage to sneak a book into my rucksack between rolled up socks, MRIs, t-shirts, and cold weather gear. After surviving the army experience, I went back to school and got my law degree. I jumped ship and joined the hubby in the Netherlands before the graduation ceremony could even begin. A few years into my legal career, I was exhausted, fed up, and just plain done. I quit my job and sat down to write a manuscript, which I promptly hid in the attic before returning to the law. But practicing law really wasn’t my thing, so I quit (again!) and went off to Germany to start a B&B. Turns out running a B&B wasn’t my thing either. I polished off that manuscript languishing in the attic before following the husband to Istanbul where I decided to give the whole writer-thing a go. But ten years was too many to stay away from my adopted home. I packed up again and moved to The Hague where, in between tennis matches and failing to save the world, I’m currently working on my next book. I hope I’ll always be working on my next book.Hide Not Seek is my fifteenth novel.

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Book Blitz: Becker Circle by Addison Brae

Contemporary Romantic SuspenseDate Published: March 14, 2018

My first and only boyfriend believed I was too gutless to leave. He was dead wrong. My name’s Gillian, and I graduated Harvard early and left his hot temper and everyone else behind for Dallas. Determined to make it on my own, I land a second job bartending at the neighborhood pub smack in drama central where most every jerk in the neighborhood hits on me—at a huge price.
A week into the job, the neighborhood’s very popular drug dealer falls to his death a few feet from the table I’m serving. The cops say suicide, but the hot guitar player in the house band and I suspect foul play, and I intend to prove it. We dig deeper, grow closer, and make a shocking discovery. We know the murderer.


ExcerptChapter Thirty
I’ve got to say something. Stop this. Get back to the plan.
“Sir, can we talk about this? I have an idea that might work better.”
Silence except for the water.
Finally, I find the nerve to look back.
Absolutely no one is there. Every living soul in the park vanished along with my sanity like animals do when they smell danger.
Jon’s going to kill me if I don’t get arrested or murdered like Bobby first.
I look around at the empty stretch of grass frantic. Do I go home? Back to the pub? Talk to Pinkie? Call Jon? Are they watching me? Nothing seems safe. I’m not sure how to fix this—if anyone even can. What am I going to do?
My feet pound on the pavement. Out of habit, I head toward the pub. The waiters at the Italian restaurant whistle and wave from across the street. What used to upset me is reassuring. I stop and turn in the direction of Pinkie’s, and then home. Instead, I lean against the building and look up to the sky.
“Mom? Help.”
I don’t talk to her often anymore. Not like I used to. I can always count on Mom to help me find my strength. It was during long conversations with her staring at the sky when I plotted slipping out of Boston during the holidays while Connor was gone. She inspired doubling up on classes so I could finish early. Mom gave me the courage to leave him.
“I can’t pack up and disappear this time.” I look for her in the stars again. Facing it is the only option. I can’t run. I have to figure this out for Bobby. For you and Dad. For me. But how?
People walk out of the George & Dragon. Laughing. Carefree. Think, Gillian. Think.
Maybe I was the one who found my courage all along. The only way I ever made it through anything big is one step at a time. Follow their instructions. I can’t screw up.
I jump at the vibration in my pocket. It’s Jon. “Talk to me…you ok?”
My fingers fight to find the letters. “Meeting fine...headed home. Brunch?”
“Thank God. Yes, see you in the morning.”
I inventory the people on the sidewalks and turn toward my building. Step one, figure out how to tell Jon he’s out of the deal. Or maybe I don’t. Postpone so there’s time to get myself out of taking this on alone. Why didn’t I wear quieter shoes? My heels click on the brick sidewalk announcing myself like an old clunker car with no muffler.
When a car approaches from behind I walk faster, my heels echoing even louder. I glance back but don’t even know what to look for since the guy in the park didn’t show his face. A girl about my age sits behind the wheel of a taxi-yellow compact. The tension in my body eases but I’m still a wreck. I constantly look around thinking someone’s about to pounce out of every shadow. Everyone looks normal walking dogs or strolling between bars. But what does normal look like?
Seeing my stairs is a relief. Keys in hand, I break my one-step-at-a-time in heels rule to get home faster. To hell with rules. I’ve followed them all my life.
Rule sixteen of my new life—Break more rules.

About the Author

Addison Brae lives in Dallas, Texas on the edge of downtown. As a child, she was constantly in trouble for hiding under the bed to read when she was supposed to be napping. She has been writing since childhood starting with diaries, letters, and short stories. She continues today with articles, video scripts, and other content as an independent marketing consultant.
When she’s not writing, Addison spends her time traveling the world, collecting interesting cocktail recipes and hosting parties. She’s still addicted to reading and enjoys jogging in her neighborhood park, sipping red wine, binge-watching TV series, vintage clothing and hanging out with her artistic other half and their neurotic cat Lucy.

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AUTHOR INTERVIEW: Peter J Thompson author of THE RUNAWAY

ThrillerPublish Date: 01/31/2019

A corrupt corporation. Ruthless assassins. Will the family that runs together… die together?
Zach Monaghan just became a target. Under witness protection from his father’s whistleblowing, his reckless desire to win back a normal life compels him to run away. But escaping his new identity won’t last long if two contract killers catch up to him…
Richard “Birdman” Byrd has worked hand-in-hand with his tormentor Gorski for years. Siphoning away money and sending assassins to hunt down the Monaghans could be his only way out of the crooked partnership. But if Birdman doesn’t watch himself, the verbal abuse he’s received for years could turn deadly.
As the ruthless killer draws closer to Zach, surviving the greedy corporate plot may force the whole family to get their hands bloody…
The Runaway is a fast-paced thriller with dizzying twists and turns. If you like non-stop action, high-stakes tension, and large casts of compelling characters, then you’ll love Peter Thompson’s gripping novel.
Buy The Runaway to join a thrilling race against time today!

