Synopsis

He was her hero,

But one wrong move ended their future before it could begin.

Now he’ll do whatever it takes to keep her safe,

Even if that means turning against one of his own.

As a member of the Field County Sheriff’s Department, Chris Jennings is used to having it rough. The Colorado Rockies aren’t for the weak-of-spirit, but he’s devoted his life to upholding the law—and to protecting the one woman he knows he can never have. He’ll do whatever it takes to keep her safe.

Daisy Little has lived in agoraphobic terror for over eight years. Trapped within a prison of her own making, she watches time pass through her bedroom window. Daisy knows she’ll never be a part of the world…until the day she becomes the sole witness of a terrible crime that may finally tear the Search & Rescue brotherhood apart for good.

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Excerpt

It was worse than she’d expected.

“None?” she asked.

“No fresh boot prints anywhere around the perimeter of the house,” Sheriff Coughlin confirmed.

“It was windy last night. Maybe the drifting snow filled in the prints?” Even before she finished speaking, the sheriff was shaking his head.

“With the warm temperatures we’ve been having, the snow is either frozen or wet and heavy. If someone had walked through that yard last night, there would’ve been prints.”

Daisy hid her wince at his words, even though they hit as hard as an elbow to the gut, and struggled to keep her voice firm. “There was someone walking around the outside of that house last night, Sheriff. I don’t know why there aren’t any boot prints, but I definitely saw someone.”

He was giving her that look again, but it was worse, because she saw a thread of pity mixed in with the condescension. “Have you given more thought to starting therapy again?”

The question surprised her. “Not really. What does that have to do…?” As comprehension dawned, a surge of rage shoved out her bewilderment. “I didn’t imagine that I saw someone last night. There really was a person there, looking in the side window.”

All her protest did was increase the pity in his expression. “It must get lonely here by yourself.”

“I’m not making things up to get attention!” Her voice had gotten shrill, so she took a deep breath. “I even said there was no need for you to get involved. I only suggested one of the on-duty deputies drive past to scare away the kid.”

“Ms. Little.” His tone made it clear that impatience had drowned out any feelings of sympathy. “Physical evidence doesn’t lie. No one was in that yard last night.”

“I know what I saw.”

The sheriff took a step closer. Daisy hated how she had to crane her neck back to look at him. It made her feel so small and vulnerable. “Do you really?” he asked. “Eyewitness accounts are notoriously unreliable.  Even people without your issues misinterpret what they see all the time. The brain is a tricky thing.”

Daisy set her jaw as she stared back at the sheriff, fighting the urge to step back, to retreat from the man looming over her. There had been someone there, footprints or no footprints. She couldn’t start doubting what she’d witnessed the night before. If she did, then that meant she’d gone from mildly, can’t-leave-the-house crazy, to the kind of crazy that involved hallucinations, medications, and institutionalization. There had to be some other explanation, because she wasn’t going to accept that. Not when her life was getting so much better.

She could tell by looking at his expression that she wasn’t going to convince Coughlin of anything. “Thank you for checking on it, Sheriff. I promise not to bother you again.”

Although he kept his face impassive, his eyes narrowed slightly. “If you…see anything else, Ms. Little, please call me.”

That wasn’t going to happen, especially when he put that meaningful pause in front of “see” that just screamed “delusional.” Trying to mask her true feelings, she plastered on a smile and turned her body toward the door in a not-so-subtle hint for him to leave. “Of course.”

Apparently, she needed some lessons in deception, since the sheriff frowned, unconvinced. Daisy met his eyes with as much calmness as she could muster, dropping the fake smile because she could feel it shifting into manic territory. She’d lost enough credibility with the sheriff as it was.

The silence stretched until Daisy wanted to run away and hide in a closet, but she managed to continue holding his gaze. The memory of Chris telling her about the sheriff using his “going to confession” stare-down on suspects helped her to stay quiet.

Finally, Coughlin turned toward the door. Daisy barely managed to keep her sigh of relief silent.

