About Stephanie Dray:

Stephanie Dray is a New York Times bestselling author of historical women’s fiction. Her award-winning work has been translated into multiple languages, illuminating women of the past so as to inspire the women of today. She is a frequent panelist and presenter at national writing conventions and lives near the nation’s capital.

Stephanie Dray Website |Newsletter | Facebook |Twitter | Dray & Kamoie Website

About Laura Kamoie:

Laura Kamoieis a New York Times bestselling author of historical fiction, and the author of two nonfiction books on early American history. Until recently, she held the position of Associate Professor of History at the U.S. Naval Academy before transitioning to a full-time career writing genre fiction under the name Laura Kaye, also a New York Times bestselling author of more than thirty novels.

Laura Kamoie Website |Newsletter | Facebook |Twitter | Dray & Kamoie Website

BONUS CONTENT - EXCERPT

The night before our wedding, the ball at our house was attended by all the best of Dutch Albany society. The Van Rensselaers and the Van Burens, the Ten Broecks and the Ten Eycks, the Van Schaicks and the Douws, and so many others. Neither snow nor ice nor howling wind seemed to deter our New Netherlander friends and neighbors from coming out to the Pastures for the celebrations.

Amidst boughs of holly and the light of countless candles, the grand hall on our second floor hosted festivities that included food and drink, dancing and music, and games and toasts. We danced minuets, cotillions, and Scottish reels until my feet ached and my heart soared. Alexander never seemed to tire, and I determined to keep up with him through every bar and set. I danced with Mac and my brother-in-law, Mr. Carter, a man eight years Angelica’s senior, whose business supplying the army for once permitted him time to join in the festivities. But Alexander could never wait long before declaring himself impatient and claiming me again.

My fiancé appeared more at ease than I’d ever seen him before, and perhaps that wasn’t a surprise, as these days of rest and merriment were the first break from military service he’d had in five years. Indeed, his eyes sparkled as he asked, “May I steal you away for a moment?”

“By all means.” I’d been hoping for a quiet opportunity to give him my gift. He took my hand and led me around the edge of the dance floor as we were stopped again and again by well-wishers, until we finally escaped down the stairs and into the cooler air of the dimly lit sitting room, which afforded us a modicum of peace and privacy. There, Alexander asked me to wait. And while he ducked away I seized the moment to pull my gift from its hiding place in the cabinet next to the fireplace. Alexander returned before I’d barely completed the task—and held a large sack of his own.

“Whatever is that?” I asked.

He grinned and nodded at what I held in my own hands. “I could ask the same.”

I smiled. “A wedding gift for my husband.”

He feigned a frown and stepped closer. “Your husband, madam? Do I know him?”

Playing his game, I said, “Oh, you know him very well, sir. And your gift is for?”

He came closer yet. “For my wife-to-be. And before you ask, indeed, you know her well. She has a good nature, a charming vivacity, and is most unmercifully handsome”—he arched a brow and closed the remaining space between us—“and so perverse that she has none of those affectations which are the prerogatives of beauty.”

How did he always manage to set my world a-tumble with his words? “Oh, you must be a lucky man, indeed. I hope you’ve shown her your appreciation.”

He barked a laugh. “You saucy charmer!”

I sat in the chair closest to the fire so that I could see by the greater light there, and Alexander pulled up a chair of his own so that our knees touched. With a nervous smile, he placed the heavy sack onto my lap. I untied the its string and worked the coarse cloth over the solid object inside. Impatience rolled off him so forcefully that I had to tease him further by taking great pains to slide the sack evenly off, a little on this side, and then a little on that.

“And to think someone once told me you were the Finest Tempered Girl in the World,” he said with a chuckle.

Tuesday, May 24, 2016

D.J. Niko's The Judgment - Spotlight and Excerpt #TheJudgment

THE JUDGMENT by D.J. Niko

Excerpt (from Chapter Nine)

The stones of Nicaule’s betrothal house closed in around her, suffocating her with the stench of wet earth and animal manure. It was the house of Solomon’s mother, Bathsheba, vacant since her death the year prior and now appointed to the woman who would soon be the king’s wife.

Nicaule had been there almost four weeks, waiting in isolation as Solomon readied the wedding canopy at his father’s house. Though they were betrothed, they had not seen or spoken to each other since the king’s retinue, with his prize in tow, returned to Israel. It suited her just fine. She did not care to parade herself around Jerusalem, the detestable city of Judahite kings, nor to have the Hebrews gawk at her and whisper over each other’s shoulders, “There walks the foreigner King Solomon bought.”

She looked down upon her bare arm and stroked it with her fingertips. Her skin was soft as a dove’s feathers, dark as the red clay of her beloved Nile. She was so different from these people, who gulped wine and tore their meat like animals. Coarse swine. Living among them for the rest of her days felt like a punishment, even if they would call her queen.

Any time now he would come for her. Word had arrived the night before through Solomon’s emissary, Azariah, a son of Zadok the priest, that the king was ready for the marriage ceremony. She was to bathe and perfume herself, dress in her finest white clothing, veil her head, and wait. She would know of his imminent approach when the horn sounded.

She drew a deep breath. How would she lie with this man for seven days knowing her beloved longed for her on the other side of the Sea of Reeds? The distance between her and Shoshenq seemed impossible to bridge. She had departed Egypt only weeks ago, but already her former life seemed like faded letters on a forgotten papyrus.

Would he remember his promise?

“My lady Nicaule.” Irisi came into the bedchamber with a tray of jewels.

Nicaule offered a weak smile. Irisi’s face was a boon in this godforsaken place.

Irisi approached and sat next to her on the bed. “Azariah says the king will come for you at sundown. The time nears.” She gently cradled Nicaule’s hands and glanced at her from head to foot. “You are like the sacred blue lotus from the pools of Nun, so sweet-smelling and lovely.”

Nicaule sighed. “I go with heavy heart.”

“You must be strong, my lady. This is your destiny. The gods have willed it, and you cannot but accept it.”

