Sunday, 13 July 2014

Blog Tour: LOCKS: RAPUNZEL UNHINGED BY SARAH J PEPPER: EXCERPT






Synopsis:

Gunned down by the hottest
killer in the history of the Badass Archives wasn’t exactly Rapunzel’s end­game. But when her reputable extraction skills fail, she uses unorthodox methods to gain her freedom from the Mercenary, whose icy blue eyes have serious panty­dropping capabilities. Even though most girls wouldn’t fall for their would­be assassin, Rapunzel isn’t like most dames. Her major girl­boner for the Mercenary is so pathetically intense it verges on cliché.
Regardless, Rapunzel’s hands are tied.
Love chooses its victims, not the other way around. She isn’t the stereotypical Damsel in Distress. Her Bad­Boy Prince Charming is a renowned mercenary, and her “Happy
Ending” plays out like a bad movie.
However, she is determined to find her
freedom—love be damned—and she’ll do
it in a fabulous pair of heels.


********************************************************
EXCERPT

Passing out in front of Flynn wasn’t exactly on my to­do list, but repairing a total system failure would do that to a girl. Exhaustion was not a word descriptive enough to explain how debilitating repairing my pulverized body had been. Blacking in and out, I realized I was no longer lying on the ground, but was thrown over some random man’s shoulder. He hauled me away from my splat zone.

My surroundings were blurred. Looking through a kaleidoscope would have been less nauseating. I blinked profusely, focusing on anything to keep from vomiting. Flynn came into focus, as if he’d commanded my attention. His cold, icy gaze locked with mine as he walked behind me and my carrier. Flynn cursed profusely in German. At least, I thought it was of Germanic origin since I didn’t understand a lick of it. From the condescending glare, I knew he despised me and couldn’t wait to get rid of me. The feeling was mutual, but I bit my tongue and held back a snide remark. It would only get me into more trouble. So, I embraced my inner domesticated, civil, finished­girl persona by flipping him the bird. After all, body language was universal. Nothing was lost in translation by the use of my middle finger, right?




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Author Bio:
I specialize in dark, paranormal romance – think “happy ever after” but with a twisted, dark chocolate center. Real­life romance isn’t only filled with hugs, kisses, unicorns, and
rainbows. True­love can be more thoroughly described in times of darkness and tribulation. It’s in those harsh moments where you see what a person is truly capable of – both the good and bad.
Sometimes prince ­charming isn’t always on time, and the glass slipper is a little snug. However, it doesn’t mean Charming is not Mr. Right, and who says every shoe is the perfect fit?




Links:

www.twitter.com/sarahjpepper

www.sarahjpepper.com

www.facebook.com/sarahjpepper.author

www.goodreads.com/author/show/5762464.Sarah_J_Pepper?from_search=true

www.goodreads.com/book/show/21527375­locks

http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/locks­sarah­j­pepper/1119628809?ean=2940045968096


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Sunday, 6 July 2014

BOOK REVIEW: FATAL ACT BY LEIGH RUSSELL



FATAL ACT
BY
LEIGH RUSSELL


Published:  29 May 2014
Publisher:  No Exit Press
Paperback:  320 Pages
Genre:  Murder Mystery


Synopsis:

A glamorous young TV soap star dies in a car crash. Returning for her sixth case, Detective Inspector Geraldine Steel is baffled as the driver of the second vehicle miraculously survives - and vanishes. Another young actress is murdered and, once again, the killer mysteriously disappears. Geraldine unwittingly risks her sergeant's life in their struggle to track down a serial killer who leaves no clues.



**********************************************

My Thoughts:

Fatal Act is the sixth book in the Detective Inspector Geraldine Steel series and the third Leigh Russell book I've read ...... and I think this is the best of them.

When a TV soap star is killed in a car crash it seems like an accident at first but it then becomes clear that she was murdered. Her older lover is the main suspect, especially when another young actress who was known to him is also murdered.

