Title: Hell or High Water
Author: Julie Ann Walker
Genre: Romantic Suspense
Series: Deep Six, Book #1

Synopsis

Only two things could make former Navy SEAL Leo Anderson return to the world of weapons and warfare. First, a capsule of chemical weapons lost on the ocean floor, and second, a plea for assistance from the one woman he can’t seem to forget-CIA Agent Olivia Mortier.

Now, working together to race against the clock and a deadly terrorist faction, Leo and Olivia must find the missing capsule, all the while battling the intense desire burning between them. If they can survive, can their growing attraction become more than just a momentary flare?

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Message From The Author

Hi everyone!  My name is Julie Ann Walker and I’m tickled pink to be here today talking about my BRAND SPANKING NEW romantic suspense series, Deep Six!  It revolves around six newly retired Navy SEALs who just can’t seem to shake their past and the Navy SEAL motto that “the only easy day was yesterday.”  Set in the Florida Keys, the series is filled with sun, sand, danger, intrigue, adventure, and plenty of half-dressed alpha hotties.  LOL!  Sound like a good time?  I guarantee it is!  And I guarantee you’re going to fall in love with these six men.

Take Leo “The Lion” Anderson.  With his sun-streaked, sandy blond hair and perpetual tan — not to mention those hazel eyes and beard stubble — he’s sure to win your heart.  And that’s before you get to his no-bullshit, take-command-of-any-situation attitude and the fact that he’s trying to fulfill his father’s dying wish.

Then there’s Brando “Bran” Pallidino.  A native New Jerseyan, Bran grew up on the mean streets of Newark.  He’s rough.  He’s tough.  And his Italian-American heritage means he comes complete with soulful brown eyes, a face that belongs on billboards, and a love for good food and good wine.  (That last part means his beer-loving teammates give him a lot of grief. *wink*)

You won’t be able to resist Mason “Monet” McCarthy.  As a boy from Beantown, Mason learned to use the F-bomb in really colorful ways.  He’s big.  He’s burly.  He’s not the kind of guy you’d like to meet in a dark alley.  Yet his thick black hair and crystal blue eyes soften what would otherwise be an entirely intimidating appearance.

Who doesn’t love a country boy?  Dalton “Doc” Simmons was born and raised in Montana.  He’s a lean, mean, fighting machine, with a face that’s all angles as if it’s been carved down to its barest essentials by a hot, stinging prairie wind.  Doc has a tragic past.  And he’s fighting to come to terms with it.

Next up is Ray “Wolf” Roanhorse.  Wolf’s Cherokee heritage makes him strikingly handsome, with a blade of a nose, high cheekbones, flashing black eyes, and a lush, beautifully-shaped mouth.  Born into poverty on a reservation in Oklahoma, Wolf has more than himself to worry about.  He has his whole family depending on him.  But if anyone can shoulder that burden, it’s Wolf.

And last but certainly not least, we have Spiro “Romeo” Delgado.  Romeo likes to play up that whole Latin-lover thing.  And with his swarthy skin, precisely trimmed goatee, and honed physique, he does a pretty good job of it.  But that’s just what’s on the surface.  Underneath it all, Romeo is desperately trying to make up for the mistakes of his past.

See?  What did I tell you?  You love them already, don’t you?  Read on for a bonus scene from HELL OR HIGH WATER where you get to meet all of the Deep Six heroes!

HELL OR HIGH WATER Bonus Scene

Family isn’t only determined by blood, but by those who stand by you, fightin’ for you. By those you stand beside and fight for…

That was the thought that drifted through Leo “The Lion” Anderson’s head when he looked around the warped wooden table at his men. Correction—the minute those five wild-ass SEALs snapped their final salute to the Navy and followed him to the Florida Keys to join him on his quest for high seas adventure and the hunt for untold riches, they stopped being his men. But they would never stop being his family. If they all lived for a hundred years, the bonds of the blood, sweat, and tears they’d shed together would never come unbound. They were too strong, forged in the fiery crucible of too many wars and missions to count.

“Yo, man!” Brando “Bran” Pallidino leaned close to be heard above the twanging voice and guitar licks of the singer on the stage. The six of them had spent the day in Key West, gathering supplies and finishing up some repairs on Wayfarer I—the leaking, rusty salvage boat Leo had inherited from his father. And now they were enjoying beers and dinner at Schooner Wharf bar, the open-air establishment that saw more than its fair share of revelers, crusty sea captains, and miscreants who’d come to the end of the road in a bid to fall off the map completely. “That brunette in the yellow bikini top and flowery skirt over by the taps keeps giving you come-and-get-me-big-boy looks.”

Leo glanced at the woman and sure enough. Slam! Her gaze collided with his and there was a definite suggestion glowing in her big, dark eyes. “I think she wants you to poke her hontas,” Bran concluded.

Leo scowled at his best friend as a subtle breeze drifted in from the water, mixing the smells of fish and marine fuel with the sweeter aromas of boat drinks and barley hops that continuously flowed from behind the bar. “How long have you been keeping that little gem in your pocket?” he asked Bran.

“Came up with it just this minute.” Bran grinned, wiggling his eyebrows. “My mind,” he continued, “is as nimble and as fertile as a…”

Leo held up a hand. “Don’t finish that analogy. I can already guess what your mind is as nimble and as fertile as.”

“Personally,” Doc said from Leo’s opposite side, twirling the ever-present toothpick in his mouth in a wide circle, “I would have gone with, ‘I think she wants you to engage her in a little gland-to-gland combat.’” Dalton “Doc” Simmons had one of those tough Midwestern faces. But right now it was split in a gleeful grin that made him look almost boyish. It was damn good to see Doc smiling. For too many years he hadn’t.

“She wants you to rock her casbah!” Spiro “Romeo” Delgado piped up from across the table, never one to miss an opportunity to toss in his two bits.

“Churn her butter,” Ray “Wolf” Roanhorse added after plunking his Budweiser bottle down on the table. He turned and slow-winked at the bird in the yellow bikini. Leo watched the brunette’s eyes widen, her head cocking like a cat considering a canary. With his Cherokee heritage, Wolf was the embodiment of the original American warrior. His visage equally fierce and—according to the lady at the hardware store this morning—beautiful. She’d breathed the word while staring all googly-eyed at Wolf.

“And you?” Leo turned to the last remaining man at the table. “What ridiculous euphemism have you come up with tonight?”

Mason “Monet” McCarthy was as big as a mountain, and just as silent. Usually. But even he couldn’t resist joining in. “She wants you to rumble in her jungle,” he said. His south Boston accent making it sound more like rahmble inna jahngle.

And that’s the thing about family, Leo thought with a shake of his head as he slid on his aviator sunglasses despite the fact that the sun had slipped beneath the western horizon. One minute they’re standin’ with you against the world. The next minute they’re bustin’ your balls.

And he wouldn’t have it any other way. Especially since the good-natured ribbing, immature as it might be, was proof positive they were all slowly crawling out from under the thick blanket of mourning that had descended over them, heavy as a death shroud when—

“Yo, man,” Bran interrupted his thoughts. “You better stake your claim. If you don’t, Wolf’s gonna stake his.”

“He’s welcome to it,” Leo said, leaning back in his chair and picking at the label on his Budweiser with the edge of his thumbnail. “’Cause I’m takin’ a pass on this one.”

Bran groaned and took a long slug of his beer.

“What?” Leo demanded, frowning. “What’s that uuuugh for?”

“Just that I coulda guessed as much.” Bran shrugged a shoulder, his holey tank-top accentuating the strength and sinew of his bare arms. According to Bran, if the sun’s out, the guns are out. Bran’s unending supply of tank tops had become a running joke between all of them. Leo’s balls weren’t the only ones that received a regular busting. Every man’s in the group were fair game.

“And why would you have guessed as much?” he raised a brow.

Bran leveled him with a look that called into question the validity of his IQ tests. “You’re kidding me, right?”

“No,” Leo shook his head, feeling his temper flicker to life. What the hell was Bran getting at? Luckily—or unluckily?—he didn’t have to wait long to find out.

“It’s just that this seems to be your new modus operandus,” Bran said.

“What does?”

“Eschewing the soft ministration and willing company of bar bunnies,” Doc interjected.

Leo scowled over at him, then swung his gaze around to each man at the table. They all wore the same expression of agreement.

Okay, and this is one of those times I wish these assholes weren’t my family. Because he could certainly do without them being all up in his goddamn business.

“First off,” he said in his own defense, “after all that runnin’ around today, I’m too tired to sweat, much less do anything else. Secondly, when you start talkin’ bar bunnies, I only have one thought.”

“What’s that?” Wolf asked, only giving him half his attention. The other half was securely focused on Miss Yellow Bikini Top who, having quickly picked up the disinterest Leo was laying down, was now giving Wolf all her come-and-get-me-big-boy looks.

“Hippety hoppety herpes is on its way,” Leo said, his lips twitching when Wolf blanched and swung around to attempt to fry his eyebrows off with a look.

“You really know how to spoil it for those of us not currently hung up on…” Wolf trailed to a stop.