“Ms. Little,” he said with a short nod, which she returned.

“Sheriff.”

Only when he was through the doorway with the door locked behind him did Daisy’s knees start to shake.

About the Author

When she’s not writing, KATIE RUGGLE rides horses, shoots guns, and travels to warm places where she can SCUBA dive. Graduating from the Police Academy, Katie received her ice-rescue certification and can attest that the reservoirs in the Colorado Mountains really are that cold. While she still misses her off-the-grid, solar- and wind-powered house in the Rocky Mountains, she now lives in Rochester, Minnesota near her family.

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Synopsis

Cursed with a terrible gift…

Criminal investigator Xander Stone doesn’t have to question you—he can hear your thoughts. Scarred by lightning, burdened with a power that gives him no peace, Xander struggles to maintain his sanity against the voice that haunts him day and night—the voice of a woman begging him to save her.

A gift that threatens to engulf them

Isleen Walker has long since given up hope of escape from the nightmare of captivity and torture that is draining her life, her mind, and her soul. Except…there is the man in her feverish dreams, the strangely beautiful man who beckons her to freedom and wholeness. And when he comes, if he comes, it will take all their combined fury and faith to overcome a madman bent on fulfilling a deadly prophecy.

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Excerpt

 

Death twined around Isleen Walker’s body, whispering over her naked flesh, coiling around her heart and lungs, hugging the last sparks of life from her. Twenty-five years of being alive distilled down to a wish. A wish that death would hurry up and grant her its promised relief.

“I’m dying.” She tried to warn Gran, but the words came out quieter than a breath. Her gaze roamed the room—their prison for the past eight years. It was just big enough to contain her and Gran and an overflowing waste bucket, but now it felt too small, too fragile to contain Isleen. Soon she would transcend this space, and no matter what Queen did, she wouldn’t be able to tether Isleen here.

Gran slept, face tucked into the corner. Safety was an illusion—beating after beating had proven that fact—but still, they always gravitated to the corners. Gran’s once-supple flesh sagged from her bones. Her spine protruded sharply in a pathetic row of spikes.

“…tobesaved. Not die.…protectordiedtoo?” Gran spoke in a smear of barely distinguishable words. She’d been a sleep-talker for as long as Isleen could remember—even before they’d been abducted.

She used to wake Gran from her dreams, but had long since decided it was a mercy to let her stay inside them for as long as they hosted her. Maybe in her dreams, Gran still possessed her wits and all her faculties, and lived somewhere beautiful where nothing bad ever happened.

Footsteps pounded down the hall and stopped outside the door. The sound of the key in the lock scraped across Isleen’s heart. Was today going to be a feeding day, a beating day, or a bleeding day? It didn’t really matter. It was too late for food; a beating would finish her off; and she had no more blood to give. But there was Gran—

The door rasped open. Queen. Always Queen and only Queen ever entered their prison. If ever a name didn’t fit a person, it was hers. Nothing about her was royal or regal. She was no whimsical fairy-tale ruler; she was a twenty-first-century reality. A simple-minded, delusional woman who took pleasure in domination and torture. Under a different set of circumstances, Queen would have been passing her days in a psychiatric hospital, medicated to the point of drooling.

Without even looking, Isleen could smell Queen’s stench. Cigarette smoke so stale and foul and thick that Isleen could taste the bite of it in her mouth, feel the burn of it in her eyes. The pungency of flesh that hadn’t been washed in years snuffed out the oxygen in the air.

Queen kicked her in the thigh. “The Dragon has not yet died.”

A small gasp, not of pain, but of being startled escaped Isleen’s throat. For as long as they’d been held captive, Queen had referred to her as the Dragon.

Queen cleared her throat. Mucus snapped and rattled. She hawked up a wad of nasty and spit it on the floor. “King decreed that if the Dragon shall linger—”

“You will suffer for everything you’ve done.” Gran crawled out of the corner on all fours. “Her protector is on his way.”

