Mila Gray's Blog, page 3

Next Mila Gray novel announced!

THIS IS ONE MOMENT will be out in September (published by Pan Macmillan).

Didi Monroe’s waited her whole life for the type of romance you see in the movies, so when Hollywood heartthrob Zac Ridgemont sweeps her off her feet, Didi believes she might finally have met the one.

While Zac’s away filming for the summer, Didi begins her internship at a military hospital in California. There, she meets wounded Marine Noel Walker.

Frustrated on the outside and broken on the inside, Walker’s a pain-in-the-ass patient who refuses all help.

Yet Didi can’t help but be drawn to him, and though he’s strictly out of bounds it soon becomes impossible to ignore the sparks flying between them.

As the attraction simmers into dangerous territory, Didi finds herself falling hard for a man she knows is going to break her heart. Because Walker doesn’t believe in love or happy ever afters. So what possible future can there be?

Then tragedy hits, shattering both their worlds, and Didi is forced to choose between fighting for love or merely falling for the illusion of it.

You can follow my Mila Gray FaceBook page to keep up to date with news.

Birmingham Signing / Q&A

I’m thrilled to announce that I’ll be doing a Q&A and signing at Waterstones in Birmingham on July 11th.

To reserve a place or find out more details check out this link.

Hope to see you there!

(If you can’t make Birmingham don’t despair as I also hope to do a signing in London before August. I will also be having a book launch in August for my upcoming non-fiction travel memoir Can We Live Here. So watch this space!)

Hunting Lila just 99p!

Hunting Lila is just 99p at the moment on the apple iTunes bookstore so if you still haven’t got your copy now’s your chance to grab it at a bargain price!

BUY now.

Hunting Lila is the first book in the Lila series (followed by Losing Lila). There is no third book (yet) but there is a short story set after Losing Lila (Tormenting Lila) and there’s also a collection of short stories called Lila: Shortcuts which is available as an ebook.

Win signed copies of Conspiracy Girl & More

CONSPIRACY GIRL is out soon.

To celebrate I’m running a big giveaway. You can win signed copies of CONSPIRACY GIRL and OUT OF CONTROL as well as other goodies.

a Rafflecopter giveaway

Be sure to follow the blog tour too. It starts today over here.
BUY THE BOOK.

 

CONSPIRACY GIRL

My next book CONSPIRACY GIRL is out on Feb 12th.

Here’s the blurb…

Everybody knows about the Cooper Killings.

There was only one survivor – fifteen year-old Nic Preston.

Now eighteen, Nic is trying hard to rebuild her life. But then one night her high-security apartment is broken into. It seems the killers are back to finish the job.

Finn Carter – hacker, rule breaker, player – is the last person Nic ever wants to see again. He’s the reason her mother’s murderers walked free. But as the people hunting her close in, Nic has to accept that her best chance of staying alive is by staying close to Finn.

And the closer they get to the truth, and to each other, the greater the danger becomes.

BUY NOW.

Early Praise:

“Wow. Sarah Alderson knows how to write a book! And she knows how to write it good.”

“Sarah Alderson is just a master of the relationship driven, edge of the seat thriller. This is a real page turner and doesn’t disappoint at all.”

“Damn, Sarah Alderson knows how to write!” The slanted bookshelf

“Alderson has done it again.” –  Bookworm

“Conspiracy Girl is must for fans of Alderson’s previous books.” – Goodreads

“An addictive read.” – The Pewter Wolf

“Conspiracy Girl was an ace read – highly addictive and emotionally charged with great characters and relationships.” – Fluttering Butterflies

 

 

OUT OF CONTROL

When Kirkus Reviews gives you a killer review it’s worth shouting about. So I am!

“Alderson keeps the suspense dialed up to 11 throughout most of the book, with chase scenes that will keep readers electrified, mixing them with flaming romance…Gripping, hot thrills in the summertime.”

Out of Control, which is already out in the UK and Australia, is coming out in the US in May. Hoping it makes a splash over there.

Read the full review here.

 

Come Back To Me is just 49p!

Need some steamy, hot romance in your life before 50 Shades comes out? Come Back To Me is just 49p for the next couple of weeks on iTunes so there is literally NO EXCUSE not to rush out and buy it and / or recommend it to all your friends!

BUY HERE.