The hair on Leo’s head tried to crawl off his scalp. Wolf didn’t need to finish. Leo knew where he was heading. “I’m not hung up on anyone,” he insisted, disgusted to realize he was trying to convince himself more than the guys. An image of Special Agent Olivia Mortier flashed before his eyes. Black hair. Blue eyes. A slightly crooked front tooth that never failed to make his dick twitch. There was just something about that tooth. That tiny imperfection amidst so much beauty only seemed to enhance her appeal. Maybe because it made her real. A real, live, hot-blooded woman with a mind like a steel trap, a wit that was as sharp as a tack and—

F*. Maybe he was hung up on her. The wall he’d built up in his mind, the one that was supposed to keep memories of her at bay, was proving frustratingly weak.

“If that’s what you have to tell yourself, cabron,” Romeo said.

Leo sat there, a muscle twitching in his jaw. He refused to respond for nearly thirty seconds. He knew it was thirty seconds because he calculated that for every two seconds that passed he came up with a new way to assassinate the men at the table. He’d totaled out at fifteen.

“You should see your face,” Doc said, the salty sea breeze causing the ends of his shaggy hair to riot. “You look like someone shoved a cactus up your ass.”

“And yo, man,” Bran slung an arm around his shoulders, “there’s no reason to get all hot under the collar.”

“The only reason my collar is hot is ’cause your sweaty arm is around it,” Leo grumbled, shrugging off Bran’s brotherly embrace and taking a hasty swig of beer. Thoughts of Olivia always made him feel punchy. Talking about her, even obliquely, made him feel…something. It was like if horny and confused got together with uncomfortable and had a threesome his current emotional state would be the unholy offspring of the encounter.

“I was born on a farm where we used lots of fertilizer,” Doc said, seemingly apropos of nothing.

Leo turned to him. “And that’s relevant to this because…?” He made a rolling motion with his hand.

“Because it means I know bullshit when I smell it.”

Bran grabbed his belly, crowing like the idiot he was. “You shoulda known better than to ask, bro.”

Leo was considering the most painful way to wipe the grin from Bran’s face when Mason said, “You f*ers need to back the f* off and leave him the f* alone.” The man rarely spoke, but when he did his sentences were littered with F-bombs. Mason once told them that was the Southie way. The word f* could be used as every part of speech: nouns, verbs, adjectives, adverbs…

“Of course you’re the one to jump to his defense when it comes to rebuffing the babes,” Bran scoffed.

“Now what the f*’s that supposed to mean?” Mason demanded, the vein running up the center of his forehead beginning to pulse.

“How long has it been since—”

Leo figured he better cut Bran off before he went any further. Number one, because Leo could see the bull’s eye was about to slide off his chest and attach itself to Mason’s. And since Mason had come to his rescue…well, then turn about was fair play. And number two, because Leo knew just how much talk of Mason’s past—and the effect Mason’s past was still having on his present—bothered him. “Gentleman,” he said, “I think it’s best of we table this topic of conversation.”

To his great delight, right at that moment their waitress appeared with a tray laden with chicken wings and conch fritters, two of Key West’s official delicacies. “And speakin’ of tables, wait ’til you see what’s about to be laid on ours.”

With a flourish the waitress unloaded the tray. She’d barely stepped back before the feeding frenzy began. As the flavor of buffalo sauce mixed with hops and barley on Leo’s tongue, he once again looked around at the five men who’d been with him through thick and thin. The five men who’d bugged out of the Navy with him after they all made that soul-shaking promise to a dying brother to start living life.

Ones that weren’t filled with death and destruction. These meatheads might be a constant pain in Leo’s ass, but they also happened to be a constant comfort and an unending source of entertainment.

Like family, his mind circled back to its original topic. And it gave him a sense of peace. A sense of contentment. A sense of…urgency. Because they were all depending on him to come through with the big score. He felt the weight of that responsibility as surely as an anchor chain around his shoulders. They’d all made that promise, and now it was up to him to help them make good on it.

Letting his gaze skim out over the marina, he watched as the boats bobbed gently with the tide. Their metal fittings caught the rays of the full moon and glinted as sweetly as the treasure Leo and the guys were ready to start hunting. The Santa Cristina, that legendary ghost galleon, the holy grail of sunken Spanish shipwrecks…she was out there. Somewhere.

And come hell or high water, we’re goin’ to find her…

About the Author

Julie Ann Walker is the New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of award-winning romantic suspense. She has won the Book Buyers Best Award, been nominated for the National Readers Choice Award, the Australian Romance Reader Awards, and the Romance Writers of America’s prestigious RITA award. Her latest release was named a Top Ten Romance of 2014 by Booklist. Her books have been described as “alpha, edgy, and downright hot.” Most days you can find her on her bicycle along the lake shore in Chicago or blasting away at her keyboard, trying to wrangle her capricious imagination into submission.

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Happy Release Day for Cuba Undercover by Linda Bond!

Get Ready To Be Kidnapped by Sexy Hero Antonio and Head to Cuba Where the Sun Isn’t the Only Thing That’s Hot

Synopsis

Cuban-American TV reporter Rebecca Menendez’s success comes from playing by the rules. When she’s kidnapped by a fierce and intensely handsome man who needs her help, however, all of those rules seem pointless. Nothing could have prepared her for being taken hostage…or the irresistible reward if she complies: information about her long-thought dead father. Antonio Vega has spent almost every day of his adult life dreaming of revenging his father’s death. With his sister’s life and freedom in jeopardy, Antonio isn’t taking any chances. But once Rebecca and Antonio are in Cuba, they’re immersed in a world of corruption, deceit, and betrayal. It’s a deadly game…and there are no rules.

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In honor of Cuba Undercover’s release, Linda Bond is sharing one of her favorite Cuban recipes here!

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Excerpt

He stroked her cheek. “I never expected this.”

“Expected what?” Her heart sped up.

“To care.” He dragged his thumb against her bottom lip, his eyes following his movement.

A rush of excitement shimmied down her spine. “To care about what?”

“To care so much about you.” He parted her lips with his thumb. “To want you so much.”

She licked his thumb. He tasted salty. Her head spun. Now she did feel drunk. But it wasn’t from the alcohol. She was drunk with lust. Closing her eyes, she allowed the pleasure to wash over her. She sucked his thumb, longing to do the same to his rum-soaked tongue.

Yes, she was acting like a crazy woman. But she didn’t care. She’d never felt this turned on in her life. And she feared she never would again. She was in Cuba, on a farm, far away from America. Who would possibly know? It’s not like they had surveillance cameras or iPhones here. She had to explore this feeling further.

As if reading her mind, Antonio’s lips pressed against hers with a need that matched her beating heart. He tasted of the seven-year rum, which she now loved. She gave in and played with his tongue, savoring the flavor. Sucking on it softly at first, she dragged it through her teeth, wanting to, hoping to inflict the slightest bit of pain. Truth be told she wanted to hear Antonio express his needs. He was usually so locked up. She was desperate to know he longed for her the way she longed for him.

He inhaled sharply, but didn’t yell or stop her. If anything, her naughtiness provoked him further. His big hands moved down to her butt, his fingers gently caressing her there. She could only imagine what it would feel like if those long fingers stroked her underneath her thin little sundress. She willed his fingers to find their way there.

So lost in this glorious sensation, it didn’t register at first that the music had stopped. The kiss ended, and Antonio leaned away. Maybe he noticed, too? A round of applause erupted, and a few adults whistled. Oh God, was the whistle for them? She’d totally forgotten where they were. She dragged her hand across her mouth. There were kids here. Oh Lordy.

She turned around. Dallas was staring at her with his mouth wide open and his eyes full of disbelief. He had a video camera with him. Was he shooting video of her and Antonio? Holy shit. Heat blasted both her cheeks. She felt breathless, just like she had when Ignado had pressed that nasty-smelling rag against her face.

If the police ever saw her making out with her “abductor” that would shoot down any chance she had of getting back into America without repercussions. “Oh my God.” Her hand covered her galloping heart. “What the hell have I done?”

About the Author

Linda Bond is an Emmy award winning journalist by day and an author of romantic adventures by night.  She’s also the mother of five, four athletes and an adopted son from Cuba. She has a passion for world travel, classic movies, and alpha males. Linda currently lives in Florida, where the sun always shines and the day begins with endless possibilities.  You can become a Bond girl and share in her continuing adventures on her website.

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Why Hate the Billionaire? (The Delanys Book I)

Cassidy Delany is resigned to a life of responsibility, hard work, and sacrifice as she struggles to support her orphaned family. She never indulges her passions so that her younger siblings can have the freedom to follow all of theirs. That is, until she encounters Daniel, a sublimely gorgeous—and arrogant—billionaire. Overwhelming mutual lust leads her to agree to a one-night stand that morphs into a fantasy weekend full of mind-blowing sex. When he acts like Cassidy is just another woman who exists for his pleasure, she runs away, hoping to never see him again. But when Daniel reappears and turns everything upside down, Cassidy knows that their unquenchable passion and the disturbing emotions it evokes, could destroy everything she’s fought so hard to achieve.