For Geraldine work gave her life meaning and purpose and she has to juggle her personal life with her professional life to uncover how the killer managed to disappear from the crime scenes like the invisible man (or woman).

The storyline was well paced without being too exciting, it had a steady feel to it, a page turner nearing the end, strong characters and a good mystery all add up to an above average thriller.


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Leigh Russell can be found at her website  -- on Twitter  --  Facebook


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Source:  I received a copy for review from RealReaders

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Available to buy from

Book Depository  (free shipping worldwide)





Saturday, 5 July 2014

THERESE - LETTER FROM PARIS - VIRTUAL BOOK TOUR - EXCERPT


My stop today is for an excerpt from Letter from Paris which is on tour until the 19th August.



LETTER FROM PARIS
BY
THERESE

Publication Date: June 10, 2014 

Number of Pages: 300 

Purchase Links: Amazon - Barnes and Noble iBooks - Kobo - Sony - Chapters/Indigo -IndieBound 




Synopsis:

India Butler`s journey to America put her life on a new track. Now a trip to Paris threatens to derail her – or to to make things all they are supposed to be. With a new friend, a new job, a new lover . . . and an old lover, India is dealing with nearly as much as she can handle. But that`s only the beginning.

The infectious sequel to INDIA`S SUMMER, LETTER FROM PARIS is witty, glamorous, incisive, and refreshingly real.
 



**************************************************************************************************************************


EXCERPT


Thank god for whoever invented twenty-four hour room service, India thought, pressing down hard on the lid of the French press and pouring herself a large mug of coffee. Slathering a piece of toast with butter and orange marmalade, she climbed back into the crumpled sheets of her bed at The Warwick Hotel. 

India had been in New York for four days and the jetlag (possibly a hangover; she was too tired to be sure) was hitting her badly now that she was no longer running on adrenaline. She checked the clock. 4.50 am! A five-hour time difference between London and New York meant this was an insane hour for a conference call.

But at least I can stay in my pajamas, she thought, punching in the numbers on the hotel phone. Exhilarating and all as it was to be an international jetsetter, a woman of the twenty-first century, an “executive” no less, she was pretty sure she had nothing to show for her efforts that could not have been achieved by Skyping from England.

She was here on Henry’s instructions to “build relationships.” Unsure quite what this entailed, she had thrown herself (and the company Amex card) into hyper drive. The previous days had been one long continuum of coffees, lunches, drinks, and dinners interspersed with visits to a Korean nail salon and a blow-dry hair bar, emerging coiffed and polished at speeds that would challenge a prong-horned antelope. The City That Never Sleeps never seemed to slow down either.

She had wined and dined uptown at Town, mid-town at Kitty Chi, and downtown in Tribeca at Mr. Chow. She had sipped champagne at The Mandarin Oriental on Columbus Circle, sipped afternoon tea at The Plaza, and espressos at The Mercer. 

Each appointment had been scheduled and set out in meticulously detailed itineraries prepared by Samantha. She schmoozed with potential sponsors at Disney, met the publicist from L’Oreal, and the CEO of Jimmy Choo. She went with Henry to meet the vice president of Luella’s publishing house and back to her hotel in Manhattan, courtesy of cabs reeking of kebabs and stale cigar smoke. Maybe one day she would use the subway here. After all, millions of people survived it without getting mugged. But in the meantime, foul odors and a lack of air conditioning was the price she was prepared to pay for her lack of courage. 

She pressed the hash key and stated her name as instructed by the automated voice on the conference call.

“India.”

A few minutes of background music, then “Henry has joined the call.”

“Corrie has joined the call.”

A pause, before, “Hello. Is everybody here?” 

It was reminding India of a séance.

“Is that you Corrie? “ Henry said. “I’m here and so is India. We’re waiting for Luella.”

Another few minutes went by before Luella announced herself.

“Luella. Sorry I’m late. Hello, is everyone else here?”

A chorus of “hellos,” was followed by another long gap. 