Interview


  Do You See Writing as a Career?
I do. It has been my hobby for a long time, but for me, I needed to make a commitment. I have always juggled my writing in with all my other responsibilities, and all too often the writing came last. It has been my dream to be a full time writer for a long time. Writing is something I love and something that I think I have a real gift for. I knew that if I kept on putting my writing to the back of the line, that I’d regret it. We don’t know how long we have on this Earth, and I feel strongly that this is a big part of the reason I am here. I am writing full time now and I don’t see myself looking back.
What was the Hardest Part of Your Writing Process?
Sometimes it’s just sitting down in the morning, and putting those first words down. I write every day and the habit helps. Some days you feel more creative than others, but if I just sit down and try, it usually starts flowing and one of the best feelings is when the story pops in place and starts to write itself. Then I’m just hanging on and trying to keep up. The other part of the writing process that is hard, is when I am moving forward with a novel and I lose my way. It happens with pretty much every project. I start with a good idea and some strong characters and I have an idea of where I am going. It starts out strong, and then something happens and I lose thetrail, and can’t figure out what comes next. When that happens I often take a break and start working on something else. Just taking my mind off it is sometimes enough to get tuned in again. when I look at it next I have ideas again, and wonder why I had such a problem with it. Other times, the best thing I can do is have someone else read it, and give me their feedback. I gettoo close sometimes, and having another set of eyes, someone to tell me what isn’t working, helps to set things right.

 Did you have any One Person Who Helped You Out with Your Writing Outside of Your Family?
In my family my mother in law was a huge help. She’d been a professional business editor who loved fiction, and she was a mentor, teacher and coach when I first started writing. I got involved with a writers group early on, and this was one of the greatest things I could have done. We met every weekand we read our work, and listened to the others read theirs, and made comments and constructive critique. I learned as much by analyzing what worked and what didn’t with others stories, as I did by the comments they had for me. If you get involved in a writer’s group, make sure you are the right fit. If the people are genuinely there to help, it can be a great experience. But egos can get involved and I know some people didn’t have the great experience that I did.

What is next for your writing?
I am half way through a thriller novel that has one of my previous characters as the hero. It’s not really a series, but it is linked into the same universe, and I see more characters popping up in future works. Once I finish this, hopefully it will be released before Summer, I have a series I want to start. This too will have a previous character as the leading role, but she will be in a much different situation than when we saw her last. It’s too early to give any real details, but I have a bunch of ideas and I’m excited for the stories that I still need to write. 
Do you have an addiction to reading as well as writing? If so, what are you currently reading?
I love to read, but honestly, I used to read so much more. I still read every day, but it is at night before going to bed and at little times during the day when I can catch up. Right now I am reading several things. First, I’m reading a manuscript from a friend. This hasn’t been published yet. I’m also reading about wilderness survival, which fits in with the story I am working on, and for pleasure I am Reading the latest Elvis Cole book from Robert Crais, one of my favorite writers.
 DESCRIBE Your Book in 1 Tweet:
When a boy runs away from his fake home in the Witness Protection Program, assassins pick up the trail, unleashing a world of problems for him and his family.  This or That?
#1 - iPd or Mp3? 
Mp3. Or maybe Ipod. It’s such a great thing that you can take music or audiobooks with you wherever you go, I really don’t pay muchattention to the delivery, I do both.
#2 – Chocolate or Vanilla?
Chocolate all the way, the richer the better.
#3 – Mashed Potatoes or French Fries?
I’m kind of a health nut and try not to binge, but I absolutely LOVE crispy french fries.
#4 – Comedy or Drama?
I can’t make this an either or. It depends on what I’m in the mood for, I love both.
#5 – Danielle Steel or Nicholas Sparks?
Hmmmmm. I honestly don’t read either now, but I read a couple of Danielle Steel books when I was younger, and she told a great story.
#6 – Fantasy or Reality?
Reality. Mostly. It’s always great to have flights of fantasy where anything is possible.
#7 – Call or Text?
I’m kind of old school. Texting is great to communicate quick information, but for a real conversation, I prefer a human voice over the phone.
#8 – Public School or Home School?
My kids were all raised in the public schools and they did great, but I have friends who have been homeschooling their daughter and she is amazing. It’s a lot of work, but I can see how it can be an investment in your child’s future.
#9 – Coffee or Hot Chocolate
I need my caffeine.
#10 – eBook or Paperback?
There is still something I love about holding a physical book in my hands, but I am a convert to the ebook. It’s so convenient and doesn’t take up any space. My only problem is that I have a huge backlist of books, and keep on buying new ones.


About the Author

Peter Thompson grew up on the east side of Chicago, in the shadow of the steel mills where the air was sooty and smelled of sulfur. His life wasn't always so gritty, but the grit and realism find its way into his thrillers. He has always loved stories of every kind, and one of his joys is finding a way to get inside character's heads, seeing the world as they see it and feeling their triumphs, pain, and fear. He visualizes his characters when he writes, and they are larger than life in the big screen of his imagination.
Before pursuing his passion and becoming a full-time author, he tried his hand at everything from factory work, breaking cement in a construction crew, running his own pizza shop, and he was a well-regarded presence in the mortgage industry for nearly thirty years. When he isn't writing, Peter loves, spicy food, live music, and exciting and thought-provoking books and movies. He is a fitness buff who loves to spend time with his grown sons and is looking forward to traveling the world and seeking adventures with his lovely partner.
To get in touch, find out more about future projects, please stop by authorpeterthompson.com. Sign up for his reading list to find out about new releases and receive free perks.