Daniel Sheffield, MD, is a typical spoiled, Beacon Hill Adonis from a Boston Brahmin family with trillions of dollars, and always gets whatever—and whoever—he wants. But the delectable and brilliant Cassidy Delany is something he’s never encountered before: a woman who sees something worth wanting beyond his money, power, and sex appeal. One taste and what he thought was just an insatiable desire for her body becomes a need for much more. But he’s shocked to discover that getting the girl can destroy what he values most—control.

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Synopsis

Under the vast frozen tundra of the northern territories of Canada lie untapped natural resources. There is a fight brewing for control of these profitable resources between the native population and outside interest. In the middle is a revered veterinarian who becomes the unlikely leader of her people after her father’s murder. Can she preserve the soul of her ancestral home and solve her father’s murder?

Nunavut: An Artic Thriller (Dale and Hill, May 2015) by Roger Herst is a David and Goliath story of the Inuit people’s fight to protect their native land and adjoining waterways from a Russian conspiracy to steal its wealth.  Dr. Leeta Quilliq is known in her homeland as the savior of local wildlife. When her politician father dies under mysterious circumstances, she finds herself in embroiled in an international incident that puts the lives of those around her at risk. With the trademark style he brought to his bestselling Rabbi Gabby series, Roger weaves an intriguing, thrilling tale about an unknown land and the one woman who can save it. For fans of mysteries and thrillers, Nunavut: An Artic Thriller is a must-read.

Excerpt

“My father and I disagreed on many things,” Leetia said with a tinge of hesitation, surveying the others for their reactions. “Whenever I asked about his work, he found a reason to change the subject. It was annoying as hell because he was always grilling me about my animals. He forced me to talk about myself, clumsily avoiding his own feelings. Naturally, I felt that wasn’t fair. You might even say cheated.

But later I came to accept this as a father’s privilege. What alternative had I?”

“He wanted to spare you,” interceded Israel Nanawak, the Assembly’s only non-Inuit legislator who hailed from far-off Prince ofWales Island. “Being deputy in Jerome’s government was a living nightmare. Frankly, I don’t think your father had a single day of pleasure since appointed by the Legislative Assembly.”

Leetia was confused. Had her father kept that much from her? She knew him to be a quiet, introspective individual, but never a discontented public servant. On her frequent visits to Iqaluit, he was always solicitous of her attention. But when she was in Vancouver or at Seafarers they spoke little by phone. He had grown up on the far northern Ellesmere Island when telephones didn’t exist. In later years, when forced to converse with officials over far distances his abruptness was renowned. The minute a subject matter was covered he was known to rudely disconnect without a parting farewell. Email was a modern invention he avoided altogether, relying upon his staff to labor at the computer. Despite this, he was a passionate supporter of technological innovation, believing that it was essential that Nunavut linked itself with Canada through employment of the latest technology.

“What brings you here now?” Leetia asked with a surge of boldness that she feared might offend her guests.

A nod from Jacob signaled Nancy Karetak as the designated speaker. “Things have deteriorated.

Thanks to Jerome and his cronies we now have wide spread corruption. Government jobs go to his friends. Progressive members of the Assembly led by your father are being squeezed out. Jerome is committed to obsolete traditions that make no sense today. To ensure nothing changes he lavishes dubious gifts on settlement leaders who support his views. It’s called vote-buying by any other name. He looks the other way while his cronies steal the territory blind.”

“Are you speaking for yourself, Nancy? Or for others?” Leetia asked.

“For all of us,” Jacob Akesuk interjected through a voice box clogged with tobacco residue. “We have something to tell that will be shocking. I could have told you by phone at Lancaster, but out on the icepack it would have been too cruel. We said nothing this afternoon to maintain the solemnity of the funeral. We wanted to speak with you in privacy.”

Leetia glanced around to the others for a clue, but discovered blank expressions so common among her people.

Jacob paused to give Leetia a moment to prepare herself before saying, “We believe your father’s plane crash wasn’t an accident.We don’t know the full details because Transport Canada authorities haven’t issued an official report yet. Your father was an excellent pilot who had been flying most of his life. North Air Services at the airport testified that their mechanics had inspected and serviced the plane the afternoon before his flight to Pangnirtung. Full service records were published in the newspaper. Whatever happened, we don’t believe it was an accident.”

Leetia’s eyes dropped to her lap and remained there as she struggled to absorb Jacob’s assertion. She eventually returned to the conversation by asking, “Who did this?Who would want to?”

All four government officials spoke, almost in unison, “We don’t know.”

“I assume the authorities left wreckage at the accident site. I saw some of it on the internet.”

“Yes, but the Air Ministry now has it under lock and key.”

“Do you know why Dad went to Pangnirtung?”

Olayuk Simailak, deputy to Jacob in the Department of Finance, answered. “To investigate construction of a new fishing jetty and a costly extension to the runway. His schedule wouldn’t permit him to wait for a commercial flight home and the government’s two pilots are only on license. Both were flying charters in the West. So Norrik flew the Beechcraft himself.”

“That’s a long way to fly for a look at a jetty and an airstrip.”

“It wasn’t the jetty he questioned,” Simailak said. “The construction didn’t have government authorization. No funds were allocated, and these are expensive projects, more than $7,000,000. The locals could never have raised that kind of money without outside assistance. A lot of money is being pumped into Nunavut.We don’t know where it’s coming from.”

“Ottawa?”

“Definitely not, at least not officially. The federal government is cutting back everywhere. The provinces have powerful lobbies. What has Nunavut got in that department? Nobody. We don’t employ a single professional to influence Ottawa.”

“Who’s getting the money?” asked Leetia.

“Scattered settlements.”

“If the money is being used for good causes, why did Dad care?”

“For one thing, it’s illegal. And for another, nothing’s free. Weird things are going on. Jerome’s people don’t care about foreign ships trespassing through our waters. Our borders are wide open. That’s why your father asked you to present our flag before the Russian icebreaker. The armed-services are busy with Afghanistan and there’s no budget for coast-guard units to patrol the Arctic. A string of attacks on American mining exploration have gone completely uninvestigated.Washington complains to Ottawa but nothing gets done. There are rumors that Americans want to handle their own security here but

Ottawa won’t let them. Nothing gets done.”

After a long moment of reflection, Leetia returned her eyes to Jacob Akesuk. “Now that my father’s gone what will happen?”

“The Assembly will appoint someone to sit in his legislative seat until the election. Since that’s less than four months away, no one will be appointed as acting deputy-premier. Jerome is trying to shoe-in one of his cronies to fill your father’s seat temporarily.”

Leetia nodded. “And in the general election? Isn’t Jerome vulnerable?Won’t the electorate put in people who will choose another candidate?”

All her guests began speaking at once, offering their opinions, but slowly stopped chattering to return the floor to Jacob. He waited until there was complete silence, before saying, “Jerome grants his supporters jobs and provides friendly communities with generous hand-outs. Hunters, trappers and fishermen depend upon him for permits. It’s outright bribery. There’s no one with your father’s stature to oppose this vote peddling. And the recipients of these hand-outs don’t want change. ”

“Certainly, there must be someone, even if he doesn’t have Dad’s stature.”

Akesuk refrained from answering, as if to imply that they had come to a stalemate on the issue and that nothing more needed to be said. He placed his empty teacup on a nearby coffee table and meticulously balanced the teaspoon on the saucer. “Oh, yes,” he resumed dramatically, “there is someone.”

“Who’s that?”

Jacob glanced at the others before returning his eyes to Leetia. “You.”

Excerpted from Nunavut: An Arctic Thriller Dale and Hill Publications 2014 with permission from Roger Herst.

About the Author

Roger Herst is the author of nine novels, including the bestselling Rabbi Gabby mystery series. He is an ordained Reform Rabbi with a doctorate in Middle Eastern History, holding undergraduate and graduate degrees from the University of California Berkeley, the University of Chicago, Johns Hopkins University and the Hebrew Union College. Roger lives in Washington, DC with his physician wife.

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Synopsis

Lacy Dawn is a little girl who lives in a magical forest where all the trees love her and she has a space alien friend who adores her and wants to make her queen of the universe. What’s more, all the boys admire her for her beauty and brains. Mommy is very beautiful and Daddy is very smart, and Daddy’s boss loves them all.

Except.

Lacy Dawn, the eleven year old protagonist, perches precariously between the psychosis of childhood and the multiple neuroses of adolescence, buffeted by powerful gusts of budding sexuality and infused with a yearning to escape the grim and brutal life of a rural Appalachian existence. In this world, Daddy is a drunk with severe PTSD, and Mommy is an insecure wraith. The boss is a dodgy lecher, not above leering at the flat chest of an eleven-year-old girl.

Yes, all in one book.

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Praise for Rarity from the Hollow

Rarity From The Hollow is written in a simple declarative style that’s well-suited to the imaginary diary of a desperate but intelligent eleven-year-old – the story bumping joyfully between the extraordinary and the banal.

The central planet of the universe is a vast shopping mall, and Lacy Dawn must save her world from a menace that arrives in the form of a cockroach infestation. Look again and the space alien has made Daddy smart and happy – or at least an eleven year old girl’s notion of what a smart and happy man should be. He has also made Mommy beautiful, giving her false teeth and getting the food stamp lady off her back.

