Robin E. Mason's Blog: Robin's Book Shelf, page 143

BLOGWORDS – Wednesday 14 February 2018 – WREADING WEDNESDAY – FEATURED BOOK EXCERPT – THE SILENT SONG OF WINTER

BLOGWORDS – Wednesday 14 February 2018 – WREADING WEDNESDAY – FEATURED BOOK EXCERPT – THE SILENT SONG OF WINTER

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WREADING WEDNESDAY – FEATURED BOOK EXCERPT – THE SILENT SONG OF WINTER

 

#WreadingWednedsay is dedicated to ‘wreading’ bits and excepts from my books—there’s five now! Book 3 in my Seasons series, The Silent Song of Winter, releases this month.

 

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“You need to go, my dear.” Polly was most kind, beyond understanding. She encouraged me in our endeavor. She knew somehow, the angst in my heart, the confusion and questions.

“I’ll only be away a few days.”

“Don’t rush yourself, Pearl. This is important. This is a big decision and you must take time to consider.”

I had considered. For months I had considered. And now I was on the brink of undeciding what I had so recently thought best. Had thought my only option.

“But how can this be the best thing, Polly?” Confusion weighed on me, exhausting my already pregnant-taxed body.

“Pray, my dear.”

“Pray?” I was diligent in my faith, read the Holy Bible every Sunday in church—a small gasp escaped me. We had been in Savannah two months and we’d not attended church. I had passed Saint Martin’s countless times, but hadn’t once ventured inside. My head drooped in shame.

“Of course, pray.” Polly smiled, I could feel it in the warmth of her voice and the gentle touch of her hands. “Pray always. Pray until you have peace.”

Peace. I hadn’t felt or known true peace in… years. Had I? Had I ever truly known peace?

I pondered on peace as I walked home. Peace, be still. But Christ was talking to the wind and the waves. He certainly wasn’t talking to me.

But the words wouldn’t leave me. They echoed through my mind like the waves lapping the shore, ever returning, ever repeating. Ever present.

And for a fleeting moment, I felt peace swell over me before it ebbed away again, ethereal as the very tide itself.

But the decision that lay before me weighed heavier than any wave on the shore, heavier than any ethereal peace. I’d never have peace in this decision. I’d not had peace about leaving Saisons, and I surely had known no peace in remaining there. My heart and my mind were in every bit as much turmoil as Europe was with German troops—

I stopped myself. Rolf was German, and I’d not besmirch his homeland, no matter the news. He was here now, in America, living as an American entrepreneur—

And wanting to go into business. In Savannah. Again the heaviness and confusion enveloped me, driving away that small lacy sliver of peace that had teased.

 

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#Blogwords, Wreading Wednesday, Featured Book Except, The Long Shadows of Summer, Seasons, The Tilting Leaves of Autumn, The Silent Song of Winter, The Whispering Winds of Spring

BLOGWORDS – Tuesday 13 February 2018 – TUESDAY REVIEWS-DAY – NEW RELEASE FEATURE – THE LACEMAKER by LAURA FRANTZ

BLOGWORDS – Tuesday 13 February 2018 – TUESDAY REVIEWS-DAY – NEW RELEASE FEATURE – THE LACEMAKER by LAURA FRANTZ
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TUESDAY REVIEWS-DAY – RELEASE DAY FEATURE – THE LACEMAKER by LAURA FRANTZ
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When colonial Williamsburg explodes like a powder keg on the eve of the American Revolution, Lady Elisabeth “Liberty” Lawson is abandoned by her fiancé and suspected of being a spy for the hated British. No one comes to her aid save the Patriot Noble Rynallt, a man with formidable enemies of his own. Liberty is left with a terrible choice. Will the Virginia belle turned lacemaker side with the radical revolutionaries, or stay true to her English roots? And at what cost?

Historical romance favorite Laura Frantz is back with a suspenseful story of love, betrayal, and new beginnings. With her meticulous eye for detail and her knack for creating living, breathing characters, Frantz continues to enchant historical fiction readers who long to feel they are a part of the story.

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Noble’s prayer for a discreet entrance to the Palace’s festivities was answered. At the precise moment he and Lady Elisabeth stepped into the flower-strewn entry, a woman swooned at the far end of the ballroom, and several liveried footmen rushed to her rescue. Every eye was fixed on the ailing Lady Grey, and Noble simply guided Elisabeth Lawson by the elbow into the midst of the glittering assembly. A first minuet was struck, and they moved onto the polished parquet floor with the other dancers as if they’d been there from the first.

She looked up at him, her intelligent eyes assessing, a relieved pleasure pinking her powdered features as if he was—dare he think it?—some sort of hero. When she looked away from him, his eyes traced the delicate oval of her face, noting every detail. A dimple in her left cheek, visible even without a smile. Darkly arched brows. Aquiline nose. Remarkably blue eyes. Smooth white shoulders sloped down to an elaborately embroidered gown that seemed to catch the light of every candle.