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Creating Characters

It’s a question writer’s get asked a lot: what comes first? The story or the characters? The answer for me is usually a bit of both. They tend to arrive together. I’ll have an idea of the kind of story I want to tell and the characters who will be involved. That’s how it always begins, but when it comes time to planning the book, I always develop the characters first.
I can’t go ahead with the story until I know exactly who it’s going to be about. That means getting to know the characters in detail before I start. This is probably one of the most exciting parts of the process. I liken it to going on holiday. It’s the moment when you’ve decided where you’re going and you’ve bought the tickets. Now, you start looking forward to the trip and making plans for what you’ll do when you get there.
I always start with the basics – physical features. It’s a great help to know exactly what your characters look like. For the leads I’ll often work with the likeness of a real person: a friend, an actor, a model, someone from an article. If possible, I like to save a photograph of that person to my notebook. If I base a character on the guy who works in my local coffeeshop then that’s out of the question, unless I want to get into stalker territory, which is not happening. But say I use an actor, I’ll find four different photos to work with – different expressions, smiling, moody, etc. This is a huge help for the next stage, where I build up their stats: age, hair and eye colour, height, weight, chest and waist size, etc. This is also where I note any tattoos, scars, piercings, any distinctive physical features. If the character is going to feature in any sex scenes then I need to know a lot more: body type, hairy, smooth, dick size, etc. I need to know everything.
 My character notes for Logan in Written in Scars

With their looks in place, I’ll start to work on the background. Where were they born? What kind of childhood did they have? What were they like at school? What do they do now? Where do they live? What significant relationships have they had? What scares them? What do they want out of life? Do they have any regrets? Likes and dislikes?

A lot of the stuff detailed above won’t make it into a finished story, but it’s the kind of detail I need to get the character clear in my own mind, and I can’t progress to the story without knowing it. I won’t want to, because I really love this part.
I create a list of characters and flesh them out in this fashion. Not everyone needs such deep development. A minor character may need no more than half a page to fix them in my mind, but all the main players have to fully developed. Once I have them, I’m ready to looks at the story.

My character notes for Sam in Written in Scars


I always work with an outline, even for a short story. I know I lot of writers prefer to fly by the seat of their pants and see where it takes them, but I’m the opposite. I’m a control freak. Ask my husband. If we set off on a trip without a clear plan of where we’re going, what we’ll do there, and a back-up plan just in case, I get mega stressed. It’s the same with writing. I work out the beats of every chapter before I ever write the first page. That’s not to say things can’t change. Like that road trip, if you spot something interesting along the way, it’s good to take a detour to check it out.
This what works best for me. It won’t work for everyone. But if you’re a writer and you’ve ever felt intimidated by that first blank page (or computer screen) give it a try. It’s much easier to get started when you already your characters and their story inside out.

Pre-release Blitz: The Case of BIlly's Missing Gun by SJ Slagle @jeanne_harrell

The Case of Billy’s Missing Gun Blitz HTML Copy the code then paste into the html area of your blog, you can go back to the compose area to change colors of text if you want. Just highlight the text and select the color. Please note, you WILL have to add in manually any Excerpt, Interview, Guest Post, etc. you have signed up for once you receive that. -----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

(Sherlock and Me series)
Cozy mysteryDate Published: March 2019

Super sleuth Lucy James is hired to find the Colt pistol that may have belonged to Billy the Kid. Hampered by dishonest weapon experts, a pawnshop murder and unusual architecture at a downtown casino, her investigation is rocky at best. A massive snowstorm has blanketed Reno leaving Lucy to slog her way to interviews with uncooperative witnesses. Her father’s abrupt firing from his job as the host of a local children’s television show and the impending marriage between her best friend Cindy Floyd and her detective fiancé Skip Callahan grab chunks of Lucy’s fleeting attention. But she is determined to find the missing gun before the next snowstorm even though she on and off relationship with handsome professor Eric Schultz is off again. With sheer tenacity and a pair of thick snow boots, Lucy muscles through to the mystery’s resolution. It isn’t easy but the mystery and murder never are.