Nicaule squeezed her hands. “You are wise, my dearest and most loyal friend. Your mere presence gives me solace.”

The deep, solemn wail of the shofar sounded in the distance, alerting the entire city of the ceremony under way. A violent knock came from the other side of the door, then the voice of Azariah. “The bridegroom comes. Be ready.”

Nicaule sprang from the bed and wrapped her arms around her chest. A wave of nausea overcame her. She jerked her head to and fro, looking for an escape, though she knew there was none.

Irisi rose. “Calm your nerves, my lady. You are about to be crowned queen. You will have the life so many women dream of.” She chose from the tray of jewelry two gold cuffs with moonstone scarabs.

Nicaule held her arms out as Irisi fastened the cuffs. “I cannot do it, Irisi. I cannot lie with him.”

Irisi looked deep into her eyes. “You must. It is your duty to Egypt. The way you conduct yourself will either magnify the glory of your fathers or diminish it.”

A bitter smile crossed her lips. Irisi was right.

The rapid cadence of a hundred drums, accompanied by a carefree flute song, sounded as the wedding party approached Bathsheba’s house. She imagined the man whose face she had gazed upon but twice, who spoke a different language and believed in a foreign god, who looked and smelled unlike her people, leading her by the hand to the royal marriage chamber. Anxiety stirred her belly with the fury of a maelstrom, and she bent over a pot, heaving.

The music grew closer. The singing voices of the attendants were now within earshot. She raised her hands to her ears to escape the vulgar sound. She wanted to cry, but no tears came.

Irisi’s gentle hands lifted her to her feet, then wiped her mouth and forehead with linen gauze. Irisi said nothing—not a word of judgment or of encouragement—as she reapplied ochre paste to Nicaule’s lips.

Another hard knock.

Irisi held up the veil, a diaphanous silk cloth embroidered with tiny flowers in red and white thread and edged in delicate golden fringe. She slipped it over Nicaule’s head and let it hang to the floor.

Covered completely by the fine silken shroud, Nicaule felt safe. It was a curtain separating her from the activities unfolding around her, a barrier between her and him, a symbol of her detachment. In her country, only the dead would be swathed in such a manner.

The door creaked open, and Irisi stepped back into the shadows of the room. Nicaule stood alone, clenching her fists to control her trembling limbs.

Azariah stepped into the doorway. “Behold, the bridegroom has arrived. Go out and meet him.”

Nicaule drew a long breath, her last as a single woman. With head high, she did as told.

As she stepped out into the autumn night, a cool breeze kissed her cheeks and delivered the scent of molten beeswax. The whole of Jerusalem had come out to witness the occasion, cramming the path between Bathsheba’s house and King David’s palace and spilling down the hillside. They held candle lanterns, their flickering lights like a thousand stars fallen from the sky, and chanted a happy tune whose words Nicaule could not comprehend. They craned their necks to get a glimpse at the object of Solomon’s affection.

At the top of a narrow passageway through the swarm of gawking Israelites stood the bridegroom and two white horses with garlands of white lilies hanging around their necks. He stepped onto the stoop of his mother’s house and gazed at his bride. He was dressed in a long white tunic over which was wrapped a white linen coat with wide sleeves, cinched at the waist with a belt of silver. A crown with twelve golden fingers reaching toward the heavens encircled the soft black curls that tumbled to his shoulders.

He signaled to one of his attendants, who promptly delivered the bride’s gift on a cedar tray inlaid with mother-of-pearl. Solomon took up the golden crown, a smaller and more delicate version of his own, and placed it on her veiled head. He said something in Hebrew that she loosely understood to mean Welcome to my house.

Emboldened by her gossamer shield, she met his gaze. Orbs the color of post-flood Nile silt regarded her with the voracity of a raptor. The intensity of his gaze held her captive, and she forced herself to look away lest she be mesmerized. She shuddered.

He walked down the steps, and she followed him. He stopped in front of the horses and stroked the neck of one. He turned to his bride and lifted her from the waist, as effortlessly as if she were a feather, onto the horse’s bare back. He mounted the other horse and led the way through the crowd of witnesses.

Nicaule’s eyes darted from face to face. Glowing like molten copper in the lantern light, they seemed like wraiths from the underworld haunting her steps, mocking her. Their gazes were like whips, their toothless smiles like spurs, goading her to the embrace of their king so she could become one of them, insipid and vulgar and stinking of too much wine.

The palace of King David stood at the end of the ascending path, its two wings like open arms. Torches surrounded a tented canopy at the entrance, sealing her fate by fire. The rhythmic clop of the horses’ hooves on the cobbled stones, the sound of her fleeting freedom, grew slower until it stopped altogether. She issued a trembling sigh only she could hear.

Solomon dismounted and walked to Nicaule, offering his hand. Together they walked to the wedding canopy and stood before the cheering crowd. Trumpets sounded, then drums and flutes. She felt like an impostor, posing as the happy bride when in reality there was nothing about that moment she wanted to own. She wanted to flee into the cold arms of the night, to be swallowed by its dark womb.

About the book

Publication Date: May 10, 2016

Publisher: Medallion Press

Publication Length: 416 pages

965 BCE

Upon the death of his father, Solomon has been appointed king of the united monarchy of Israel and Judah and charged with building the Temple of the Lord in Jerusalem. He travels to Egypt to negotiate with Pharaoh Psusennes II for gold for the temple and to improve relations between the two nations. There he falls in love with the pharaoh’s beautiful daughter, Nicaule, and the two kings agree to an arranged marriageh. Against her will, for she loves another, Nicaule follows her new husband to Israel.

Forty years later, Solomon’s empire is on the verge of collapse. Power has made him arrogant, permissive, and blind to the scheming of his wife and one of his lieutenants to topple the united monarchy. As the king’s faith falters and his people’s morals collapse, enemies gather at the gates of Israel. A visit from a mysterious queen restores Solomon’s perspective in time to save his soul—but it is too late to preserve his kingdom.

Someone who once was loyal to King Solomon has come back to claim the crown of Israel—and tear Solomon’s empire asunder.

