Book Tour + Giveaway: PAST PRESENCE, A Novel From NICOLE BROSS! @brossypants @RABTBookTours

Mystery
Date Published: April 1, 2019
Publisher: Literary Wanderlust
 photo add-to-goodreads-button_zpsc7b3c634.png
Only by looking into the past can Audrey save her future.
Audrey Eames is happy living the wanderer’s life. After a near-death experience in her teens, Audrey can see people’s past lives whenever her skin touches theirs, and afraid of being labeled delusional, she’s never stayed in one place too long or made any deep connections.
So when Audrey’s estranged aunt dies and leaves her the historic Soberly Inn and Public House on the scenic Oregon coast, Audrey wants nothing to do with it. She’s determined to sell the inn and leave town before someone discovers the power she’s been hiding from the world, but clauses in her aunt’s will seem to block her at every turn.
Yet once ensconced in Soberly’s small town life, the people—particularly the inn’s bartender, Kellen Greene—start to grow on her, and she begins to feel that maybe she’s finally found a place of her own. As accepting as the townspeople seem, Audrey fears their reactions—and Kellen’s rejection—and decides to keep her visions a secret. But all is not well in Soberly. Soon after Audrey arrives, people in town start dying in the same manner as in their past lives—but in this lifetime it’s murder. When suspicion starts to fall on Audrey and Kellen, Audrey vows to use her gift to find the murderer and protect the people she loves—before it’s too late.
 

EXCERPT:

“It’s been nice chatting with you, Miss Eames.” The night coach driver offers me his hand, palm up, as I prepare to step down and off the bus. With a smile, I accept—careful not to put any weight onto his fingers, which look swollen and red with age and the decades he’s been gripping the wheel.
He handed a woman, all swirling skirts, and ruffles, off the carriage-and-four. She was laughing at something her mother had said, but before she stepped up the gravel path leading to the doors of the grand estate, flung open to welcome guests to the ball within, she turned to give him a nod and a half-smile.
“Enjoy your evening, Miss.” He returned her nod as the heat crept up under his stiff white collar, but she had already caught up with her mother, and he didn’t think she had heard him.
The way his hand clasps mine is the same. Some habits carry over from one lifetime to the next, as I’ve learned. The vision lingers in my mind even after I pull away and shoulder my duffel. The manor home looked English, and the woman’s dress was definitely late Victorian.
The sun is cracking the horizon, bathing the village of Soberly, Oregon, all twelve streets of it, in a glow that changes from sepia to marigold. The bus pulls away behind me in a cloud of exhaust and fine yellow sand, off to the next tiny hamlet along the coastal highway, leaving me standing in the empty street.
My destination is clearly visible—there is only one hotel here, the sensible, if unoriginally named, Soberly Inn and Public House. Standing one block away, it faces the sea and even from here I can see how the salt spray has faded the once-cobalt blue paint to a dull cornflower over the years. For reasons I don’t yet understand, the Soberly Inn now belongs to me, and I am here to claim it.
I had no idea my Aunt Roz had even owned the inn. The last time I saw her I was an awkward pre- teen, and she was less than twice my age. I sometimes remembered to email her on her birthday, but not, I’m ashamed to say, every year, although she never forgot mine. Yet despite our distant, superficial relationship, she had left this place to me, rather than the wife she left behind when she died of a rapidly progressing cancer ten days ago. Maybe she was an ex-wife now. I had no idea. We weren’t even Facebook friends. The notification of her death had come via her lawyer, not my father, along with the news that, for the first time in my life, I was a property owner. The news had affected me deeply, more so than I expected. Now, looking at Roz’s prize for the first time, the quiet ache in my chest ramps up to a throbbing spasm before fading again.
This was what my carefree aunt gave up her vagabond life for, and now she wanted me to do the same? I stare up at the building, taking note of the aged wooden siding where the paint has curled away in places, the cracked cedar shingles, and the plain-lettered sign swinging from two chains beside the entrance. ‘Shabby’ was the word that came to mind, and not ‘shabby chic,’ either. I could only imagine the interior was just as dusty and unremarkable as the exterior.
“What were you thinking, Roz?” I say under my breath. My feet are still planted in the same place because I don’t know where to go. There isn’t a soul in sight at this time of day, nor are any of the assortment of shops and businesses that line the main street open. I know there will almost certainly be someone at the front desk of the inn, but although I’ve come all this way, I’m not ready to make an appearance there yet, not without knowing what I want to say, something I’d neglected to plan on the long bus ride. I scuff one toe of my battered Chucks in the sand that’s accumulated along the curb, stalling. It’s been a while since I’ve seen the beach, I decide, as I step into the street with the rising sun at my back. The inn is a problem I delegate to Future Audrey. Right-now Audrey is going for a walk along the coast.
***
As it turns out, the only thing four hours of roaming the beach does is add hunger and the intense need to find a bathroom to my problems. Possibly a sunburn as well, judging from the pinkish hue my skin is taking on. I’ve always felt the injustice of not inheriting the platinum blonde or fiery red hair color that usually accompanies my level of fair skin. There’s nothing even remotely exotic or attention-getting about the flat, medium- brown I ended up with. At least I can be thankful it doesn’t frizz in the humidity, otherwise, I’d look like a positive nightmare right now.
The sun is almost directly overhead when I make my way over the last dune to the boardwalk. Although the village’s one cafe is now open and will serve my requirements, I trudge past it to the inn, standing a bit apart from the businesses surrounding it by virtue of its height, the only three-story building in a two-story town.
Faced with two doors, one into the inn itself and one into the pub, I choose the latter. It takes my eyes a moment to adjust to the dimness, but my stomach reacts to the environment immediately, growling audibly as the scent of fresh-fried fish greets me.
The pub is classic seaside kitsch, decorated with fishing nets and glass buoys, old traps, and a well-worn rowboat suspended upside-down from the ceiling. Maps of the coastline and faded photographs decorate the walls, as well as other assorted nautical ephemera, and together it paints a portrait of the rich coastal history of the town.
I’m still blinking away the daylight, taking this all in, when someone steps into my field of vision.
“Grab a seat wherever you want,” a guy holding a large plastic tub says. He’s clearing empty glasses and plates as he says it. I nod my acknowledgment because the pair of red Beats headphones he’s wearing will certainly drown out any verbal reply. His head is bobbing in time to music only he can hear as he disappears through a door leading to what I assume is the kitchen.
I duck into the washroom first, eliminating one of my problems. The maritime theme continues, with signs for pirates and wenches on the doors, and mirrors framed to look like portholes. Girls can be pirates too, and I don’t see why boys can’t be wenches. Geez, Roz. Sexist much? She’d been an ardent feminist in her early twenties. Had she stopped caring, or was I reading too much into a couple of bathroom signs?
The only table free seats six, so I choose a high stool at the near-vacant bar instead. I’ve arrived right in the middle of the lunch rush, from the looks of it. I still don’t know what to say to anyone here. “Hi, I’m the new owner,” seems arrogant, especially since I have no intention of keeping the place.
A menu appears in front of me, startling me out of my ruminations. Across the polished walnut bar stands a man whose skin is a shade lighter than the wood he’s resting his hands on. His smile widens as he stares at me expectantly.
“Sorry—what?” I shake my head, flustered. Who has teeth that straight, that white? Self-conscious, I half-cover my mouth with the back of my hand. Mine show clear evidence of my two-pot-a-day coffee habit. I don’t know what I was expecting, maybe someone of the same vintage as the decor, but it definitely wasn’t someone younger than me, although maybe only by a couple years.