“Can everyone hear me?”

As the only male voice, Henry was easy for India to identify.

A round of yesses, was followed by an echoing silence.

“Thanks everyone. So Corrie, I wanted you to meet India and Luella.” 

India and Luella’s voices crashed into each other. “Hello Corrie.”

“Hello,” Corrie responded.

“Corrie, as you know, is the events coordinator,” Henry continued. “Corrie, would you like to lead on where we’re up to now?”

There was a long silence, during which India sank back into the pillows. She was seriously in danger of dozing off. Maybe she needed more coffee.

“I think we lost Luella.” Henry said.

“No, I’m still here Henry, but I can’t hear so well. I’m going to dial in again.”

I’ve an even better idea, India thought. Why don’t I go back to sleep and you and Corrie can have an old-fashioned chat one-to-one and tell us all how it went in an email?

The line crackled.

“Okay, I’m back but it’s still a terrible line. Corrie, can you hear me better now?”

“Not really. Can you hear ME?”

“India. Are you still there?”

Barely, She thought. “Yes, I’m still here.” She sighed, glancing at the digital clock on the nightstand. It was 5:30 am. 

“This isn’t working people. Sorry, ” Henry said. “India, can you hear me?”

“Yes, I’m still here.”

“I’ll see you at The Greenwich at one o’clock to meet Rebecca. I may be running . . . ”

Henry had been cut off. 

India, forgetting Corrie was still on the line, dropped the phone and was asleep within minutes. 
She woke with a start to a loud knocking. 

“Housekeeping. Hello . . . housekeeping.” 

“Later,” She yelled. “Later. Thank you. Not NOW.” What time was this to be servicing a room? 
She glanced at the clock then jumped up, realizing it was twelve fifteen. Running over to the window and stubbing her toe on a jutting low-level coffee table, she cursed and hopped as she yanked back the drapes. The street below was flooded. Cars were sloshing the pavements, pedestrians running for cover in all directions. A jagged bolt of lightning streaked the sky and the inevitable thunderclap was so loud it made her jump back into the offending coffee table, sending the early morning tray crashing to the floor. 

India cursed then took a deep breath. She needed to slow down. She had plenty of time to get to The Greenwich and if she was a bit late she could blame the weather. Right? Henry would be there ahead of her to greet Rebecca. This need to be punctual was old conditioning from years teaching school and racing for the bell. It wasn’t as if she still had thirty kids waiting outside on a playground for her, or a full assembly to take. This was a whole new world where you were allowed to run as late as you liked as long as you arrived looking fabulous, your lipstick intact and your hair immaculately blown out. Clearly the women she was meeting had absorbed too many episodes of Sex and The City. 

Thing was, even when you got to the meetings, you didn’t have to give people your full attention. You could check your texts every five minutes, step out of rooms to take calls, leave early because you had yet another (implication, more important) meeting to go to. Imagine if you behaved like that when you were giving a lesson? she mused. You’d be fired. Wouldn’t last a day.

After showering and putting on her makeup quickly, India rifled through her half-unpacked suitcase in search of a pair of black tights. A frantic race around the room failed to locate them. She was running out of time to be even fashionably “consultant late” she realized. Damn it, she would have to abandon the skirt and wear those Agnes B black pants yet again. She was already experiencing suitcase fatigue; absolutely sick to death of the clothes she had packed.

How were you supposed to anticipate freak weather in June? The humidity alone was already doing terrible things to her hair. Did Innes de la Fressange ever find herself on day four of a work trip down to her last clean pair of knickers? Somehow, India doubted it. There were glaring omissions in that style guidebook – and absolutely no advice on how to get out of The Warwick Hotel in the absence of a rowing boat or an ark.

Minutes later, standing under the awning at the entrance to the hotel, help came in the form of a doorman who flagged down a cab with a shrill ear-piercing whistle. India climbed into it under the protection of his supersized hotel umbrella. 

