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 Blitz + Giveaway: THEIR DISCOVERY (Legally Bound #3 )by REBECCA GRACE ALLEN!@RGraceAllen @XpressoTours

Their Discovery
Rebecca Grace Allen
(Legally Bound, #3)
Publication date: April 29th 2019
Genres: Erotica, Romance

Exploring their fantasies could save their marriage…or push it over the edge

Legally Bound, Book 3

Samantha Archer’s life has hit a wall. Her world is housework, homework and reminding her husband—the biggest kid in the family—to help out at home. Once she felt confident, powerful and sexy, but Brady doesn’t seem to notice her anymore, and now all she feels is invisible.

Brady has tried being the goofy guy who stole Sam’s heart, but it’s not working. He’s losing the woman he loves and doesn’t have a clue how to fix it. He’s keeping his darkest fantasies hidden too, sure they’re not what Sam wants, and his inability to please her cuts him deeper than she knows.

When Sam lands a new job at a law firm, Brady still won’t pick up the slack, and one night giving him orders unexpectedly reignites their missing spark. Sam discovers the Femdomme she didn’t know she was, kindling Brady’s submissive desires.

But while things heat up inside the bedroom, life outside it starts unraveling. Brady’s need to call the shots at work complicates his hunger to kneel for his wife, and Sam has longed to experiment in more ways than one. Their exploration of dominance and submission goes a step too far when they invite Sam’s sultry switch coworker into their bed, and the fallout could cost them everything.

Warning: contains a six-foot-five, ex-football player geek and a ballsy, badass redhead who’s learning to unleash her inner Domme. Scenes depicting humiliation, pegging and threesomes could disturb, or stimulate a thirst for adventure.

Goodreads / Amazon / Barnes & Noble / iBooks / Kobo / Google Play

The full trilogy:

EXCERPT:

She went up on her toes, stretching her supple body to put an unused juice glass back in its place. The move pulled her nightshirt away from her back, offering Brady a slice of skin in between the cotton and the edge of her pajama bottoms.

He adjusted himself and tried to think about something else, and not just because his kids were nearby. Even if they weren’t, he’d bet nothing would happen. Sam’s lack of interest in sex had been from the baby weight she’d gained. Brady never minded when she was heavier—he’d joked that there was more of Sam to love. To him it was a reminder of the years they’d spent building this family, the lives they’d lived. Her hips had seemed more lush back then, too, her breasts fuller. She’d stopped letting him play with them when she was nursing, and now that she’d lost the weight, he’d been waiting for the green light to go back there again.

She’d never given it.

They’d become platonic, disconnected in a sexless marriage. He’d taught himself to shut down his impulses, trying to find satisfaction with his right hand. But now, watching her move around, her messy red hair up in a bun, he wished he could get her even messier, wished he could reach for whatever she was trying to get, and after he’d given it to her, she’d hop up on the counter and take off her shirt. She’d tell him to kiss each tender nipple, then order him to the floor. Laughing, she’d comment on how desperate she’d gotten him, how she’d bet he couldn’t wait until his face was between her thighs.

Brady tore his gaze away from her, his cheeks blazing. He wasn’t supposed to fantasize like that. A real man didn’t want his wife to order him around, to let her take what she wanted and to revel in whatever pleasure he could give her. He was the ex-football player, the breadwinner, the dad of two little girls. He was supposed to be strong. Dominant. Like the men in her books.

He’d peeked at them once when she’d left her iPad open. After months of saying she felt fat, that the kids would hear, or one of the dozens of other reasons she’d given him, he never imagined she’d be reading, well, smut. And the men who filled those digital pages gave orders and grabbed fistfuls of hair. They were rough and aggressive, took what they wanted and commanded obedience.

That wasn’t him. And if that was what Sam wanted, there was no point in reaching for her at all.

It was ironic. A real flaw in his DNA. He knew a few strands different and he’d be more like the kind of guy Sam wanted. The kind who was forceful in bed and didn’t miss half of what she was saying because he had so much on his mind he couldn’t focus. It was like the information got stuck between his ears and his brain, which often had him standing stock-still and trying to recall what she’d asked, lowering his head in embarrassment when she had to repeat it.