Excerpt
CHAPTER 1
My name is Lucy James. Life seems to revolve in cycles and I’ve been trying to decide if this is an up or down cycle at this moment in time.  On the up side, I earned my private investigator license in Nevada last year and got a decent chunk of cash a couple of cases ago. On the down side, I shot through most of it renting my new office in downtown Reno and blowing the rest on a horse. No, it wasn’t a racehorse and I wasn’t betting in one of the casinos around here. I’d helped out a little boy in his hour of need. That’s me. Lucy the do-gooder or so my best friend Cindy always tells me. Anyway, the boy’s dad was so grateful that he’s paying me back in installments. Problem is sometimes his installments don’t meet all my expenses and since another case hasn’t darkened my office lately, I’m still plugging away at the old movie theater by the Truckee River that winds its way through the city. It’s been my go-to job all through college and it appears it’s going to see me through a bulk of my adulthood too.  It pays the rent. Today I wandered down to a local television station, KNVP, to see my dad at work. Larry James has been the host of Uncle Ollie’s Playhouse, a hit local show for kids under ten since the beginning of my ill-fated college career. Not my cup of tea but he enjoys it. Dad’s tenacity to stick with the program is the one characteristic I’m pleased to have inherited from him. Jury’s out on the rest. In through a back door, everyone nodded as I slipped by to stand at the edge of the playhouse set to see how Uncle Ollie was doing. Shelves with colorful toys, bouncy balls, a purple-leafed plant, a man in shining armor and bowls of fruit decorated the interior. Ollie was perched on a stool in the center of the activity singing a song about getting along with your neighbors. His singing partner was a puppet resembling some unidentified breed of dog. The droopy ears and bulbous nose should have been dead giveaways but weren’t. Not that it mattered. Several happy little kids hovered around the puppet clapping and singing along with a beaming Uncle Ollie.  I watched in wonder at the man in bright red slacks and striped sweater. With his feet encased in fuzzy slippers and a shaggy blondish wig, Uncle Ollie, aka my dad, was a cross between a stylish Mr. Rogers and a 1950s Captain Kangaroo. But if memory served me, Dad should have been singing with a bunny rabbit if his emphasis that day was Captain Kangaroo. I never asked him what daytime children’s show his was patterned after because I knew what he’d say. With wide eyes and a forlorn look etched on a comic face, Larry James would exclaim, “Lucy! How can you think I would ever stoop so low as to mimic one of those people?” He would draw out the word ‘those’ to two syllables laced with enough irony to make me want to starch a shirt. Ugh. Then I would get his standard lecture about being an original and if you couldn’t be original, why bother? But there weren’t as many children on the set as usual and the two cameramen stifled yawns. No director hovered creating the usual chaotic whirlwind and there was a slight chill in the atmosphere I’d never experienced before. Even Uncle Ollie’s typically bright eyes and smile seemed forced and I wondered what was up. I found out as soon as Ollie and his sidekick Pete the Dragon finished singing the theme song, signaling the end of the program and the children were herded off the set. Dad stormed after them heading right for the control booth on the second floor. Sensing trouble, I tagged along. “Wait up, Dad. What’s the rush? Aren’t you going to take off your costume?” He didn’t turn in his haste to acknowledge me as he ran up the stairs, but managed to spit out, “Not now, Lucy.” Blowing through the door of the control room, he got right in the executive producer’s face. A large man with few strands of hair and fewer principles, Rance Morgan wasn’t more than forty but looked fifty, clogged the already stuffy air with cigar smoke and ordered his staff around like they were born to wait on him. He had only become executive producer this past year and he and Dad had clashed from day one. Today didn’t seem more promising than any other day. “Morgan! What the hell is the idea?” Puffs of steam from Uncle Ollie’s ears seemed to wilt his shaggy wig. Rance Morgan stood stiffly towering over Larry James with a look of defiance. “What is it now, James? The lead arc light too bright again?” “You know what I’m talking about, Morgan. Cut the crap!” Morgan smirked, folded his arms across his broad chest. A button popped open when he inhaled. “Yeah. Same old, same old. Pete got more camera than you did.” He shook his head so slowly that I nearly laughed out loud. The guy was as big a ham as my father. “Pete did, the children did, the puppets all did. Even Leapin’ Lizard got great angles. Why I was barely in the program at all. Why don’t you make it ‘Uncle Ollie’s Playhouse Without Uncle Ollie’?” Morgan’s smirk became a sneer. “Great idea, James. Pack up that crap costume you insist on wearing and don’t let the door hit you on the backside when you slink out!” Dad’s jaw hit the floor. “What are you saying?” “Just what you suggested: I’m firing you. Thanks for saying what I’ve been meaning to for the better part of this year.” Dad raised himself to full height, put his fists on his hips and sneered right back. “How do you expect to have Uncle Ollie’s Playhouse without Uncle Ollie? That’s me, you idiot!” “What?” He laughed. “Think I can’t get another guy to play your moronic character? In a heartbeat, pal.” Morgan stepped aside and headed toward me. “You and your stuck-up daughter can find your own way out.” “Hey!” I protested. But he muscled by me tossing a shrug in my direction without giving either of us a second look. When I turned to my dad, a very indignant Uncle Ollie met my open-mouthed stare. His camera make-up looked about ready to drip off his tomato red face. “Dad, you just got fired.”

About the Author

SJ SLAGLE started her writing career as a language arts teacher. Her initial interest was children’s stories, but she moved on to western romance, mysteries, and historical fiction. She has published 24 novels, both independent and contract. SJ contributes regularly to guest blogs and has her own blog called anauthorsworld.com in which she discusses the research involved in the books she writes. SJ has established Twitter and Facebook fan bases, a quarterly author newsletter and a website under her pseudonym: JEANNE HARRELL at jeanneharrell.com.
Her first historical fiction novel, LONDON SPIES, was awarded a B.R.A.G. Medallion in 2018 and Slagle was a finalist in the 2017 UK Independent Book Awards. She was given the Silver Award with the International Independent Film Awards for her screenplay called REDEMPTION. SJ conducts writing/publishing symposiums in her local area. OSLO SPIES, her second historical fiction novel will be published in September. She lives and works in Reno, Nevada.
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Release Blitz: The Players by Jack Polo

      
Mystery, ThrillerPublisher: Black Rose WritingRelease Date: February 19, 2019

Two detectives’ steamy past complicates their hunt for a psychotic killer and puts them in an assassin’s deadly sights.
Would you trust a former lover who'd betrayed you? Detectives Cole Trane and Mollie Simmons have no other choice. They're after a ruthless killer tied to the Russian mafia who leaves behind a bloody trail of victims as he races to escape to Canada. Their only hope is to have each other's back like they once had each other's heart -- especially when they discover that they, in turn, are being pursued by a deadly assassin who wants to get them in his sights.