About the only thing in the book that is believable is the nature of the narrative voice, and it is utterly compelling. You find yourself convinced that “Hollow” was written as a diary-based autobiography by a young girl and the banal stems from the limits of her environment, the extraordinary from her megalomania. And that’s what gives Rarity From The Hollow a chilling, engaging verisimilitude that deftly feeds on both the utter absurdity of the characters’ motivations and on the progression of the plot.

Indeed, there are moments of utter darkness: In one sequence, Lacy Dawn remarks matter-of-factly that a classmate was whipped to death, and notes that the assailant, the girl’s father, had to change his underpants afterward because they were soiled with semen. Odd, and often chilling notes, abound.

As I was reading it, I remembered when I first read Vonnegut’s “Cat’s Cradle” at the age of 14. A veteran of Swift, Heller, and Frederick Brown, I understood absurdist humour in satire, but Vonnegut took that understanding and turned it on its ear.

In the spirit of Vonnegut, Eggleton (a psychotherapist focused on the adolescent patient) takes the genre and gives it another quarter turn. A lot of people hated Vonnegut, saying he didn’t know the rules of good writing. But that wasn’t true. Vonnegut knew the rules quite well, he just chose to ignore them, and that is what is happening in Eggleton’s novel, as well.

Not everyone will like Rarity From The Hollow. Nonetheless, it should not be ignored.  – by Bryan Zepp Jamieson, The Electric Review

The most enjoyable science fiction novel I have read in several years

Rarity from the Hollow by Robert Eggleton is the most enjoyable science fiction novel I have read in several years. Who could think of an intergalactic handbook for entrepreneurs? Who could turn a tree-hugger into a paranormal event of death-defying significance? Who could create characters so believable, so funny, so astonishingly human (and not)?

Robert Eggleton, that’s who.

I put this book on my IPhone, and it followed me everywhere for several days. Strangers smiled politely at my unexpected laughter in the men’s room toilet stall. They looked away as I emerged, waving the IPhone at them as if it might explain something significant.

Oddly, the novel explains a great deal that has become significant in our society. Rarity from the Hollow is satire at its best and highest level. It is a psychological thriller, true to traits of mankind (and other species). It is an animal rights dissertation (you will laugh when you understand why I write that). It celebrates the vilest insect on earth (make that Universe).

The characters created by Robert Eggleton will bug your brain long after you smoke, uh, read the final page. Thanks for the laughs, the serious thoughts, the absolute wonder of your mind, Mr. Eggleton. A truly magnificent job.  – by Temple Emmet Williams, Author, Former Reader’s Digest Editor 

Excerpt

Cozy in Cardboard

Inside her first clubhouse, Lacy Dawn glanced over fifth grade spelling words for tomorrow’s quiz at school.  She already knew all the words in the textbook and most others in any human language.

Nothing’s more important than an education.

The clubhouse was a cardboard box in the front yard that her grandmother’s new refrigerator had occupied until an hour before.  Her father brought it home for her to play in.

The nicest thing he’s ever done.

Faith lay beside her with a hand over the words and split fingers to cheat as they were called off.  She lived in the next house up the hollow.  Every other Wednesday for the last two months, the supervised child psychologist came to their school, pulled her out of class, and evaluated suspected learning disabilities.  Lacy Dawn underlined a word with a fingernail.

All she needs is a little motivation. 

Before they had crawled in, Lacy Dawn tapped the upper corner of the box with a flashlight and proclaimed, “The place of all things possible — especially you passing the fifth grade so we’ll be together in the sixth.”

Please concentrate, Faith.  Try this one.

“Armadillo.”

“A, R, M, … A … D, I, L, D, O,” Faith demonstrated her intellect.

“That’s weak.  This is a bonus word so you’ll get extra points.  Come on.”

Lacy Dawn nodded and looked for a new word.

I’ll trick her by going out of order – a word she can’t turn into another punch line. 

“Don’t talk about it and the image will go away.  Let’s get back to studying,” Lacy Dawn said.

My mommy don’t like sex.  It’s just her job and she told me so.

Faith turned her open spelling book over, which saved its page, and rolled onto her side.  Lacy Dawn did the same and snuggled her back against the paper wall.  Face to face — a foot of smoothness between — they took a break.  The outside was outside.

At their parents’ insistence, each wore play clothing — unisex hand-me-downs that didn’t fit as well as school clothing.  They’d been careful not to get muddy before crawling into the box.  They’d not played in the creek and both were cleaner than the usual evening.  The clubhouse floor remained an open invitation to anybody who had the opportunity to consider relief from daily stressors.

“How’d you get so smart, Lacy Dawn?  Your parents are dumb asses just like mine.”

“You ain’t no dumb ass and you’re going to pass the fifth grade.”

“Big deal — I’m still fat and ugly,” Faith said.

“I’m doing the best I can.  I figure by the time I turn eleven I can fix that too.  For now, just concentrate on passing and don’t become special education.  I need you.  You’re my best friend.”

“Ain’t no other girls our age close in the hollow.  That’s the only reason you like me.  Watch out.  There’s a pincher bug crawling in.”

Lacy Dawn sat almost upright because there was not quite enough headroom in the refrigerator box.  She scooted the bug out the opening.  Faith watched the bug attempt re-entry, picked it up, and threw it a yard away into the grass.  It didn’t get hurt.  Lacy Dawn smiled her approval.  The new clubhouse was a sacred place where nothing was supposed to hurt.

“Daddy said I can use the tarp whenever he finishes the overhaul on the car in the driveway.  That way, our clubhouse will last a long time,” Lacy Dawn said.

“Chewy, chewy tootsie roll.  Everything in this hollow rots, especially the people. You know that.”

“We ain’t rotten,” Lacy Dawn gestured with open palms. “There are a lot of good things here — like all the beautiful flowers.  Just focus on your spelling and I’ll fix everything else.  This time I want a 100% and a good letter to your mommy.”

“She won’t read it,” Faith said.

“Yes she will.  She loves you and it’ll make her feel good.  Besides, she has to or the teacher will call Welfare.  Your daddy would be investigated — unless you do decide to become special education.  That’s how parents get out of it.  The kid lets them off the hook by deciding to become a SPED.  Then there ain’t nothing Welfare can do about it because the kid is the problem and not the parents.”

“I ain’t got no problems,” Faith said.

“Then pass this spelling test.”

“I thought if I messed up long enough, eventually somebody would help me out.  I just need a place to live where people don’t argue all the time.  That ain’t much.”

“Maybe you are a SPED.  There’s always an argument in a family.  Pass the test you retard,” Lacy Dawn opened her spelling book.

Faith flipped her book over too, rolled onto her stomach and looked at the spelling words.  Lacy Dawn handed her the flashlight because it was getting dark and grinned when Faith’s lips started moving as she memorized.  Faith noticed and clamped her lips shut between thumb and index finger.

This is boring.  I learned all these words last year.

“Don’t use up the batteries or Daddy will know I took it,” Lacy Dawn said.

“Alright — I’ll pass the quiz, but just ’cause you told me to.  This is a gamble and you’d better come through if it backfires.  Ain’t nothing wrong with being a SPED.  The work is easier and the teacher lets you do puzzles.”

“You’re my best friend,” Lacy Dawn closed the book.

They rolled back on their sides to enjoy the smoothness.  The cricket chorus echoed throughout the hollow and the frogs peeped.  An ant attempted entry but changed its direction before either rescued it.  Unnoticed, Lacy Dawn’s father threw the tarp over the box and slid in the trouble light.  It was still on and hot.  The bulb burned Lacy Dawn’s calf.

He didn’t mean to hurt me — the second nicest thing he’s ever done.

“Test?” Lacy Dawn announced with the better light, and called off, “Poverty.”

“I love you,” Faith responded.

“Me too, but spell the word.”

“P is for poor.  O is for oranges from the Salvation Army Christmas basket. V is for varicose veins that Mommy has from getting pregnant every year. E is for everybody messes up sometimes — sorry.  R is for I’m always right about everything except when you tell me I’m wrong — like now.  T is for it’s too late for me to pass no matter what we do and Y is for you know it too.”

“Faith, it’s almost dark!  Go home before your mommy worries,” Lacy Dawn’s mother yelled from the front porch and stepped back into the house to finish supper.  The engine of the VW in the driveway cranked but wouldn’t start.  It turned slower as its battery died, too.

Faith slid out of the box with her spelling book in-hand.  She farted from the effort.  A clean breeze away, she squished a mosquito that had landed on her elbow and watched Lacy Dawn hold her breath as she scooted out of the clubhouse, pinching her nose with fingers of one hand, holding the trouble light with the other, and pushing her spelling book forward with her knees.  The moon was almost full.  There would be plenty of light to watch Faith walk up the gravel road.  Outside the clubhouse, they stood face to face and ready to hug.  It lasted a lightning bug statement until adult intrusion.

“Give it back.  This thing won’t start,” Lacy Dawn’s father grabbed the trouble light out of her hand and walked away.

“All we ever have is beans for supper.  Sorry about the fart.”

“Don’t complain. Complaining is like sitting in a rocking chair.  You can get lots of motion but you ain’t going anywhere,” Lacy Dawn said.

“Why didn’t you tell me that last year?”  Faith asked.  “I’ve wasted a lot of time.”