“Drink?” he repeats, jerking his head at the long row of taps, each with a branded handle. Most of them I’ve never heard of, and I’m not a daytime drinker anyway. “This is a pub,” he adds and winks. The bartender who’s well aware of his good looks. I’m familiar with the type. I wouldn’t go so far as to call it my type, but I’d gone home with enough of them over the years.
“Sweet tea,” I say. “Extra ice.”
“Sure you don’t want a pint? Maybe a cold glass of white?”
I shake my head. “Tea’s fine.”
“G&T? I’ll put lots of ice in it.” He’s polishing up a tumbler, reaching for the bottle of Bombay on the shelf behind him. I roll my eyes, but I can’t keep the side of my mouth from twitching.
“Put that back. I just want the sweet tea. Are you on commission or something?”
“Nah, I just want to card you so I know your name,” he says. Unrepentant, he points to the sign nailed to a pillar that states We ID Anyone Under 25.
“You’re off the mark by a few years, my friend,” I tell him. He’s finally pouring my sweet tea from the soda tap into a massive glass full of ice.
“Bullshit.” As soon as he sets it down in front of me, I’m chugging it back, not breathing until the glass is half-empty. He snags it back and refills it while I wipe my mouth with a cocktail napkin. What I want to do is scoop the ice out and rub it all over my arms and face, which are starting to feel alarmingly hot. From all the sun, I tell myself. Not from the attention of this cocky bartender.
“We ID for all food orders too, you know.”
I lean in close and pause before speaking, making it clear I’m appraising him. “Maybe I’m not hungry.”
“You are. I saw you drinking in the smell of the fryer when you walked in. You got this dreamy smile that said you knew exactly what you wanted. So, let’s see it.” He holds out his hand with a crooked, teasing smile, but I push it away with the menu I haven’t even glanced at. He’s right. I don’t need to look at it at all, but I don’t want to admit that he can read me so well.
“You don’t have to show ID to order food here. You made that up.”
“So what? I can make up the rules if I want.”
“Oh, you must own the place?” I mirror his teasing tone, but I’m watching him closely, seeing how he’ll respond. I expect a smart ass reply in the same vein as our banter, but a shadow crosses his face and the smile slips. Shit. The owner just died, you idiot. As usual, the words spilled out of my mouth before I had a chance to think them through.
“I’m not, actually,” he says.
“I know. I’m sorry, that was stupid of me to say.” I bite my lip and plunge forward. “I’m Audrey. Audrey Eames. Roz’s niece. Umm, I’m the owner, I guess. So, they tell me. For now.” The silence stretches out between us as he takes all this in, frozen in place while I sit there, feeling like an utter moron with my hand outstretched, waiting for him to shake it. I’m just about to withdraw it into my lap when a wide grin cracks his face. He grips my hand so our forearms touch and our elbows rest on the bar, like we’re about to arm-wrestle. I’m drawn forward in the process so we’re almost nose-to-nose.
A gaggle of children ran through the field ahead of her and scrambled over the stile. They were jostling each other and shouting raucously, overjoyed to be free of the classroom for the afternoon. All but one, a small boy whose hand was clasped snugly into hers.
“Look, Miss Dean, a nest. The others missed it.” The boy spoke with a thick country accent as he pointed up at the treetops.
“Good eye, Wil. What sort of bird do you think made it?”
“Something big. A kite, maybe.” She nodded in agreement, and they continued on in companionable silence, following the sounds of laughter ahead.
“You totally played me, Audrey. I thought you were just another tumbleweed. I’m glad you’re not. Kellen Greene. It’s very nice to meet you.” The vision of his past- self fades from my mind, and I wonder what qualities he and the teacher have in common.
“A tumbleweed?” He squeezes my hand before releasing it, the pad of his thumb tracing a line up the side of my index finger like he’s trying to maintain contact up to the last possible second.
“Tourists that roll on through town with the wind, here and gone before you know it. They don’t bring anything with them, and they don’t take anything away either.”
“My bag should have clued you in that I wasn’t just passing through,” I point out, kicking it where it rests at my feet.
“Ahh, but there’s only one place to stay in Soberly,” he nods toward the ceiling and the rooms above, “and it’s full up, at least until Sunday.” Kellen walks over to the door leading into the back and swings it open. “Hey, Ma,” he shouts, drawing the attention of everyone in the pub. “Come meet your new boss.”

About the Author
Nicole Bross is an author from Calgary, Alberta, Canada, where she lives with her husband, two children and one very large orange cat. When she’s not writing or working as the editor of a magazine, she can be found curled up with a book, messing around with her ever-expanding collection of manual typewriters or in the departures lounge of the airport at the beginning of another adventure. Past Presence is her debut novel.
Contact Links
Twitter: @brossypants
 
Purchase Links

GIVEAWAY!

a Rafflecopter giveaway

IMG_9427

 

Book Tour + Excerpt: MAN OF MATRIMONY ( The gentleman Inc Series ) by THEA DAWSON!@thea_dawson

Title: Man of Matrimony

Series: The Gentlemen, Inc. Series

Author: Thea Dawson

Genre: Contemporary Romance

Release Date: April 2, 2019

 
Liam McGuire.
Annoyingly laid back. Hopelessly unambitious.
Cocky, irreverent, impossible.
My polar opposite.

 

My husband.

 
All my life, I’ve been the golden girl. Ivy League, MBA, the youngest executive at my company. The world lay at my feet.
 
Then the company I put my heart and soul into collapsed in scandal.
My so-called friends have deserted me.
I’m left with mounting debts and a shattered reputation, in danger of losing everything.
 
When a handsome stranger proposes a helping hand, I jump at the chance. I know it’s crazy, but all I have to do is stay married to him until he gets his green card, and he’ll support me until I’m back on my feet.
 
It’s the perfect marriage of convenience … except for the inconvenient way I’m starting to fall for him.
 
Brianna Winter.
Aggravatingly organized. Perpetually prim.
Stuck-up. Straitlaced.
Sex on a stick with a candy coating of complete indifference.
 

My wife.

I thought it would be easy. One year of marriage, and I’d be able to stay in sunny California for the rest of my life.
But one kiss changed everything.
Now, living at close quarters with the beautiful Miss B—with that toned body, that perfect skin, and that brilliant mind—I’m slowly going insane.
The memory of that kiss plays out over and over again in my mind in a kind of carnal loop of lust, but she shows no sign that she feels even the slightest bit of heat between us.
 