Author Bio:

Rebecca Grace Allen is an author of sweet, sexy and soul searching romance, emphasis on the sexy! She holds a Bachelor of Arts in English with a double concentration in Creative Writing and Literary Comparison, as well as a Master of Science degree in Elementary Education, both of which seemed like good ideas at the time. After stumbling through careers in entertainment, publishing, law and teaching, she’s returned to her first love: writing. A self-admitted caffeine addict and gym rat, she currently lives in upstate New York with her husband, two parakeets, and a cat with a very unusual foot fetish.

Website / Goodreads / Facebook / Twitter / Newsletter

 

GIVEAWAY!
E-copies of Rebecca’s backlist and a $10 Amazon gift card
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Discovery

Book Blitz + Excerpt: TICK COOPER by JOHN VANCE!@victorianvance @RABTBookTours

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YA & Adult Historical Fiction
Publisher: Black Opal Books
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“I swear by everything I ever owned that my adventure will be the honest truth—even if I had to tell a few lies along the way to get to the meaning of that truth.” So promises Tick Cooper, a twelve year old Ohio boy who’s about to accompany his Uncle Ned down the Ohio and Mississippi Rivers to New Orleans. It’s the autumn of 1860, right before the election that will send Abraham Lincoln to the White House. With his mother deceased and his father having deserted him for the chance of gold in California, Tick has been most fortunate to receive the care and love of his father’s older brother and his wife—Aunt Clara. Although she has recently passed away, she and Uncle Ned have educated the boy about living a good and proper life. But Tick hasn’t had much of a chance to put what he’s learned into practice—nor to face the moral challenges every young person will face as he or she grows up. But the river journey will provide plenty of those experiences and tests of character. Yet, reaching New Orleans does not conclude the lessons and challenges, for there Tick witnesses a slave auction, and on the block is a thirteen-year-old freed black girl named Clarissa, whom Tick had briefly met in Ohio. Now Tick faces his most significant challenge. Can he help get Clarissa back to Ohio all the way from New Orleans?
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EXCERPT