“I just now figured it out.  Sorry.”

“Some savior you are.  I put my whole life in your hands.   I’ll pass tomorrow’s spelling quiz and everything.  But you, my best friend who’s supposed to fix the world just now tell me that complaining won’t work and will probably get me switched.”

“You’re complaining again.”

“Oh yeah,” Faith said.

“Before you go home, I need to tell you something.”

To avoid Lacy Dawn’s father working in the driveway, Faith slid down the bank to the dirt road.  Her butt became too muddy to reenter the clubhouse regardless of need.  Lacy Dawn stayed in the yard, pulled the tarp taut over the cardboard, and waited for Faith to respond.

“I don’t need no more encouragement.  I’ll pass the spelling quiz tomorrow just for you, but I may miss armadillo for fun.  Our teacher deserves it,” Faith said.

“That joke’s too childish.  She won’t laugh.  Besides, dildos are serious business since she ain’t got no husband no more.  Make 100%.  That’s what I want.”

“Okay.  See you tomorrow.”  Faith took a step up the road.

“Wait.  I want to tell you something.  I’ve got another best friend.  That’s how I got so smart.  He teaches me stuff.”

“A boy?  You’ve got a boyfriend?”

“Not exactly,”

Lacy Dawn put a finger over her lips to silence Faith.  Her father was hooking up a battery charger.  She slid down the bank, too.

He probably couldn’t hear us, but why take the chance.

A minute later, hand in hand, they walked the road toward Faith’s house.

“Did you let him see your panties?” Faith asked.

“No.  I ain’t got no good pair.  Besides, he don’t like me that way.  He’s like a friend who’s a teacher — not a boyfriend.  I just wanted you to know that I get extra help learning stuff.”

“Where’s he live?”

Lacy Dawn pointed to the sky with her free hand.

“Jesus is everybody’s friend,” Faith said.

“It ain’t Jesus, you moron,” Lacy Dawn turned around to walk home.  “His name’s DotCom and….”

Her mother watched from the middle of the road until both children were safe.

About the Author

Robert Eggleton has served as a children’s advocate for over forty years. He is best known for his investigative reports about children’s programs, most of which were published by the West Virginia Supreme Court where he worked from 1982 through 1997. Today, he is a recently retired psychotherapist from the mental health center in Charleston, West Virginia. Rarity from the Hollow is his debut novel and its release followed publication of three short Lacy Dawn Adventures in magazines: Wingspan Quarterly, Beyond Centauri, and Atomjack Science Fiction. Author proceeds have been donated to a child abuse prevention program operated by Children’s Home Society of West Virginia.

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Title: SEAL Wolf Hunting
Author: Terry Spear
Series: Heart of the Wolf, #16
Pub date: July 7^th, 2015
ISBN: 9781402293825

Synopsis

Paul Cunningham has eluded many traps in his long career as a Navy SEAL, but there’s no way out of this one. On a rare visit home, he gets “volunteered” for a local charity bachelor auction, and the community is counting on him. Then he discovers that the sexy she-wolf with the winning ticket is Lori Greypaw—the one woman he could never resist. And she has plans for Paul that go way beyond a simple date. For the first time in his bachelor life, this alpha wolf SEAL is going to have to prove his worth…

USA Today bestselling author Terry Spear has written over fifty paranormal and medieval Highland historical romances. In 2008 Heart of the Wolf was named a Publishers Weekly Best Book of the Year. A retired officer of the U.S. Army Reserves, Terry also creates award-winning teddy bears that have found homes all over the world and is raising two Havanese puppies. She lives in Crawford, Texas.

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Meet the Bachelors of Cottage Grove

Full Name: Michael Anderson
Occupation: Painter
Height: 6 ft
Hair Color: Red
Eye Color: Hazel green
Age: 29
Originally from: Oregon Coast

What makes you the perfect date? (50 words or less): I love to meet and greet others, love to wine and dine a date, but I also would love to paint my date’s portrait and give it to her to commemorate that night. I tend to be a romantic and though I love the wild out of doors, I love more traditional romantic spots also.

Excerpt

Movement behind them in the dim hallway made Paul and Allan whip around to see Michael Anderson wearing only jeans as he strolled into the kitchen, his red hair mussed and his hazel-green eyes wide at seeing Paul and Allan. “When did you two get in?”

Michael was the brother-in-law of their SEAL team leader, Hunter Greymere. Neither Michael nor his sister, Tessa, had been born as lupus garous. Yet they both had been drawn to seek out wolves—Michael painting them, Tessa photographing them. Then Hunter had gotten involved with Tessa, and everything had changed.

“We got in just a little bit ago. Hell, we didn’t know you were going to be here. Didn’t you hear all the racket in here?” Paul stepped forward and shook Michael’s hand.

“Heavy sleeper,” Michael said, looking a little sheepish.

Paul remembered that the Bigfork Festival of the Arts had been last weekend on the shore of Flathead Lake. “Was your work at the art festival?”

“Yeah. Catherine and Rose had a booth showcasing their homemade salsas and jellies. Emma displayed a lot of her Native American beaded jewelry, belts, and moccasins. And they invited me to showcase my artwork too. I stayed the week and painted a new picture for the…” Michael glanced at the women, then cleared his throat.

“For a special auction for a charitable cause. Then at the festival, one of the galleries put some of my paintings on display. I also brought some new paintings for Rose’s gift shop. I’ve got a flight out to Portland this afternoon. I’m going to drop by and see Tessa and Hunter first, then I’m leaving for Brazil for another showing.”

“Brazil.” Paul was a little surprised that Michael would be leaving the States, but figured he would have someone from Hunter’s pack watching over him. Newly turned wolves always had a shadow from the pack. “Are you doing well with your paintings?”

“Can’t complain. They’re still winning awards and selling well,” Michael said. “Get lots of dates.” He grinned.

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Title: The Detective

Author: Adrienne Giordano

Publisher: Harlequin Intrigue

Release Date: July 1, 2015

Genre: Romantic Suspense

Synopsis

She’s captured his heart…and the attention of a murderer.

Injured homicide detective Brodey Hayward needs a distraction, and he finds it as a consultant on a cold case murder. When Brodey’s investigation delays plans to remodel the former crime scene, he uncovers another kind of distraction: spirited Lexi Vanderbilt. Despite her distrust of men, Brodey charms the alluring interior designer into helping him examine the case facts.

Working closely with the ultrasexy detective helps Lexi lower her guard, igniting a passion that even Chicago’s winter can’t cool. As they close in on the killer, Lexi becomes his new target. To save her, Brodey must either betray her trust—or risk losing Lexi forever.

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Excerpt

Chapter One

Lexi Vanderbilt’s mother taught her two very important lessons. One, always wear coordinating lipstick, and two, recognize an opportunity when it presented itself.

Standing in the ballroom of the newly renovated Gold Coast Country Club, Lexi planned on employing those lessons.

All around her workers prepared for the throng of club members who would descend in—she checked her watch—ninety-three minutes. As the interior designer about to unveil her latest masterpiece, she would spend those ninety-three minutes tending to everything from flowers to linens to centerpieces. A waiter toting a tray of sparkling champagne glasses cruised by. She took in the not-so-perfect cut of his tux and groaned. The staff’s attire wasn’t her jurisdiction. Still, small details never escaped her. At times, like now, it was maddening.

Oh, and just wait one second. “Excuse me,” she said to a woman carrying a stack of tablecloths. “The sailboat ice sculpture belongs on the dessert table by the window. The Willis Tower goes by the champagne fountain.”

The woman hefted the pile of linens, a not-so-subtle hint that the sculptures weren’t her problem. “Does it matter?”

If it didn’t, I wouldn’t ask. Lexi sighed. “It matters. Unless you’d like to tell your boss, who specifically requested the placement of the sculptures, that it doesn’t.”

For added effect, Lexi grinned and the woman rolled her eyes. “I’ll get the busboys to move it.”

“Thank you.”

One minicrisis averted. And maybe she could have let that one slide given that the club’s manager had to be 110 years old and most likely wouldn’t remember which sculpture went where, but why take a chance on something easily fixed?

Besides, tonight everything had to be perfect.

Functions attended by the richest of the rich were a breeding ground for opportunities. Opportunities Lexi craved for her fledgling design company. At twenty-nine, she’d already been profiled by the Banner-Herald and all the major broadcast stations in the city. She was quickly gaining ground on becoming Chicago’s “it” designer, and that meant dethroning Jerome Laddis, the current “it” designer. He may have had more experience, but Lexi had youth, energy and fresh ideas on her side. A few more insanely wealthy clients touting Lexi’s work and look out, Jerome.

Then she’d hire an assistant, rehab her disaster of a garage into an office and get some sleep.

Lots of it.

Right now, as she glanced around, took in the exquisite silk drapes, the hundred-thousand-dollar chandelier and hand-scraped floor she’d had flown in from Brazil, no questions on the tiny details would haunt her. She’d make sure of it. Even if stress-induced hospitalization loomed in her near future.

The upshot? She’d lost five pounds in the past two weeks. Always a silver lining.

“Alexis?”