Queen’s hunched shoulders straightened. “I am your Queen. Bow before me.” It was all a part of Queen’s delusional mind—she was a queen and they were her subjects and the objects of her torture. Especially Isleen.

Gran didn’t bow, didn’t move, didn’t understand.

“You will be punished.” Queen opened and closed a giant pair of scissors. Shkk. Shkk. Shkk.

Dread burned a hole through Isleen’s shrunken stomach. “It’s not her fault. She doesn’t understand.” She tried to move, but her body was too weak, her limbs too emaciated.

“Your Majesty, I am sorry. I have committed the gravest of errors.” Gran executed a bow of supplication, arms spread out, forehead to the floor. “Please accept my humble apology and know that I will never again speak in such a manner to one as powerful as you.” Before Gran had lost her mind, she’d been fluent in kiss-up-to-the-fake-queen language.

Gran must be having a rare moment of clarity.

“Very well. I grant you a pardon. Know this—though I am a merciful queen, I will not tolerate such treasonous behavior again.” She pointed a fat, stubby finger at Gran. “You have been warned.”

Gran kept her pose. Good decision.

Queen turned her grotesque gaze to Isleen. She went through the same disgusting process of clearing her throat and then spoke as if she were making a proclamation. “King has decreed that on the sixth day, if the Dragon shall linger, I am to thrust my sword into its side.”

Thrust my sword into its side. Isleen understood Queen’s words; she just didn’t fear them. No matter what Queen did to her now, it would be nothing—absolutely nothing—compared to the agony of living. A calmness nestled into her bones, curled up in her guts.

Gran lifted her face from the floor and challenged Queen’s authority by looking directly at her. “You don’t have the power to kill her.” Insanity warped Gran’s tone.

Queen’s attention snapped to Gran. “You were warned. Now, you shall be executed.”

Isleen thrust words from her heart, words she’d always wanted to speak but never dared until now, when she needed to divert Queen’s attention away from Gran. “You’re not a queen. You’re psychotic. You’re a bitch. You’re evil and stupid and mean. And…and…you smell bad.”

Queen’s wide-spaced eyes nearly bulged out of her block-shaped head. Her fat lips snarled back, revealing teeth so neglected they were the same color and texture as Fritos. She switched her grip on the scissors, fisting the handle, and stabbed the blades at Isleen.

She watched the scissors descend, heard the whisper and swish of them piercing her flesh. Felt only a vague pressure and presence of something foreign inside her body. Smelled sweetness in the air and tasted salt on her tongue.

Queen yanked the scissors from Isleen’s body and held them up. Blood dripped from the blades, sending red streamers down Queen’s doughy arm.

Warmth oozed from Isleen’s side, the heat comforting her cold skin.

“Tomorrow, if you are still alive—off with your head!”

Gran waited until Queen locked them back in the room, then scooted next to Isleen. There were no bandages, no cloths, no tissues. Nothing to stop the bleeding.

“Hold on, baby girl. Just hold on. He’s coming. He’s got to be coming. He will release you. Save you.” The worst of Gran’s mental breakdown was the delusion that someone would find them. In Isleen’s most desperate of moments, she had allowed herself to believe Gran. Not anymore.

“Your dreams will come true. All of them. Remember the dreams about him. How you loved him and he loved you. Remember the dreams of sunshine on your face and the cabin you shared. Remember…”

There was nothing to remember. It had just been dreams. Silly dreams. No more powerful than Gran’s sleep-talking.

You’re not coming. You’re not going to save me. Because you don’t exist. Never have. I believed in you. Thought you must be real—Gran swore you were. But you were nothing more than hope’s fatal dream. We’re going to die, and no one other than Queen will ever remember we existed.

A rainbow of colors swelled in front of her eyes. Colors she hadn’t seen in years. Colors so brilliant and bright and beautiful that her eyes watered. Death was an alluring kaleidoscope.

 

 

About the Author

By day, ABBIE ROADS is a mental health professional known for her blunt, honest style of therapy. By night she writes dark emotional novels, always giving her characters the happy ending she wishes for all her clients. Her novels have been finalists in RWA contests, including the Golden Heart. She lives with her family in Marion, OH.