About the Author


Jack Polo is an award-winning screenwriter whose fiction reads like a verbal camera -- taking you into the hearts and minds of the people in his book. From star-crossed lovers Cole and Mollie, to Nikolai Voronov, the Machiavellian Russian oligarch who wants no survivors, to the dark evil of Igor Petrak, the psychotic assassin. The result is a page-turner of the first order. This is a can't-put-down thriller.


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Release Blitz: A Song For by Lori Power

The Gentle Surf Series, Book 3Contemporary RomanceDate Published:  February 13, 2019Publisher: The Wild Rose Press

“For a Song” is set on the southern tip of the California coastline, on the island of Coronado. Here, on the wide, golden beach fronting the historic Hotel Del Coronado, watching the fishermen at sea, you can see the purple hue of the mountains of Mexico on the horizon.  Assumptions plague our characters in this book.
Our hero, Trip Vincent is on trial for killing his business partner—the lead singer in their band. Of course, he is found not guilty since he wasn’t even driving the car. However, in this digital age of social justice warriors rampant on the internet, he’s been found guilty by the public at large and his fan base. The shame and remorse of not doing more to save his best friend, lead Trip down the same path his grandfather, Reginald once took—the bottle. Trip seems likes he on the road to ruin until he meets Aya, a mysterious, pixie-like woman who happens to “appear” in his life when he needs her the most.
But Aya didn’t just happen to appear. She’s a drifter who’s been trying to shake the bonds of her weed-like roots for years. From the moment the band purchased one of Aya’s song and sang it to gold on the charts, she has been closely monitoring Trip’s career. What started fascination over his family’s musical roots and their tie to the Island of Coronado turned in beguilement of the man himself as he stoically persevered during his trial. Throughout his court case, Aya knew there was more to the story and made it her business to uncover the truth and see it was placed in the right hands, so he could get back to the business of music.
When he doesn’t get back to singing, her need to meet him in person steps over the line. Her line. His line.
Now Aya must ask herself is she a stalker who fell in love because Aya isn’t who she appears. Evasively eluding government officials has been a number one priority for years. As the grand-daughter of the most notorious presidential assassin, she and her family have always been presumed “guilty” by mere association. Of course, it doesn’t help that both her grandmother and mother profited from this association focusing more on their bank accounts and then the destruction of the act.
How could she possibly make Trip understand and try to build a life with him. Just when he makes her believe her “happily ever after” could happen, she must leave.
“For a Song” is set in modern America, where misinformation and disinformation has become the status quo. But does it have to be? Can these characters look beyond hype and see the truth of their relationship and the potential for more?
Like the other books in this series, “For a Song” is fraught with the high drama of social and family expectation, as well as assumptions and miscommunications. For each of our lead characters, our hero and heroine must learn their lessons and decide how to move forward—alone or together. And, as always, this is a romantic novel first and there is the “happy ever after”.
“For a Song” is a fast-paced story that offers both adventure and humour, while never forgetting about the passion and attraction. The immediate sexual tension compels to climax. These characters thrive on gratification. The reader won’t be disappointed.



Other Books in The Gentle Surf Series

Sea BreezeThe Gentle Surf Series, Book 1Publisher: The Wild Rose Press,Published: March 2017

Brought up under the strict regime of business first and personal relationships a waste of time and effort, Reginald followed in his father’s footsteps—until now. Like a bee to honey, he is drawn to a mysterious lounge singer. Her poise and elegance lift her above the crowd. Despite his looming engagement to further the family empire, he can’t stay away.
After the death of her mother and falling out with her father, Elleah flees to escape the shackles of matrimony as a business deal. In 1950 post-war America, she will not settle. She can’t deny the attraction to Reginald, but he is everything she has sworn off—a drinker, hardcore businessman—the embodiment of New York society, never mind being as close to engage as a person can be without the ring.
Only with each other do their masks come down. Can Reginald step out from the shadow of his family and become the man he was meant to be? Will Elleah see through her misconceptions to give him a chance?
Amazon





From the Front DeskThe Gentle Surf Series, Book 2Publisher: The Wild Rose Press,Published: December 2017
Toby MacPherson is guilty…and innocent, and Wendee Miller is on the run.
Both streetwise and life-weary, neither are looking for any complications. Yet, life does seem to happen when you least expect it and when these two meet the attraction is palpable. Both employed by the Hotel Del Coronado, their meeting time and again seems unavoidable. Where Toby is drawn to her vivacious personality, Wendee can’t help but be intrigued by the shy giant.
But what will happen when each discovers the other’s secret? Will their newfound love be enough to bridge the shock and many hurdles to come? Or will they learn there is strength in trusting another?
Amazon