Lexi turned, her long gown swishing against the floor and snagging on her shoe. She smiled at Pamela Hennings while casually adjusting her dress. Darned floor-length gowns. “Mrs. Hennings, how nice to see you.”

Mrs. Hennings air-kissed and stepped back. On her petite frame she wore a fitted gown in her signature sky blue that matched her eyes. The gown draped softly at the neckline, displaying minimal cleavage. As usual, a perfect choice.

“I love what you’ve done in here,” Mrs. Hennings said. “Amazing job.”

Being a club board member, she had no doubt shown up early to make sure the unveiling of the new room would be nothing short of remarkable. “Thank you. I enjoyed it. Just a few last-minute details and we’ll be ready.”

“Everything is lovely. Even the damned ice sculptures Raymond couldn’t live without. Waste of money if you ask me, but some battles aren’t worth fighting.”

So true.

A loud bang from the corner of the room assaulted Lexi’s ears. Please let that be silverware. She shifted her gaze left and spotted the waiter who’d passed her earlier scooping utensils onto a tray. Thank you.

Mrs. Hennings touched Lexi’s arm. “By the bye, I think I have Gerald convinced his study needs an update. All that dark wood is depressing.”

Now, that would be a thrill. If Lexi landed the job and nailed it, the top 10 percent of Chicago’s executives would know it. And competition ran hot with this social set. Before long, they’d be lined up outside her office for a crack at outdoing Pamela and Gerald Hennings.

“I think,” Lexi said, “for him we could leave touches of the dark woods. Macassar ebony would be fabulous on the floor.”

“Ooh, yes. Do you have time this week? Maybe you could come by and work up some sketches?”

“Of course.” Lexi whipped her phone from her purse and scrolled to her calendar. “How about early next week? Tomorrow I’m starting a new project that might eat up the rest of my week.”

“I’ll make sure I’m available. What’s this new project? Can you share?”

Rich folks. Always wanting the inside scoop. “Actually, it’s quite fascinating. Remember the murdered broker?”

“The one from Cartright? How could I not? The entire neighborhood went into a panic.”

The residents of Cartright, the North Side’s closest thing to a gated community without the gates, employed private security to help patrol the six city blocks that made up their self-titled haven. That extra money spent on security kept the crime rate nearly nonexistent in those six city blocks.

Except for the offing of one crooked stockbroker.

“That’s the one,” Lexi said. “I’ve been hired to stage the house. The real estate agent suggested it to the broker’s widow and she hired me.”

“I heard they couldn’t sell. The market is destroying her. That poor woman. He left her with a mountain of trouble. He paid top dollar and if she lowers the price again, she won’t make enough to clear his debts. Add to that any retribution owed to the clients he borrowed funds from without their knowledge.”

As expected, Pamela Hennings was up to speed on the latest gossip. Gossip that Lexi would not share. Being told this information about a client was one thing. Sharing it? Not happening. “I’m looking forward to the project. It’s an incredible house.”

Being an interior designer didn’t always give Lexi the chance to change someone’s life. Her work allowed people to see the beauty in color and texture and shape and made their homes more than just a place to live, but she didn’t often get the opportunity to alter an emotionally devastating situation. Now she had the chance. Getting this house sold would free the broker’s widow from debt and give her children a comfortable life.

And Lexi wanted to see that happen.

Plus, if she got the thing sold in forty-five days, she’d make a whopping 20 percent bonus. The bonus alone would pay for an assistant and give her a life back.

Nap, here I come.

Mrs. Hennings made a tsk-tsk noise. “They never did find the murderer, did they?”

“No. Which I think is part of the problem. I may do a little of my feng shui magic in there. Clear all the negativity out. When I’m finished, that house will be beautiful and bright and homey.”

“The debt, the children and now the police can’t find the murderer. And it’s been what, two years? No woman deserves to be left with that.”

Again, Lexi remained quiet. Don’t get sucked in. But, yes, it had been two years, and from what Lexi knew, the police were no closer to finding the man’s killer. Such a tragedy. “The case has gone cold.”

Sucked in. She smacked her lips together.

“You know,” Mrs. Hennings said, “my husband’s firm recently did some work with a pro bono cold case. I wonder if the investigator who worked on that wouldn’t mind taking a look at this. I’d love to see the man’s family given some relief. And, let’s face it, it would certainly be good PR for the firm.”

It certainly would.

Investigative help wouldn’t hurt the real estate agent’s chances—or Lexi’s—of getting the house sold in forty-five days. “Do you think they’d be interested?”

“Oh, I’m sure it can be arranged.”

Gerald Hennings, a.k.a. the Dapper Defense Lawyer, pushed through the oversize ballroom doors, spotted the two women and unleashed a smile. Even in his sixties, he had charm to spare. Salt-and-pepper hair and the carved cheekbones of a man who’d once been devastatingly handsome—all combined with his intelligence—added up to someone who ruled a courtroom.

“Gerald,” Mrs. Hennings said, “perfect timing. The board meeting will be upstairs. Believe it or not, we’re the first ones here.”

The Dapper DL eyed his wife with a hint of mischief, smiling in a rueful way that probably slayed jurors. “Shocking.” Then he turned his charm loose on Lexi. “Alexis Vanderbilt, how are you?”

“I’m fine, Mr. Hennings. Thank you. And yourself?”

“I was quite well until fifteen seconds ago when my wife announced my timing was perfect. That means I’ll either be writing you a healthy check or she’s volunteered me for something. Either way, I’m sure it will be painful.”

About the Author

USA Today bestselling author Adrienne Giordano writes romantic suspense and mystery.  She is a Jersey girl at heart, but now lives in the Midwest with her workaholic husband, sports obsessed son and Buddy the Wheaten Terrorist (Terrier). She is a co-founder of Romance University blog and Lady Jane’s Salon-Naperville, a reading series dedicated to romantic fiction.

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July 1, 2015

Recommended Romance (Review)

Romance Junkies (Excerpt)

Romancing the Book (Review)

July 2, 2015

Nerdy Dirty and Flirty (Review)

CK Crouch (Interview)

Lush Book Reviews (Excerpt)

Ms. Romantic Reads (Excerpt)

The Reading Café (Review)

July 3, 2015

Blakraven’s Reviews (Review)

Bottles & Books Reviews (Review)

Cricket’s Chirps (Review)

The Book Review (Review)

July 5, 2015

Em & M Books (Review)

Just the Write Stuff (Excerpt)

Ramblings From This Chick (Interview)

July 6, 2015

Ariesgrl Book Reviews (Excerpt)

Joyfully Reviewed (Interview)

Long and Short Reviews (Excerpt)

Read Your Writes Book Reviews (Review)

SOS Aloha (Interview)

July 7, 2015

All About High Heat Romance (Excerpt)

Happiness Is A Book (Review)

July 8, 2015

Amy Manemann (Excerpt)

Renee Entress (Review)

So Many Reads (Review)

July 9, 2015

Harlie’s Books (Review)

Coffeetime Romance – Coffee Thoughts (Excerpt)

My Book Addiction and More (Review)

July 10, 2015

Peaces of Me (Review)

StoreyBook Reviews (Excerpt)

July 11, 2015

Brooke Blogs (Review)

Jen’s Reading Obsession (Review)

July 12, 2015

A Little Big of R&R (Excerpt)

Becky on Books (Review)

Synopsis

Malcolm Carter and Ryan Boone, two New York City friends whose lives have been dominated by the financial markets, are about to exchange their charts and reports for guns and survival supplies—but not because they want to. When China and Japan decide it’s time to dump U.S. Treasury Bonds, an economic nightmare plays out in America.  The Federal Reserve watches helplessly as the dollar is decimated and the resulting food shortage spreads lawlessness across the land like a virus.

Malcolm is a successful day trader who always needs to make one more score before he’ll listen to Ryan and diversify some of his assets into real estate or gold. He figures an impressively-larger bank account might be the only way he can lure his Secret Service agent ex-wife back. Malcolm finally hits it big by aggressively shorting bonds when the market crashes, but waits too long to invest in tangibles. All that newfound money suddenly won’t by him a bar of gold, a pint of beer, or a minute of Hannah’s attention—especially when she’s in the field chasing down a former counterfeiting gang.

As luck would have it, Ryan turns out to be a closet doomsday prepper. The two of them attempt to escape the chaotic Big Apple and reach Ryan’s land in West Virginia, supplied only by the contents of Ryan’s bug-out bag. But it’s not going to be an easy journey. Travelling has become difficult and dangerous. Malcolm learns he must redirect the same tenacity which helped him beat the markets towards staying alive on the road …and, hopefully, finding Hannah.

Excerpt

The constant smell of smoke validated the continuous sound of sirens on 8^th Avenue. Foot traffic was busy. Malcolm reached inside his coat and felt his pistol, extremely grateful to have it. Ryan didn’t have a holster, so kept his weapon in the front pocket of his bag. For that reason he carried it loose over one shoulder. Still, Malcolm would be faster on the draw, and thus the probable first line of defense if they had any trouble.

Malcolm noticed he and Ryan weren’t the only ones bugging out of New York. The street was full of others also wearing backpacks, or else carrying travel bags of varying shapes and sizes. No one moved slowly. Most people headed north. Many looked no better prepared for the chaos than confused tourists would be.