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Title: When the Storm Breaks

Author: Avery Hart

Cover design & Photography by: Marisa-rose Shor @ Cover Me Darling (https://www.facebook.com/covermedarling/)

Release date: TBD (October 2016)

Genre: Romance/Suspense

Synopsis

Claire Scott is at an all-time high in her life. After landing her dream job and marrying her best friend, James, she knows that life can’t get much better. Unfortunately, what should be the happiest time of her life suddenly changes when a traumatic event tears her world apart.

Mason Brady never planned to be a part of Claire’s life. In fact, he avoided her as much as possible, but fate works in the most mysterious ways. When he finds her broken and scared, he knows that he needs to do whatever he can to help her heal.

As her world continues to crumble around her, no one in Claire’s life is safe. With someone on a mission to hurt her, Claire knows that her only option is to run. However, there is a problem. How can you run when you don’t know who it is you’re running from?

One wrong move may cost Claire the lives of those she loves most, but, when the storm breaks, who will be left to pick up the pieces?

 

 

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Title: Eugenia: Destiny and Choice
Author: GEÓRGEOS C. AWGERINØS
Publisher: iUniverse
Pages: 280
Genre: Romantic Thriller

Synopsis

Debut novelist Georgeos Constantin Awgerinøs paints an epic love story and political thriller in EUGENIA: DESTINY AND CHOICE. The title character, Eugenia “Jenny” Corais, a Columbia University graduate, is an idealistic young feminist and intellectual who charts her destiny against such volatile backdrops as cabaret-era Berlin, America during the Civil Rights and anti-Vietnam War protests, and the violent final days of colonial Africa.

With its potent combination of politics and romance, EUGENIA: DESTINY AND CHOICE resembles  Erich Segal’s LOVE STORY, coupled with a tale of political intrigue that would fit comfortably in the novels of Graham Greene, John Le Carre or Stieg Larsson, and historical developments reminiscent of James A. Michener.

Awgerinøs’s title character, Eugenia, is complicated. Her idealism and social consciousness, the author notes, is tempered with “a compulsive curiosity for the weird, unusual, or forbidden. She aims at the light but she cannot resist the temptation of the darkness.”

Jenny’s co-protagonists include Dietrich Neuendorf, a charismatic and unyielding German human rights attorney haunted by his family’s past and his country’s history. He and Jenny quickly fall in love.

A third character, Desmond Henderson, attracts Jenny’s darker side. Despite his humble origins and abundant charm, Henderson has a deeply dark core. A former British colonial officer, he is the head of South Africa’s military industrial apparatus, linked to the high echelons of international corporate elite and secret intelligence. He is an immense figure who designs mass murder and forced relocations on spreadsheets and is involved in some of the most defining political acts of the 20^th century.

But in this novel, even the most invincible have an Achilles heel. As Awgerinos puts it, “EUGENIA doesn’t romanticize power; rather, the book demystifies the powerful by exposing the intimate, vulnerable and disowned aspects of human psyche.”

Jenny, Dietrich, and Desmond cross paths and embark on a perilous journey together in an exotic African country, a wonder of nature that faces massive winds of historical tide and a catastrophic revolution.

“Through my characters and their interaction, I try to convey another view on love and sexual conflict, society, human nature and beyond-natural, democracy and collective mind control,” says Awgerinøs. “I also try to offer a historical account about a very volatile era in a turbulent region, Southern Africa.”

Awgerinøs hints that he is working on a sequel to EUGENIA: DESTINY AND CHOICE. Meanwhile, EUGENIA shows great potential to be adapted as an exciting and thought-provoking feature motion picture or TV movie.

Excerpt

“Mr. Prime Minister, I urge you to reconsider your decision.”

The South African prime minister, a tall and imposing man with silver hair and a wide smile, dismissed the warning of his national security advisor.