She hardly looked besmirched, yet she was. Not only by her rake of a fiancé but by he himself and his less than honorable intentions squiring her. Beside her he felt less than gallant, using her ladyship for political purposes, though his cause was noble enough.

Though he hadn’t danced in what seemed a decade, she made the reacquaintance almost effortless. A discarded memory pulled at him and fell into place. Lady Elisabeth was the same woman he’d seen with Lord Dunmore’s daughters in the royal gardens not long ago, trying to master the steps of some complicated country dance. He remembered her laugh, not high and flutelike as he thought it would be, but throaty and rich as a violoncello. The dancing master had not been amused, he remembered, when he and his fellow burgesses had slowed to watch as they left a meeting at the Palace.

Her eyes were no longer on him but swept the room restlessly. She was looking for Miles Roth, obviously, and he felt curiously let down. His cousin deserved a sound thrashing for his wayward ways. If only Miles was made of sterner stuff, immune to Henry’s wiles. Yet Patriots like him and Henry relied on Miles’s weaknesses to strengthen their own cause. Still, Noble’s own part in the scheme sat uneasily.

He was suddenly aware of a great many eyes upon them now, for a great many reasons. Without prior arrangement, without forethought, the two of them were the only wigless, unpowdered people in the room. And her lovely gown with its avalanche of lace was a perfect foil for the dark ribbed silk of his suit. For the moment they seemed to be creating as much a stir as Miles’s absence and Noble’s own unannounced end to mourning.

By the time Miles finally entered, the shimmering ice sculptures had begun swimming in crystal punch bowls in the adjoining supper room, and the spun sugar frosting on the enormous tiered cake had succumbed to a slow melt. One look at him and Noble knew someone had had to pry the dice from Miles’s hand to get him here. In his yellow satin suit, he looked like a giant honeybee, a port stain splotched across his waistcoat, his stock askew. Noble felt a blistering embarrassment for Elisabeth Lawson.

Duty bound, he squired her about the crowded edges of the ballroom to Miles’s side, struck by the horrendously incompatible picture they made. She so pure and genteel, his cousin debauched and half drunk.

It seemed a grim prediction of their future.

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Before Elisabeth could recover her manners and thank him, Noble Rynallt had turned his back on them and made his way to the knot of gentlemen near an open window. He slid through the perspiring summer crowd—no easy task, given the crush of three hundred people in attendance. She watched him go with a mixture of relief and regret.

At his exit, her father was soon at her elbow, looking down at her. To the casual observer he seemed unruffled, but she knew better. “I’d thought to see you here long before now.”

The stern words were directed at her, not her intended, as if she was somehow to blame for both Miles’s tardiness and her own.

“My apologies, sir.” Miles reached up a hand to straighten his stock, eyes roving the overwarm room. “I was detained.”

At least Miles had the gumption to speak for her. Whatever his faults, he was one of the few men not cowed by her father. He was, for better or worse, unapologetically … Miles.

Elisabeth looked in dismay at the deep purple stain blooming on his chest, the hue of Noble Rynallt’s impeccable attire. Moving in front of Miles, she reached out a gloved hand and drew his suit coat closed with a steel-cut button, hiding the offending mark. His voice held a trace of tenderness. “Ah, m’lady, always looking out for me.”

She softened at the unexpected words. Aware of her father’s scrutiny, she resisted the urge to tuck in a strand of fair hair falling free of Miles’s wig. Truly, yellow was not a good color on him. He looked washed out, a wastrel. Had he no valet? Once they’d wed she’d help manage his wardrobe with suitable shades.

“I suppose we should dance,” he finally murmured, eyeing the crowd.

Her father looked on as a Scotch reel was struck, as lively as the minuet had been sedate.

Once in Miles’s arms she was overcome by the distillation of sweat, snuff, and spirits. He moved a bit wildly, limbs loosened by too much port.

Through the melee of whirling, swirling dancers, Noble Rynallt’s face stayed steadfast. Now standing near the supper room doors, he resembled one of the paintings on the ornate walls. Guarded, watchful, unsmiling.

Not far from him was Lady Charlotte, her crimson silk a fiery counterpoint to her oldest daughter’s ice-blue taffeta. Any displeasure she felt about the presence of one of the Independence Men was well hidden. Indeed, Lady Charlotte was smiling at Elisabeth benignly, making anything else of little consequence.

And her fiancé? He looked bored. Irritated. At the very ball in his honor.

            Oh, Miles, you are enjoying none of this.

All the heart went out of her. Her father’s disapproval, Miles’s sated disinterest, her own inability to partake of any merriment, all worked to snuff any flicker of joy. “Sunny,” folks about Williamsburg sometimes called her, on account of her felicitous disposition.

Tonight she felt sunny no longer.

 

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rem:   Hullo Laura, and congratulations on your new and lovely book! If you could live anywhere in any time period, where would you go?