“They’ll have a tough time going that way,” Ryan said.

“Why’s that?”

“There’s a ‘black bloc’ happening on the west side of Central Park. Pretty big, from what I hear. So the park isn’t exactly the safest place right now, either.”

Malcolm strained to see up the street. “What in the world is a black bloc?”

“This way,” Ryan said turning west on 52^nd Street. Malcolm was happy to follow. The last place he wanted to pass was the alley two streets north.

“It’s best if we walk a few feet apart from each other.” Ryan used his arm to space himself from Malcolm. “I’ll scan the left, you watch the right. A black bloc is a street protest, a form of demonstration that originated in Germany. Thousands of protestors take over an entire street, or any large public area, all of them dressed in full black.”

“That’s how the anarchists dress.”

“Right,” Ryan said. “They’re usually in the mix pretty heavy in a black bloc. But so are other kinds of rebels. Word gets around and every nut on the tree shows up. Those things always end badly—with vandalism, violence, and the inevitable but wholly necessary use of excess police force.”

As they crossed 9^th Ryan added, “I can’t think of anything more absurd than desiring anarchy. Well, those idiots might get their wish this time. Would serve them right. I don’t imagine many of them being trained in survival tactics.”

“Just don’t tell them that,” Malcolm said.

Ryan gave him a curious look.

They increased their pace. Soon they were past 11^th, almost to the Hudson River, alongside De Witt Clinton Park.

“Let’s jog across the park diagonally,” Ryan said.

“Wait a second. You said parks weren’t safe, and that we shouldn’t go north.”

“I said Central Park wasn’t safe. And we’re only going a couple streets up. Come on!” Ryan nudged him and they began running through the trees.

A couple streets up? He must not have said that right. The ferry crossing was all the way at 39^th Street. That’s where Malcolm figured they were headed. If the ferry was still running, it did sound like a good way to get off the peninsula. Unless they were taking a water taxi instead—but it seemed unlikely those would be operating today.

The two of them came out of the trees on to the baseball field at De Witt Clinton Park. Malcolm heard a dog growl. He looked in the direction of the sound. A bald man held a large pit bull by the collar, at the edge of the trees. The dog must not like people running. Malcolm decided to keep an eye on them.

The man then crouched beside his dog, shouted something, and let go of its collar. The dog broke into a sprint towards Malcolm and Ryan.

Was this really happening? That son of a bitch just ordered his pit bull to attack them.

“Ryan!” Malcolm said stopping. He drew his pistol. Ryan turned and saw the dog coming. He cursed and swung his bag around, fumbling for the front pocket zipper. But the dog was much too fast for him.

Not for Malcolm. He quickly had his pistol aimed at the bounding canine. Its owner must have noticed, because he whistled for the dog. But it was too late. The pit bull was committed. It picked Malcolm as the first target. Malcolm fired one round just as it leapt at him. The impact of the 5.7x28mm slug into the dog’s chest sent it spinning backwards. It landed on its head and crumpled, making no further sound.

Ryan finally got his gun out. The dog owner shouted in anger and began running towards them. Malcolm and Ryan both aimed their weapons at him in response. He stopped, held up his hands, and walked backwards.

Malcolm and Ryan resumed jogging, slowly, while holding their weapons and keeping an eye on the would-be attacker.

When they reached the third base line they stopped. Malcolm re-holstered his gun. Ryan put his safety latch on, and then tucked the 9-millimeter into his jeans, pulling his shirt tail over the bulge.

“I guess you were right,” Ryan said. “I’ll keep my weapon handier. Nice shot. That thing fires those little rounds impressively. Kind of wish we’d gotten the scumbag owner as well.”

“Me too. Now where are we going? The ferry landing?”

“No.”

They came out of the park on 54^th Street. Ryan pointed to the river. “Pier 96, right there. We better keep moving.”

“What, the kayak place?”

Ryan didn’t answer. He started off in a trot again. Malcolm ran to keep up with him. As they crossed 12^th Avenue, Malcolm looked to the air. Several helicopters circled to the north. They must be over the black bloc.

A car horn blared, startling Malcolm, instantly drawing his eyes back to the street where a taxi sped by in front of them, easily doing 75. The crazy driver had a fare in the back seat. Must be someone important—or rich.

Malcolm and Ryan finished crossing the wide street, ran through the short section of the Port Authority parking lot, and continued on to the Greenway Lawn. Several homeless people were camping there. Malcolm tried to see if any of them were Dion, but it was difficult while running. He also kept an eye out for dogs.

The Manhattan Community Boathouse, a nonprofit organization, came into view. Most New York City residents knew about the free kayak rentals on Pier 96. On weekends during warm months you had to get there early or late if you wanted one without waiting for hours. Malcolm and Hannah came on a Tuesday evening once, and had no trouble acquiring a tandem kayak. Starting in May the boathouse opened at 5:00 pm on weekdays. It was only about 3:30 now.

But they looked open, judging by the half-dozen or so kayaks on the water. The kayakers didn’t seem to be flitting about, as was normal. Rather, they all paddled towards the west shore of the river. One was just leaving the floating dock.

As Malcolm and Ryan drew closer, it became apparent the kayaker leaving the pier wasn’t doing so with the well wishes of the staff. A man and a woman stood on the dock shouting angry voices at him.

That didn’t slow Ryan down. He ran onto the pier and down the upper ramp that led to the covered shed where all the kayaks were stored.

“We’re closed!” a stressed female voice shouted. “Go away!”

Malcolm looked to the voice and saw a petite, dirty-blond twenty-something behind a counter. She pointed back up the ramp with a purple fingernail.

“Where’s Tim?” Ryan said. “I’m here to see Tim.”

“Oh, are you here to help us?” The girl came around the counter. “Thank God! People are just coming and taking the kayaks by force, pushing us away when we try to stop them. Can you believe that? We’re a nonprofit group! I called the police three times and they still haven’t arrived.”

She then turned to the launching barge and shouted.

“Tim! Some friends of yours are here!”

The man down on the dock heard her. He walked up the lower ramp, shaking his head of curly black hair and stepping carefully in his flip flops. Malcolm felt a little out of place in jeans and a sport coat. But he noticed some of the kayakers out on the Hudson were also fully dressed.

Tim instantly recognized Ryan when he got to the shed.

“It’s gone,” he said raising his hands up. “Someone took it. Sorry. You should have gotten here a couple hours ago.”

Ryan tilted his head. “What do you mean, someone took it? I paid you a hefty sum to keep it on hand for me.”

The girl spoke. “What’s he talking about, Tim?”

“Man, I couldn’t hold it! Thugs are taking our kayaks! Tough guys—some of them armed, no doubt. There’s nothing we can do here. The city is in chaos, in case you haven’t heard.”

“Well, then give me back my $300.” Ryan held his hand out.

Tim looked down and muttered, “I don’t have it.”

“What?” the girl said. “You took a bribe, Tim?”

Tim turned to her. “I sold him the leaky green one. It’s been patched too many times now, and we needed to get rid of it anyway. He said he only wanted it for getting across the river.”

“That’s not what we do here, Tim—”

“You don’t have my money,” Ryan said glancing around the shed, “so you owe me one tandem kayak. Any of these will do.” He began reaching towards one on a rack.

“No!” the girl said.

“No.” Tim stepped in front of Ryan, blocking his path. “You can’t have one of these.”

Ryan only stared back.

At that moment, two more men arrived in the shed. They definitely didn’t work there. One was bald and wore a black leather vest and black jeans. The other had a spikey haircut and lots of piercings. He carried a duffel bag.

Malcolm didn’t take his eyes off the bald one. Was that the guy who had the pit bull in the park? Malcolm couldn’t tell. He studied Malcolm longer than was comfortable and sneered before grabbing a kayak.

“What are you doing?” the girl said to him.

“Going kayaking.”

“No you’re not. We’re closed.”

“Grab that end,” the bald one said to his friend. His friend slung the duffel bag over one shoulder and picked up the front end of the kayak.

“I said no!” The girl ran at them.

The one in front swung his bag so it smacked her on the side of the head. The girl shrieked as she fell. Tim then came at the guy, but wisely stopped and reconsidered when his adversary assumed a combative stance. Tim ended up bending down to help the girl, who was now crying and whimpering.

The bald guy stared at Malcolm again. Malcolm instinctively reached inside his coat. The bald guy didn’t care for that movement, and reached inside his vest in reaction.

Ryan moved his hand under his shirttail. The punk with the duffel bag then set his end of the kayak down, unzipped his bag, and put his hand inside. The four of them stayed in that position for the longest fifteen seconds of Malcolm’s life.

About the Author

Ken Benton appears to be your run-of-the-mill city slicker at first glance, blissfully playing with his iPhone at the bar of the local barbeque joint while sipping on craft-brewed IPA. But he has a secret passion: doomsday survival prepping. And if you ever snuck up behind him to see what he was reading, it would likely be one of those apocalyptic-survival stories set after the collapse of modern society. Yes, he’s one of those nuts. But someday soon, Ken believes, those nuts may become the new upper class in society. Until then, we’ll just have to make do with story-telling. And preparing. Cheers.