About the Author

Let's face it...Lori likes tea. Most often found in the kitchen sharing stories, or a coffee shop, mug in hand, she can visit for hours.
That's inspiration: people, places, adventure. Every day is made up of the moments to create the tapestry of life.
Without sharing; how would you ever know that Gord from a small farming community in Northern Alberta found himself in Australia on a tour and passed his childhood friend Joe hitch-hiking. They pulled over, unbelieving that this could really be Joe and sure enough; Joe on the side of the road, on the other side of the world, decades after they had last met. Great stories!
To be able to put thoughts on paper and have other people appreciate the stories; laugh, cry, feel the passion, is a dream come true for Lori Power.
Lori’s body of work is as varied as the adventures of daily life and includes children's stories, a Gluten-Free cookbook, romance, suspense, and thrillers and soon to be Young Adult fiction..
Her first ''official'  novel, “Storms of Passion” published by Wild Rose Press under their Champagne line, was released n 2014.
Book One in the "Under Suspicion" series, beginning with "Hit 'n Run", followed by "The Tables Have Turned" is available now, from Limitless Publishing. Book Three "Secrets Revealed" is presently in process and will be concluded with Book Four "Finding Home"..
"The Gentle Surf" series is available from Wild Ross Press. This includes "Sea Breeze" inspired by the Hotel Del Coronado on the Southern tip of the California coast. and "From the Front Desk", The third installment in this series, "For a Song" is in process of being released.
Collaboration is important to improving one’s craft and as such, Lori is an active member of the TransCanada Romance Writers, Romance Writers of America, The Calgary chapter of the Romance Writers, The Alberta Romance Writers Association and belongs to both a Critiquing group and a Beta Reading weekly group.
In all things, remember...life is a journey, thanks for being part of the adventure!

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Release Blitz: His Hand in the Storm by Ritu Sethi @ritusethiauthor

Mystery/Suspense/ThrillerDate Published: Dec 22, 2018

 A MAN COPES ANY WAY HE CAN AFTER KILLING HIS ONLY SON.
His team believes he’s calm and Zen. His boss finds him obsessive. Suspects think him gorgeous but dangerous. They’re all right.
Chief Inspector Gray James is sculpting the remembered likeness of his small son when he receives the call – a faceless corpse is found hanging by the choppy river, swirls of snow and sand rolling like tumbleweeds.
Montreal glitters: the cobbled streets slippery with ice, and the mighty St. Lawrence jetting eastward past the city. One by one, someone is killing the founders of a booming medical tech startup – propelling Gray into a downward spiral that shatters his hard-earned peace, that risks his very life, that threatens to force him to care and face what he has shunned all along: his hand in the storm.
From the prize-winning author comes a psychological, page-turning mystery with all the elements one needs on a rainy night: a complex murder, a noble yet haunted detective, and an evocative setting to sink into.