LAURA:  Definitely the 18th-century, just after the American Revolution and not during it! I confess to having little interest in the 19th-century so am content to write stories before it. And I’ll soon be leaping back to the 17th-century and am excited about that bit of time travel as well.

 

rem:   Ooh! Intriguing! Not sure I’ve read any in the 17th century—can’t wait to get my hands on it! #winkwink Where did you find this story idea?

LAURA:  I thought of it after my sons bought me the American Girl doll, Felicity, who is their 18th-century creation and lives in Colonial Williamsburg much like my heroine in The Lacemaker. I’ve always loved Colonial Williamsburg as a historic site but never dreamed I’d be blessed to set a novel there!

 

rem:   I love American Girls Dolls—bought a couple of them when my daughter was a little girl. Who was the easiest character to write and why? The most difficult?

LAURA: Liberty’s father was hard as he was so despicable. I found little to like about him so my distaste for him surely shows and I couldn’t wait to get him off the page! Liberty or Lady Elisabeth was the easiest. Easy to put myself in her shoes and imagine her life of luxury and then her losses. I like her steadfast faith and her focus on the positive very much!

 

rem:   I enjoyed reading Lady Elisabeth’s faith, and how it sustained her through unimaginable circumstances; it blessed me and boosted my own faith. What do you munch on while you’re writing / researching / editing?

LAURA: Buttered popcorn and Coke Life. I’m a bonafide foodie and can honestly say I love writing more than eating so if the writing is flowing, I forget all about snacks!

 

rem:   Love me some good buttered popcorn! What do you do to recover once you’ve typed “THE END?”

LAURA:  I take a few days off and treat myself to something even if it’s just going out to dinner at a favorite place. And chocolate, always chocolate

BLOGWORDS – Monday 12 February 2018 – SPECIAL EDITION – REMFEBWRIMO

BLOGWORDS – Monday 12 February 2018 – SPECIAL EDITION – REMFEBWRIMO
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SPECIAL EDITION – REMFEBWRIMO

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“ Simone’s willow green eyes were searching, not weeping. She’d heard that name before. But where? When? Memory fragments rattled, whispered. She strained to listen, to piece the jumble together. But the puzzle that was her memory was still missing so many pieces.

And Mercedes Renaldi was one of those pieces.”

 

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Worst day I’ve had in a LONG time!! OY already!!

 

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Yesterday I spent most of all of my time on launch event blog posts for #TheSilentSongofWinter! Today, though, I’ve started the GREAT READ THROUGH—all three of the first books in the series—to refresh my brain and garner details I need to tell Simone’s story!

 

So, on to #TheWhisperingWindsofSpring!! Fourth and final book in my SEASONS SERIES, coming in May!!! I do love how these stories are overlapping and intertwining, each new one going back to the previous ones, and tying them all together!

 

 

“I’ve always had voices—er, stories in my head. I once said I should write them all down so someone could write them someday. I had no idea at the time that someone was me!”

 

 

http://robinemason.com

https://robinsnest212.wordpress.com/

https://www.facebook.com/pages/Robin-E-Mason-Author-Artist/224223274404877

http://www.amazon.com/Robin-E.-Mason/e/B00MR5IQ9S

https://twitter.com/amythyst212

http://www.pinterest.com/amythyst212/

https://plus.google.com/u/0/108929134414473292325

https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/7808042.Robin_E_Mason

 

 

“the battle for identity, one story at a time”

 

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#Blogwords, Special Edition, #RemFebWriMo, Seasons, The Long Shadows of Summer, The Tilting Leaves of Autumn, The Silent Song of Winter, The Whispering Winds of Spring

BLOGWORDS – 12 February 2018 – NEW WEEK NEW FACE – GUEST POST – PETER LEAVELL

BLOGWORDS – 12 February 2018 – NEW WEEK NEW FACE – GUEST POST – PETER LEAVELL

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NEW WEEK NEW FACE – GUEST POST – PETER LEAVELL

 

Dear God. I hate work. Amen.

 

But I noticed when reading through the Bible that God gave us work before we ate of the tree of good and evil. I was sure work was part of the fall.

 

Drat. rem: LOL

 

Watching me at work as a part time property manager looks like this—He flies from desk to desk, three screens of work buzzing while he’s talking to the entire line of customers. The look of panic on his face is only less entertaining than the twitch in one eye.

 

Watching me write—He’s sits reclined, unmoving. He hasn’t blinked for ten minutes now. Look, his chest moved, so he’s still breathing. Is that an IV? Is that COFFEE dripping into his arteries? Goodness, he looks so happy. So peaceful.

 

The first is my job. I’m a property manager to get my wife and kids through university.

 

The second is my vocation. My calling. It makes money. But not enough to support a growing family.

 

I like to think writing is my glorified task—the one given to me before our fall from God. Of course, property management, then, is simply of the devil.

 

Characters in books are no different. Every person hunts for money or manages money, from the beggar on the street to the middleclass mom to the Queen of Egypt. If they don’t work, they don’t eat. Even a lazy person has to work someone over to get what they need to survive. Like Huckleberry Finn, getting out of work can be more work than work.

