Showing posts with label contemporary. Show all posts
Showing posts with label contemporary. Show all posts

Tuesday, March 17, 2020

Red Hatchet Falls by Susan Clayton-Goldner


ISBN: 9780463550588
ASIN: B084JDBBK8
Kindle US, Kindle UK
Kindle CA, Kindle AU
Smashwords
Apple, Kobo, Nook
Blurb:

The idyllic town of Ashland is nestled in the foothills of Siskiyou Mountains. Locals often describe it as a little bit of England set down in Southern Oregon. Yet amidst the historic craftsman bungalows, the world-renown Shakespeare theaters, and the lush, manicured gardens in Lithia Park, something evil lurks.
While walking his pet raccoon, 72-year-old Homer Sullivan spots something shiny sparkling in the leaves near Ashland Creek. Thinking it might be something valuable, he hurries over to retrieve it, hoping he’ll become someone’s hero. He panics when he discovers it's a diamond ring and it's attached to a severed hand. He must find Detective Radhauser and fast.

Winston Radhauser has always searched for the truth. Set just eight months post 9-11, a young Islamic family is terrorized, and the severed hand is only the beginning. This time, Radhauser is tested to his limits, but will the truth devastate him?


Extract:

When his cell phone rang, Radhauser pulled it out of his back pocket and glanced at the caller ID. It was Captain Murphy. Radhauser stepped away from third base to the area behind the dugout to answer. This was Radhauser’s day off. He wanted nothing more than to ignore the call and return to Lizzie’s game. “What’s up?”
“I’m at the station. And you need to get over here.” His voice was gruff, the one he used to flaunt his authority.

The smell of popcorn and hotdogs grilling wafted over from the snack bar and he remembered his promise to his daughter. “Not possible. I’m in the middle of my daughter’s baseball game. And I’m coaching third base.”

“I don’t care if you’re up to bat with a tied score, two outs and the bases loaded. We need you here. Now.” Murphy had that indignant and slightly nervous tone. It told Radhauser either his boss was in a bad mood or something important had come up. While his captain rambled on about wishing he hadn’t stopped by the station on a Saturday morning, Radhauser looked around the park.

There were five Little League fields and today the manicured grounds held a sea of miniature ballplayers in multicolored caps. Kids shouted and cheered for their teammates. Coaches instructed their players. Keep your eye on the ball. Level swing. Wait for a good one. Anxious parents paced the sidelines. Others played catch with their kids, warming them up and waiting for the next game to begin.

“Give me twenty minutes, Murph. The game’s almost over. Lizzie will need a ride home.”

"Find her one, Wind. I've already wasted enough time with this old man who claims— and I quote, ‘has aided you in other police investigations.' Not to mention his pet. He and his damn raccoon found something he's certain you'll want to see."

Radhauser paced the grassy area behind the dugout. The sound of a loud voice distracted him. He looked around for the source.

To the left of the snack bar, in another grassy section, a tall, slender man with a red beard berated a player for striking out. He wore a green baseball cap and shirt that matched the ones the little boy wore. Both of the man's hands were planted on the boy's shoulders, shaking him. "Didn't I tell you to keep your eyes on the ball? Level swing. How many times have I told you not to swing at the low ones? You looked like you were playing golf out there." He let go of the boy and clenched his hands into fists.

Radhauser had a bad feeling this was the kid’s father. Talk about life not being fair.

The boy hung his head.

Radhauser watched for a moment, wanting to rescue the boy, but spoke into his phone instead. “It’s got to be Homer Sullivan.”

He’d met Sully while investigating a drowning that turned out to be a murder. It was over a year ago at Sunset Lake where Sully lived alone in a small cabin at the edge of the water. "Come on, Murph. This game is important to Lizzie. I don't get to spend enough time with my kids. And I promised we'd have lunch at the snack bar afterward. Don't call me on my day off to babysit Sully."

“He’s not claiming to be my deputy. Now get your ass in here. That’s an order.”

“I’ll be right there.” He hung up, then slammed the phone against his thigh. It was the first elimination round and Lizzie’s team, the Cardinals, had a good chance of winning.