There I was jumping from the top of one tree to another. It wasn’t exactly as if I was flying, because I had to land on the top branch of each tree, but it sure felt like flying. Geese were following me and honking away like they were trying to warn me about something. But when I decided to forget about the tree tops and just fly, I fell hard to the ground thirty feet below and started rolling down the side of a hill while I was hiding my face in a pillow. I kept feeling the feathers from the goose down pillow sticking out and poking my cheeks and the side of my neck. Try as I might, I couldn’t pull that pillow off my face and it got to be stained with the blood coming out of me. But I kept rolling and rolling until I was stopped by something firm but soft. But by the time I finally pulled the pillow away from my face to see what or who had stopped me, I woke up and I never found out. That happens to me in dreams a lot. Wish it didn’t, though. What woke me up was my Uncle Ned telling me it was time to leave our house and get on the train to Cincinnati where we would get aboard the steamboat the St. Paul and head down to New Orleans. I was about to leave on the greatest adventure of my life. I swear by everything I ever owned that it will be the honest truth—even if I had to tell a few lies along the way to get to the meaning of that truth. Uncle Ned shouted from the front porch of our house in Oxford, Ohio, “Time to catch the train, Tick.” That’s my name—Tick—Tick Cooper. Or what they’ve always called me anyways. Uncle Ned said I’d always remember this day as long as I lived, but I still wrote it down when we got on the train in Hamilton so I’d be sure never to forget— “November the 1st, 1860.” We would ride some thirty-five miles to Cincinnati, the 2 largest city in the whole state. I’d a been on the train only once before—when the railway first opened, when I was six. But what gets a boy excited when he’s six and what gets him excited at twelve are quite different things—so this time I acted all grown up like I’d ridden the railroad every week. I didn’t jump around and bother Uncle Ned the way I did the first time. Even so, it was still pretty special chugging along in such high style. Nothing much happened on the train for the first twenty miles or so, but two more passengers got on and right afterward I heard some commotion going on in front of where we were sitting. “I say that’s my seat you’re sitting in. Get out of it now.” The man who said that was an elderly gent who looked like he had gotten into many tough scrapes in his life. He had long white hair and side whiskers, but what I grabbed my attention most was his scarred-up face. It looked like someone had dug trenches on his cheeks and above his right eye. And he seemed much bigger and stronger than men as old as he was. He was talking to a boy who looked younger than me—maybe nine or ten. The boy was in the seat by himself and was just too scared to say anything back. “You had better come up with a good reason why you took my seat or I’ll rip your nose right off your face, boy.” Because Uncle Ned had fallen asleep, it was up to me to do something. I just had to be sure that boy kept his nose on where it was, so I ran up to the man. “Excuse me, mister. My brother here is in the wrong seat. Come on, Ben. Your seat is back with us.” That boy almost flew out of the seat and headed to the back of the train car. “Excuse my brother, mister. He doesn’t hear well and sometimes I have to tell him things twice.” I turned and walked back to my seat, expecting that that white-haired old devil would 3 grab me and try to take my nose off. But he didn’t say or do anything. He just grunted and sat in the seat I guess he always sat in when he rode on that train. I found out that Ben’s real name was Peter Butler and that he was put on the train by his grandpap so he could take a steamboat from Cincinnati to Pittsburgh, where his mother, father, and baby sister had just settled in a house. I told him I’d look out for him until we reached Cincinnati, where his grandpap’s brother lived and would take him in for the night. We talked about the man with the scars on his face—I mean we talked softly so we wouldn’t wake Uncle Ned or let that old buzzard hear us. I told Peter that some folks believe they really own whatever they use often—cups, chairs, and such–and that it’s easy for someone big to get what they want from someone smaller, who can’t do anything about it. And if that big someone is also real ugly, it’s all the easier. When I told Peter my name, he wanted to know if I was born with it. I told him that when I was born my father named me John Polk Cooper, but those first two names never really suited me much. It was Aunt Clara who first called me “Tick” because when I was a baby I used to burrow into the blanket like a tick into a dog’s back. But the name really stuck when I started running around and hiding in bushes, old dead trees, and holes in the ground. I also like the sound of Tick Cooper better than John Cooper or John Polk Cooper any day of the week. One of my teachers said that Tick Cooper wasn’t as easy to pronounce as John or John Polk Cooper, because the first name ended with a “k” sound and the second name began with the same sound. But she was educated and I guess those things matter to those kinds of folks. Ben said that Polk was a funny name to be stuck with—and it was, but from what Uncle Ned told me I got my middle name because of the then president of the United States, James Polk, who they say kicked the Mexicans out of Texas and took it for the 4 United States. Uncle Ned said that my father thought Polk did the right thing, but from what Uncle Ned also told me, my father once shot a man in the leg who claimed that the twelve feet at the very back of my father’s land rightfully belonged to him. They say the man showed my father the papers, but my father shot