 

But must a character in a book have a job and a vocation? Using the two, we can create tension in a novel.

 

We have characters like Hercule Poirot who is the world’s leading detective (a title up for grabs with the likes of Sherlock Holmes, no doubt), who is able to focus solely on detective work without needing a part time job. Frankly, if Poirot needed to work in clothing retail, we’d be concerned about his little grey cells (although his attention to details would be either genius or maddening).

 

 Animal Farm is a plotline divided by careers—menial tasks by the animals against the management by the pigs, and while all the animals in the story were equal, some were more equal than others. But reading, you get the sense each character wanted something just a bit more than the task they were doing—as if made for more than just their job. They wanted a calling, a vocation.

 

The idle rich manage money and support staff. Boredom takes them on wild adventures, like Phileas Fogg and his most adorable servant, Passepartout, in Around the World in Eighty Days. It’s not enough for them to simply enjoy their money. They’ve a vocation. Prove something. Prove themselves.

 

The rich dowager in every historical mystery and drama ever written can’t just manage and enjoy the money. No. Their vocation is to make sure every person who comes in contact with her is miserable and controlled. Her vocation gives her no end of pleasure.

 

Sometimes a character like Fyodor Karamazov in The Brothers Karamazov is drinking his life away, he’s avoiding his vocation. In this case, to be a good father.

 

Someone like June Cleaver from Leave it to Beaver is locked in domestic bliss. Mmhmm. Her job is to make sure her boys (including her husband) survive and have a good time. Does she want to continue her role as wife and mother in an oppressive society? Does she have a vocation calling her? Or is raising her children the height of all that is good in the world? What will she do when they leave? The tension is palpable.

 

Very few men and women chose war as a vocation. War, however, is a job taking many from what they really want. Families. Hometowns. Life. War and other struggles offer stunning character arcs, a dynamic only understood if readers know what the character is giving up, what the character’s vocation really is. If they don’t have a calling, then war will seem their calling, which I must admit is kind of unsettling.

 

War isn’t the only horror that draws people from their vocation. It could be a repressive father, or self-doubt, perhaps a cult controls a person. Abused children or adults. Lack of knowledge that there’s anything better can be frustrating, such as saying yes to his proposal because there’s no reason to turn him down.

 

The vocation of Dr. David Hunter in my latest middle grade reader, Dino Hunters, is a biologist, but his true calling is archeology. He’s pulled into the world of hunting dinosaur bones with his niece and nephew.

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Keep in mind as you write the differences between job and vocation, and you will find yourself with added tension. And maybe, just maybe, you’ll help others understand their calling. Isn’t that your calling?

 

[image error]Peter Leavell, a 2007 graduate of Boise State University with a degree in history, was the 2011 winner of Christian Writers Guild’s Operation First Novel contest, and 2013 Christian Retailing’s Best award for First-Time Author. Peter and his family live in Boise, Idaho. For entertainment, he reads historical books, where he finds ideas for new novels. Whenever he has a chance, he takes his wife and two homeschooled children on crazy but fun research trips.

 

www.peterleavell.com

https://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=100001541945347

https://twitter.com/PeterLeavell?lang=en

https://www.amazon.com/Peter-Leavell/e/B00895B0ZC/ref=dp_byline_cont_ebooks_1

 

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#Blogwords, New Week New Fact, #NWNF, Guest Post, Peter Leavell

BLOGWORDS – Sunday 11 February 2018 – FRONT PORCH FELLOWSHIP – ON THE CUSP OF SIXTY

BLOGWORDS – Sunday 11 February 2018 – FRONT PORCH FELLOWSHIP – ON THE CUSP OF SIXTY
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FRONT PORCH FELLOWSHIP – ON THE CUSP OF SIXTY

 

Tomorrow launches Robin5.9, aka my birthday. Yes, I’ll be 59! Hard to believe, I know!

 

I can see Father’s hand on my life every step of the way, through every trial and hardship; even before RobinZero was birthed, my mom had a dream that she would name me Robin. I believe that was Holy Spirit speaking to her.

 

Early Robin was a happy baby, with all the usual milestones. Robin1.8 was joined by the Little Brother App. The App didn’t run to the manufacturer’s satisfaction, though, which triggered some dormant viruses within the manufacturer. Anomalies related to those viruses infected Robin2, and she then became infected with a vicious malware.

 

With the addition of the Little Sister App, Robin5.1 became further infected with spam and viruses, damaging the Operating System.

 

Holy Spirit, however, was running Firewalls and Malware, protecting the Mother Board and CPU of Robin, and fending off any additional and irreversible damage.

 

As early as Versions 6 & 7, Robin was unable to run at peak capacity, and tried to conform to other programs, any other program. But Holy Spirit anchored the CPU solidly within the ROS (Robin Operating System), sustaining her until all the damage for the viruses could be purged. Robin underwent many scans and defrags but was not running to full capacity.