Her phone rang as the cab lurched forward. Fishing it out of her pocket, she saw from the caller ID it was Adam. She let it ring a few times before picking up. It had been over ten days since she’d heard from him, she could wait another few seconds. 

“Hello.”

“Hey. I heard you’re in New York,” said the gravelly voice that never failed to send shivers down her spine.

“I am. How did you hear?”

“I ran into Annie at Soho House night before last. Why didn’t you tell me you were going?” 

“It was arranged quickly.” India said. (Read: You never bother telling me when your plans change. See how you like it.) “Why? Where are you now?”

“Cannes.” 

India went pale. He was in Cannes. He was in the south of France. He was in le sud de la France WITHOUT HER. How could he do this? He’d absolutely promised to take her. That had been the trade-off for letting her down about the Paris trip. 

“I thought you were going to Morocco,” she managed. 

“Yes, well Fitzroy, as he’s affectionately known to the crew, is prone to unmitigated acts of creativity, so here we are. Anyway, it’s pretty awful. The place is swamped. I thought it all went quiet after the Film Festival. Who knew? You’d love Eden Roc Hotel-du-Cap though. It’s beautiful here today. So what are you up to in New York?”

“Oh. You know,” India said, “meetings. Absolutely tons of meetings. You should see my schedule, it’s insane.” (Read: Am international businesswoman; meetings are in my DNA.)

“Who are you meeting with?”

“Adam, I’m in a cab right now. I can’t really talk.” (Read: Am international business type person who cannot risk being overheard by a driver.)

“Oh! Sorry, okay.” 

“How long are you in France for?”

“Not sure yet. I was thinking maybe we could meet up in London on my way back?”

“Absolutely,” she said, then immediately became concerned that she might have sounded too available. “Though best give me some notice. I may not be in town.” (Read: Am international traveler who may pop down to Cannes herself.)

“Will do.”

"Okay,” she said. “Enjoy Cannes. I have to go.”

And she did have to go. She had to stop the conversation right there while she still had the strength to keep up this air of cool detachment. It was killing her. She had managed an air of cool detachment though, hadn’t she?

******************************************************************************************************

Meet the Author







Therese taught English and Drama at Grade school in the UK before establishing her publicity and events consultancy. Events ranged from receptions for HRH Prince Charles at St. James` Palace to international high profile telethons. She managed her husband`s career and received the title " Lady` from Queen Elizabeth when they were honored for his work in education. She has two grown children and lives in Los Angeles in a house, and in Paris in her imagination. 

http://www.thereseblogs.com 

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NICK DAVID - BIRDS OF THE NILE - VIRTUAL BOOK TOUR - EXCERPT


Today my stop on the Birds of the Nile Virtual Book Tour is an excerpt from this part political thriller, part love story novel

BIRDS OF THE NILE BY N.E. DAVID

Literary Fiction
Date Published:  27 September 2013


British ex-diplomat MICHAEL BLAKE has been blinded and is confined to his flat in Cairo. Every few days a visitor comes to read to him. It’s a year since he took early retirement and booked a long–awaited birding trip on the Nile.
Half way through the voyage he meets LEE YONG and finds himself falling for her. But she’s falling for REDA, their tour guide. He isn’t all he seems either and when the Egyptian revolution kicks off, BLAKE finds himself embroiled in a tangled web of love and intrigue. When REDA is captured and thrown into jail, BLAKE will be forced to decide – to help LEE YONG and join the revolution or stand aside and risk losing everything.
Set against the background of the events of January 2011, BIRDS OF THE NILE is a powerful story of loss and self discovery as three disparate characters, each with their own agenda, seek to come to terms with change. Part political thriller, part love story, BIRDS OF THE NILE reminds us of the complex nature of global cultural interaction and how, as individuals, we try to deal with it