him anyways, saying that it was the law that those who live on the land and cultivate it have all right to it. I guess old President Polk never heard of that law when he took Texas. So since I was born on March 3, 1848, I got stuck with a Polk between my first and last names. If I was born three years ago my name would have been John Buchanan Cooper, which was wore then the name I had. As Aunt Clara used to say, “Thank heaven for small favors.” When the train stopped in Cincinnati, we waited until the foul-looking man left the train car before we did. Uncle Ned woke up and finally met Peter, who thanked me for helping him and waited until he saw his grandpap’s brother before getting off the train. I wished he was going to New Orleans instead of Pittsburgh, because I knew I’d never see him again, but my Aunt Clara used to say that the older you get the more often folks would come in and then out of your life—sometimes on the very same day. Aunt Clara. I guess I forgot to say that she was Uncle Ned’s wife and was always like a mother to me, since my own mother died when I wasn’t yet two years old. I’m still very sad that Aunt Clara got real sick and died a few months back. The day before we left Oxford, we went to see her grave at the Old Yard Cemetery. Uncle Ned had been going there every week since she died, but he never made me go with him. I just did it on my own every few weeks or so, but it was more to be with Uncle Ned because I really wanted to go. Not that I’m afraid to visit the graves of all those dead people. I’ve been there after the sun went down with three of my friends and was the very last to run out of there, which won me the wool cap we found snagged on a tree limb the day before. 5 Anyway–at her grave, Uncle Ned told Aunt Clara that he’d be going away for a spell and he’d be thinking of her all the time. He also told her that he’d be taking me with him. She was so good to me—she really was. As soon as we got off the train, we heard a noise on the wooden platform—a kind of “ker-thump” every several second or so, so we looked around and saw a man who looked like he hadn’t shaved his whiskers in a hundred years limping along with a wooden crutch under his arm, which he dragged as he took a step with his good leg. Good leg? I should have said only leg! Uncle Ned reached in his pocket for a coin or two, which he liked to do whenever he saw someone who couldn’t walk or see too well. So I reached in mine and pulled out one of my two new Indian head pennies. My other one was back in my room at home, but I always carried one of them with me for good luck. But when I looked at the coin, I wanted to think that Uncle Ned’s contribution would be enough that the one-legged old soul wouldn’t hold it against me if I jammed my lucky coin back in my pocket. I sure didn’t want to be without luck on my grand adventure to New Orleans. But I didn’t think or act fast enough because the next thing I knew I had put my Indian head penny in the man’s hand. He closed his old fist around it, and I felt like I dropped my hunting rifle down a well. My stomach became as heavy as a cannon ball, and my throat felt as dry as if I had swallowed a campfire. Being charitable isn’t always “its own reward,” as Aunt Clara used to say. The poor man had only limped about ten feet away when two men in fancy clothes, with new top hats and walking sticks came up behind him and started laughing and pointing at his crutch. I guess these were men because they were dressed in all high fancy, but they acted like boys not much older than me. The one in the striped pants took his walking stick and swung it like he was chopping at a low limb and knocked the 6 crutch out from under the old man, who fell to the platform before I could take get close enough to break his fall. Those two dandified gents both burst out laughing as the old man let out one of them painful old man’s screeches, with a whistling sound—probably because he lacked some front teeth. The coins he had gotten from me, Uncle Ned, and some other kindly folks were scattered all over the platform. And then you know what those two popinjays did? They threw down several coins themselves! I couldn’t believe it. I guess they paid for the right to hurt the old man. Or maybe they did it to make sure their consciences wouldn’t bother them none. Uncle Ned told me once that some folks believe they can make up for their being cruel and thoughtless by giving money. And these two gents were nothing compared to what I’d see later on my adventure. But I’m running ahead of myself. When I went over to help up the old man, I saw my Indian head penny about six feet away, picking up the bright sunshine, which made it sparkle. When I got the crutch situated under the old man’s arm, I walked over and picked up the coin. I was afraid someone else would take it and use it to buy something useless. No. Now wait. That’s not all of it. I better come clean or this tale isn’t going to be worth you’re taking the time to read it if I don’t. To tell the honest truth, I picked up the coin mostly because I wanted to think more about his need for it, since four other folks gave the old man more money. I picked up my coin as the lame old man was walking away with the rest of the money that someone had picked up from the platform, along with the new coins just placed in his hand. I knew he wouldn’t miss my Indian head penny—not one bit–and seeing that it and the other penny back home were gifts from my Uncle Ned, I decided to put the penny back in my pocket. For about a second. I caught up with the old man and gave him my good-luck penny for a second time. Maybe I was wrong, but I just felt he needed the good luck 7 much more than I did. Then I heard Uncle Ned calling me, and that was the last I saw of my penny and the old man. But not the last I’d see of those two high-hatted, dandypants scoundrels who knocked the old man down.