I may not survive my marriage long enough to get divorced.
 
MAN OF MATRIMONY is a steamy, standalone romance with heat, humor, and a sexy Irish hero! Happy reading!

Brianna

I’m sorry,” I whisper.

“For what?” he says, not moving.

“I should let you get to bed,” I reply, also not moving.

“I suppose you should.”

Neither of us moves away. Instead, I feel his arms tighten gently around me and one hand comes slowly up to stroke my hair.

Slowly, I tilt my face up to his to see those grey eyes, more serious than I’ve ever seen them, staring into mine.

A foreign emotion … I think it’s shyness … makes me look down again, but then Liam’s hand is on my cheek, tilting my face up toward his, and his lips are on mine, and I’m melting into him.

Our proposal kiss was surprising. Our wedding kiss was awkward. Our grope-on-the-couch kiss was hot.

This kiss … This isn’t like any of those.

His lips are so warm, so soft, so gentle and yet so confident that for a while, the sensation of kissing him is the only thing that exists. The ache in my back and the soreness in my feet disappear. Thoughts of that hot bath melt away—because why would I need it when I can sink into these arms, these lips, the deliciously clean smell of him instead?

Slowly, the sweet, serious kisses start to amp up, getting bolder, braver … hotter. The hand that was stroking my hair is now fisting it, the arm around my waist pulls me against the solid wall of his body and I can feel his arousal pressing into me. My brain cedes control to my loudly purring girl parts, which in turn license my hands to roam those broad shoulders, that hard chest. I run my hands all over him, unable to get enough of the soft cotton of his dress shirt and the firm muscles beneath it.

“I thought you were tired,” I murmur into his mouth. I’d thought I was tired, too, but that’s gone, replaced with a sparking, electric energy that makes my heart beat faster and my breath come quicker.

“I think I’ve found my second wind,” he mumbles, nuzzling my neck. I tilt my head back and he trails the length of my throat with his lips. I shiver, that sparking energy starting to coalesce deep within me.

“Liam …” It’s a question, a statement, a declaration.

A commitment.

“Take me to bed.”
Thea Dawson is a world traveler, vegetarian, salsa dancer, film fanatic, and lover of happy endings. In an alternate steampunk universe, she travels by dirigible and gets in sword fights with dashing villains.
 
In this one, she lives in the Pacific Northwest with her husband/salsa partner, three antic children, and an agenda-driven cat. She writes at the intersection of smart, sweet and steamy; her goal with every book is to melt your heart and brighten your day.

 

Book Tour: MARRYING MARS, A Romantic Comedy from SHAY QUIN is LIVE! @shayquip

Title: Marrying Mars

Author: Shay Quin

Genre: Romantic Comedy

Release Date: April 4, 2019

 

For years, mineralogist Billie Sky and the whole world watched the colonization of Mars on reality TV. Marsden Greer, a handsome researcher on the colony and Billie’s celebrity crush, makes a shocking announcement. He will marry the Earth woman that wins his heart on the new highly anticipated show Marrying Mars. Life takes an unexpected turn and Billie finds out she’s a finalist. The competition is grueling with high stakes that create a roller coaster of emotions for everyone involved. The opportunity to win her dream job on another planet and the growing love between her and Marsden are just in reach. Billie could finally have everything she ever wanted but what does she need to do to get him?

 

 

 

Shay Quin grew up in a military family and went to a new school every year from first grade until high school. As the perpetual new kid, she developed a love for reading, writing and making new friends of all backgrounds. She enjoys a beautiful life in Phoenix, Arizona with her two boys who inspired her to follow her dream and finally publish her debut novel Marrying Mars. 

 

 

 

Book Tour + Giveaway: HIT ME by PETER J. THOMPSON!@pthompsonbooks @RABTBookTours

Thriller
Date Published: 03/01/2019
 photo add-to-goodreads-button_zpsc7b3c634.png
Hitman. Husband. Daddy. Dead man?
Charley Fieldner has everything a man could want: a loving wife, a well-paying job, two great kids, and a beautiful home.
He also has a big secret.
Charley is a hitman with a huge complication—he is his own next target.
The background file contains the sort of details only someone very close to him could know. The suspect list is short but devastating, his wife, father, sister, and best friend. He always thought he could have it all, but the secrets, lies, and betrayals are piling up.
Charley needs time to unravel the mystery behind who wants him dead and why, but time is in short supply. Another killer took the contract. He now has a choice: roll over and die or fight for his life.

EXCERPT:

I step up on the platform as the train pulls into sight. The sun is just starting to rise and it’s still dark. Commuters stand beside the tracks, some strewn out, others in tight clusters. It doesn’t take me long to find my quarry, Alan Silverman. The guy’s exactly where I expected him to be, in a group of commuters at the far end of the platform. He’s easy to spot because first, he is a creature of habit and second, he has a distinctive look.

I’m about average height, five foot nine, but he’s at least a head shorter than I am. In his slick, black Italian suit he looks like an oversized bowling ball with a shiny human head and stubby legs.

The train barrels in and screeches to a halt at the last moment, its brakes squealing and hissing loudly. The commuters bunch up and as the train shudders to a stop they surge toward the doors. I stroll to the far end of the platform and wait in line, well back from Silverman. The doors of the 6:10 inbound to Chicago slide open with a pneumatic whoosh. I move with the crowd as we surge up the few steps and into the train. Silverman turns to the car on the right, as I knew he would.

I follow discreetly behind. He walks halfway up the car and takes an empty seat by the window. The car is already half full and most of the double seats have at least one occupant. The seat next to Silverman is empty and for a moment I consider sitting next to him. What better way to keep track of him and appear innocuous than by planting myself right beside him? But that would be too bold. I work best unnoticed, and, although he probably wouldn’t give me more than a passing glance as I sat down before returning to his paper, it’s not worth taking the chance. I move past him and slide into the seat across the aisle a few rows ahead, making sure I can still see him in my peripheral vision. I don’t even bother looking. The guy’s not going anywhere.

The last few people scurry to find seats as the train starts moving and picks up speed. I slip in my earbuds and settle in for the trip. I have my music on shuffle. The randomness, not knowing what music to expect helps me stay focused on the moment. I close my eyes, lean back in my seat and relax. No need to even think for the next forty-three minutes.

The train starts and stops every few minutes, gathering passengers at stations in Evanston, Davis Avenue, Ravenswood, and Clybourne. Our car soon fills up and the later arrivals have to stand. I mostly keep my eyes shut and focus on the mix. First Wilco, then the Shins, then some electronica. As we pull into Union Station, it’s some bad Gangsta rap I don’t even remember uploading. The train pulls to a stop and everyone rushes out of their seats and herds toward the door. I’d like to hang back, but my seatmate is impatient. He stands and shuffles his belongings around. I take the hint and step into the aisle, even though the doors haven’t opened, and no one is going anywhere yet.