********************************************************************

CHAPTER ONE

There were times when he thought he could see the light - or at least sense it - a
faint blur amidst the general darkness. He knew it was there, for each morning when he
shuffled across the bare boards of his room and threw open the shutters to let in the 
day, he remembered how it would come flooding in, great long shafts of it slicing into 
the space between the window and his bed, the covers turned back, the sheet still warm
from whatever rest he had managed the night before. Then he would feel it too, the heat
of it on his hands and feet, and for a minute or two he would bathe his face in it, slanting
his chin upwards toward the sun which even at that early hour still had the capacity to
burn. It would strike him how pleasurable this was, and rather than go to the bathroom
for his morning ablutions and take the risk of boiling a kettle and pouring scalding water
into a sink, he would remain by the window and wash himself in a brightness he knew
but could not see. And so, in this way, another day would slowly but surely begin.

On this particular morning he had woken with a jolt. The dream which had
continually afflicted his sleep had returned and was plaguing him once more. He had
thought himself free of it, but it was back and with it the suspicion that it would never
truly leave him.

And yet it always began so well. He would find himself running in the midst of a
large crowd, almost like a herd of buffalo charging across an open plain. He was filled
with a feeling of joy and light-headedness and he imagined he was carrying something 
in his hand (was it a flag?) which he seemed to hold aloft as if in triumph. Then he 
would become aware of the noise, the raised voices of the tumult surrounding him, the 
shouts and cries of the crowd and the deep rumble of stones landing on corrugated 
sheeting. And somewhere at the back of his throat he could taste what he thought was 
the bitterness of gunsmoke.

Then the dreaded moment would arrive, preceded as if it were a herald’s trumpet
by the loud whinnying of a horse. The massive beast and its rider would suddenly
appear out of the confusion and rear up before him in fear. He would find himself staring
at its hooves and a moment would pass in which he could hear nothing save a strange
rattle as though a tin can were being kicked down the street. Then it would fall silent
again for a second before everything erupted in a deafening roar and the searing pain
would begin.

Here he would jerk himself awake and sit bolt upright in the bed, his upper body 
drenched in sweat and his breath coming in short, sharp gasps like those of a panting 
dog. He would stay there, his arms pushed back against the sheets behind him until he 
had finally calmed himself and told himself that it was only a dream. But after a while, 
when he felt ready, as if in the hope that all life since had been part of his imagination 
too, he would gradually prise his eyelids apart to test the reality.

Yet still there would be nothing.

Eventually, he would swing his legs over the edge of the bed and instead of
trying to fall back to sleep and risk a repeat of the same painful journey, he would make
his way across to the window where he would open the shutters once more.

CHAPTER THIRTY – FOUR

It had begun almost immediately after what he called ‘the accident’. As the battle
raged around him he had lain for a while, semi-conscious, and his first recollection
was of being moved onto a stretcher, the stabbing pain in his shoulder jerking him 
rudely awake. Later, as he forced himself to focus on it in an effort to bring back the 
moment, he recalled the dry dusty smell of canvas and, at his side, the cool touch of 
polished wood.

They must have taken him back to the camp because rather than load him
straight into an ambulance, he was physically carried some distance. He remembered
that well enough, the bouncing ride performed at the trot, his unhinged shoulder flapping
from side to side in agony. When they mercifully came to a halt, he was raised up
and taken to a chair where he imagined himself seated as if in a barber’s shop.

Someone was talking behind him, then a woman approached (he could tell by her 
scent) and she began to apply first aid. As his head was being bandaged, just as he’d 
seen done before, he reached out for her arm and felt her sleeve between his fingers. 

And yes, it was a leather jacket she was wearing.

“Are you the same ...?” he asked.

Although as soon as she replied, Am I the same what? her voice told him that it
was not the girl he’d met earlier.

And all the time he kept telling himself I will get through this. Don’t panic and it’ll
be alright.