Meet John Vance

JOHN VANCE

 

During his career as Professor of English at the University of Georgia, John Vance was the author of six books and numerous articles devoted to literary biography and criticism. He also began indulging his love of theater as actor, director, and playwright, with thirty-five of his plays staged. Now he has turned exclusively to fiction, and is the author of fourteen novels, including the humorous memoir Setting Sail for Golden Harbor and the recently BookBub featured In Mind of the Vampire. He lives in Athens, Georgia with his wife Susan.
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TICK COOPER

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
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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.
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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
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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.
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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

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Mystery & Suspense
Date Published: February 6, 2018
Publisher: RedBird Books
 
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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

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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.
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SOUTH POINTE BC

Book Blitz: THE OTHER ANGEL by ANN COVELL!@RABTBookTours

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Historical Fiction
Published: February 2019
Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
 
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The Other Angel is a dramatic, startling tale of how four young people from diverse backgrounds, each with their own aspirations and values, become unlikely though firm friends. It is an absorbing story that will attract readers as they get to know the characters, whose disparate lives intertwine before the Civil War splits them up. The Gettysburg battle aftermath brings them back together. It is an exciting story filled with breathtaking scenarios of plots, war and espionage, as well as romance and pathos. The story will resonate with readers as it unfolds to an emotion-charged conclusion that will invoke their empathy.
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Meet Ann Covell

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

 

Book Blitz: BEWARE OF MEMORIES by PATRICK K. JAYNE & DARLIEN C. BREEZE!@RABTBookTours

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Science Fiction
Date Published: February 2018
Publisher: Double Dragon
 
Aliens among us hidden in plain sight locked in a race to save their species from genetic wear-out the Parteans have come to Earth not to destroy but to build. After convincing scientist, Peter Kirby that he has discovered a way for individuals to relive any memory the idea that aliens are friendly is implanted. Some people resist and are eliminated.
Detectives Gardner Poole and Emma Bossart discover the alien ruse, but it is too late to stop the president of the United States from greeting our neighbors from outer space who hover miles above us in their spacecraft.
Ionlin, the spokesman for the Parteans, regales the assembled government officials with the many advantages of accepting them as allies. These advantages include massive health benefits, technological information and much more. She is very clear that there will be no information regarding interplanetary flight due to Earth’s history of violence.
Overcoming problems of mistrust and misinformation Earth and Parteans agree to an alliance with the stipulation that Earth will keep a watchful eye on our new friends. Unbeknownst to all, there is another player in the game.
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EXCERPT