About the author

D.J. Niko is the pseudonym for Daphne Nikolopoulos, an award-winning journalist, author, editor, and lecturer who has spent her entire adult life traveling the world.

As a former travel writer and zealous adventurer, she has visited remote spots on six continents, many of which have inspired her archaeological thriller series, The Sarah Weston Chronicles. She was born and raised in Athens, Greece, and now resides in Florida with her family.

Find out more about D.J. Niko on her website.

Praise for D.J. Niko

“Like a sandstorm roaring out of the Judean Desert, The Riddle of Solomon rips readers out of the familiar world, dropping them breathless in a place where ancient kings still keep their secrets. D. J. Niko’s storytelling carries the grit of desert dust and the seductive scent of incense on every page as Sarah Weston races with a madman to save the treasures that King Solomon left behind.” - Mary Anna Evans, award-winning author of Artifacts and Wounded Earth

"Take a dash of Dan Brown, a sprinkle of Raiders of the Lost Ark, and a whole lot of originality, and you've got the recipe for D.J. Niko's latest novel, the second in the spellbinding Sarah Weston saga. For readers who like their adventures steeped in research, authenticity, and nonstop intrigue, The Riddle of Solomon is highly recommended!" - Ronald Malfi, author of Floating Staircase and Cradle Lake

“Action, adventure, romance and historical mystery—who could ask for more? The Oracle is a great read.” —James O. Born, award-winning author of Scent of Murder

“Although each book in the Weston series can be read as a stand-alone, there is clearly a story arc involving the series’ two lead characters, one that enriches each book and makes the series more than just a collection of independent thrillers.” —David Pitt, Booklist

“This wonderful action-adventure story has all the elements of Indiana Jones, Tomb Raider and a little James Bond thrown in for good measure. This is exactly the kind of story I love, and I found it very hard to put down. The story moves between the fall of Delphi and a modern-day archeology thriller. Well researched, well written, with strong and believable characters.” — LibraryThing

Buy the book

Amazon

Barnes & Noble

Goodreads

Want to Feature D.J. Niko?

If you would like a copy of the book for review or to conduct an interview with D.J. Niko, please contact Erin Al-Mehairi, Publicist, at Hook of a Book Media: hookofabook@hotmail.com.

Monday, May 9, 2016

Martha Conway's Sugarland - Excerpt and {Giveaway}

SUGARLANDA Jazz Age Mystery
By Martha Conway

Chapter One (excerpt)

Hoxie, Illinois, 1921

At two in the morning the trains were stopped for the night, and the old wooden depot, manned only during the day now that the Great War had ended, was deserted.

Eve could see her breath in the cold January air as Gavin Johnson helped her up the last step of the empty train car. Then he jumped up himself. He moved closer and she smelled whiskey and something musky he’d splashed on his face. He pressed her against the rail and began to kiss her with lips cold at first but getting warmer. That was all right.

She turned her head and kissed him back, a feeling of steam moving up through her body. The night was so still it was like a creature holding its breath. She pulled away for a moment. “How’d you get a key to the train car?”

Gavin just laughed. “Let me put out the light.” He opened his lantern’s tiny glass door to blow out the flame, and in the darkness Eve followed him into the empty car.

Her blood was still warm from the corn whiskey she had drunk with the boys after the show, and she felt a little lightheaded. Here she was with a handsome man late at night, alone, her heart beating hard. Before her the rows of worn velvet seats were like people turning their backs. For some reason this excited her more.

“Nice at night, dontcha think?” Gavin asked, taking her hand. With his other hand he touched the soft fold of her dress at the collar. Then he began to unbutton her coat. They were in the Entertainers’ car, the special train car they all traveled by and even slept in if there weren’t any colored hotels in town. Jimmy Blakeley and His Stoptime Syncopaters, they were called, with Gavin Johnson on tenor sax and Eve Riser on piano. Everyone in the band was young and excited, and Eve felt young and excited just being around them. But sometimes it got lonely going from place to place without resting.

From the window Eve could see the empty depot house. Gavin touched the side of her face and she closed her eyes.

Oh she should know better all right. But she was feeling so good, she had played so well that night, really found her way into the music. Also that afternoon she had started a new song—“Sea Change,” she would call it. The first four bars were a gift, just appearing in her mind as she walked back to the hotel from the drugstore, and they still looked good even after she’d written them down.

It was hardly warmer inside the train than out and she pressed against him too now, wanting to feel every inch. Gavin spread his overcoat on the floor and Eve let him guide her down onto the aisle, a hard space meant for feet. After a while his kisses became firmer and deeper like now they had really started, they were really going somewhere now.

She felt his hands behind her neck, fumbling with the buttons of her new dress.

“Gavin,” Eve said.

“Shh, angel girl. I got us all covered.”

She let him undo the buttons. She’d been on the circuit six months now. Six months of playing different pianos all in need of tuning, of fending for herself, of shooing off managers who said come on back to my office and I’ll show you something I know you’ll like. Some of the boys in the band called Eve beautiful but she didn’t know about that. What she cared most about was her music. The horn players liked to start off with notes so strong and high you thought there was nowhere else to go, challenging Eve to follow. She always did. She thought of them as brothers, the teasing variety. But then Gavin came in halfway through their tour, a fine-looking man with deep brown eyes and a complexion her grandmother would call Georgia brown. At first Eve thought he was just another alligator with his little straw boater and his silk tie and his fine boutonniere pin from one of his daddy’s social clubs, but it turned out he was there to play second sax. He called her angel girl and brought her coffee in the mornings. She was tired of being lonely. She liked his sloping smile.

Gavin got her last button unbuttoned. His eyes dark liquid drops in dark hollows. He pulled her dress down to her shoulders and kissed her collarbone again.

“Beautiful,” he said.

“I should say,” said a deep voice behind them.