When Cooper agreed to drive Lizzie home, Radhauser took a twenty-dollar bill from his wallet and handed it to him. “Buy Lizzie and yourself some lunch when the game is over.”

After thanking Cooper, Radhauser stepped into the dugout and whispered in his daughter’s ear. “I have to go, sweetie. Coach Cooper will get you that hotdog from the snack bar I promised and give you a ride home.”

Her dark eyes twinkled and her smile was big and bright as a birthday morning. Not a hint of disappointment. “That’s so great. Thanks, Daddy.” She gave him a quick wave, a flutter of small fingers in the still air, then turned her adoring gaze back on Cooper Drake.


About the Author:

Susan Clayton-Goldner was born in New Castle, Delaware and grew up with four brothers along the banks of the Delaware River. She is a graduate of the University of Arizona's Creative Writing Program and has been writing most of her life. Her novels have been finalists for The Hemingway Award, the Heeken Foundation Fellowship, the Writers Foundation and the Publishing On-line Contest. Susan won the National Writers' Association Novel Award twice for unpublished novels and her poetry was nominated for a Pushcart Prize.
Her work has appeared in numerous literary journals and anthologies, including Animals as Teachers and Healers, published by Ballantine Books, Our Mothers/Ourselves, by the Greenwood Publishing Group, The Hawaii Pacific Review-Best of a Decade, and New Millennium Writings. A collection of her poems, A Question of Mortality was released in 2014 by Wellstone Press. Prior to writing full time, Susan worked as the Director of Corporate Relations for University Medical Center in Tucson, Arizona.

Susan shares a life in Grants Pass, Oregon with her husband, Andreas, her fictional characters, and more books than one person could count.

• • •

• Find Susan Online •

Website
Facebook
Twitter
Blog
Tirgearr Publishing
at
Labels: , , , , , , ,

Tuesday, January 28, 2020

One Night in Tampa by Angelique Migliore


Blended Worlds Are Better Worlds

 Mari Fuentes is running her first 5K race—dreaming about the grant she hopes to win for her next documentary—when she discovers Convivio "Viv" Ricco—former ordnance soldier, wounded warrior with deadly Italian sex appeal, and notorious smartass—is keeping up with her. Finishing the race together is just the start to her day.

 Viv is new to the Tampa area, and even though he's hotter than the sand on a Florida beach in August and doesn’t need any distractions, Mari agrees to spend the day with him to show him around.

 Viv thinks Mari is the most determined woman he's ever met. But even as her passion bubbles to the surface, he can’t convince her to stay with him. She has an exclusive community event to attend that he isn't allowed to attend. Nevertheless, Viv embarks on a new mission to become the most import celebrity Tampa has ever embraced.

 If Viv can’t steal Mari away for one night, how will he ever steal her heart?

• • •

Mariposa del Pilar Fuentes

I smiled at myself and inhaled a deep breath of pride as I ran along with the thinning masses. Being a slow runner had its advantages as the route along Bayshore Boulevard wasn’t nearly as crowded now as in the beginning. And running my first 5K proved doable as long as I focused on something else—like something other than the sweat tickling its way down in between my tetas. I gave my modest bosom a quick, hopefully inconspicuous, shake to dislodge any other would-be travelers, and I said a quick “thank you” to Santa Maria del Pilar for my no more than B cups. My big ass required enough attention—from care to clothes. I didn’t know how the bigger-breasted girls managed boob sweat in the Tampa Bay humidity. I crossed myself on their behalf. Dios las bendiga, señoritas.

I ran to finish this race, but the excitement of finishing grad school also spurred me on. How much dinero did I need, exactly? I mentally ticked off a list in my brain of everything left to schedule for my final documentary project. Cinematographer. Sound recordist. Van, plus driver. Luckily, I would be the scriptwriter and the editor, so I still had a choice to pay myself a stipend or not. It wasn’t as if I lacked my own money, but that negated the skills required to successfully budget for a documentary.