I steal a look back and Silverman is in the aisle, too. We all stand together in a tight scrum. The heady mix of cologne, deodorant soap, sweat, and coffee breath makes me want to gag. We’re much closer together than strangers should ever be. We stand this way for a long minute before the outer doors open and the scrum pushes outward.

Now we are a river, flowing out of the train car, down the steps and into the noisy bustle of the main terminal. The river keeps flowing toward the escalator, which carries us up to street level. I try and slow to let Silverman pass me, but short of dropping down to tie my shoe and risk getting trampled. I’m caught in the flow. Fast food joints and convenience store kiosks line the path. I step off the escalator and duck into one and pretend to scan the headlines of a newspaper. A moment later, Silverman marches past me without a glance. I give him a little space before stepping into the river behind him as we flow toward the street.

The stream of commuters still flows outside as we move along the sidewalk and cross over the Chicago River. The sounds of traffic and the smell of diesel fumes add to the ambience. Now the sun is moving higher and reflecting off the glass of the skyscrapers that line both sides of the street. If I were a tourist, I’d hang back and take in the beauty and energy of the city. But I’m no tourist. I have a job to do. I keep walking.

My job. I consider myself a problem solver. Sometimes the problems are small and require a small
solution, and other times the problems are so big the only solution is drastic. Such is the case with Silverman. Although I don’t know the specifics, Silverman is an attorney, a prominent one. He’s had problems with various groups in the past and isn’t the type who’d win a popularity contest. These aren’t my concerns. I don’t want to know too much about him, good or bad, or it may affect the way I think of my quarry and introduce emotion into what should be a pure business transaction. My employer is an agency that does all the due diligence beforehand. If Silverman’s on the list, he deserves his fate. I have scruples. I trust the Agency to do the research, but I do have my standards.

It’s hard to keep track of Silverman because he is short enough to blend in with the crowd and I’m not tall enough to see over it. No matter. I know where he’s going and how he will get there. I’ve made this same trip four times now—I know what to expect. He works on LaSalle Street, but, by habit, he takes a short-cut through an alley that cuts on a loose diagonal between the two streets, past the trash bins and various service entrances, before connecting back to the main drag. It might save a minute or two, maybe, but it’s part of his daily routine. It’s also the one spot along the way where he is out of the crowd and the most exposed.
Sure, I know where he is going, but I needed to make sure he wouldn’t get sidetracked along the way. Now I know he is on the right path, I want to reach the spot before he does. I adjust my gait and walk a little faster. I weave between the pedestrians and pass Silverman, who is huffing and puffing and doesn’t pay me the slightest attention. I hurry on and, by the time I arrive at the alley, I figure I’m at least half a block ahead of him.

The alley is busier than I hoped. A truck is backed up to a loading dock, delivering supplies, and two young guys are manning their hand trucks while the driver supervises them. A little further on, three Hispanic men stand near a dumpster, smoking cigarettes. One is telling a story, using his hands to sketch out the details, and his buddies laugh. Compared to the street scene this is quiet, but for my purposes, it’s Grand Central Station. I pass the men and turn the curve which leads to LaSalle Street. It’s quieter here. Up on the sidewalk, maybe twenty yards away, the street traffic is a blur of motion. But right here it’s isolated, and this is the place I need to be.

I position myself on the side of the alley and make myself ready. I don’t think he’ll see me until after he turns the corner, and I doubt he’d think twice if he does, but a man standing by himself doing nothing is naturally suspicious. I pull out my cell phone and start an imaginary conversation with myself. Now, I’m perfectly normal and fit in completely.

I’m well into my conversation when Silverman rounds the corner and bobbles into view. He probably hears me talking before he sees me. When he notices me, he swings his head in my direction for maybe a microsecond, long enough to categorize what type of alley life I belong to, and to decide I’m not a threat. Then he is back to his mission. I don’t know why he’s walking but he has plenty of money to take a cab, and the way he is huffing along, he doesn’t seem like he is walking for enjoyment. He must be walking for his health. This strikes me as ironic.

He passes me when I call out his name and take a step toward him.

“Silverman? Alan. Is that you?”

He turns in my direction, a baffled expression creases his face. He stops and gives me the full once over. “Do I know you?”

I take another step forward.

I don’t have the kind of face you’d remember. In fact, there is nothing about me you would find memorable. I’ve been described as doughy, nondescript, a normal kind of guy. I’ve been told I look like an accountant or maybe a truck driver. I’m of average height and average weight. My hair is starting to thin, and I carry a little more around my waistline than I used to, but that’s not unusual for someone in their late thirties. It’s considered ordinary, which I appear to be. And it’s not surprising that he wouldn’t be able to place me, if he ever knew me.

“Alan, remember me? Dick Olson.” I take another step toward him, holding out my hand.

He’s stuck to his spot, but he’s not really buying it. Doesn’t matter. All I need is another few seconds and a few more feet. I keep moving.

“At Gibson’s. You were with Jerry, Jerry Calhoun.”

I’m basically babbling, throwing out names and places I picked up from my research on him. From his expression, I can tell I oversold it. Again, doesn’t matter. This is routine and it will all be over in short order. I am not a big fan of weapons. Guns make too much noise, knives are way too messy. But if you know what you are doing, and I do, hands are all you need. I’m almost within reach.

His hand dips into his pocket and he’s pulling something out. It might be a cell phone, or maybe he wants to give me his wallet. But I don’t think so. The time for subterfuge is over. I lunge toward him.

His hand jerks from the pocket, holding a small can. Mace or pepper spray? I grab for his neck and pull him toward me while I reach for his hand. He gasps. His chest heaves. The guy might have a heart attack before I can kill him.

The spray hits me. Sudden pain. Intense, shattering pain. My eyes tear, my lungs burn, and I can’t breathe. Pain is everywhere. My grip loosens and Silverman twists free. I drop to one knee, but I grab for him again, or at least where I think he is, because I can’t see a thing. I grab at the air and his heavy footsteps pound the pavement, running now. His locomotive breath is so loud it seems to echo off the walls.

I lurch to my feet and head after him. He’s heading toward the street. I have to stop him before he
reaches the safety of the sidewalk. This is a disaster, a royal fuck up and I don’t even want to think about what will happen if I botch this job. He’s running, but even in full panic he’s no runner. I stagger after him. My vision’s blurred, and the pain is just as intense as before, but I force myself to run though I can hardly maintain my balance.

I hear him in front of me as much as I can see him. I’m gaining on him, but even as I bridge the gap between the two of us, the street sounds grow louder still. We are nearly out of the alley and close to the sidewalk. The busy street means safety for Silverman. Surrounded by people, I can’t do a thing, and all he has to do is yell and a crowd will form, police will come, and it’ll all be over. If he makes the street— and he’s almost there—the only thing I can do is slink away.