**********************************************************



Nick David

N.E.David is the pen name of York author Nick David. Nick tried his hand at writing at the age of 21 but like so many things in life, it did not work out first time round. Following the death of his father in 2005, he took it up again and has been successful in having a series of short novellas published both in print and online.
Nick maintains he has no personal or political message to convey but that his objective is merely to entertain the reader and he hopes this is reflected in his writing. Besides being a regular contributor to Literary Festivals and open mics in the North East Region, Nick is also a founder member of York Authors and co-presenter of Book Talk on BBC Radio York.

His debut novel, Birds of the Nile, is published by Roundfire.

Website: www.nedavid.com
Twitter: @NEDavidAuthor



BUY LINKS




Tuesday, 1 July 2014

Book Review: PRESSED PENNIES BY STEVEN MANCHESTER


I am delighted to be a part of the Pressed Pennies Virtual Book Tour and today my stop is a review of this lovely book.



PRESSED PENNIES
BY
STEVEN MANCHESTER

Publication Date: May 13, 2104 

Number of Pages: 355 

Purchase Links: Amazon - Barnes and Noble -iBooks - Kobo - Sony - Chapters/Indigo -IndieBound 




Synopsis:

Rick and Abby grew up together, became best friends, and ultimately fell in love. Circumstance tore them apart in their early teens, though, and they went on to lives less idyllic than they dreamed about in those early days. Rick has had a very successful career, but his marriage flat-lined. Abby has a magical daughter, Paige, but Paige`s father nearly destroyed Abby`s spirit. 

Now fate has thrown Rick and Abby together again. In their early thirties, they are more world-weary than they were as kids. But their relationship still shimmers, and they`re hungry to make up for lost time. However, Paige, now nine, is not nearly as enthusiastic. She`s very protective of the life she`s made with her mother and not open to the duo becoming a trio. Meanwhile, Rick has very little experience dealing with kids and doesn`t know how to handle Paige. This leaves Abby caught between the two people who matter the most to her. What happens when the life you`ve dreamed of remains just inches from your grasp?


PRESSED PENNIES is a nuanced, intensely romantic, deeply heartfelt story of love it its many incarnations, relationships in their many guises, and family in its many meanings. It is the most accomplished and moving novel yet from a truly great storyteller of the heart.
 



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My Thoughts:


Pressed Pennies is one of the most emotional books I have ever read.  Steven Manchester has a way of describing situations where you really feel as if you're part of the story.

Being a mother myself I could totally understand Abby's feelings towards her daughter, she wanted to protect her, she didn't want her getting hurt and she wanted to put her first, but she was so torn between her and her feelings for Rick, her childhood sweetheart.

Abby and Paige are leaving their old home behind and making a new start -- here's a description of their weeping willow tree in their old backyard:

How sad it looked, its trunk rough and faded, its branches twisted and bent, each fighting for their rightful place......yet it was a survivor.  It was a teacher of life.  Its appearance, though less than others, lasted long after many had perished.  Through acceptance, it did not fight the inevitable but changed with it.  It was the perfect example of forgiveness, perseverance and wisdom.  It was the most beautiful of all.

It is beautifully written with believable characters and situations.


I thought the title was unusual but, having read the book, I think it is perfect.  I won't spoil it by saying why.

This is the sort of book to read slowly and savour, not one to be rushed, read it at your leisure and enjoy!


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Meet the Author




Steven Manchester is the author of the #1 bestsellers, Twelve Months and The Rockin` Chair. He is also the author of the critically-acclaimed, award-winning novel, Goodnight, Brian, as well as A Christmas Wish (Kindle exclusive), Pressed Pennies (due out May 2014) and Gooseberry Island (due out January 2015). His work has appeared on NBC`s Today Show, CBS`s The Early Show, CNN`s American Morning and BET`s Nightly News. Three of Steven`s short stories were selected "101 Best" for Chicken Soup for the Soul series. When not spending time with his beautiful wife, Paula, or their four children, this Massachusetts author is promoting his works or writing. Visit: www.StevenManchester.com

http://www.StevenManchester.com 

http://www.facebook.com/#!/AuthorStevenManchester


http://www.stevenmanchester.com 














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