Excerpt

CHAPTER 1April 1, 5:30 am
MORE NUMBING PAIN.
At precisely five-thirty am on April the first, Chief Inspector Gray James tucked his cold hands into his pockets, straightened his spine, and looked up.
He breathed out through his nose, warm breath fogging the air as if surging out of a dragon and tried to dispel the mingled hints of flesh, cherry blossoms, and the raw, living scent of the river.
The drumming of his heart resonated deep in his chest – brought on more by intellectual excitement than by any visceral reaction to murder. Because of this, Gray accepted an atavistic personal truth.
He needed this case like he’d needed the one prior, and the one before that. That someone had to die to facilitate this objectionable fix bothered him, but he’d give audience to that later. Much later.
A car backfired on le Chemin Bord Ouest, running east-west along Montreal’s urban beach park. A second later, silence ensued, save the grievous howling of a keen eastwardly wind, and the creak of nylon against wood, back and forth, and back and forth.
Heavy boots tromping through the snow and slush came up from behind. A man approached. Tall, but not as tall as Gray, his cord pants and rumpled tweed conveyed the aura of an absent-minded professor, yet the shrewd eyes – not malicious, but not categorically beneficent either – corrected that impression.
Forensic Pathologist John Seymour looked up at the body hanging from the branch of a grand oak, gave it the eye and said, “Well, I can tell you one thing right off.”
“What’s that?”
“You wouldn’t be caught dead in that suit.”
Gray sighed. “What do you suggest? That I refer the victim to my tailor?” To which Seymour shrugged and got to work.
With every creak of the rope biting into the bough, Gray half-expected the swinging shoes to brush the snow-laden grass; each time the cap-toed oxfords narrowly missed. A grease stain marked the bony protrusion of the left white sock (with a corresponding scuff on the heel – from being dragged?), above which the crumpled brown wool-blend fabric of the pants and ill-fitting jacket rippled in the wind – like the white-tipped surface of the river beyond.
Dawn cast a blue light on the water and snow. A damp cold sank through Gray’s coat and into his bones. Amazing how the usually peaceful beach park took on a menacing air: the St. Lawrence choppier than usual, swirls of sand and snow rolling like tumbleweeds, the sky heavy and low. But a children’s playground lay behind the hanging body, and its red swings, bright yellow slide, and empty wading pool offered a marked contrast to the swaying corpse.
With every flash, Scene of Crime Officers photographed the body and documented what remained: only an exposed skull, framed by sparse hair on top, ears on either side, and a wrinkly neck puckered in a noose. A red silk tie under the hangman’s knot accentuated the complete absence of blood. Blood would have been preferable. The features were stripped to the bone, with eroded teeth set in a perpetual grin as if the skull were enjoying a joke at everyone’s expense.
“White male in his early fifties,” Seymour said. “Well off, by the look of him. Only small bits of tissue left on the cheekbones, lips, and around the eyes. Notice the distinctive gap between the two front teeth.”
That could help with identification.
The custom ringtone on Gray’s cell played “She’s Always a Woman.” Why was she calling him so soon? He stabbed the phone and tucked it back into his cashmere coat pocket before circling the body several times.
“What killed him?” Gray asked.
“The facial trauma preceded the hanging.”
That much was obvious since the rope wasn’t eaten away like the face.
“We can’t know the cause of death until I get him on the slab,” Seymour said. “And before you ask, the time of death is hard to say. Parts of him are already frozen. Maybe four to seven hours ago. I’ll have a better window after I’ve checked the stomach contents and what’s left of the eyes.”
Seymour crouched and felt the victim’s knees and lower legs. “Rigor mortis has set in, probably sped up by the cold.” He rotated the stiff ankles. “Look at these tiny feet. Can’t have been too popular with the ladies.”
Gray closed his eyes and counted to five.
All around, professionals bustled gathering evidence, clearing onlookers and photographing the scene. The park lay sandwiched between the beach and parking lot leading to the main road. On one side, the river flowed eastward in a blue-gray haze, blurring the line between water and sky. On the other, traffic going into downtown Montreal grew heavier by the minute. The road led to his neighborhood, where Victorian and Edwardian homes, bistros, and cafés crunched together for ten hipster-infused blocks.
This park held memories of weekends spent with his wife and son. A lifetime ago. Why did it have to happen here, of all places?
“Did some kind of acid cause the burns, Doctor?”
“Yeah. Parts of the eyes are still there. Almost as if they were left for last. I wonder why.”
Gray could think of a reason but didn’t elaborate.
A gust of wind swung the corpse’s legs sideways, narrowly missing an officer’s head.
“What the hell.” Seymour grabbed the ankles. “The sooner we cut him down, the better.”
Which couldn’t be soon enough. Gray bent down and held the lower legs. He gripped the ankle awkwardly with his right thumb and little finger, the middle three immobile these last three years since the accident, and a snake-like scar running from his palm to his wrist blanched from the cold.
Despite his hanging on tight, the corpse danced in the wind. “Don’t rush on my account, Doctor.”
Finally, attendants cut the victim down and laid him on a stretcher. Seymour hunched over, his blond hair parting in the breeze, revealing a pink, flaky scalp, the grinning corpse powerless to refuse examination.
“Definitely acid,” Seymour said. “Going to be hard for you to trace, since it’s so easy to get. Impure sulphuric acid’s available at any mechanic shop. You find the purer kind in pharmaceuticals.” He flashed a penlight into the facial crevices and probed them with a long, needle-like instrument.
The victim couldn’t feel it, but each stab and scrape made Gray flinch. “Must you do that?”
“Look at these chipped bones,” Seymour said. “Here, next to the supraorbital foramen, and here on the left zygomatic arch. They’re edged off, not dissolved by acid.”
“Torture, right?”
“Could be.”
Gray paced his next six words: “Was he alive for the acid?”
“I’m going to have to brush up on vitriolage. If he were, he’d have breathed it in, and we’d see scarring in the esophagus, nostrils, and lungs.”
Looking around at the flat, deserted beach park, the ropy ebb and flow of the water, Gray said, “He didn’t die here, did he?”
“No. From what I can see, livor mortis indicates he probably died sitting and was strung up later. I’ll let you know after all his clothes are off.” Seymour pushed himself up with his hands, his knees popping like the report of a firearm. “What could the poor bastard have done to deserve this?”
Gray didn’t answer. As someone guilty of the greatest sin of all, he considered himself wholly unqualified to make any such judgment.
His cell played “She’s Always a Woman,” again, and he pulled it out. Images from the previous night played in his mind: her hands flat on the mattress, his palm encircling her belly from behind. And those unexpectedly strong martinis she’d made earlier.
Putting away the phone, he spoke brusquely. “When will you have something ready?”
“Preliminary report probably later today. And I’ll send remnants of the acid for analysis to determine the type and grade.”
As the body was carried to a van and Seymour followed, second-in-command Lieutenant Vivienne Caron approached Gray carrying two cappuccinos from a nearby Italian cafe. Wonderful steam rose from the opened lids, and the dark, nutty aroma drifted forward, the first hint of comfort on this bleak morning.
Her chocolate brown eyes exuded warmth – eyes both direct and shy, their color perfectly matching her short, straight tresses now whipping about in the wind and framing gentle features.