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Marrow by Preston Norton

Marrow is a fourteen-year-old prodigy at FIST (Fantom Institute for Superheroes-in-Training). With a perfect score on his finals, the ability to smash through walls, and leaps that can launch him over a city block, the Sidekick Internship Program is bound to place him with a top-notch superhero mentor for the summer. But when a series of disastrous events lands Marrow on academic probation, he is forced to team up with Flex–a drunk, hippie, bum with the power of elasticity.

The two Supers’ powers and personalities clash as they are forced to overcome their differences to prevent the return of Cosmo City’s most notorious foe, a supervillain so powerful, no one will survive the cataclysm he is sure to unleash.

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Praise for Marrow

• “If you can’t get enough of superhero and comic book movies, read Marrow now! It’s like stuffing an action movie into your head. The twists will surprise you.” — Adam Glendon Sidwell, Bestselling Author of CHUM and EVERTASTER.
• “Fans of comics, superheroes, and stories with twist after twist will love Marrow. It’s filled with nods and homages to classic heroes, yet still manages to put a unique stamp on the genre.” — Jacob Gowans, Bestselling Author of the PSION BETA Series.

Excerpt

Having super powers isn’t always as super as it sounds.

Actually . . . that’s a lie. It’s pretty much awesome.

It was the last day of Finals at FIST (Fantom Institute for Superheroes-in-Training). There were exactly ten of us who had qualified for the Sidekick Internship Program. All fourteen years old. All dangerous in our own unique ways. Based on our scores and overall performance, we would be evaluated and paired up with Superheroes who would serve as our mentors for the summer. With top-notch scores, I could be teamed up with a hero like Nova. Or Apex. Or the most legendary hero of them all . . .

Fantom, himself.

Fantom wasn’t just the founder of FIST. And he wasn’t just a Superhero either. The guy was an icon. A symbol of hope. He was the fastest, strongest, smartest, insert-whatever-awesome-adjective-you-can-think-of-est hero of them all. And the guy had style. Oh man, did he have style.

Legend had it that Fantom was the first of the Supers—merely a kid out on a boat with his parents when the Gaia Comet struck. (It was the foreign radioactive energy of Gaia that gave birth to the Supers.) The comet made impact right where they were sailing, killing Fantom’s parents instantly. However, fate or pure luck allowed Fantom to emerge unscathed, and he was reborn with power unparalleled by any other

Super.

Fantom was going to be my mentor. I had already decided that.

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About the Author

Preston Norton is a lover of the English language, a connoisseur of the written word, a crafter of worlds, a creator (and killer) of characters, a drinker of caffeine, a freak for scary movies, a kisser of his super hot fiancée, Erin, and an overall decent human being who really likes hamburgers.

Also, he kinda digs books.

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Synopsis

Why is The Morrígan’s raven crying? Only Britons with hearts for true liberty know!

In 43 CE Roman conquest of Britannia seems all but certain — until a chance meeting between King Prasutagus of the Iceni and a runaway slave of royal decent from the Aedui tribe in Gaul changes the fate of the British islands forever.

Tacitus meets modern archaeology in this exciting non-fiction tale!

Biography Edition

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Stage Adaptation – Kindle * Smashwords

Excerpt

From Chapter Five

Three days later every Briton in the east and south met ten miles north of Camulodunum.  Numbering nearly one hundred thousand, every level of British society came together:  farmers, warriors, druids, crafts people, nobles, royals, and beyond.  Some drove war chariots.  Some marched on foot.  Some rode with light saddles on their horses.  Clad in bright colors, in plaids, in simple white, brown, or dark green, some covered their bodies in blue tattoos, war paint, and piercings while others wore only the simplest bracelets and necklaces.  It was a gathering such as the southeast had not seen since the wars against Julius Caesar.  War drums pounded.  Harps played.  Women, men, and children shouted, dancing themselves into the war fury that terrified the Romans decades before.  It was everything that terrified the mighty legions most about these peoples they called barbarians and savages.  Yet Boudicca, her family, and allies knew better.  For the brutality of Rome was second to none in the western world, brutality aimed at anything or anyone different from the elite classes of men who ruled them.  With the spirit of the war god Camulos, the fire of the trinity goddess the Morrígan, and the rage of Cathubodva, protectress of violated women, the peoples of the south and east came together with a single voice.  Ready for battle, they charged!

The streets of Camulodunum shook as if hit by an earthquake. In front of the temple dedicated to Claudius, the winged statue of Victory fell off its base, shattering prophetically. Alarmed by the omen, Roman citizens who came as colonists from Gaul fled from their houses, trying to get away while they could. With all but a couple hundred soldiers fighting to conquer Ynys Môn to the west and the rebellion of the highlanders and lowlanders to the north, Camulodunum sat ripe for the taking.

Ten minutes later, Boudicca charged into Camulodunum.  Torches now ignited across her forces.  Archers hailed thatched roofs with fire. Smoke rose up.  Those who had weapons retreated to the well-fortified temple of Claudius, forcing Boudicca’s warriors to laid siege to it.  For two days Boudicca and the enraged Britons with her slaughtered by fire and by sword every living person in Camulodunum, cleansing the city of its Roman stench and destroying every building, every statue, and every trace of what the Romans called ‘civilization.’ Cries of victory shouting Boudicca’s name rang out in the many dialects of the tribes.  Finding a field downwind of the lingering smoke, the joyful Britons slept in freedom under the stars.  Camulos was with them, avenging the wrong done to his people.

In the morning, an alarm rose among the Britons: alerted about their attack on Camulodunum, cohorts of the Ninth Legion under the command of Petilius Cerealis were less than two hours from the Briton’s encampment.  War drums beat fiercely, the cry rousing all from their beds.  In half an hour the entire British force stood ready to take on the famous Ninth Legion whose swords slaughtered so many druid priestesses and priests on Ynys Môn in their effort to destroy the British heart and soul.  At the head of her ranks, Boudicca stood proud on her chariot, her alto voice booming as she addressed those near her, “This dawn is glorious.  Camulodunum is cleansed.  Now shall we destroy this mightiest symbol of Roman power. We shall send a great message to Governor Gaius Suetonius Paulinus:  leave our island forever or be driven off by the might of our swords!  It is right our demands are made first and foremost by women whom they think exist purely for the service of men – to bear their sons and whore themselves in Roman bed chambers. But we Britons would rather die than serve for death in freedom is honorable.  Look!  Their cavalry comes!  Cry out, my people!  Cry for vengeance, for blood, for freedom!”

“FOR FREEDOM!” shouted wave after wave of Britons as the queens words spread like lightning.  Dancing, drumming, screaming, shouting, the Britons raged in battle fury before they charged head first into the fray.  For two hours the Britons slaughtered the legion until only a few survivors, including Petilius Cerealis with a handful of cavalry beside him, escaped the bloody field to shouts of joy and victory in a dozen tribal dialects.  The day was Boudicca’s.  Now Boudicca set her sights on a bigger target, one far more precious to Rome:  the trading port of Londinium itself.

Excerpt

Stage edition: ACT I, SCENE III

March.  The spring equinox.  A beach on the shores of the North Sea. The soft sounds of lapping waves fill our ears.  Downstage left is a bonfire upon which cooks crabs, lobsters, mussels, clams, and fish. Center right a crowd of BRITONS watch as BOUDICCA and PRASUTAGUS stand in front of the druid priestess LINET center stage.

LINET

Do you Prasutagus, king of the Iceni take Boudicca of the Aedui as your wife?  Will you honour , love, and respect her in all things, forsaking all others, and with reverence and respect for the goddesses and gods?

PRASUTAGUS

I will.

LINET

Do you Boudicca of the Aedui take Prasutagus, king of the Iceni as your husband? Will you honour , love, and respect him in all things, forsaking all others, and with reverence and respect for the goddesses and gods?

BOUDICCA

I will!

LINET

(loosely binding their joined hands with a woollen cord and tying a simple knot)

With this cord I bind together your hearts, your lives, and your very souls.  May the love you have declared this day before the Morrígan bind you forever together.  In every life may you find one another in love, peace, and passion until the stars are no more and all that exists ceases to be.  If this eternity remains your will, I bid you bind yourselves now and for forever with a kiss.

PRASUTAGUS/BOUDICCA

Now and forever, I am yours!

(Prasutagus and Boudicca kiss passionately)

LINET

(raising her hands in blessing)

SO MOTE IT BE!

BRITONS

(echoing)

SO MOTE IT BE!

[Ad Lib Local cheers]

(END OF SCENE)

About the Author

Born, raised, and educated in Lincoln, Nebraska USA, author-historian Laurel A. Rockefeller has written over a dozen book titles since August 2002 including The Peers of Beinan science fiction series, American Stories, the Legendary Women of World History biography series, and the My First Cockatiel Series.

Enjoy Ms. Rockefeller’s books in English and Chinese in your choice of digital, paperback, and audio editions narrated by dynamic British voice artist Richard Mann. Three Act stage adaptations are available on Legendary Women of World History biographies and on the Peers of Beinan Series novellas.

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Giveaway

The author is generously giving away any 3 of her eBooks.  You can see all of her books here, and if it is available as an eBook it is yours if you win!

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