# # #

About the book
A New Mystery by Edgar-Nominated Author Martha Conway

In 1921, young jazz pianist Eve Riser witnesses the accidental killing of a bootlegger. To cover up the crime, she agrees to deliver money and a letter to a man named Rudy Hardy in Chicago. But when Eve gets to Chicago she discovers that her stepsister Chickie, a popular nightclub singer, is pregnant by a man she won’t name. That night Rudy Hardy is killed before Eve’s eyes in a brutal drive-by shooting, and Chickie disappears.

Eve needs to find Chickie, but she can’t do it alone. Lena Hardy, Rudy’s sister, wants to learn the truth behind her brother’s murder, but she needs Eve’s connections. Together they navigate the back alleys and speakeasies of 1920s Chicago, encountering petty thugs, charismatic bandleaders, and a mysterious nightclub owner called the Walnut who seems to be the key to it all. As they fight racial barriers trying to discover the truth, Eve and Lena unravel a twisted tale of secret shipments and gangster rivalry.

SUGARLAND mixes the excitement of a new kind of music—jazz—with the darker side of Prohibition in a gripping story with “real suspense for anyone who likes a good mystery.” (Kirkus Reviews)

Find SUGARLAND on Amazon and Goodreads!

About the author

Martha Conway is the author of Sugarland: A Jazz Age Mystery [Noontime Books], available via Amazon as of May 12, 2016. Conway’s first novel was nominated for an Edgar Award, and her second novel, Thieving Forest, won the 2014 North American Book Award for Best Historical Fiction. Her short fiction has been published in The Iowa Review, The Carolina Quarterly Review, The Quarterly, The Massachusetts Review, Folio, and other journals. She teaches creative writing for Stanford University’s Continuing Studies Program and UC Berkeley Extension, and is a recipient of a California Arts Council Fellowship for Creative Writing. Born in Cleveland, Ohio, she is one of seven sisters. She currently lives in San Francisco.

Connect with Martha on Facebook, Twitter, Goodreads and her website: www.marthaconway.com

GIVEAWAY: Open to U.S./Canada entrants only. To enter, please leave a comment telling me your favorite historical mystery, or one (besides this one) you've been wanting to read. Be sure to leave your email address so I can contact the winner. Giveaway will end on Monday, May 23rd at 11:59 pm CT. Good luck!

Wednesday, October 1, 2014

Rebecca Hazell's Consolamentum Rounds Out this Excellent Historical Fiction Trilogy - Excerpt and {Giveaway}

Excerpt
Lady Heloise added, “It is said that Saint Denis rose up after his execution, picked up his head, and walked a thousand feet before falling again. That is where a pilgrimage shrine was later founded, but the abbey that bears his name lies farther to the north. You will soon see that it is quite beautiful and also very special, for it is where all the kings of Francia have been buried since it was built. The king, I hear, intends to commission effigies to lie over each tomb, even of the earliest kings of Francia, like Clovis and Pepin. I find it very moving, and you must as well; it is good politics.

“Oh, look, they are already setting up for the October fair; one farmer always sells the richest cream you ever tasted. Not that I use it for eating: it also works wonders on the skin.”

As we passed, I saw many men and a few women setting up booths and stalls and even a few solid buildings. The aroma of roasting meat drifted across our path.

The fair was not yet open, but she and several other ladies did fall back to buy trinkets and, yes, cream, which the vendors were glad to sell them. I made the mistake of following behind. They were already returning, and I should have gone with them then, but I was drawn by a tent surrounded by colorful banners depicting odd-looking symbols. I thought just to look at them quickly and then to return to ask Heloise what they meant, but a woman dressed in motley came out when I rode up and began urging me inside her tent to have my fortune told. When I refused, a gang of hard-looking men suddenly surrounded me.

They probably had never heard a lady scream, but scream I did, and several knights in our company were soon bearing down on the ruffians, laying about and quickly rescuing me. This was shaming enough, but the king and queen heard the noise and were staring at me as I rode back, red-faced, to join their train. Lord Joscelin rode back to see me, looking stern. At least he began with, “Are you all right?” I nodded, looking down, unable to meet his eye. But then he added, “Don’t do anything foolish like that again. King Louis marked it, and you especially offended him by seeking out a fortune teller!”

About the book
In the finale of Sofia's memoir, Consolamentum, both dramatic and poignant, her dreams of home are shattered when her own family betrays her. Raising her child on her own, mourning the loss of her beloved knight, and building a trading empire, she seeks safe haven for her child and herself. Her quest takes her from Antioch to Constantinople to Venice. A surprise reunion in Venice leads her to France where she runs afoul of the newly established Holy Inquisition, possibly the greatest challenge she has yet faced. Can a woman so marked by oppression, betrayal, and danger ever find her safe haven, much less genuine happiness?

The novel is available both in paperback and Kindle versions and through your local bookstore by special order.

About the author
Rebecca Hazell is a an award winning artist, author and educator. She has written, illustrated and published four non-fiction children’s books, created best selling educational filmstrips, designed educational craft kits for children and even created award winning needlepoint canvases. She is a senior teacher in the Shambhala Buddhist lineage, and she holds an honours BA from the University of California at Santa Cruz in Russian and Chinese history.

Rebecca lived for many years in the San Francisco Bay Area. In 1988 she and her family moved to Halifax, Nova Scotia, and in 2006 she and her husband moved to Vancouver Island. They live near their two adult children in the beautiful Cowichan Valley.

Visit Rebecca:
Website | Goodreads | Facebook

Previous stop on the tour (9/29): Oh, For The Hook of A book - Excerpt and Giveaway

Next stop on the tour (10/3): Must Read Faster - Guest Post

Giveaway:

Follow the instructions on the Rafflecopter to enter to win the entire trilogy, The Grip of God, Solomon's Bride and Consolamentum, Kindle editions - open internationally! Good luck!
a Rafflecopter giveaway

Wednesday, September 24, 2014

Nhys Glover's The Gladiator's Bride - Spotlight and Book Excerpt

Title: The Gladiator’s Bride

Author: Nhys Glover

Release Date: November 1^st

Genre: Historical Romance

Blurb:

Crippled by shyness, shunned for being not-right-in-the-head, gifted artist and Roman noblewoman, Marcia Mica, has only two people in the world who truly love her – her teacher, Daedalus, and her childhood friend, Asterion, both slaves in her father’s household. But when forbidden love blooms between the unlikely friends, only disaster can come of it. That disaster leaves Marcia horribly scarred and Asterion sold into the arena as a gladiator.