“Dr. Duplessis, our republic is under imminent threat from within. I will never allow this country to be hijacked by a shadow government. In one hour, I will reveal to the parliamentary caucus what has been going on behind closed doors.”

“Never before has a public exposure of such marquee names come before the legislative assembly. This unorthodox approach is unheard of in the history of political affairs,” Dr. Duplessis commented, in his distinctive Wallonian inflection. He was a long-skulled, pale-skinned man of average build, no taller than five foot seven, with close-cropped gray hair, an icy stare, and robotic mannerisms. He listened as the prime minister went on with his rant.

“South Africa didn’t gain its independence from the British crown in order to subordinate itself to its military industrial complex. Apartheid was meant to protect the racial order in this country, not to become a self-destructive debt-spiral ploy.”

“Independence means the freedom to choose your own masters, Mr. Prime Minister, and racial order is a costly agenda.”

“This is the South African Republic, not South Africa, Inc.”

“It is the South African Republic, Inc. All states are corporate entities, monsieur, one way or another; this country is not an exception. With all due respect, presidents, prime ministers, even absolute rulers are the stage protagonists in the theater called politics; they are neither the writers, nor the producers of the show. This is a friendly reminder.”

The premier was aware that South Africa had become a “republic” because of Dr. Duplessis’s gerrymandering and intricate offstage diplomacy. He owed his prime ministerial chair to Dr. Duplessis’s byzantine machinations, but he would not yield to his trusted policymaker’s insolent innuendo and skillful pressure. When he spoke again, it was apparent that he had removed from his mind the last shadows of hesitation. The tone of his voice was conclusive.

“Dr. Duplessis, alea jacta est-the die is cast. The security operations units are on alert. The disarming of the Armée-Gendarmerie and the arrests of the Concession’s board members will begin once I commence my speech.”

“As you wish, monsieur.”

The PM relaxed his tone with his advisor; he became genial as usual.

“On Thursday, I will turn sixty-five years young. I have a family gathering at home. You will be there, Fabien, you promise?”

“Of course Hendrik, I will,” Dr. Duplessis responded.

The prime minister watched his advisor retreat. As he sat alone he stared at the antique clock across from his oak-paneled desk. He checked once more the printed page of his speech, which he had placed on the desk. Today he would make an announcement signaling a shake-up in modern history, and in the process he would settle some old scores. For a few seconds he visualized the reaction of the caucus: a standing ovation for his daring initiative. Pleased with this thought, he approached the window and watched the midday bustle of Cape Town, his beloved city.

Nestled in the southwest corner of the African continent, overlooking the Atlantic Ocean, with glistening coastlines and breathtaking views of Table Mountain, Cape Town, the parliamentary capital of South Africa, is a thriving metropolis with Dutch architecture, wide boulevards, colorful parks, and a flourishing business district. The city’s rich history contains an intriguing mix of European sophistication and Cape Malay exoticism that dates back to the seventeenth century, blended with subtropical African beauty.

Picturesque and prosperous though it might have been, Cape Town was not a paradise for all. The eye of the conscientious traveler in 1966 would observe, from stores to parks to the sandy beaches, two signs, in Afrikaans and English: “Slegs blankes/whites only” and “Slegs nie-blankes/non-whites only.”

Seven miles into the sea across the panoramic Table Bay was Robben Island. It appeared a tiny idyllic islet, which one might have guessed was a fisherman’s retreat; but such was not the case. Once a leper colony, Robben Island was one of the most infamous penitentiaries on earth. And yet, it hosted no penal convicts but instead, civil rights activists, some of them with world-renowned names: Govan Mbeki, Nelson Mandela, Jacob Zuma.

Just ten miles to the east of the majestic capital there was another world that most Capetowneans did not know existed: a district for natives only, which no whites except the police could enter. There, the neighborhoods of Langa, Nyanga, and Guguletu resembled more a massive dumpster than a sprawling suburbia. Newly built project buildings that reminded one of barracks sat beside wooden shacks with tin roofs. African women washed their clothes in rusty bins with boiled water outside their slum dwellings. Their children, most barefoot, played soccer with tin cans in dirt alleys with numbers for names, such as NY1 or NY4, which stood for native yards, as the city called these dusty, unpaved lanes.