 

The Husband App was added at Robin18.10, with three resulting Child Extensions, the 1.Son.ext, 2.Son.ext, and 3.Daughter.ext. The Husband App was infected with malware and viruses, and was extracted from Robin25.6. It was replaced by the Freedom and Growth App.

 

The debugging process was to take years; it wasn’t until Robin35.11that unprogramming and reprogramming was fully implemented, making way for the original programming to be reinstalled and formatted.

 

With each new upgrade, Holy Spirit was making the tweaks and adjustments necessary for Robin to run properly and at Peak Operating Performance. Once Robin was plugged into the Creator Program—and not running the AICreator Spamware—the Identity Plug In was installed, enabling the Purpose Widget to run.

 

Now, on the eve of Robin5.9, Robin is running at Optimal Performance and Production.

 

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#Blogwords, Front Porch Fellowship, #FPF, Sunday Devotion, On the Cusp of Sixty, Robin5.9, Creator Program, Identity Plug In, Purpose Widget, Optimal Performance

BLOGWORDS – Friday 9 February 2018 – FIRST LINE FRIDAY – PEARL IN THE SAND by TESSA AFSHAR

BLOGWORDS – Friday 9 February 2018 – FIRST LINE FRIDAY – PEARL IN THE SAND by TESSA AFSHAR
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FIRST LINE FRIDAY – PEARL IN THE SAND by TESSA AFSHAR
 

Welcome to First Line Fridays, hosted by Hoarding Books!!!

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Tell us your first line in the comments & then head over to Hoarding Books to see who else is participating!

 

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THE BLURB:  

Can a Canaanite harlot who has made her livelihood by looking desirable to men make a fitting wife for one of the leaders of Israel? Shockingly, the Bible’s answer is yes.

Pearl in the Sand tells Rahab’s untold story. Rahab lives in a wall; her house is built into the defensive walls of the City of Jericho. Other walls surround her as well—walls of fear, rejection, unworthiness.

A woman with a wrecked past; a man of success, of faith … of pride; a marriage only God would conceive!  Through the heartaches of a stormy relationship, Rahab and Salmone learn the true source of one another’s worth and find healing in God.

 

THE FIRST LINE:

Dawn had yet to appear when Rahab tumbled into consciousness, courtesy of an impatient nudge.

 

MY THOUGHTS:  

What a beautifully written and beautifully conceived story of such a significant figure from Scripture. Barely more than a mention of her in the Bible, and yet of course she had a story. And Ms. Afshar’s account puts the reader in the story, instantly making her one of my favorite authors.

 

 

STARS:

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#Blogwords, First Line Friday, #FLF,  Pearl in the Sand, Tessa Afshar

BLOGWORDS – Wednesday 7 February 2018 – SPECIAL EDITION – REMFEBWRIMO

BLOGWORDS – Wednesday 7 February 2018 – SPECIAL EDITION – REMFEBWRIMO
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SPECIAL EDITION – REMFEBWRIMO

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“ Simone’s willow green eyes were searching, not weeping. She’d heard that name before. But where? When? Memory fragments rattled, whispered. She strained to listen, to piece the jumble together. But the puzzle that was her memory was still missing so many pieces.

And Mercedes Renaldi was one of those pieces.”

 

 

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Got it done! Now I can focus #TheWhisperingWindsofSpring!

 

“I’ve always had voices—er, stories in my head. I once said I should write them all down so someone could write them someday. I had no idea at the time that someone was me!”

 

 

http://robinemason.com

https://robinsnest212.wordpress.com/

https://www.facebook.com/pages/Robin-E-Mason-Author-Artist/224223274404877

http://www.amazon.com/Robin-E.-Mason/e/B00MR5IQ9S

https://twitter.com/amythyst212

http://www.pinterest.com/amythyst212/

https://plus.google.com/u/0/108929134414473292325

https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/7808042.Robin_E_Mason

 

 

“the battle for identity, one story at a time”

 

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#Blogwords, Special Edition, #RemFebWriMo, Seasons, The Long Shadows of Summer, The Tilting Leaves of Autumn, The Silent Song of Winter, The Whispering Winds of Spring

BLOGWORDS – Wednesday 7 February 2018 – WREADING WEDNESDAY – FEATURED BOOK EXCERPT – THE SILENT SONG OF WINTER

BLOGWORDS – Wednesday 7 February 2018 – WREADING WEDNESDAY – FEATURED BOOK EXCERPT – THE SILENT SONG OF WINTER

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WREADING WEDNESDAY – FEATURED BOOK EXCERPT – THE SILENT SONG OF WINTER

 

#WreadingWednedsay is now dedicated to ‘wreading’ bits and excepts from my books—there’s five now! Book 3 in my Seasons series, The Silent Song of Winter, releases this month.

 

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We went for a drive, uncertainty clouding the sunny day. The road took us south, along the shoreline, and I could hear the waves dancing on the sand through the palmetto trees.