Years later, Daedalus brings a broken Marcia to Britannia, and Sabrina, the healer who saved his life when he was a boy, works miracles on the scarred girl. However, not all scars are physical and those Sabrina has no ability to heal.

When Sabrina and Marcia are kidnapped by a Celtic leader bent on revenge, Asterion must depend on the dreams of a Celtic Seer to find the love of his life and help foil a revolt that threatens the fragile peace in Roman Britannia. But even if he and his friends succeed, can scars that are more than just physical ever really be healed and can those whose lives are owned by others ever truly be free to follow their hearts?

Author bio:

After a lifetime of teaching others to appreciate the written word, Aussie author Nhys Glover finally decided to make the most of the Indie Book Revolution to get her own written word out to the world. Now, with almost 100,000 of her ebooks downloaded internationally and a winner of 2013 SFR Galaxy Award for 'The Titan Drowns', Nhys finds her words, too, are being appreciated.

At home in the beautiful Yorkshire Dales of England, Nhys these days spends most of her time "living the dream" by looking out over the moors as she writes the kind of novels she loves to read: The ones that are a little bit steamy, a little bit different and wholly romantic.

Author and Buy Links:
http:// www.nhysglover.com
http://www.facebook.com/nhysgloverauthor</ span>
http:// www.twitter.com/nhysglover
http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00MS48TCC </ span>

Excerpt:
As he took the shortcut through the forest, heading for home, a shadow flitted through the trees and appeared at his side. He was so shocked by her sudden appearance that he dropped the sack of flour.

‘Marcie, what are you doing here?’ he demanded as he tried to get his heartbeat under control again. ‘You shouldn’t be out here alone.’

‘You were with her again, weren’t you?’ Her delicately beautiful face was twisted in fury, honey-brown eyes flashing fire at him.

‘What? Who? What are you talking about? Don’t come up on me like that. I might have hurt you.’

‘That widow. The one the boys all talk about. I heard them. They think I don’t understand, but I do. You go to her house and do things to her!’ Her accusations stung and he felt guilt morph instantly into fury.

‘Mind your own business. It’s nothing to do with you!’ He slung the flour-sack onto his back again and stomped off down the narrow trail.

‘Don’t you talk to me like that, Asterion! You’re my slave and I have the right to know what you’re doing with your time. You aren’t free to go where you like, see who you like!’ she snarled at him.

He stopped and looked down at her in shock. In the last year he’d grown taller by almost a head than she was. Now, the year’s difference in their age seemed insignificant. In fact, after spending time with the widow, he felt much older and more worldly-wise than she was. Marcie was still a child, even though her sixteen-year-old body said otherwise. This little display of temper only went to prove it.

‘Oh sorry, mistress, I forgot my place for a moment. Of course you have the right to know that I’ve been sharing the widow’s bed. Do you want the details? How I make her scream and pant? How she sucked my cock until I came in her mouth?’ He knew he was stepping over the line, but so had she.

Their relative stations in life had always been ignored by mutual, unspoken agreement. They’d always been equals. But now, by throwing his servitude in his face, she’d crossed the line. She’d showed him how she really saw him. How beneath her he really was.

Marcie’s mouth dropped open and he was immediately aware of the seductive draw of it. Those red lips were so full and sweet, covering perfect white teeth that looked just like rows of pearls. By brushing back a stray tendril of glossy brown hair, she drew his eye to the seductive softness of it, made him itch to bury his fingers in its lengths.

But honey-brown eyes that were usually filled with warmth when they gazed at him were now wide with astonishment and pain. And he suddenly realised what he’d done.

In that moment, he wanted to call back the words and go back in time to do this all again.

‘She sucked what?’ she gasped, her cheeks flaming red.

‘Nothing. Forget it. I shouldn’t have said anything. You just made me mad. Let’s get home. Daedalus will be wondering what happened to you.’

‘He’s gone to the coast to check on our cargo. Pater went with him,’ she said absently, clearly not focused on the information she was imparting.

‘Then it’s me who has to get back. I’ll be in trouble if I’m much later.’

‘You wouldn’t be, if you hadn’t gone to her. How could you? How...How could you?’ Her eyes filled with tears and his heart felt sick in his chest. In that moment, he wanted to cut off his cock for making him cause her this pain.

‘Marcie, don’t. You don’t understand. I’m a man now. I...I have needs I can’t control. The widow helps me. Haven’t you noticed the difference in me the last few months?’ He was almost pleading with her for forgiveness. And that was stupid. What had he done wrong except take an hour a week for himself? He deserved that, didn’t he?

‘Yes, I’ve noticed. You look so smug and cocky, swaggering around the place. The boys say you’ve got too big for your own sandals now. They say that the widow has played with more than your prick. She’s played with your head. Made you think you’re better than them.’
‘I am better than them. And it didn’t take the widow to make me know it. What do you want from me Marcie? Tell me – ’

She launched herself at him so fast that he again dropped the sack of flour. Her tightly closed lips butted against his in a fiercely innocent kiss. It smashed her teeth into his, cutting his lip, and it felt nothing like the soft, seductive caresses the widow gave him.

But it was like putting a naked flame to tinder. Like a lightning strike to a tree. The very fact that her lips were sealed to his blew every thought from his head and brought his cock to instant, painful attention. Blood pounded in his ears, his legs grew weak. Air evaporated from his lungs.

Fighting for control, he pushed her away. ‘What are you doing? Stop!’

‘You don’t have to go to her. If kissing is what you want, I can give you that. You don’t have to go to her!’

‘Yes I do!’

‘Why? Aren’t I good enough for you?’

He grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her in fury. His head felt ready to explode.

‘I need more than kisses! Don’t you get it? We aren’t children anymore. And I need more than friendship and kisses. And you can’t give me what I need. You’re the little mistress and I’m the slave. They’d cut off my balls if I so much as looked at you the wrong way!’

Her eyes filled with tears again and she sobbed so hard it felt like her searing pain came from his own chest. Looking at her hurt too much, so he dragged her into his arms and pressed her to his aching heart.

Wednesday, December 18, 2013

Ann B. Harrison's From the Outback -- Guest Post and {Contest}

What keeps me focused on a given story? - Ann B Harrison

This one is easy to answer because I struggled a lot with it in the beginning of my writing career. In the first year or so of writing I could have as many as five stories on the go and it got so confusing, even when I was telling myself it wasn't.

It got to the stage whenever I had a new idea or inspiration struck, I would shelve the current work in progress and get into the new one. Looking at my screen one day and counting up how many partial manuscripts I had was a huge wake up call.

There was no point in having so many unfinished stories. I hated it, my publisher hated it and I had to take charge and be stricter with myself. Nobody could do it for me.

Now I work on one story at a time unless I have edits coming back and forth. If I get another bright idea, I can put a page of notes on my screen and add to them but under no circumstances will I let myself do more than notes until the current book is finished.

Being hard on myself is the only way it works for me. I'm too much of a scatter brain to concentrate on too much at once :)

http://www.amazon.com/From-Outback-Ann-B-Harrison-ebook/dp/B00G1SIOAI

https://www.facebook.com/annb.harrison.7

http://www.amazon.com/From-Outback-Ann-B-Harrison-ebook/dp/B00G1SIOAI

About the book
Title: From The Outback
Author: Ann B. Harrison
Publisher: Self Published
Formats Available In: Digital

Although desperate to get out of her dead end job, Sami is cynical when she hears of an inheritance from the grandfather she never knew. But once she and her young brother arrive in the beautiful valley, she discovers they are not wanted...especially by the sexy vineyard owner next door.

Will she persevere and make a home for them, or give in and take the easy money when the going gets tough?

Excerpt:

A thump sounded on the bedroom door, jarring her from a deep sleep.

"Go away." Samantha Grace Rose Darling groaned into her pillow.

"Sami, phone."

"Tell them to fuck off and let me sleep." She threw a pillow at the door seconds before it eased open and her brother poked his head in the room. "Garth, I'm warning you, go away."

He sighed and she waited for the usual whine to follow. "There's an old guy on the phone. Said he wants to speak to you."

"Tell him I'm not here." She rolled over, brushed the hair from her face and then glared at him through half-closed eyes.

"I did but he insists on speaking to you. Said he wasn't going to go away until he does."

She groaned, pushed her blanket off with her hand and slowly slid out of bed. With languid grace Sami advanced on her brother intent on doing bodily harm to whoever it was who had the audacity to disturb her sleep. Holding out the phone, Garth waited for her to take it before he backed out of the room and quietly shut the door, leaving her alone.

"This better be bloody good. I pulled a double shift last night and I'm freaking tired."

Walking over to the window, she pushed aside the faded curtain and flinched when the bright Alice Springs sunlight filled her room, scorching her tired eyes. She promptly dropped the curtain into place wishing she'd left it alone. Sami rubbed her eyes and waited.

"Am I talking to Miss Samantha Grace Rose Darling?"

"Yeah." She dropped down to the edge of her bed, her fingers tracing a bruise on her leg from when she had bumped into a tray of glasses last night. I am such a klutz.

"Miss Darling, my name is Rupert Newland. I'm a solicitor with Newland, Newland and Cooper in Singleton, New South Wales."

She spat out a laugh before covering her mouth with the heel of her hand.

"I'm glad I amuse you. Now if you would be so kind as to contain yourself, I have news for you."

The voice on the other end of the phone was clipped and precise.

"I am acting on behalf of your grandfather's estate with regard to his final will and testament."

"I don't know who you're talking about. I don't have any family." Names ran through her mind but grandparents didn't come into the picture she had tucked away in her memory. "Nope. No grandparents I can lay claim to, sorry mate. You obviously have the wrong girl."

"Miss Darling, I have checked the facts and you are indeed the granddaughter of my late client. I need you to could come into the office for the reading of the will."

"Where did you say you were again?" Sami kicked through the pile of clothes on the bedroom floor and picked up the crumpled jeans from yesterday. She tucked the phone between her ear and shoulder to hold it firmly while she pulled her jeans on. One foot after the other she slid each leg into the jeans and yanked them up, wiggling her butt to pull them over her hips. Sami popped the button and did up the zip before she took the phone in her hand again.

"New South Wales, Hunter Valley. Singleton to be exact," he said.

"Mate, I don't know if you looked at the post code before you called me but I live in Alice Springs. In the middle of the frigging desert in the Northern Territory. I can't pop down the road and see you, understand?" She blew a stray curl from her face.

With one hand she opened her bedroom door and walked out to the lounge room. Garth tidied up his breakfast dishes and she smiled in his direction. He pointed to the coffee machine and Sami blew him a kiss.

"It will be worth your while to drive or fly down Miss Darling."

"I can't afford it, okay? It's not like I do double shifts at the pub because I enjoy the work. I need the money and there isn't enough at the end of the week for a happy little visit to your office. Tell me what you want to say and let me get on with my day now you've dragged me from my bed." She lifted a hand and rubbed at her eyes.

"Very well. You have inherited Buttercup Farm and it's contents. There is also a bank account with a small balance which I will disclose once you have formally proven your identity."

"Are you serious?"

Garth looked over at her, his shoulders raised in question. She shook her head and turned away.

"I did send you paperwork last week but I didn't receive a reply, hence the follow up phone call today." The solicitor’s bristling attitude irritated her.

A pile of unopened mail sat on the cluttered kitchen counter and Sami screwed up her face. Out of habit she threw the next day's mail on top of the pile, dreading the bills inside the envelopes. The longer she ignored it, the larger the pile grew.