“Chief Inspector.” She addressed him formally, despite their longstanding friendship. The sound of her nearly perfect English was pleasant and familiar, beautifully accented with the musical intonation characteristic of certain Québecois.
Even though she held the coffee before his left hand; he grasped it awkwardly with his right.
“Don’t spill any on that thousand-dollar suit,” she said.
It made him gag. “Why do you always add so much sugar?”
“Because I know that with a juicy case to solve, you’ll be too busy to eat or sleep.”
A moment of silence passed between them, pregnant with history he didn’t want exhumed.
“I have to make sure you’re okay,” she said. “Even if you refuse to... She was my best friend.”
He placed a hand on her shoulder. “You live with Sita’s ghost more than I do. Enough time has passed for me.”
“Maybe. It’s changed you.”
“For the worse?”
Vivienne stilled, her mouth open. “Non. For the better. That’s the problem.”
Her eyes were warm yet partly adversarial. He saw it as the conflicting desire for wanting him to be okay, but not to leave her to grieve alone. She’d once told him the same trauma that had disillusioned her had enlightened him.
“It doesn’t matter what happens,” he whispered.
“Doesn’t matter?” Her voice took on an edge.
“As long as you can control your reactions – it doesn’t matter. Freedom comes from living in grays – no black; no white. No convenient polarities.”
Her eyes pierced his, but he knew, out of respect, she wouldn’t directly say what she thought; that he oscillated between Zen and obsession, contentment and blackness.
She shuffled her feet. “I don’t know how you made that leap, after the tragedy.”
“The worst thing that could ever happen to me has happened. After that, I can either fear everything or nothing – I have nothing left to lose.”
Vivienne didn’t reply.
What right had he to preach when he still experienced unguarded moments which filled his insides with quicksand as that malignant though raced through his mind: what do I do now? How do I fill this day and twenty years of interminable days when everything is for nothing? When this life feels surreal, dissociated as though I’m on a foreign planet with strangers.
Those moments often occurred when he didn’t have a case; they occurred before sleep and drove his nightly obsession.
“Living in Gray?” Vivienne shook her pretty head. “I believe in good and evil.”
“Then where do I fall? Or will you make excuses for me?”
“Non. I won’t make excuses for you. “
Her eyes hooded over; she took a step back. A door slammed between them, again.
“No cell phone, no ID,” she said. “Any footprints or tracks are covered by snow.”
“Let’s have someone check with the occupants of the hospital rooms facing the river.”
Westborough Hospital sat directly across the road. A magnificent feat of engineering, its four glass-walled buildings were connected by skyways. It had taken twenty years of fundraising to build (with its founding director recently fleeing to Nicaragua under allegations of embezzling some of those funds) and took up several square blocks.
Gray forced down the coffee. Already, warmth and caffeine coursed through his system, bringing life to his numb toes tucked inside the slush-soaked loafers. “Did you check with missing persons?”
“Only one recent report matches. Norman Everett of Rosedale Avenue in Upper Westmount. He’s only been gone since last night and reported missing by his step-son, Simon Everett. And of note, Norman’s a doctor at Westborough Hospital.”
Gray’s head shot up. “Missing since last night, and works at this particular hospital? The timing’s perfect. Give me his details. I’ll do the interview myself while you finish up here.”
“D’accord.”
She handed over the number, and he made the call to Norman Everett’s house, reaching the missing man’s wife, Gabrielle.
Before Vivienne could go, a Scene of Crime Officer jumped forward and handed Gray a transparent evidence bag.
“Found this by the tree over there, Chief.”
“How recent?”
“It lay just under the snow. The city cleaned this area recently; hardly any debris around.”
Gray thanked him and looked down at the four by six-inch identity badge, examined the photo, and read the identifying details, gripping it tight enough that his fist blanched. The image blurred for the briefest second before clearing.
Vivienne rubbed her hands together. “What’s wrong?”
He didn’t trust his voice yet. A shoal of uncertainties flooded his chest. The case suddenly became more raw, more urgent, but he’d handle it. He always did. Gray unclenched his jaw and fingers, and handed her the evidence bag.
“The killer?” she asked.
“A witness.”
“Look at that ID. Look what it says. You can’t be sure.”
“Yes, I can.” His tone came out harsher than he’d intended. He could guess her next words, and he’d deserve them. Does anything matter, now? Will you be able to control your reactions? But she didn’t say it. Didn’t point out the one circumstance that sliced his calm with the efficiency of a scalpel. Instead, she met his eyes in a gentle embrace before moving farther up the beach.
Bells sounded from St. Francis, the eighteenth-century cathedral up the road for the Angelus prayer. Quebec had the largest Catholic population in the country, and maybe as a result, the lowest church attendance and marriage rate. But the familiar ringing comforted and smoothed the sharp edges of his morning.
Gray left the cordoned off area, crossed the breadth of the beach park, and headed to the attached parking lot and his car; the black metallic exterior gleamed in the distance.
At one time, the Audi S5 had consumed a substantial chunk of his detective’s salary, but he hadn’t cared. Memories of countless family road trips lay etched within its metal frame.
Still twenty feet away, he pressed the automatic start to warm the engine, just as Seymour summoned him from behind.
The doctor jogged over sporting a wry smile, breath steaming in the cold air, and his long coat flapping. Behind him, the van carrying the body left the parking lot.
“I forgot to ask you earlier – about your next expedition,” Seymour said. “Mind having some company?”
“I failed last time,” Gray said. “Or hadn’t you heard?”
“A fourteen-hundred-kilometer trek to the South Pole, on foot, is hardly a failure.”
“It is if you can’t make the journey back. Anyway–”
A boom drowned out his words. The earth shook, and air blasted towards them, throwing Gray to the ground onto his right shoulder, pain searing up his arm. Chunks of metal and debris flew from the newly obliterated Audi in every direction, denting nearby cars and clanging against the pavement. A puff of smoke shot upward, chasing the flames, leaving the smell of burning rubber and metal hanging in a thick cloud – while cars on the nearby road screeched to a sudden halt. The fire swayed as though alive, angry arms flailing and crackling, spitting sparks in all directions.
“What the hell!” Seymour lay in the snow, his mouth open, his arm up to ward off the scorching heat.
Gray’s car lay mutilated, the black paint graying as it burned. People jumped out of their vehicles to take a look. Vivienne and some officers ran towards him, their feet pounding on the asphalt.
“Someone is damn pissed off at you,” Seymour said, eying his own dented Mercedes. He turned to Gray. “What did you do?”

About the Author


A MYSTERY; A BEACH; A BEER:  Ritu's favorite vacation day.
Ritu's first book, His Hand In the Storm has had nearly 50,000 downloads. It became an AMAZON BESTSELLER  in the Kindle free store and was #1 in all its mystery categories. She needs coffee (her patch for Coca Cola), beaches, and murder mysteries to survive – not necessarily in that order. She won the Colorado Gold Award for the first in the Chief Inspector Gray James Murder Mystery Series, His Hand In the Storm. The book was also a Daphne du Maurier Suspense finalist.
She’s fulfilling her lifelong desire of becoming a mystery writer. Many thanks to all the readers who are making that possible.

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