We hadn’t driven an hour even when we came upon a heron perched in the narrow road. I was sure the rumble of the motor would frighten him away but he remained firm. He didn’t appear to be wounded; rather, he seemed curious of the beast that hummed just a few short yards from him.

My eyes locked with those of the bird, and he strutted toward me. He hesitated at the gentle click of the door, and I paused.

His eyes still drawing me, I moved as slowly as a morning mist hovering over the ground. Heron stood yet firm, his head tilted as in curiosity. My skirts whispered as I stepped closer, my shoes silent on the soft sand.

At my approach, he bobbed his head as though nodding to me. My eyes never left his, and after short moments stretched long, I was standing next to him. Standing on a fallen branch, he stretched the graceful S-curve of his neck, and he was eye level to me.

I reached out my hand. The sand colored feathers were downy soft as I stroked his neck. He quivered at my touch, and leaned in to me. A tremor emitted a purr-like sound, and though his face beheld a beak, it seemed as though he smiled at me.

Then with a grand flourish, he stretched out his wings and he lifted into the air. He circled around, lifted higher, till he was gone from view.

 

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#Blogwords, Wreading Wednesday, Featured Book Except, The Long Shadows of Summer, Seasons, The Tilting Leaves of Autumn, The Silent Song of Winter, The Whispering Winds of Spring

BLOGWORDS – Tuesday 6 February 2018 – TUESDAY REVIEWS-DAY – NEW RELEASE FEATURE – HIGH TREASON by DIANN MILLS

BLOGWORDS – Tuesday 6 February 2018 – TUESDAY REVIEWS-DAY – NEW RELEASE FEATURE – HIGH TREASON by DIANN MILLS
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TUESDAY REVIEWS-DAY – RELEASE DAY FEATURE – HIGH TREASON by DIANN MILLS
                                                                             

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When Saudi Prince Omar bin Talal visits Houston to seek cancer treatment for his mother, an attempt on his life puts all agencies on high alert. FBI Special Agent Kord Davidson is the lead on the prince’s protective detail because of their long-standing friendship, but he’s surprised―and none too happy―when the CIA brings one of their operatives, Monica Alden, in on the task force after the assassination attempt.

Kord and Monica must quickly put aside interagency squabbles, however, when they learn the prince has additional motives for his visit―plans to promote stronger ties with the US and encourage economic growth and westernization in his own country. Plans that could easily incite a number of suspects both in the US and in countries hostile to Saudi Arabia. Worse yet, the would-be assassin always seems to be one step ahead of them, implicating someone close to the prince―or the investigation. But who would be willing to commit high treason, and can Kord and Monica stop them in time?

 

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FBI Special Agent Kord Davidson had survived missions in the Middle East, been detained in Iran, escaped an ISIS death trap, and still walked and talked. His past kept him fueled for the future while adrenaline flowed whenever he recalled the danger—and the victories of working Houston’s terrorist division.

Early Tuesday morning, Kord sat in a Mercedes limo with Saudi Prince Omar bin Talal, his longtime friend and a grandson of the royal Saud family, en route to the Saud mansion in River Oaks. The prince’s mother, Princess Gharam, and his two sisters rode in a limo behind them. Prince Omar had requested Kord for protection detail as an olive branch to the Americans. Smart move, in Kord’s opinion. The strained relations between Saudi Arabia and the US resulting from falling oil prices and the US having less dependency on foreign oil was only part of the problem. Despite being a strong ally to the West in the fight against terrorism, the Saudis disapproved of how the US was handling the ongoing tension in Iran, Syria, and Yemen, and the list went on.

Kord shook off those bleak thoughts and turned his attention to the security detail. “I’m looking forward to catching up with your family,” he said to the prince. “I appreciate the e-mails with your sons’ photos, but I want to know all about them from their father.”

Prince Omar grinned like a boy himself. “They study hard and work even harder at mischief. You and I will have hours of coffee and conversation.” His expression shifted to lines that aged

him. “I wish the circumstances regarding my mother were more pleasant.”

“MD Anderson is the best medical center in the world to help her.”

“And Houston has the only facility conducting a clinical trial for her type of cancer. I keep telling myself she’ll be fine, trying to be hopeful. I have an appointment with her team of doctors after she’s admitted to the hospital this afternoon. They want to review the testing from her doctor in Riyadh and explain their proposed method of treatment.” He paused. “I’m glad you’re with me. In case Mother’s treatments aren’t successful, I’ll need a friend.”

“Princess Gharam’s a strong woman.”

“She’s determined to fight the cancer.”

“I see your business plans aren’t on the schedule.”

Prince Omar turned to him. “I’ll give you that once I know about Mother’s treatment.”

“My job is to ensure your safety.”

“We’ll discuss it later. On Wednesday week, I’d like for you to accompany me to Saudi Aramco.”

He responded respectfully. How many of those at the family business were supportive of Prince Omar’s plans to lease ownership in Saudi oil reserves to Americans?

Prince Omar tapped his driver on the shoulder. “Wasi, don’t forget we’re stopping at the Frozen Rock.”