"Sorry. I've um... been a bit busy and haven't got around to opening the mail for a few days."

"Well I suggest you do that. I need signatures to transfer the bank account into your name. It would be significantly easier if you were here in town. Since you are not, I would appreciate it if you could go to the nearest courthouse and have a Justice of the Peace witness your identity and your signature where I have indicated. It might be best if you Express Post the papers back to me today. You have to decide what to do with the farm and the stock." There was silence for a few seconds. "If I might make a suggestion? There are interested parties if you should decide to sell the property. Would you like me to have it valued for you? I can arrange everything from this end if you would prefer."

"No, no. I need to think about this for a bit. I'll ring you back after I read your letter. Thanks for calling." Sami hung up and threw the phone onto the couch and dropped her head into her hands.

"What is it? Was the landlord after his rent again? Sami, tell me."

"No, Garth. It was a solicitor." A wobbly laugh rose in her throat. "It seems as though we had family after all, even though he's dead."

About the author
Ann swears she was born with a book in her hands and has never put it down. A lifelong love of reader has finally culminated in achieving her dream of writing...and publication.

She lives in the beautiful Hunter Valley with her own handsome hero of many years. Ann has always loved the ups and downs of life in small communities and she shares this with readers in her rural romances.

Strong sexy heroines with a good dash of sass thrown in feature in her stories. Of course these women need an equally strong hero. Bring on the outback hero and watch the passion ignite.

When not writing Ann enjoys reading, gardening, walking her very large dog Hugo and fighting with her computer.

Ann’s Social Media Links:

Ann B. Harrison Romance
Facebook
Website

a Rafflecopter giveaway

Wednesday, September 11, 2013

Cross the Ocean by Holly Bush

Book Excerpt

Chapter One

London 1871

“Pardon me?”

The starch in Mrs. Wickham’s black dress seemed to wilt as she quivered. The soft folds of her jowls shook. “The Duchess is not coming down, Your Grace,” she repeated.

The Duke of Wexford stood stock-still. The guests were to descend on his ancestral home in a matter of moments. The candles lit, the buffet laid, the flowers had bloomed on cue. The last remaining detail was the receiving line.

“Mrs. Wickham. There is a small matter of greeting two hundred and fifty guests arriving momentarily. The Duchess needs to attend them,” Blake Sanders, the Eighth Duke of Wexford, said sternly to his housekeeper.

When the woman had announced his wife would not be joining him, Sanders was certain he had not heard correctly. The Duchess knew her duties, as did he. He turned abruptly to the staircase and stopped as a shiver trailed down his arms. He turned back. The rotund woman had not moved other than the flitting of small hairs peeking out of her mobcap. After twenty-five years of service to his family, he supposed she stood rooted for good reason.

The Duke spoke quietly. “Is there a problem conveying this message, Mrs. Wickham?”

The woman swallowed. “Yes, Your Grace. There is.”

“What is it, Mrs. Wickham?” he asked.

It was then he noticed a folded piece of paper in the woman’s hand. As with most lifetime retainers, he had seen worry, seen anger and joy in her face. But never fear. And it was fear indeed that hung in the air, widened her eyes and had the missive shaking in pudgy fingers.

A lifetime later, in his memory, he would envision the slow transfer of this note as it made its way from her hand to his. The moments stretched out when life was sure – before he read it. With the reading, life changed, flopped perversely like some great beached sea turtle. So memory or God or mind’s protection lengthened the seconds until he read.

In the present, he snatched the note, unfolded it and recognized his wife’s script. He dared not glance at the still-present servant. Blake Sanders read to the final line, folded the paper neatly and met Mrs. Wickham’s eyes. Had he been six, he may have hurled himself in the great black comfort of her skirts. But he was not a boy.

“The contents of this note, I gather, you read?” he asked.

The mobcap nodded. “Twas open and lying on Your Grace’s pillow.”

“Very well,” he replied and stared at the ornate wall sconce and the shadows the candles threw. The butler’s distant voice broke through his emotional haze. He knew he must ready himself for the onslaught of guests but not before he made clear his wishes with Mrs. Wickham.

“We must be certain the Duchess is left alone with such a malady.” His eyes met hers with a dark intensity. “You will be the only one in her attendance tonight.”

“Yes, Your Grace.” The housekeeper nodded to leave and turned back with tears in her great gray eyes. “The children, Your Grace? What if . . .?”

“I will handle the children tonight, Mrs. Wickham,” he answered.

She nodded and hurried away.

The composure he had been born with, cultivated, and that now ruled his life, wavered as he slowly made his way down the staircase to his butler. Briggs stood sentry near the newel post as he had done for as long as anyone could remember.

“The guests are arriving, sir,” the butler said.

“The Duchess is unwell, Briggs. Lady Melinda will stand attendance beside me.” “Very good, Your Grace,” Briggs replied.

Somehow Blake found himself between his children in the receiving line. On his left stood his seventeen-year old daughter, Melinda. Fifteen-year-old, William, the heir to the title, was to his right. Donald, the youngest, was certainly fighting his nursemaid to escape and peek through the balustrade at the splendor of the upcoming ball.

“Where is Mama?” Melinda asked softly.

“Terrible headache, sweetheart. She needs to stay abed,” he said and made yet another crisp bow. Melinda would make her come-out in a few short months, but she had not as of yet. Blake had made the decision to have her play hostess in an instant, not knowing what else to do. “You are doing beautifully in her absence.”

Between greeting the next guests Melinda whispered to her father, “I’ll go to her as soon as I can. You know how . . .”

“No,” he shouted, startling guests in line and his daughter. Her look of shame and surprise shook him. His menacing gaze softened as he turned to her. “I didn’t mean to snap, my dear.”

Melinda’s lip trembled until an aging matron shouted in her ear. She turned a practiced, polite face the dowager’s way.