The stipend decision could wait until after the fundraiser tonight. I already had the production management software, and I would use the university’s studio to edit. The marketing dollars and cents still required calculations, but that part of my graduate project and thesis challenged me the most. More time, however, couldn’t be bought at any price. Grad school completion hung in the cool morning air in front of my face like a fat, juicy carrot.

My first documentary on the homeless population of Tampa Bay exceeded my benchmark for success last year, and I intended to further my investigations this year with an expanded project.

A refreshingly cool early-spring breeze blew over me from the gulf. The sun barely broke the horizon and was peeking through the ‘land of the flowers.’ Foot races around here had to start super early, else the runners dropped like flies when it got too hot. My reward for all this early-morning training and running: tickets to the Strawberry Festival with unlimited strawberries and whipped cream! Also, the beautiful Spanish-tiled houses, towering waterfront palms, and skyline of downtown Tampa painted a picture-perfect running route.

If I weren’t running, I wouldn’t be breaking a sweat, but the weather would change soon. The homeless who were forced to live in the elements would get uncomfortable before long, and it would be harder for me to find them when the weather increased to sweltering. I needed the money to make the documentary sooner rather than later. I swallowed hard and swallowed my pride even harder at the idea of the ball tonight and what I had signed myself up for to make sure I had the money sooner.

I erased thoughts of my impending humiliation out of my mind and took in my surroundings. With Davis Islands and the water on my right and the convention center’s bright blue columns in sight down the boulevard, I heard the finish line nearing as the music and celebrations pounded their way to me. It was time to get my head out of the clouds and back into this race.

Even at my fastest, I still ran pretty slow compared to everyone else, so I stayed to the far-right side of the lane. I adjusted my sunglasses, glanced down at the track, and jumped as if I had been assaulted in a B-rated horror movie.

“¡Mierda!” I screamed at the sneaker as I jumped over it, and as if the sneaker didn’t scare me bad enough, something hung out of the shoe. A foot? Without a leg attached to it? “¡Dios Mio!”

I changed direction, screamed again, and flailed my hands in front of my face in the most pathetic attempt to rid my eyes of the sight. Oh, God, I think I’m going to be sick.

An evil laugh—no, a hysterical laugh—belted out beside me. I found the owner of said laugh, and all I could see was a neon green racing shirt which, not coincidentally, matched the one I wore. The race shirt spread taut over a chest as wide as Cuba with a thick arm on either side, and its owner leaned up against a streetlight pole with one hand and held his gut with the other, as he all but pointed and laughed at me.

• • •



While in her third year of French at high school, Angelique was forced to journal every day. Never the lover of her own personal diaries, she instead rewrote Romeo and Juliet, en Françias. Except that Romeo was a duck-billed platypus, and Juliet was a strawberry. It was a doomed, albeit deliciously sweet, relationship from the start.

Long before that, Angelique wrote and performed ridiculously caddy commercials in grade school with her best friend Shannon. Ever the optimist, she believes the best is yet to come, sharing a meal is the quickest route to peace, and love conquers all. Although she was born and raised in the paradise that is the Emerald Coast of the Florida Panhandle, not traveling has never been an option for Angelique.

Today, Angelique writes character-driven love stories of various heat levels in settings from Earth to the nearest Black Hole which range from the Cosmic past to the Inter-galactic future. She also loves rugby. And champagne. With fresh raspberries, if you please.

• • •

Find Angelique Online:





at
Labels: , , , ,

Tuesday, October 29, 2019

The Power of Love by Kemberlee Shortland


ISBN: 9780463618424
ASIN: B07Z8DYNYV

Blurb:

When Elaine Donovan discovers she's pregnant, she hesitates telling her husband, Ethan. They're newlyweds and plan to wait until they're ready to start a family. Ethan surprises her by accepting early parenthood, embracing the idea more fully than either of them expects.
When they receive bad news after a prenatal exam, both must face that their charmed lives are about to come crashing down around them.
Do Christmas wishes really come true? Elaine is staking her life on it!