“A little early for ice cream,” Kord said.

“Not on Riyadh time.”

The prince’s press secretary, Malik, laughed. “Prince Omar, I reserved the shop for 9 a.m. before we left home.”

The moment the limos pulled off Westheimer into the busy shopping strip housing the Frozen Rock, uneasiness crept over Kord. A sensation he couldn’t shake and one he’d learned to trust. He scoured the area looking for potential danger.

“Prince Omar, I don’t think we should do this.”

“This is one of Mother’s favorite excursions, and my sisters enjoy it too.”

He glanced at his friend. “Zain and I can take orders and deliver them. My gut tells me this isn’t safe, and I can’t give you a solid reason why.”

“I know your gut talk,” Zain, the head Saudi bodyguard, said.  “Kept us from getting killed a couple of times.”

Prince Omar sighed heavily. “We have eight armed men. This is a go.”

Wasi drove the limo to a far corner beneath an oak where both limos had room to park. The Frozen Rock sat midway in the retail center.

Zain turned to the prince. “Kord and I will make the initial trip and ensure the area is secure. After I talk to the owner and pay him per the conversation Malik had yesterday, I’ll call you. If I detect anything risky, we can cancel.”

The prince lifted his phone and frowned. “My battery is dead. Must have used it up at the airport. Call Malik if there’s a problem.”

Per the State Department and HPD, the bodyguards, all dressed in suits, were permitted to carry weapons in case of an attack. But Kord couldn’t shake off the wariness. Only Zain and Prince Omar wore white cotton pants and shirts under their thobe and ghutra with a black mishlah. The men shared a remarkable resemblance, but having Zain disguised as the prince gave Kord little relief. He surveyed the area, noting teens from the high school across the

street, two women in workout clothes, and others who gave no apparent reason for the hesitancy in his spirit.

“Would you like for Wasi and Malik to join us?” Zain laughed. “You and I have faced a lot worse than a store owner forgetting to open early.”

“True.” No talking down a stubborn Saudi when he’d made up his mind.

Wasi placed the limo in park.

Kord exited the limo and walked around the front, his attention focused on every conceivable point where danger could be lurking. Finding nothing, he opened the door on Prince Omar’s side, and Zain stepped out, his slender body wrapped in centuries-old culture and tradition.

The two strode across the parking lot toward the window-walled Frozen Rock, painted in vivid orange and neon green. A Closed sign on the door met them, but lights were on inside the shop. Good. The reservations were intact. Now to get the prince and his guests fed and out of there. Was Kord crazy to be so apprehensive?

He knew Zain had his eyes and ears on what was happening around him while his fingers were inches from his weapon. A few feet from the glass door of the ice cream shop, Zain broke his stride.

He fell against the glass door.

The pop of a rifle sounded.

Kord grabbed him, pulling out his Glock with his other hand.

Shouts in Arabic alerted him to bodyguards emerging from the limos close behind him. Time hung suspended. Zain’s body slid to the sidewalk facedown, the ghutra soaked in red.

Kord bent to his friend and felt for a pulse. “Zain,” he whispered, “this isn’t the way it’s supposed to happen.”

No response or faint heartbeat. Blood oozed from the back of his skull, draining a Saudi life onto US concrete.

Screams rose from nearby women and children.

The man who’d shared Middle Eastern danger and saved Kord’s life was dead. No doubt mistaken for Prince Omar. How did the sniper know about the stop at the Frozen Rock?

 

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rem:   Hullo DiAnn and CONGRATULATIONS on your newest release! I’m so happy to share it with my readers! If you could live anywhere in any time period, where would you go?

DIANN:  Now and right where I live in Houston, Texas. There are lots of places I’d like to travel to, but none where I’d want to live.

 

rem:   And I might need to visit Houston, here and now…  #winkwink Where did you find this story idea?

DIANN:   I read about a case in New York City in which the FBI uncovered a plot to assassinate a Saudi Arabian ambassador. I took that thought and set my story in Houston. My characters became CIA Operative Monica Alden, FBI Special Agent Kord Davidson, and Saudi Prince Omar Bin Talal. The story begins when the prince escorts his mother to Houston for receive cancer treatment at MD Anderson …

 

rem:   So, real life becomes fiction! Who was the easiest character to write and why? The most difficult?

DIANN: Easiest – CIA Operative Monica Alden. She’s a strong woman who respects others and knows how to do her job. She’s fun and the research fairly easy.

The most difficult character was Prince Omar Bin Talal. Writing the Saudi culture took a tremendous amount of research. And double checking of answers. So glad I chose this story, but it was hard.

 

rem:   And that tremendous amount of research paid off! Your story reads so authentically! What do you munch on while you’re writing / researching / editing?

DIANN: Coffee, water, and peanut butter pretzels. J I think they are a food group.

 

rem:   Of course they are! What do you do to recover once you’ve typed “THE END?”