The truth is, I can’t make it. My lungs are stuffed with hot coals and my vision is shot. He’s too far
ahead. If I had a gun I might shoot, but I’d surely miss and only make matters worse. I keep moving but I already know it’s too late. I blink back the tears and I get a cloudy look at what’s ahead. He’s out of the alley and on the sidewalk now. I’ve lost.

Silverman jerks his head back for a look at me. I can’t see his expression, but I’m guessing it’s one of joy, or relief, or maybe even anger. Or is it still panic, and fear? But he turns again and keeps running, bumping into people but still running, past the sidewalk and right into the street.

A screech of brakes.

A loud thud.

A chorus of yells, screams and gasps break through the background hubbub. I slow to a walk, cross the sidewalk and join the crowd forming around the scene.

A lady lets out a wail of lament. The taxi driver leaps from his cab, his hands aflutter. In his thick
Pakistani accent and high voice, he tells the crowd it’s not his fault. The crowd isn’t listening, their eyes are all on the broken body nearly underneath the wheels.

“Call an ambulance!” a woman yells.

“Too late for that,” someone else says.

I push through the gapers for a good look. The last voice was right. Blood is everywhere, and Silverman is not my problem anymore. The lady lets out a wail again, and I try not to smile with relief. I can’t believe my good luck.

Meet The Author:

peterthompsonfull2
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 finds 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.
Contact Links
Purchase Link

GIVEAWAY!

a Rafflecopter giveaway

HIT ME BC

 

Book Tour + Giveaway: MAMMA’S MOON ( The Hoodoo of Peckerwood Finch ) by JEROME MARK ANTIL! @RABTBookTours

Crime/Romance
Date Published: May 7, 2019
Publisher: Little York Books
 photo add-to-goodreads-button_zpsc7b3c634.png
This suspenseful sequel to “One More Last Dance” follows Peck Finch’s search for his mother after leaving home at the age of nine, and the struggles of his friend Gabe, who is simultaneously facing a second-degree murder charge. Set within the rich and storied culture of Louisiana, this tale of self-discovery explores important questions about the meaning of love, friendship, family and more.
“Mamma’s Moon” has received early praise for its layered storytelling with BlueInk Reviews calling Antil’s newest work “a lovely story about the strong bonds of friendship that often supplant family ties.”

EXCERPT:

Chapter 2 Good Morning, Murder

Bonjour, meurtre
id you murder the kid, Gabe?” Lily Cup asked. The aging army captain, veteran of Korea and Vietnam, low¬ered his newspaper just enough to see over the entertainment page.
“Close the door, honey, AC’s on,” Gabe said.
In a tight, black skirt with a tailored matching waistcoat and white Nike walking shoes, she leaned and propped a black leather briefcase against the wall by the door. She stood like an exasperated tomboy, adjusting and refastening the diamond brooch on her lapel.
“I heard you’ve been walking with a cane, dancing man. What’s that all about? You’ve never carried a cane. You jazz dance for hours a couple of nights a week and Sasha tells me you started carrying one everywhere you go when you don’t need one. It’s smelling pretty premeditated to me, Gabe. What’s up with the cane thing?”
“Does Sasha know about this morning?”
“I haven’t told her anything. She’d have a canary.”
Gabe lifted the paper again to read.
“I need to know if it was murder,” Lily Cup said.
“I don’t want to talk about it,” Gabe said.
He closed the paper, folded it in half, and in half again. Dropping it on the arm of the chair, he stood and left the room.
“Define murder,” he said from the kitchen.
She tossed a handbag and white driving gloves onto the other chair, lifted Chanel sunglasses to the top of her head.
“Gee, I’ll have to think on this one. Hmmm…Oh, I know. How about the police have a cane with blood on it and there’s a dead man.”
“It’s a walking stick. My cane is over by the door.”
“Well now it’s a goddamned murder weapon. They checked for prints, and yours are the only prints on it, and their guess is the lab will say the blood has his DNA.”
Gabe came out with a coffee urn in one hand and his finger and thumb through two empty cup handles. He held the cups out for her to take one.
“No more,” Gabe said.
“You’re rather nonchalant for the spot you’re in. Why’d you clam up on me like that at the precinct? It didn’t set well with any of them. The DA entered a charge of second-degree murder. The police chief put out a warrant for you from lunch at Brennan’s.”
He held the empty cups closer to her.
“Just made it. Chicory and cinnamon.”
“If you had television you’d have seen it—‘Daylight killing on St. Charles Avenue.’ It’s all over the news, freaking out the DA and the Visitors Bureau. No telling how many videos from streetcars going by will wind up on You Tube.”
“That’s enough,” Gabe said.
“People can live with violence after dark. That’s expected in any city, but when it’s in broad daylight, forget it. The DA pushed for an early docket with a magistrate and it’s Tulane and Broad for you at nine a.m. tomorrow.”
“What’s Tulane and Broad?”
“Magistrate Court. Congratulations, Gabe, you made the big time. You have to appear before a magistrate to hear the second-degree murder charge against you.”
She took an empty cup in one hand, pinched his arm with the other.
“Look me in the eye and swear it wasn’t murder,” Lily Cup said.
“This some kind of technique they teach at Harvard Law, Miss Tarleton?”
She rolled her eyes and turned to the other chair.
“The only reason they haven’t busted down your door and you’re not behind bars is you’re a decorated veteran, and I’m your attorney, and I promised you’ll show up in the morning. Sasha warned me about you. I should have listened. You’re an ornery, stubborn old coot when you have a mind to.”
She sat down.
“I’m never ornery,” Gabe said. “But that’s enough.”
He leaned and poured coffee.
“You’re lucky we have Magistrate Judge Fontenot tomorrow. I heard her dad was killed in Vietnam. She’s been pretty fair to me in the past. A new school gal, tough on the letter of the law, but she’ll listen to reason if it solves a case. She hates red tape with a passion, and seldom lets the DA or the defense use the system for delays. She doesn’t get hung up on tradition.”
“Have you heard?” Gabe said. “Our Sasha has asked me to give her away. How about them apples?”
“Gabe, like she’s been my best friend since kindergarten, she tells me everything,” Lily Cup said. “It’s sweet.”
“I’m thinking Peck and I might throw a party,” Gabe said. “Something she’ll remember—commemorate their engagement Mardi Gras style. Lots of pictures; close friends.”
“Will you print invitations, like a formal do?” Lily Cup asked.
“But of course,” Gabe said. “Maybe costumes?”
“It’s party time! She would flip over a costume party, all our friends would,” Lily Cup said. “You and Peck celebrating her engage¬ment will mean a lot to her.”
“Should we do it here or over at Charlie’s Blue Note with the live jazz?”
“Gabe, you’ve got one picture on the mantle, two chairs, and a cardboard box in the living room. This isn’t exactly what I’d call a Commander’s Palace party room.”
“I was thinking a streetcar day pass in the invite if we do it here at the house,” Gabe said.
“That’s a nice idea—parking sucks on this street. When are you going to buy some furniture?”
“I’m too old to impose furniture on Peck. Peck would only feel obligated to keep it after I’m gone. I’ll let him and Millie pick out the furniture doodads, curtains, and the dishes when they play house. There’s time.”
“How’s your stomach with what happened today? Were you hurt?” Lily Cup said.
“What stomach? They removed it.”
“I meant how’ve you been since the operation?”
“I’m a hospice survivor with some time left in me, hopefully. At least enough time to plan a party.”
“You might be partying in Angola if the DA pushes this to a grand jury,” Lily Cup said.
Gabe stood, got the coffee urn again and brought it into the liv¬ing room.
“Warm your coffee?”
“Do you two at least have beds?” Lily Cup asked.
“Of course we have beds,” Gabe said. “Peck thinks he’s a prince— a mattress with sheets after sleeping on a canvas cot most of his life.”
“This must be a new world for him,” Lily Cup said.
“For fifteen years he slept in an unheated shed at a wood mill,” Gabe said. “Saw blades hanging over him like Macy’s parade bal¬loons. It took him weeks getting used to sleeping on a bed. I’d find him curled on the floor with his window wide open.”
“Peck and Millie,” Lily Cup said. “They do seem like a good fit, don’t they?”
“She’s loved the boy with a passion since the day he made the Greyhound bus stop so he could jump off just to give her the baby doll she left on her seat,” Gabe said.
“Her baby doll, Charlie. Sasha told me about the doll. Hell, I had my Teddy bear all through Harvard. I still have it,” Lily Cup said.
“Millie does love her Charlie,” Gabe said.
“Does she like the house?”
“That girl loves New Orleans. It’s a completely different world for her from the strict Baptist home life in Tennessee and Baylor University. But hell, the girl would love Milwaukee if Peck were there. Her mom and dad love Peck. I’m not certain Millie’s had a good look at the house the few times she’s come on her school breaks. She hits the door, pauses just long enough to hug ole Gabe here a genuine hello and a kiss on the cheek, then she’ll grab Peck’s arm like it’s an empty egg basket handle, close his bedroom door behind them and climb his bones until he comes out peaked, steps on the porch for some air and goes back in for another round.”
“Whoa, now that takes me back,” Lily Cup said. “I can remember those wild younger days of reckless abandon.”
She sipped her coffee, smiling.
“Innocent times,” Gabe said.
“They weren’t so innocent,” Lily Cup said.
“Oh?”
“I remember after school sometimes; Sasha and I’d be feeling randy and we’d corner us a couple of momma’s boys we thought showed promise. We’d sneak into one of those back storage rooms on Magazine Street and wear them out.”
“Lord help ’em,” Gabe said. “Impetuous youth.”
“We had perfect lures. Sasha was the first in our grade to wear a D cup bra,” Lily Cup said.
“Her girls,” Gabe said.
“They were magnets for high school bad boys dying for a peek,” Lily Cup said. “The bigger her girls, the ‘badder’ the boys.”
“Youth,” Gabe said.
“We developed our fancies,” Lily Cup said. “Hers was arousing a dude and putting his condom on him. She’d ride it like a sailor on a rowboat—the boy gawking up at her girls in her Victoria Secret bra she saved her allowance for. She’d never take it off. She’d say a boy appreciates a cleavage—why spoil the fantasy?”
“And you?”
“Let’s just say I developed a liking for the feel of a firm cigar.”
“Ha!” Gabe guffawed. “Is that why you smoke those short Panatelas?”
“Over the years I’ve learned to keep my expectations low.”
“Youth is uncouth,” Gabe said. “At least you’re sophisticated and couth now, little lady.”
“Too couth. I like to get mussed up on occasion.”
“You’re an attractive woman. It’ll happen.”
“She’s talking about the wedding reception maybe being at Charlie’s Blue Note,” Lily Cup said.
“If that’s true, I’m surprised James hasn’t put up a scuff,” Gabe said. “A jazz joint in an alley off Frenchmen Street isn’t what I’d call his cup of tea.”
“I think the house would be best for the engagement party, fixed up a little. I’ll help,” Lily Cup said.
“It would be more personal here,” Gabe said.
“I think so,” Lily Cup said. “This is like home to her.”
“I’ll have Peck paint the porch ceiling,” Gabe said.
Lily Cup stood, coffee cup in hand. She walked to the door look¬ing out at the porch’s ceiling.
“Why?” she asked.
“I’m changing the sky–blue to another color, maybe a white.”
“It looks freshly painted.”
“It’s a tradition thing,” Gabe said.
“What tradition?”
“A lady at the library told me a sky–blue ceiling on a front porch signals an available woman–of–age living in the house.”
“That’s phooey,” Lily Cup said. “I heard that one and three others like it. Like sky–blue wards off spiders and attracts bees away from people sitting on porch swings. I wouldn’t bother painting it.”
“I’m a Chicago boy—what would I know from superstitions?”
“It’s an old wives’ tale,” Lily Cup said. “Those are different than superstition. Sasha and I still sit on a roof in the Quarter under a full moon if it’s not lightning—it’s bad gris–gris if there are thun¬derstorms under a full moon. We light candles and talk through the 

Meet Jerome Mark Antil

JEROME MARK

 

JEROME MARK ANTIL writes in several genres. He has been called a “greatest generation’s Mark Twain,” a “write what you know Ernest Hemingway,” and “a sensitive Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.” It’s been said his work reads like a Norman Rockwell painting. Among his writing accomplishments, several titles in his The Pompey Hollow Book Club historical fiction series about growing up in the shadows of WWII have been honored. An ‘Authors and Writers’ Book of the Year Award and ‘Writer of the Year’ at Syracuse University for The Pompey Hollow Book Club novel; Hemingway, Three Angels, and Me, won SILVER in the UK as second-best novel.
Contact Link
Purchase Links

 

Book Tour + Giveaway: SOUL REMAINS ( Terribly Serious Darkness Book 2 by SAM HOOKER!@SamHooker @RABTBookTours

Fantasy (Humorous)
Date Published: 23 April 2019
Publisher: Black Spot Books
 photo add-to-goodreads-button_zpsc7b3c634.png
It’s Dark in the Old Country.
Where do goblins come from? Why do they only turn up in the Old Country, and why do they like swearing so much? In the second book of Terribly Serious Darkness, Sloot Peril—a “hero” who’s staunchly averse to heroics—goes searching for answers. Much to his chagrin, he finds them.
Everything changed after the Fall of Salzstadt, but try telling that to the people of the city, whose capacity for denial is unmatched. They have yet to acknowledge that Vlad the Invader cut a bloody swath through their city, that the dead are walking the streets, or that the Domnitor—long may he reign—has fled to wherever despots go on very long vacations while goblin infestations take care of themselves.
The worst of villains holds all of the power, unspeakable dark forces are on the rise, and everyone wants to kidnap the Domnitor—long may he reign—for their own nefarious ends. If all of that weren’t bad enough, Sloot’s got the fate of his own soul to worry about.
Can his girlfriend help him save the Old Country from annihilation? Is Myrtle really his girlfriend? If all goes well for Sloot—which it never does—he might just sort it all out before the Dark swallows them all up.