And just in case you still need convincing then here’s a load of praise for it…

‘A captivating, heartfelt and sexy romance about the power of a love that won’t let go.’ Liz Bankes, author of Irresistible

‘A perfect, heartwrenching love story.’ Weaving Pages

‘The sexiest, most romantic book I’ve ever read . . . I couldn’t put it down.’ Becky Wicks, author of Before He Was Famous

‘With the cover and story reminding me of the likes of Nicholas Sparks (which if you are a fan of then you will definitely love this book too), I think the author has done an excellent job with her storytelling, characters, and most importantly, with the powerful, raw emotions that came with those certain characters’ talesoftheinnerbookfanatic.blogspot.co.uk

‘I can’t tell you how excited I was to read it, I had high expectations for the story and she utterly smashed them. Just reading the prologue gave me goosebumps and put a knot of fear in my stomach . . . Come Back to Me is intense, passionate, romantic and totally swoon worthy. It made me laugh one minute and sob my heart out the next, broke my heart but helped put it back together again . . . Mila Gray captures the intensity of first relationships, that feeling of being head over heels “I can’t live without you” in love . . . This isn’t just a romance though, it’s also a story about family and friendship, about loss and grief but also about finding hope in the darkest times and realising that no matter how hard it gets life goes on.’ FeelingFictional.com

‘A relaxing, easy, entertaining love story between two characters who are figuring out their lives both apart and separate. If you’re in the mood for first loves with a hero who can melt your heart and a heroine enamoured by him this book will definitely work for you,’ SheReadsNewAdult.com

‘Wow I absolutely loved it. It’s an intense, sweepingly romantic story with compelling individuals who flourish together . . . I cried whilst reading it on the train. I cried on a packed train, and I didn’t care because I was so entranced. Unmissable’ navigatornic.co.uk

BUY HERE.

 

99p Today! Out of Control (and the first chapter)

Out of Control is the Kindle Daily Deal today and on sale for just 99p! Quick tell all your friends!

When 17 year old Liva witnesses a brutal murder she’s taken into police custody for her own protection. But when the police station is attacked and bullets start flying it becomes clear that Liva is not just a witness, she’s a target.

Together with a car thief called Jay, Liva manages to escape the massacre but now the two of them are alone in New York, trying to outrun and outwit two killers who will stop at nothing to find them.

When you live on the edge, there’s a long way to fall

Here’s the first chapter to whet your appetite!

Chapter 1

The policeman is looking at me, his head tilted to one side, a deep line etched between his eyebrows. He taps his pen in a slow staccato rhythm on the edge of the desk. ‘What were you doing on the roof?’ he asks.

I take a breath and try to unknot my cramping fingers, which are stuffed in the front pocket of the NYPD sweater I’m wearing. ‘I was just getting some air,’ I say. I sound like an automaton; my voice is toneless, lost. ‘I couldn’t sleep.’

The policeman’s eyebrows rise. He scribbles something on his pad then glances up, catching sight of someone or something behind me.  He stands quickly, tossing his pen on to the paper-strewn desk. ‘I’m going to get a coffee,’ he says, grabbing a mug from among the mess.  ‘Can I get you anything?’

I shake my head and watch him walk away, scratching the back of his neck. He stops on the other side of the room to talk to another detective, wearing a jacket emblazoned with the word FORENSICS. They glance over at me as they talk. I turn away and stare at the wall. I know what they’re saying. They’re saying that I’m a lucky girl. That the fact that I’m alive is ‘a miracle’.

But if this is a miracle then I don’t think I want to know what kind of god these people believe in. A shadow falls over me. I jerk around. The other detective, the one in the forensics jacket, stands in front of me. My eyes fall to the heavy-looking gun in the holster attached to his hip. I recognise it. It’s a Glock 19.

‘Hi Olivia, I’m Detective Owens. Do you mind?’ he asks, indicating the empty chair beside me.

I shake my head and he pulls out the seat and sits down heavily, as though the weight of a thousand dead bodies is piled on his shoulders. His shirt is as heavily creased as his face. He rubs a hand over his eyes. He has saggy grey bags under them but, now he’s closer, I can see he’s not as old as I first thought; maybe thirty-five, with dark brown hair and a day’s worth of stubble.

‘So, what I’d like for you to do,’ he says in a heavy Brooklyn accent, ‘is to walk me through what happened this evening.’

I grit my teeth. I’ve already done this. I’ve been through it three times; once with the cop who answered the emergency call, and twice here at the station.

‘Just one more time,’ Detective Owens says apologetically, trying for a smile. ‘I know you’re tired, I know you’ve been through a lot, but we really need your help, Olivia. You’re the only witness. If there’s anything you remember –even if it seems like something trivial, we need to hear it. It might be the clue that helps us find the people who did this.’ He pauses. ‘Because, if I can be honest with you, there’s not a whole lot to go on right now.’