Chapter One
Besides, we’re Swiss; we never lose a war.
Lake Geneva, Switzerland the attendant adjusted the halo around Emma’s head in preparation for the memory experience. The slight needle prick administered a mild sedative, which allowed her to relax and focus on one of her most cherished memories, that day over ten years ago.
Awareness arrived with the smell of gunpowder and the unmistakable repetitive crack of gunfire. Energized by adrenalin, her senses balanced on knife-edge as she scanned the warehouse rear entry.
Emma called to her partner over a cacophony of sounds. “Guess they knew we were coming.”
“Seems you could say that. How in God’s name could they know about the assault?”
Stefan had been her partner in the Swiss Federal Criminal Police (FCP) since her rookie days. Older, unflappable and dependable, if not a little too conventional for her taste. She, on more than one occasion, had trusted him with her life, but today was distinctly different. They were temporary adjuncts to this Interpol operation. Well, temporary or not, they were out-manned and out-gunned–time to stop being an adjunct and become the cavalry. I always liked that word.
“Stefan, can you see any of the Interpol strike squad?”
“No, after they sent us to cover the rear exit, they rushed the front. Sounds like that isn’t going so well.”
She formulated her thoughts then shouted her plan.
“Christ, Emma, we have 9mm Sigs and that racket sounds like machine pistols. Don’t you think a breach and entry is rather extreme?”
“Exactly, they’ll never expect us to come in the back door. Besides, we’re Swiss; we never lose a war.”
“That’s because we never fight a war.”
“As I said, we never lose a war,” she chuckled.
Stefan scrambled to his feet, sprinting beside her to the warehouse door.
She felt sure Stefan was flashing back to Geneva last year, when he surely thought she would get him killed. Not this time either; we got this.
She eased open the door and studied the chaos inside. The slight odor of gun smoke, which opened her memory, rose a factor of ten.
The hot warehouse, filled with a milieu of sounds–gunshots, desperate shouts, and moans of agony. The drug gang returned fire at an alarming pace. They not only knew the good guys were coming, they had no intention of fleeing.
She leaned closer to Stefan’s ear, “If we don’t act quickly, this is going to be a goddamn slaughter.” She carefully pondered the scene. Her mind placed each bad guy, but she could only see the Interpol team by muzzle flashes. Her earlier advice of coming with more firepower was pretty persuasive at the moment. Never bring a pistol to a machine-gun war.
Spying the elevated walkway prompted the start of a plan. She’d always been decisive and many times decisive actually trumped right. Pray I’m right this time. “I need to reach the catwalk,” she yelled, “that should give me an overview of the general shitstorm.” Did you bring the bullhorn?”
“Are you kidding? I left it outside the door.”
“Go back and get it while I ease up the ramp. When you see me in position, I want you to reenact that stunt we pulled in Ochsengasse with slightly different sound effects.”
Emma rapidly outlined the scheme. “That’s diabolical–as long as you don’t get shot before you reach the catwalk, and given they believe us.”
“Stefan, my man, you do your part and I’ll convince any non-believers.”
He slid out the door. She crawled and sprinted around packing crates.
Fortunately, the drug boys were facing the troops and Interpol couldn’t see her. Making the stairs, she crawled up on her belly. Easing along the runway, she reached a supporting column, which allowed some cover and afforded a warehouse view. She could just make out the Indians through the choking gun-smoke. She turned, to find Stefan in position. Emma crossed herself and gave the signal; she hoped the scumbags understood English. Cavalry time.
His voice thundered through the warehouse.” Delta squad, take up position on the east wall; alpha squad, flank to the west. Attention hostiles, you’re surrounded; throw down all weapons. Squads, ready grenades. This is your last chance, throw explosives on my mark.” He began a count which reverberated in the confined space, “one, two . . .”
Gunfire ceased. Voices in Spanish and English screamed. “What the hell? Que Pasa? Who’s shouting?” A high volume bullhorn can be quite disorienting, especially when. it’s announcing your demise.
A gunman, about thirty meters across the floor, bellowed something in Spanish as he whirled and sprayed machine pistol rounds in Stefan’s direction. Emma calmly placed a single slug through his right shoulder. He dropped screaming to the floor Stefan, your timing is perfect. Except for your kids and my vow to never date cops, I would screw your brains out.
The Mexicans gaped at their shrieking compadre. Weapons began dropping to the floor. Emma turned and saw Stefan lying on the concrete. Stomach clenched, she holstered her pistol and ran down the catwalk. Even in her abject panic, she had the presence to run with raised hands, yelling, “Interpol! Interpol!” My end as a friendly fire accident would be the definition of ironic. As she ran, officers rushed to the wounded, cuffing drug dealers and calling for ambulances. She vaulted down the stairs screaming “medic” at the top of her lungs. Reaching Stefan, she saw movement and felt tears streaming down her checks.
Gingerly rotating him on his back, she saw him grimace.

Meet Darlien C. Breeze

DARIEN

Darlien C. Breeze raised on a copper and gold mine in the California desert she brings many unique experiences to her stories. An educator for many years she concurrently owned an import/export business, a beauty salon and sold real estate. She has over eighty short stories and seven novels published including A Life of Crime, Crusin’ for Crime and A Twist in Crime. Her latest books include Beware of Memories Beware of Redemption and The Golden Key an historical fiction book.
Dr. Patrick K  Jaynes, is a neuroscientist who has written may articles for the science community. His research into the problems of fracking have led Oklahoma to revise some of their policies regarding this practice, He lends authenticity to the science in Beware of Memories.
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BEWARE

Book Blitz: BURTON’S SOLO ( An Elder Darrow Mystery Book 3 ) by RICHARD J. CASS! @DickCass @RABTBookTours