 

MEET SAM HOOKER

AUTHOR
Sam Hooker writes darkly humorous fantasy. He is an entirely serious person, regardless of what you may have heard. Originally from Texas, he now resides in southern California with his wife, son, and dog.
Contact Links
 
Purchase Links

 

GIVEAWAY!

3 signed copies of Peril in the Old Country, the first book in the series. 
 
 

SOUL REMAINS

Book Tour + Excerpt: SOUTH POINTE ( A Providence Island Novel ) by DIANNA WILKES!@dwilkesauthor @RABTBookTours

 photo SouthPointe_ebook_Final_small_zpsj3fueazk.jpg

Mystery & Suspense
Date Published: February 6, 2018
Publisher: RedBird Books
 
 photo add-to-goodreads-button_zpsc7b3c634.png
Paige Carson never expected that both a handsome sheriff and a charismatic newcomer would be vying for her affections. The choice isn’t an easy one, as she’s now responsible for raising her orphaned goddaughter, Jess.
Sheriff Sam Wallace didn’t lose at love. He got kicked to the curb. Hopeful that courting the feisty Paige will end differently, he can’t help but feel suspicious about his romantic rival. Is Ben Hampshire the man he seems—or is Sam’s jealousy clouding his perspective?
Sam’s determined to win Paige’s and Jess’s love, but he also has to keep Providence Island safe. More than just Sam’s heart is at risk if he fails to find the killer who walks the streets of PI—a killer with more than one agenda.

EXCERPT:

Dana locked the door after Ben departed and set the Closed. Please call again sign in place.
She’d lied to Ben about the reason for her fainting. Yes, she’d skipped breakfast. Yes, it was hot, and yes, she’d become dizzy. But the truth was she’d panicked when Ben had passed by the front windows.
A shadow fell across the front windows, and she caught a glimpse of blonde hair. The front door opened, spilling sunlight into the lobby.
Maisie was right when she’d described the young man as “a charmer.” His kind humor and gracious manners had put Dana at ease, despite her embarrassment.
One thing was certain. She had to break this cycle of panic every time she came to the office. Her gaze shifted to the area where Kyle Lansing had stood.
She grabbed the cast-iron hummingbird from the side table and swung the metal statue in a sharp arc. The blow slammed against Lansing’s upraised arm. He howled, and the gun fell from his hand. She swung again, this time catching the detective in the chest. Lansing stumbled backward. She dropped the sculpture and snatched up the gun.
That’s when the shadow had swept past the windows. The glimpse of blonde hair had frightened her that it was Jamie returning to the building, and she wouldn’t be able to protect the both of them.
The entry wall blocked the newcomer from her sight. She stepped back. There wasn’t much room to retreat, but each inch might make a difference in saving her life.
Lansing cast a glance over one shoulder. “What are you doing here, Ham—”
The first two shots hit Lansing in the torso. A third shot struck his head. Blood sprayed as he dropped to the floor. She gripped the gun, waiting for the stranger to step forward. Sunlight spilled once more in the lobby entrance. A rush of air and sounds from outside drifted inward as the shadow of the shooter moved away. The door closed, cutting off the sunlight.
Dana gripped the edge of Jamie’s desk as Lansing’s final words echoed in her ears.
“What are you doing here, Ham—”
Hampshire.
A chill rushed through her body, and she closed her hands into fists to keep them from shaking. She dared a glance at the front door as if expecting a face to be staring back at her. “Was it you, Ben?”
And if the shooter had been Ben Hampshire, how long was he willing to keep her and her loved ones safe?

About the Author

 photo DiannaWilkes_zpsbnv4sncv.jpg

Dianna Wilkes is an award-winning contemporary romance author, known for the Providence Island mystery series.
Reading has always been an important part of her life. “I learned to read when I was four years old,” she said. “Writing my own stories seemed a natural progression.”
Dianna holds a B.A. in Visual Communication and a M.Ed. in Instructional Technology. She worked as an Education Consultant for a medical technology company before leaving the corporate world to write full time. Despite all that nerdy stuff, she loves creating stories of romance and mystery with touches of humor.
When she isn’t writing, Dianna is deep in researching various twigs and branches on her family tree or fulfilling entries on her travel bucket list.
Contact Links
Purchase Links

SOUTH POINTE BC

Review Blast: SNITCHES GET STITCHES( Bear Bottom MC #8 ) by USA Today Bestselling Author LANI LYNN VALE!@LaniLynnVale @Danichez75

 

SNITCHES GET STITCHES BC

Good vs Bad.

Light vs Dark.

Right vs Wrong.

There are always two sides to every coin.

Josiah ‘Liner’ Paldecki knew the moment he laid
eyes on her that there was something different about her. Something special.
Something so unique that it practically poleaxed him the moment that their eyes
met.

Except, the next time he saw her, it was like
she was a different woman altogether. There was a blankness to her eyes that
concerned him. An air of menace about her that honestly scared him to death.
He’s more than man enough to admit it.

At first, Liner thinks it’s because she’s
bi-polar, or possibly psychopathic.

Then he realizes the truth.

That there isn’t a single person that exhibits
such different personalities, but two.

Two identical twin sisters, both completely
different, yet exactly the same.

One with a soul, and one without.

One that has his heart, and one that only wants
to destroy it.

AVAILABLE NOW  

Amazon | Amazon AU | Amazon CA | Amazon UK | Kobo | Nook | Apple

T1_SGS Lani Lynn Vale

♥♥♥REVIEW♥♥♥

Well she has done it again; every book blows me away. LLV has excelled in this one, one warning before you start reading get the tissues out, as once tears start it is inconvenient to stop reading as search for tissues.
This is about Liner who is a brother in the MC.  One day at Tara’s house while keeping Rome company so he could have quality time with Matias who was very ill. Liner thought Tara had a personality transplant and so he really looked at Tara and thought she was a different person especially allowing Rome some quality time with his son and not being difficult.

Then later day when he sees her crying through the bedroom window from his patio next door. Liner is struck so much by it, and he realises they must be twins.
Theodora has been a victim her whole life because of her family. When they meet for the first time both are struck with something that makes them immediately comfortable with each other and Liner manages to get Theo to confide in him.

This is in part heartbreaking the way Theo has treated by her family. Then after meeting Liner Theo begins to hope, she has a future she can look forward too.
This is Lani Lynn Vale at her best pulling you into the story and controlling your emotions as you experience what Theo and Liner begin to feel.

This for me is a six-star read I loved it and I want in Audio so I can enjoy it again. This is a keeper and on my reread shelf.

gold-stargold-stargold-stargold-stargold-stargold-star
T5_SGS Lani Lynn Vale



Meet Lani Lynn Vale

LaniLynnVale-225x300

Lani Lynn Vale is a
USA Today Bestselling Author of over thirty titles. She is married with three
children, two dogs, two cats, a donkey, and a couple (a couple also meaning
over twenty) chickens.
 