Extract:

Limerick City, Ireland—June

The best feeling in the world had to be lying in a lover’s arms, completely exhausted after a night of lovemaking, totally and absolutely sated.
Elaine went with Ethan as he fell back onto the mattress and snuggled close to him, weaving her legs with his and grinning at how his leg hairs tickled her.
The warm, masculine scent of his body—the lingering hint of his cologne, the smell of his skin damp with fine perspiration, the heady aroma of sex—permeated her senses and made that place deep inside her long for him once more.
In a word, he smelled delicious. So much so, she had practically gobbled him up over the last several hours. Perhaps she would again, she thought, trailing her fingertips across the ridges of his broad chest and boldly circling his nipples.
His strong hand grasped hers and brought it to lips framed with dark stubble, kissing the backs of her fingers. “Please, love. I can barely move.”
Elaine glanced down the solid length of him to the twitch beneath the sheet just covering his hips. “Could have fooled me.”
Leaning over, he propped himself up on an elbow and looked down at her. He nestled her head in the crook of his arm.
“Isn’t it enough you kept me up all night,” winking at the double meaning, “but you want to make me late for work, as well?”
“You weren’t complaining an hour ago.”
His lips against hers echoed the passion they had shared through the night.
When he leaned away, his deep voice was soft, his blue-eyed gaze intense. “And I never will, Lany. I love you to the depths of my soul and will always be here for you.”
Tears welled and threatened to spill down her cheeks. “Will you?”
Nodding, he said, “Aye. Always.”
“You truly want this baby.” It wasn’t a question. She rubbed her belly without breaking her gaze with him. When he nodded again, his grin answering more than his voice could, she added, “Oh, Ethan! You make me so happy.” She slid her arms around his shoulders. He came to her instantly, burying his face in the curve of her neck, kissing her there. Familiar tingles shivered up her body and threatened to rekindle the passion she felt hovering just beneath the surface.
All too soon, he pulled away. “I still need to go to work. Now let me go or we’ll be raising our child on the Dole.” He winked again before placing a quick peck on her lips then rose from the bed.
Elaine laughed lightly. "As if you'd accept unemployment money."
When the sheet fell away as he left the bed, she leaned up on her elbow and watched his firm ass flex as he strode out of the room. Something inside her swelled with admiration. Yes, no matter how exhausted she was, she could eat him up over and over again.
A moment later she heard the shower go on then splashing and she imagined the water sluicing over him, wishing she could be in there with him.
She cocked her head at another sound. He was actually singing! He must be really happy. She considered joining him, but he was right. He had to get to work—so did she—or they would both be raising their baby on the Dole.
As she rose and threw on a robe, she laughed at her feelings of dread last night. She had been so afraid to tell Ethan she was pregnant. They had only been married a few short months and were trying to plan their future and keep to an agenda. That included birth control—at least for a while. But nothing was one hundred percent effective, as her current condition proved.
She could barely contain her joy at how Ethan welcomed the baby much sooner than they had planned that she felt she was floating down the stairs.
In the kitchen, Elaine put on the coffee then turned her gaze out the kitchen window to their back garden. She tried imagining a swing set, sand box, and a Wendy house rather than the clothesline, spotty lawn, and falling down tool shed. She wrapped her arms around her waist, wondering how they were going to give their child the life he or she deserved. If money was tight now, it would only get tighter once their child was born.
A moment later, strong arms encircled her, pulling her against a broad chest. Ethan kissed the curve of her neck and she melted against him.
“You okay?” He turned her to face him. “You’ve been standing there for a while just staring outside.”
His dark hair was damp and hanging over the dark brows and lashes framing his crystal blue eyes. His gaze was both concerned and sexy. She wanted to rip his shirt from his shoulders and . . .
Instead, she just finger-combed the curls back from his face. “Aye. I’m trying to imagine a swing set in the garden instead of the clothesline.”
Ethan chuckled. “Everything is going to be grand. We’ve a perfect life. Nothing’s going to change that.” He kissed her on the forehead before releasing her to pour himself a cup of coffee.
Even as she watched the man she loved more than anything move about the kitchen, she could not quell the feeling of dread suddenly eating at her.