DIANN:  Actually it’s a bit of a sad time because I’m saying goodbye to characters. But I jump in to marketing and promotion while the story’s fresh.

 

rem:   That’s the best way, ‘cause you’re not really saying goodbye yet! DiAnn thanks so much for visiting with us on my blog today.

 

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DiAnn Mills is a bestselling author who believes her readers should expect an adventure. She combines unforgettable characters with unpredictable plots to create action-packed, suspense-filled novels.

 

Her titles have appeared on the CBA and ECPA bestseller lists; won two Christy Awards; and been finalists for the RITA, Daphne Du Maurier, Inspirational Readers’ Choice, and Carol award contests. Firewall, the first book in her Houston: FBI series, was listed by Library Journal as one of the best Christian Fiction books of 2014.

 

DiAnn is a founding board member of the American Christian Fiction Writers, a member of Advanced Writers and Speakers Association, Sisters in Crime, and International Thriller Writers. She is co-director of The Blue Ridge Mountain Christian Writers Conference and The Mountainside Marketing Conference with social media specialist Edie Melson where she continues her passion of helping other writers be successful. She speaks to various groups and teaches writing workshops around the country.

 

DiAnn has been termed a coffee snob and roasts her own coffee beans. She’s an avid reader, loves to cook, and believes her grandchildren are the smartest kids in the universe. She and her husband live in sunny Houston, Texas.

 

DiAnn is very active online and would love to connect with readers –

 

www.facebook.com/diannmills

https://twitter.com/diannmills

www.diannmills.com

 

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DiAnn is an organic writer. Plot stems from character, and she’s a pantster.
She believes writing is a ministry.
She writes romantic suspense because the world can be scary and unforgettable, but there are trained people to stop and prevent crime.
She’s co-director with Edie Melson of the Blue Ridge Mountains Christian Writers Conference.
She’s co-director with Edie Melson of Mountainside Marketing Conference.
Definitely a coffee snob. She roasts her own coffee beans.
She lives in Houston, Texas, home of heat, humidity, horses, Harleys, and a nasty hurricane called Harvey.
DiAnn is passionate about helping the people of Sudan.
She believes her grandchildren are as close to perfect as possible.
She loves to cook!

 

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Conflict of culture, of faith, of past and present. Middle East traditions vs modern Western ideology, Allah or Jesus, old wounds or new hope. Ms. Mills creates high tension on every page. Her characters come alive and the story grabs the reader into the pages. Snappy dialogue and high stakes motivations charge the story intrigue and suspense and treason.

 

I enjoy Ms. Mills’ stories, the suspense and twists from beginning to end. The depth of her research reads like a current events news story; her characters are likeable and real, and I like reading their growth as the story progresses. It was a little dry reading in places, but then again, I read this after a colorful and vivid story of adventure. Ms. Mills writing is rife with details and specifics that make High Treason come alive. A must read for all mystery and suspense lovers!

 

 

 

I received a free copy of this book, but was under no obligation to read the book or to post a review. I offer my review of my own free will. The opinions expressed in my review are my honest thoughts and reaction to this book.

 

 

#Blogwords, Tuesday Reviews-Day, #TRD, New Release Event, High Treason, DiAnn Mills, FBI Task Force Book 3, Deadly Encounter, Deep Extraction

BLOGWORDS – Monday 5 February 2018 – SPECIAL EDITION – REMFEBWRIMO

BLOGWORDS – Monday 5 February 2018 – SPECIAL EDITION – REMFEBWRIMO
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SPECIAL EDITION – REMFEBWRIMO

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“ Simone’s willow green eyes were searching, not weeping. She’d heard that name before. But where? When? Memory fragments rattled, whispered. She strained to listen, to piece the jumble together. But the puzzle that was her memory was still missing so many pieces.

And Mercedes Renaldi was one of those pieces.”

 

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READ THROUGH DONE!!! Formatting to commence momentarily, then uploading to CREATE SPACE!!! And of course, The Silent Song of Winter releases the end of THIS MONTH!!  Watch for my RELEASE EVENTS!!!

 

And on to #TheWhisperingWindsofSpring!! Fourth and final book in my SEASONS SERIES, coming in May!!! I do love how these stories are overlapping and intertwining, each new one going back to the previous ones, and tying them all together!

 

 

“I’ve always had voices—er, stories in my head. I once said I should write them all down so someone could write them someday. I had no idea at the time that someone was me!”

 

 

http://robinemason.com

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https://www.facebook.com/pages/Robin-E-Mason-Author-Artist/224223274404877

http://www.amazon.com/Robin-E.-Mason/e/B00MR5IQ9S

https://twitter.com/amythyst212

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https://plus.google.com/u/0/108929134414473292325

https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/7808042.Robin_E_Mason

 

 

“the battle for identity, one story at a time”

 

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#Blogwords, Special Edition, #RemFebWriMo, Seasons, The Long Shadows of Summer, The Tilting Leaves of Autumn, The Silent Song of Winter, The Whispering Winds of Spring