When she’s not
writing, you can find her curled up in her favorite chair reading.

Lani is married with
three children and lives in the Great State of Texas.

 
Website | Facebook | Twitter | Instagram | Goodreads | BookBub

FB Banner SGS Lani Lynn Vale (1)

 

Release Tour: FIVE YEARS & ONE DAY by MICHAL ADMONI is Now LIVE!@AdmoniMichal

Title: Five Years & One Day

Author: Michal Admoni

Genre: Contemporary Romance

Release Date: April 7, 2019

 

She finds herself hospitalized with no sensation in the lower half of her body

Ella is 26 years old when her world collapses. A traumatic car accident puts an end to the vibrant and optimistic life she lives and forces her to deal with her inability to walk or even feel the lower half of her body.
Ella finds herself confined to the spinal injury ward in a rehabilitation hospital which is turning – unwillingly, into her home. She hates the place because of what it symbolizes, how it looks and smells, but she knows she has no choice. Her long time boy-friend feels like Ella’s paralysis is his fault and cannot handle it. He asks for a break, leaving Ella not only in pain, but also feeling betrayed.
The only thing that keeps Ella going are her friends; the ones who were in her previous life and the new ones she meets at the hospital. One of the new people in her life is Ophir and the spark between them – though exciting, brings more uncertainty to her life.
Ella knows that she has to make some hard choices if she wants to continue living rather than just being alive.

 

 

 

 

2008 was a rough year for Michal Admoni, who spent months in rehabilitation at the Beit Loewenstein Hospital. She had to cope with not only almost losing her life and being separated from her children – due to her physical state, but also with her mother’s death. 
By the end of this horrific year and thanks to an inner process she went through, Admoni realized the significance of this year and decided to devote herself to helping others in similar situations. Admoni decided to study personal and medical coaching, and for two years volunteered as a lecturer on the topic of rehabilitation processes, at the Gal Loewenstein College – a teaching institution. 
Today, Admoni and her husband – Doron, live in the Kfar-Aza Kibbutz with their three children – Guy (20), Gali (15), and Lali (32), with Doron’s son from his previous marriage – Ran (31), and their two dogs.
Admoni works as a personal and group life-coach, specializing in the empowerment of rehab patients and inspires others to keep daring while lectures about disability and the strength she discovered inside her.

 

 

 

Blog Tour + Excerpt: GOODGIRL ( A Siren Island Novel ) by NY Times and USA Today Bestselling Author TRICIA O’ MALLEYIS Now Available! @InkslingerPR

Today we have the blog tour for GOOD GIRL by Tricia O’Malley! Check it out and be sure to grab your copy today!

Title: GOOD GIRL

Author: Tricia O’Malley

Genre: Paranormal Romance

About Good Girl:

New release! From New York Times and USA Today bestselling author, Tricia O’Malley, comes a brand new romance series about love, self-discovery, and embracing your inner mermaid.

She shouldn’t be on this island.

If she was smart, Samantha Jameson would turn around and march right back to the plane that deposited her at a faded hut of an airport on Siren Island. Yet, Samantha just can’t muster the energy to do so, not after the hellish week she’s had. Her whole life has been spent playing by the rules, and for what? An empty apartment, a career with no upward movement, and one failed relationship after another. When it all blows up in her face, what’s a girl to do but book a last-minute trip to the ridiculously named Laughing Mermaid Bed & Breakfast on an unknown speck of an island in the Caribbean?

Lucas Mosteron knows all about burning out from first-hand experience. Over the years, he’s discovered that he isn’t the only one, as everyone has their own unique story for landing on Siren Island. His lovely and mysterious neighbors at The Laughing Mermaid Bed & Breakfast are no exception. Little does he know that there is more to their story than he could ever have imagined possible. When Samantha Jameson arrives as their guest – depleted and needing respite, Lucas can’t help but feel like he could be the man she needs. Irresistibly drawn to her uptight demeanor, Lucas is determined to unwind Samantha and show her that life on Siren Island could be the answer to all her problems.

Grab Your Copy Today!

Amazon | Amazon UK | Amazon AU | Amazon CA| iBooks | Nook | Kobo | Google Play | Goodreads

 

EXCERPT

“Which is it, ma’am? Business or pleasure?” The customs agent regarded her carefully, and it annoyed Sam to see not even a sheen of sweat on the man’s face, though he wore neatly pressed khaki pants and a button-down shirt. Why were there no enclosed rooms in this hut of an airport? Samantha knew for a fact that the island had access to the internet; surely they’d learned of the invention of air conditioning by now.
“Pleasure. My apologies. I travel so much for work that I forgot this trip was for pleasure,” Sam said, sweeping her tastefully highlighted auburn hair over her shoulder and flashing the agent the smile that had opened more than one door for her in the past.
“That’s a shame, ma’am. One should never forget to take time for pleasure.” The agent’s voice never changed, but something flashed in his eyes for just a moment – a warm male appreciation that, for once, didn’t feel predatory. Sam got the impression that he enjoyed all women. When she heard him begin flirting with the lady behind her, who sported a fanny pack and an unruly swath of grey hair, her assumption was confirmed.
His words followed her as she tapped her foot impatiently by the single-loop baggage conveyor belt, and Sam’s annoyance reached peak levels as another passenger jostled her to peer over her shoulder.
“I really hope they didn’t lose our bags this time. I swear, Carl, every time we come here something gets lost.”
Then why did they still come here? Sam wondered in frustration, deliberately spreading her elbows a bit to strike a power pose – the one she used in crowds to force people to step away from her a bit.
For that matter, what was she even doing here? As Sam’s thoughts flashed back over the last forty-eight hours, sweat began to drip in earnest down her back, and she was certain she could actually feel the blood pumping through her heart. Gulping for air, she looked around wildly. What this airport needed was some fans.
The sunlight seemed to get brighter and the eager laughter of the crowd around her sounded like the braying of mules. The faces and laughter and heat and sweat all pressed on her until Sam turned to run – only to find herself trapped by the crowd. Panic skittered its way up her throat and she gasped, trying to draw a breath against the warm press of bodies pushing toward the bags that now belched from a small flap covered hole in the wall.

About Tricia O’Malley:

New York Times & USA Today Bestselling author, Tricia O’Malley, lives in the Caribbean with her much doted-upon dogs, Briggs and Blue. On a typical day you will find her lost in the worlds of her making or gearing up to go scuba diving. Tricia loves fun vacation reads, hates wimpy characters, and hosts a serious addiction to traveling the world. She finds inspiration on the go – and you’ll often find her books set in beautiful settings with characters tangled in affairs of the heart…or murder.

Connect with Tricia:

Amazon | Goodreads | Website | Facebook

Enter Tricia’s Giveaway:

a Rafflecopter giveaway