I nod OK.

‘So . . . you get out of bed. What time is it?’ he asks.

I frown. ‘Around one I think.’

‘Can you be any more precise?’

I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to picture the room. There was a clock on the bedside table. I glanced at it when I turned the light out. It was just after midnight. I tossed and turned for at least an hour before I decided to give up on sleep, but I didn’t check the exact time.

I shake my head at the detective.

‘Why’d you get up? Did you hear something? A noise in the house? Did something spook you?’

‘No,’ I say, still shaking my head. ‘I’ve not been sleeping very well. I have jet lag.’

‘Lucky for you, huh?’

I don’t answer. I just fix him with a stare. He holds my gaze for a second and then looks away, down at the notebook cradled in his palm.

‘So you get up. Then what?’ the detective asks.

I close my eyes and try to remember . . .

 

I cross to the window. It’s sweltering hot, the night air torpid and thick as a quilt, threatening to storm. I’m wearing only a pair of pyjama shorts and a thin camisole top – the same things I’m still wearing now beneath the oversized sweater they gave me at the police station. The house seems to be breathing. There’s a clock ticking downstairs by the front door, the hum of an air conditioner, the ticking tink of the plumbing and the occasional sound of a car sweeping past on the street in front. Away in the distance a car alarm wails. My third-floor bedroom faces the back garden, a thin band of manicured green, walls stretching high on either side, trees blocking the view of neighbouring brownstones. Beneath my window is a jutting ledge, just wide enough for a foothold.

I don’t think twice before I’m crouched in the window frame, my hands gripping the wooden sill, my bare feet slipping through and finding purchase on the crumbling brickwork. I take a deep breath, flattening my palms against the walls, feeling the familiar tightening in my belly, the rush that feels like stars shooting through my veins. I don’t look down at the ground four storeys below. I look up, at the moon, a dishwater-dirty half-circle shrouded behind cloud, and feel every cell in my body spark to life.

 

‘Keep going,’ Detective Owens says. ‘What happens next?’ he asks.

 

I edge slowly along the windowsill, carefully, towards a drainpipe screwed into the wall. When I reach it I grasp it in both hands and then start shimmying up it, using the brackets as footholds. It’s not as high as some I’ve climbed – maybe ten feet before I reach the roof and scramble on to it, breathless, my legs trembling slightly. I stand, wiping off the dust and dirt from my hands on my shorts and then I balance on the very lip of the roof, my toes disappearing over the edge, feeling the first patter of rain dance on my bare arms. I stare at the tops of trees ink-stamped across the sky, at the water-stained clouds, and the thought whispers through my mind that I’m insane, that if I fell from this height I’d die for sure . . . but then the thought is swept away by a wave of pure adrenaline. I feel light as air, perfectly poised. There’s no way I could ever fall.

And then I hear the tinkle of glass breaking somewhere far below.

My arms whirl frantically as I fight to keep my balance. I tumble backwards on to the roof and crouch down low, my hands white-knuckled as they grip the ledge. I squeeze my eyes shut and tell myself angrily that it’s just breaking glass, that I’m stupid and just overreacting, and I’m forcing myself to my feet ready to go and investigate when a thud comes from somewhere deep inside the house.

My stomach folds tight, all my instincts, everything I’ve ever learned from my father and from Felix coming into play: Steady your breathing, don’t succumb to panic, consider your options.

Maybe, I think to myself, Mrs Goldman woke in the night and spilled a glass of water. Maybe one of them has fallen out of bed. They’re old. It’s possible. I’m jumping to conclusions that it’s something bad. I’m in New York, for God’s sake. It’s safe here. Safer, at any rate. I throw a leg over the ledge and reach for the drainpipe, readying myself to shimmy down so I can go and investigate, and just then I hear two muffled retorts. I freeze. I know that sound. I hear it in my dreams. I force my leg back over the wall and I cower behind the ledge up on the roof, wrapping my hands around my head, blocking my ears and shutting out the sounds that follow, until, what feels like hours later, a police siren shatters the night air.

First Chapter of Come Back To Me

JESSA

A whorl in the glass distorts the picture, like a thumbprint smear over a lens. I’m halfway down the stairs, gathering my hair into a ponytail, thoughts a million miles away, when the blur outside the window pulls me up short.

I take another step, the view clears, and when I realize what I’m seeing, who I’m seeing, my stomach plummets, the air leaving my lungs like a final exhalation. My arms fall slowly to my sides. My brain fights my body’s instinct to turn and run back upstairs, to tear into the bathroom and lock the door. I’m frozen. This moment . . . this is the one you dream about, play over in your mind, the darkest of daydreams, one furnished by movies and by real-life stories you’ve overheard your whole life.