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An Elder Darrow Mystery, Book 3
Crime Fiction
Publisher: Encircle Publications
Published: October 2018
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When Dan Burton beats up Antoine Bousquet, the clothing designer suspect in the murder of two Chinese seamstresses, he jeopardizes his job as a homicide detective and his life. Bousquet is released without bail because of Burton’s mistake. When Bousquet turns up dead, beaten and tortured, Burton becomes the prime suspect. The department’s Internal Affairs inspectors, Bousquet’s live-in lover, several Russian gangsters, and the kingpin of the Boston underworld are all looking for Burton. But Elder Darrow, his best friend and proprietor of the Esposito bar, hides Burton and helps save his position on the Boston Police Department and rescue him from death. In the process, they expose an evil scheme by which illegal immigrants were effectively enslaved to work in Antoine Bousquet’s sweat shops.
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Other Books in the Elder Darrow Mystery Series:
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In Solo Time
An Elder Darrow Mystery, Book 1
Publisher: Encircle Publications
Published: September 2017
An alcoholic walks into a bar . . . and buys it. At the urging of his sometimes lover and sometimes drinking partner Jacquie Robillard, Elder Darrow uses the last of the money from the trust fund his mother left him to buy the Esposito, a bucket-of-blood bar in Boston that he plans to turn into a jazz nightclub. But before he can turn the place around, the body of Timmy McGuire, a jazz guitar player, shows up on the small stage at the Esposito, stabbed to death.
Dan Burton, a Boston Homicide detective, likes Jacquie for the murder. She had a contentious relationship with the guitar player (and a few other men along the way). But one of the other men Jacquie is involved with is the son of an old-line Boston landlord with political designs on the commonwealth’s governorship. Burton arrests Jacquie for Timmy McGuire’s murder but Elder is certain something darker and deeper than a lover’s quarrel is at stake.
Jacquie is released on bail. When she shows up dead, Elder is drawn into a conspiracy going back to Timmy’s childhood, an arson in the three-decker in Mattapan where he grew up, and the unraveling of a political conspiracy. Elder’s need to solve Timmy’s murder peaks when his jazz singer lady friend, Alison Somers, is kidnapped by the perpetrators. In the end, he has to solve the mystery and rescue Alison without the help of the police or anyone else.
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Solo Act
An Elder Darrow Mystery, Book 2
Publisher: Encircle Publications
Published: September 2017
An alcoholic walks into a bar . . . and buys it. In this amateur sleuth mystery, Elder Darrow uses the last of the money from the trust fund his mother left him to buy the Esposito, a bucket-of-blood bar in Boston, hoping to turn it into a jazz nightspot. Though he knows that working in a bar is going to test his sobriety, he’s relying on the support of his ex-lover, a jazz singer named Alison Somers.
The two of them split when Alison moved to New York to further her career but before she left, the two of them made a pact: he’ll stay off the booze if she keeps taking her antidepressants, which keep her from another suicide attempt. Then one day Elder hears that Alison has killed herself by diving out her apartment window.
With his sobriety threatened, he follows an instinct that says she wouldn’t have quit taking her meds, or killed herself, without talking to him first. Along the way, Elder encounters a beautiful collector of jazz memorabilia, a Native American gangster with aspirations to management, and a bomb-throwing piano player, as well as the usual stresses and strains of running a bar. But with the reluctant help of his friend Dan Burton, a homicide cop, Elder investigates and exposes the conspiracy of local thugs, corrupt physicians, and shipments of pharmaceuticals of questionable quality, proving that Alison was murdered and who was responsible.
 

 

Meet Richard Cass

DICK CASS
Richard Cass is the author of the Elder Darrow jazz mystery series: Solo Act was a finalist for the 2017 Maine Literary Awards in Crime Fiction. Its prequel, In Solo Time, won the 2018 Maine Literary Award in Crime Fiction. The third book in the series, Burton’s Solo, was released November 1. Cass serves on the board of Mystery Writers of America’s New England Chapter.
Cass holds a graduate degree in writing from the University of New Hampshire, where he studied with Thomas Williams, Jr. and Joseph Monninger. He has also studied with Ernest Hebert, Ursula K. LeGuin, and Molly Gloss. He has been an Individual Artist’s Fellow for the state of New Hampshire and a Fellow at the Fishtrap Writers’ Conference in Oregon. His fiction and nonfiction have appeared in Playboy, Gray’s Sporting Journal, ZZYZVA, and Best Short Stories of the American West.  Cass lives in Cape Elizabeth. Visit: rjcassbooks.com.
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BURTON