Moments in every life indelibly etch in the mind. The birth of a child. A father’s grudging respect seen in a wrinkled face. The first time love is visible in a woman’s eye. But that evening and all its details were a blurry mass of glad tidings and lies. Conversations muted amongst his thoughts leaving his mind only capable of a nod or the shake of his head. One stark moment glared. Blake’s longtime friend and neighbor, Anthony Burroughs, looked at him quizzically as he repeated his wife’s excuse. The man’s eyes bored into his, and Blake nearly spilled the details of his dilemma in the midst of the glowing ballroom. He shuttered his feelings quickly, but he knew Anthony was not fooled.

William and Melinda were so exhausted by night’s end that he had no trouble convincing them to wait to the following morning to regale their mother with the evening’s excitement. For himself, he could have cried for joy when the last guest left at nearly four in the morning. He sent his valet to bed, untied his neck cloth and slumped into the dark green damask chair in front of a wilting fire.

He would be a laughingstock. The Wexfords took their pride seriously today in 1871 the same as they had in 1471. The current Duke of Wexford had spent his entire life guarding against any impropriety that might sully that pride or good name. Married at twenty-four by decree of his father to Lady Ann Murrow, and a beautiful fair child, Melinda, was born nine months to the day from the date of his wedding. The heir, William, two years later with the spare, Donald, arriving seven years ago.

Blake did not over indulge at the game tables or with drink. He kept a trim figure, and while not vain, was never seen without proper attire. His estates were in order; he treated his servants fairly and generously and reaped the profits hence.

My life has been a model to the English aristocracy, Blake thought. Until now. He withdrew the letter from his pocket and read again, that which his eyes saw but what his mind refused to believe. “I’m leaving you ...” What in his life had he done or not done to deserve such treatment, especially from his wife, the mother of his children? The Duchess of Wexford for God’s sake, he railed silently. He continued reading. “He’s a well-to-do merchant...” Not even a peer of the realm.

Would Ann stop at nothing to humiliate him? How would he show his face in town? The English peerage took delight and excruciating pains to reveal or revel in another’s debacle or misfortune. They tittered about the smallest transgression – a loss at the game table, a stolen kiss exposed before the banns were posted. He would be branded, bandied about, laughed at behind his back until his last breath and beyond.

Blake wondered that when the Earl of Wendover heard this story, he would withdraw the arrangement for Melinda to marry his son. Blake had not told Melinda of the agreement because he had wanted her to enjoy her come-out without a cradle betrothal to dampen her spirit. Let her dance and meet young people and then tell her about the long ago made plans. But Blake admitted to himself there may be no triumphant union of two of England’s oldest families after the Duchess’s betrayal became public.

The sun was peaking over rolling hills he saw as he gazed idly out the window of his bedchamber. How would he tell his children? When their nursemaid had died, he had gone off to town rather than deal with their tears. Let their mother handle these things. But there was no mother. The scheming wench had gone off and left her own children without a word.

There was a horse at Tattersall’s he’d been eyeing. Blake wondered if he should go now before everyone knew of this scandal and he’d be forced to deal with the ton’s whispers and stares. I’ll deal with the children first. I must. It’s my duty. He rang for his valet and wondered if Mrs. Wickham would be the better person to explain things. The housekeeper was a soft soul, and the children adored her.

Benson helped him bathe and dress, and he sat down bleary-eyed at the breakfast table. His morning regimen was placed in front of him as he was seated with a footman’s help. Blake was suddenly so angry, so horrified, at the situation he found himself in, he merely stared at his oatmeal. Tea was being poured on his right. The morning paper carefully folded to the business section on his left. All seemed the same, should be the same. But it wasn’t. Ann would not glide down the stairs this morning. She would not inquire politely how he had slept. She would not explain her plans with the dressmaker or morning calls. As if he’d cared. But even still . . . it wouldn’t be the same. He would not kiss her cheek and tell her she looked lovely with his dismissal.

About the book

1871 . . . Worlds collide when American Suffragist, Gertrude Finch, and titled Brit Blake Sanders meet in an explosive encounter that may forever bind them together. Gertrude Finch escorts a young relative to London and encounters the stuffy Duke of Wexford at his worst. Cross the Ocean is the story of an undesired, yet undeniable attraction that takes Blake and Gertrude across an ocean and into each other’s arms.

About the author

Holly Bush was born in western Pennsylvania to two avid readers. There was not a room in her home that did not hold a full bookcase. She worked in the hospitality industry, owning a restaurant for twenty years. Holly has been a marketing consultant to start-up businesses and has done public speaking on the subject.

Holly has been writing all of her life and is a voracious reader of a wide variety of fiction and non-fiction, particularly political and historical works. She has written four romance novels, all set in the U.S. West in the mid 1800’s. She frequently attends writing conferences, and has always been a member of a writer’s group.

Holly is a gardener, a news junkie, and former vice-president of her local library board and loves to spend time near the ocean. She is the proud mother of two daughters and the wife of a man more than a few years her junior.

www.hollybushbooks.com

Twitter - @hollybushbooks
Facebook - http://www.facebook.com/?ref=tn_tnmn#!/pages/Holly-Bush/247399131941435
Amazon - http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00D381HR6/ref=rdr_kindle_ext_tmb

#TuesBookTalk - Join us on Goodreads & we now chat on Slack!

TuesBookTalk Read-a-Longs's currently-reading b...

76 members
A group for the TuesBookTalk Readalongs on Twitter. We meet every Tuesday night at 9:30pm ET/8:3...

Books we're currently reading

Les Misérables: Volume One
by Victor Hugo
Start date: January 1, 2013

Les Misérables: Volume Two
by Victor Hugo
Start date: January 1, 2013

View this group on Goodreads »

Which literary heroine are you?

You are Josephine March from "Little Women" by Louisa May Alcott. Opinionated and outspoken, your bold nature can sometimes get you into trouble. You must constantly make a conscious decision to seem gentler to people when you first meet them -- those who do not know you well can sometimes find your passion abrasive or overly aggressive. The happiness of others is your greatest source for happiness of your own -- you want nothing more than to provide for your family and friends, to make them happy.