Photo of kemberlee Shortland

About the Author:

Kemberlee Shortland is a native Northern Californian who grew up in Carmel, a community founded by artists and writers, including John Steinbeck, George Sterling, and Jack London. Over the years, Kemberlee has worked with several Carmel notables, including Doris Day, Kim Novak, and Joan Fontaine. It was in 1997, she left the employ of Clint Eastwood to live in Ireland for six months. It was during this time she met the man she would marry, and permanently relocated to live in Ireland. While always writing since a very young age, Kemberlee earned her keep for fifteen years as one of Ireland's foremost travel consultants, and also wrote travel articles about Ireland. In 2005, she saw her first romance sell, and to date, she has thirteen published titles to her name, including the best-selling Irish Pride Series. Her most recent release is Murder in Mornington, is the first book in a new cosy Irish mystery series, set in the community Kemberlee and her family now call home. Kemberlee enjoys hearing from her readers, and promises to reply to every message. Please feel free to visit her on her website or social media sites.

• • •

• Find Kemberlee Online •



at
Labels: , , , ,

Monday, August 26, 2019

My Husband's Sin by Mary Bradford




Blurb:

 In the weeks following Lillian Taylor’s burial, her four loving adult children assemble for the reading of her will. For the grieving youngest sibling, Lacey, life is about to come crashing down as a deep secret is revealed. The fall-out affects every member and they struggle to regain the happy family unit they once shared. Each of the siblings, take the reader on a journey as they try to come to terms and learn to handle this huge revelation.

Extract:

JULY

Lacey fled the Sherman and Jones Solicitors’ office in turmoil, only pausing to catch her breath before descending the cold solid steps. The appalling words kept ringing in her ears. How the bloody hell could a mother do this to her child? A bitch, that’s what she was. Lacey should have trusted her instinct all through the years.
The pleasant July day was lost on her. Without thinking further, she sought solace in the bar further down the street. In the dimly-lit pub she was the only woman.
Lacey Turner didn’t drink alcohol this early, but placed in front of her now was a double vodka with bitter lemon. Taking the glass in her trembling hand, she drank swiftly. The sour liquid made her shake her head. God, it was unpleasant. In one corner, two elderly men were sipping their stouts. Another up at the bar was reading the day’s paper.
The barman came over to where she sat and smiled. “A tough morning so far then?” He wiped down the glass-topped table and replaced some beer mats with fresh un-tattered ones.
Lacey didn’t reply. She couldn’t. The shock of this morning’s events was still gripping her tight. Christ, her life had been turned upside down in the stroke of a pen. Her hands still shook.
Looking the barman up and down, she acknowledged he was kind of cute. If times were different, she might even flirt with him; his tight black t-shirt groaned across his chest, but she didn’t have time to daydream. Reality had her gripped in its cold heartless hand.
“Can I have another?” Lacey called out to the bar attendant as he moved on to wiping down other tables. He nodded and went to the bar to get her fresh drink.
Her mind was swimming with horrible thoughts of her mother. Dear Lord, she mustn’t think like that any more. She was Lillian, not Mother. Where do you start to pick up the pieces of your life after something like that? Her mobile phone rang: it was Sally. Lacey snapped at it, turning it off in one quick touch. Bloody family. Her bloody family!
The fresh glass was placed in front of her. He seemed to linger for a moment, waiting for Lacey to make eye contact. She really did not want his company but he wasn’t going anywhere, judging by his stance before her. She looked up at him. Yep, definitely cute.
“You could try talking. This will only lead to a headache and misery.” The guy smiled encouragingly, but all she did was stare back at him, confusion and anger in her eyes. Throwing a twenty on the table, she stood up and paused.
“Maybe misery is what I deserve.”
Her taupe Guess handbag and caramel jacket hung on the chair. She shoved the bag onto her shoulder, took her jacket, and walked out. Kind, attractive barmen were not what she wanted. She desired space and freedom to take in and assimilate the horrible rotten words that she’d heard today. Who would believe it? Who would have thought when she’d wakened this morning at seven, that five hours later her life would have crashed down around her? With her mind troubled, she wandered without direction through the busy streets.
Lacey’s world had stopped, yet around her cars passed by beeping their irritation with the slow traffic, people pushed and chatted without a concern for the young woman in their midst. She strolled along, not fully noticing life around her. Those words, those poisonous words, kept swirling in her mind. The look of horror on her siblings’ faces would be etched on her memory forever. She couldn’t face them right now. What must they think of her?
“Watch it.” The woman grunted at Lacey.
“Sorry.” Lacey didn’t know what she was apologising for, but it startled her into realising she needed to get home. It would be safe there.