You imagine over and over how you’ll cope, what you’ll say, how you’ll act at that moment when you open the door and find them standing there. You pray to every God you can dream up that this moment won’t ever happen. You make bargains, promises, offer pleas, demands, desperate barters. And you live each day with the murmur of those prayers playing on a loop in the background of your mind, an endless chant. And then the moment happens and you realize it was all for nothing. The prayers went unheard. There was no bargain to make. Was it your fault? Did you fail to keep your promise?

Time seems to have slowed. Kit’s father hasn’t moved. He’s standing at the end of the driveway staring up at the house, squinting against the early morning glare. He’s wearing his Dress Blues. It’s that fact which registered before all else, which told me all I needed to know. That and the fact he is here at all. Kit’s father has never once been to the house. There is only one reason why he would ever come.

He hasn’t taken a step and I will him not to. I will him to turn around and get back into the dark sedan car sitting at the curb. A shadowy figure in uniform sits at the wheel. Please. Get back in and drive away. I start making futile bargains again with some nameless god. If he gets back in the car and drives away I’ll do anything. But he doesn’t. He takes a step, heading down the driveway towards the house, and that’s when I know for certain that either Riley or Kit is dead.

A scream, or maybe a sob, tries to struggle up my throat, but it’s blocked by a solid wave of nausea. I grab for the bannister to stay upright. Who? Which one? My brother or my boyfriend? Oh god. Oh god. My legs are shaking. I watch Kit’s father walk slowly up the drive, head bowed.

Memories, images, words, flicker through my mind like scratched fragments of film: Kit’s arms around my waist drawing me closer, our first kiss under the cover of darkness just by the back door, the smile on his face the first time we slept together, the blue of his eyes lit up by the sparks from a Chinese lantern, the fierceness in his voice when he told me he was going to love me forever.

Come back to me. That was the very last thing I said to him. Come back to me.

Always. The very last thing he said to me.

Then I see Riley. As a kid throwing a toy train down the stairs, dive bombing in the pool, holding my hand at our grandfather’s funeral, grinning and high-fiving Kit after they’d enlisted. The snapshot of him in his uniform on graduation day. The circles under his eyes the last time I saw him.

The door buzzes. I jump. But I stay where I am, frozen halfway up the stairs. If I don’t answer the door maybe he’ll go away. Maybe this won’t be happening. But the bell sounds again. And then I hear footsteps on the landing above me. My mother’s voice, sleepy and confused. ‘Jessa? Who is it? Why are you just standing there?’

Then she sees. She glances through the window and I hear the intake of air, the ragged ‘no’ she utters in response. She too knows that a military car parked outside the house at seven a.m. can signify only one thing.

I turn to her. Her hand is pressed to her mouth. Standing in her nightdress, her hair unbrushed, the blood rushing from her face, she looks like she’s seen a ghost. No. That’s wrong. She looks like she is a ghost.

The bell rings for a third time.

‘Get the door Jessa,’ my mother says in a strange voice, one I don’t recognize. It startles me enough that I start to walk down the stairs. I feel calmer all of a sudden, like I’m floating outside of my body. This can’t be happening. It’s not real. It’s just a dream.

I find myself standing somehow in front of the door. I unlock it. I open it. Kit. Riley. Kit. Riley. Their names circle my mind like birds of prey in a cloudless blue sky. Kit. Riley. Which is it? Is Kit’s father here at seven in the morning wearing his Dress Blues and his Chaplain insignia, to tell us that my brother has been killed in action or that his son – my boyfriend – has been killed in action? He would come either way. He would want to be the one to tell me. He would want to be the one to tell my mom.

Kit’s father blinks at me. He has been crying. His eyes are red, his cheeks wet. He is still crying in fact. I watch the tears slide down his face and realize that I’ve never seen him cry before. It automatically makes me want to comfort him but even if I could find the words my throat is so dry I couldn’t speak them.

‘Jessa,’ Kit’s father says in a husky voice.

I hold onto the doorframe, keeping my back straight. I’m aware that my mother has followed me down the stairs, is standing right behind me. Kit’s father glances at her over my shoulder. He takes a deep breath, lifts his chin and removes his hat before his eyes flicker back to me.

‘I’m sorry,’ he says.

‘Who?’ I hear myself ask. ‘Who is it?’

 

WANT TO READ MORE? BUY THE BOOK by CLICKING HERE.

First Chapter of Conspiracy Girl