Picture of Mary T Bradford

 Meet the author:

Mary T Bradford has been writing mainly short stories for a number of years now and has enjoyed success with her fiction in many magazines, newspapers and anthologies both in Ireland and abroad. It was because of this success, Mary took the plunge and self published her first collection titled, A Baker’s Dozen (2012) and is available in both print and e-book format from Amazon and other sites. She decided to tackle a novel when one of her stories kept getting longer and the word count continued to climb and so ended up with My Husbands Sin. She has also branched out into writing plays and has seen her work shortlisted and performed.
When taking a break from writing and reading Mary loves to crochet or cross-stitch, crafts in general interest her. Living in County Cork, Ireland, she is married and is a mother of four children. Having overcome open heart surgery in 2008, Mary made the decision to dedicate more time to her writing as her children were almost raised and were starting to spread their wings. Family is important to her and her writing often reflects the ups and downs of life that all families go through daily.
Connect with Mary through any of the links on this page and that is something else Mary enjoys, chatting with people!

• • •

• Find Mary Online •

at
Labels: , , ,

Monday, August 12, 2019

So Much It Hurts By Dellani Oakes


ISBN: 9781370737581
ASIN: B075KN2CZZ
Kindle US, Kindle UK
Smashwords
Apple, Kobo, Nook
Tirgearr Publishing

 Blurb:

Alone in the big city, Pia Donovan is feeling rather lost when she finally arrives at the majestic, old hotel in the downtown area. Flynn Chancellor and his roommate, Yancy Fredrick, take an interest in Pia, introducing her to their city. Pia seems to have found her niche, and has made friends with the welcoming residents in the old hotel.
Life seems perfect, until one weekend when everything changes forever.


Extract:

Sweet, sultry music poured from the open second-story windows as Pia walked across the pitted, uneven ground. Scattered with puddles and trash, it wasn’t a very inviting aspect. The old, grand hotel building loomed above her, intimidating in the dusky light after sunset. Sighing, she forged ahead, dragging her rolling suitcase after her. It bumped into a particularly deep hole and caught. Yanking, she lost her balance and teetered to the right.
“Watch out!” Strong hands caught her, setting her on her feet. The same hands lifted her suitcase. “You all right, little lady?”
Pia wasn’t sure she liked being called a little lady by any man, but when she turned to look at him, she decided he had the right to. He was at least six foot three, maybe taller. She, a petite five three, was indeed a little lady. He flashed a brilliant smile at her.
“You’re the newbie.” He extended his hand. “Flynn Chancellor. Welcome to the fold.”
“Pia Donovan. Thank you. How does this work, exactly?”
“Didn’t get orientation?” He tugged her suitcase, ushering Pia inside.
“Sort of? They told me to report here this afternoon, but I took the wrong bus and ended up on the way to Maryville. I got as far as Walnut Street and finally figured out I was in the wrong spot.”
“Ooh, not a place for a lady of your delicate sensibilities to be.”
“Yeah, tell me about it. The driver wouldn’t let me out on the street. He dropped me at a satellite station and told me the right bus to take back.”
“That was nice of him.”
“He said he has a granddaughter my age. He wouldn’t set her loose to the wolves.”
Flynn chuckled. “Apt. I grew up in that area. It ain’t pretty.” He opened the door for her, letting her walk under his arm. It was an easy fit. “Where are you from, Pia Donovan?”
“Out of state. I moved here from Nebraska. Outside Kearney.”
“No kidding? What brings you up here?”
“I got a scholarship to City University.”
“In?”
He opened a set of inner doors which led into a large, open area. To the right and left there were arched doorways which had once led to reception and lobby areas. They were now full of cast-off furniture and crowds of men and women, all about her age. Every ethnic blend imaginable greeted her small-town Nebraska eyes.
“Music.”
“We’ve got several music majors here. I’ll show you around, if you want.”
“I’d like that, thank you. How do I get settled?”
“We talk to Amita.” He pointed to the desk area. It had formerly been the receptionist’s desk — a tall, dark wooden structure that wrapped around like a bar.
“When was this place built?”
“Early 1900s.”
“And they’re tearing it down?”
“No. It will, eventually, be renovated.”
She nodded, looking around her at the early elegance of the place. It sported dark wood wainscoting, light walls, brass wall sconces. This was in stark contrast with the battered linoleum laid over the original hardwood floors, holes in the walls, and pieces of plywood over missing glass panes.
“You wouldn’t know to look at it, but it was a showplace in its time. Celebrities from all over the world visited. It was built by one of the founding families, so they will never tear it down.”
“It’s still got a stateliness to it, doesn’t it?”
“It does,” he agreed.
No one was at the desk, but he leaned over and called through an open doorway. “Oi, Amita! Found our newbie!”
A tall, mocha-skinned woman with wildly curly hair came out, wiping her hands on a dish towel. “Hi! You must be Pia. I’m Amita, I’m the resident manager. We expected you ages ago.”
“I got lost.”
“Ended up on Walnut Street,” Flynn added.
“Oh, my God! And lived to tell about it!”
Flynn chuckled and leaned against the tall desk, hands in pockets. Pia had a moment to take in details she hadn’t noticed outside in the dusk. He was broad-shouldered, with dancing green eyes. His chestnut colored hair was nearly to his shoulders, thick and straight, covered by a faded black fedora. Steel gauges, about the size of a quarter, stretched each earlobe. His arms were covered by intricate tattoos, forming sleeves from the wrist up. His shirtsleeves were rolled just past his elbows. Rusty black pants, which looked as if they had seen better days, dangled from colorful suspenders. His huge feet were covered in clunky, leather boots. Every piece of clothing was spattered with different colors of paint.
“You’ll be in the Ambassador Suite,” Amita said with a grin, handing over a registration card for Pia to sign.
“Sounds elegant.”


 Meet the author:

Dellani Oakes makes her home in Florida, but she grew up in Western Nebraska. Before that, she had lived in four other states. Since then, she has added two more, giving her a unique perspective on life. Always a people watcher, Dellani put that talent to use when she became an author.Bitten by the writing bug early in life, Dellani first pursued poetry as her medium of self-expression. Soon, she moved on the song parodies and then short stories and humorous essays. Once she got to high school, it became apparent that she needed to learn to spell when she got a paper back from her English teacher, “For content – A+. For mechanics – F.” That comment changed her life, forcing her to focus as much on how she said things as what she said.
Dellani took up writing full time when her youngest son started kindergarten in 2002. Since then, she has published four books. Her two romantic suspense novels are with Tirgearr Publishing, though she has an historical romance and sci-fi novel with another publisher. She has also contributed to several anthologies.
• • •
• Find Dellani Online •
at
Labels: , , ,

Monday, June 17, 2019

The House in Fez by Dianne Noble



Blurb:

In the oppressive heat of a Moroccan summer, an already fractured family is forced to re-examine its loyalties.

Sisters Juliet and Portia haven’t seen each other in years. When they’re invited by their estranged mother, Miranda, to visit Fez, they’re shocked on arrival to discover she has married Samir, a man half her age. What’s more, he’s already married to Zina.
Pressure builds in the simmering heat. While growing closer themselves, Juliet and Portia are dismayed that Miranda is only loyal to Samir, even while he employs children in sweatshops. Portia defies him daily to help the children, but when Zina plunges from a balcony, it’s Portia who’s blamed.
Juliet and Portia are forced to re-examine their loyalties.


Extract:

MAY 21st

 Juliet

The foreign stamp puzzled her, but then she recognised the writing and backed away, left the letter lying in a sea of manila envelopes on the doormat. Darren scooped them up, his jaw tightening as he riffled through the final demands. Then his expression lightened.
‘One for you, love. From…’ he squinted, held the letter at a distance, ‘…Morocco, of all places.’
Juliet looked up at him. At forty-two he shouldn’t be so grey, have so many worry lines. ‘It’s from my mother,’ she said dismissively.
‘Aren’t you going to open it?’
‘No, it won’t be good news. Lord, the breakfast’s burning…’ She dashed into the kitchen and snatched the pan of bacon off the heat, her eyes smarting in the haze of blue smoke. At least it masked the smell of unreliable plumbing. After taking slices of bread from the open packet she forked the charred rashers on to them, then poured two mugs of tea.
He sat at the table in his boxers and vest, tattoos descending like sleeves from his shoulders. Upending the HP bottle over the sandwich he thumped the bottom. ‘Come on, love, see what she has to say.’
She sank into the chair opposite. The damp patch on the wall behind him had grown since yesterday. It looked like a map of Africa. She licked dry lips. ‘I don’t want to.’
The kitchen clock ticked loudly, announcing the arrival of each new minute. Darren put down the sandwich, took her hand, stroked her fingers.
She straightened her shoulders. ‘You do it.’
He ripped the letter open, and with a low whistle pulled out a cheque. ‘Now that makes a pleasant change.’ He passed it to her and she stared at it blankly.
‘Three hundred pounds. Whatever for?’
He fumbled in the envelope and retrieved a sheet of paper. ‘Here. Can’t read it without my glasses.’ He picked up his sandwich.
Her mother’s scrawl, as ever, resembled a lie detector printout. She frowned as she tried to decipher it. ‘She wants me to visit her in Morocco… the money’s for the fare… she’s sent a cheque to Portia as well…’
‘I thought she was teaching in Turkey?’
‘So did I.’ She smoothed the paper. ‘Says she has a surprise for us.’
He stopped chewing and raised an eyebrow. ‘Wonder what sort of surprise?’
‘God knows.’ She chewed a nail. ‘I don’t know—could we both go do you think?’
‘I can’t, love.’ He glanced up at the clock, bolted the last of his breakfast, then pushed back his chair with a clatter. ‘Need to work all the hours I can get.’
She nodded, looking around the kitchen at the lino worn to a dark smudge near the sink, at the sheets of the Leicester Mercury taped over a broken window pane. ‘I wish I could help you more, find another job.’
‘Not yet. Maybe when you’re a bit better.’
She stood up. ‘I’ll tell her we can’t go.’
‘No.’ He put his hands on her shoulders, turned her to face him. ‘You go, have a bit of a break. This last couple of years have been shite.’
‘I don’t want—’
‘Yes. You wouldn’t be on your own if Portia goes too.’
‘Portia? I’ve not seen her for years. We’ve nothing in common.’
He rubbed his chin. ‘You’d think you’d be closer, being twins…I want you to go, love. Please.’
She knew she would agree. She was like a piece of jigsaw, always ready to fit her life in, with, and around others.
‘All right then,’ she said reluctantly, ‘but I’ll get the cheapest flight—what’s left of the money can pay a bit more off the gas bill.’
‘Good girl.’ He dropped a kiss on her forehead, then ran upstairs, whistling, to get into his work clothes.
Her throat ached with unshed tears as he watched him. Such a good man, always putting her first. Why then, didn’t she love him anymore?


 Meet the author:

Dianne spent her childhood in Singapore and Cyprus, then raised her children in the Arabian Gulf and hasn't stopped travelling since. Her impressions of China, Guatemala, Russia and Israel will perhaps be rich pickings for future novels, but for now India remains her favourite and she keeps going back. The atmospheric settings of her novels reflect her experiences.Still on the bucket list are Tibet, Bhutan and Burma.

• • •

• Find Dianne Online •

at
Labels: , , , ,
Subscribe to: Posts (Atom)