It was 2:15 p.m., Tuesday, September 6, 1966, when the prime minister of the South African Republic made his entry to the House of Assembly to deliver his speech.

While he took the podium, a man with Mediterranean features dressed in a messenger’s uniform entered the building. He crossed unchecked through the heavily guarded lobby and approached the podium. Within seconds, the messenger pulled a dagger out of his jacket and stabbed the prime minister four times in the chest. Parliamentary members rushed to pin the assassin to the ground, while the PM’s blood gushed from the gaping wounds in his chest. An ambulance rushed him to the Groote Schuur Hospital, but it was too late. He was pronounced dead on arrival.

Later that day, television and radio stations around the world announced the staggering news. From nations opposed to the apartheid regime came lead stories declaring: “Demetris Tsafendas, the son of a Greek immigrant and an African woman from Mozambique, assassinated Dr. Hendrik Frensch Verwoerd, the prime architect of apartheid.” Conversely the local media stated: “A mentally disturbed extremist assassinated the father of white South Africa, motivated by hatred and rage.” The African underground press was jubilant: “Tsafendas inyanga yezizwe—Tsafendas, the healer of the nation!”

That evening witnessed an unusual commute in front of the ministerial houses below the campus of the University of Cape Town. Cars carrying government officials and parliamentary members came and went. It was after midnight when the gates of a palatial mansion opened, and three stretch limousines with black-tinted glass made their exit. The convoy moved slowly down Belleview Road, encountering little traffic. Police patrols created a strong presence that night. In the second car of the motorcade, two men sat in the back of the limousine. One was a short, plump gentleman in his sixties. After looking nervously at the car following them, he reached for the limo’s bar and took a bottle.

“Thirty-year-old Glenfiddich, Mr. Henderson? I know it’s your favorite,” he said and poured some into a shot glass.

“I’ll have tobacco instead, Minister,” his companion replied with a conspicuous English accent. He was a towering man with broad shoulders, a wide face with a prominent jawline, and a thick mustache. He resembled a nineteenth-century British colonial military officer. Oddly, he wore a safari pith helmet, like a jungle explorer ready to hunt his prey. He lit up and silently puffed on his cigar. He sat comfortably, apparently enjoying his smoke. At one point, he too glanced back to face the limo that was following. The headlights illuminated his face, showing a man in his late forties with harsh features and piercing dark eyes.

“What a night, Mr. Henderson.”

“It was a great night, Minister,” the big man with the pith replied, puffing his fat Havana.

“Now that the obstacles have been removed, the door is open for the government and the Southern African Development Concession to sign the agreement. The armaments production executive board will be replaced, and within a week the shopping list will be on your desk, Mr. Henderson.”

The Englishman stared outside the dark window, momentarily in thought.

“Minister, the signing of agreements is not enough. The Concession is part of South Africa’s apparatus, and we need our territory secured. We cannot intervene every time some careless bureaucrat in your administration oversteps or defies our initial arrangements.”

“What do you have in mind, Mr. Henderson?”

“The Southern African Development Concession needs ironclad legislation that secures our role in this country’s future. You did it with the Oppenheimer gold and diamond cartel; you will do it with us too.”

“That was the situation five decades ago, when this part of the world was the Wild South. This is 1966.”

But the Englishman didn’t seem in the mood to brook refusals.

“Rhodesia and South Africa will always be the Wild South. Africa is made by monopolies for monopolies; the Concession would have to refuse anything less. Without the Southern African Development Concession, apartheid will fall swiftly like a shack in a gale. You know that as well as I, Minister.”

The driver continued moving on the barren road. His burly build and crew cut made apparent his role as secret security rather than a mere chauffeur. Henderson puffed his Havana contemplatively while he rolled past the closed stores of Belleview Road. The South African minister of defence and national security refilled his glass.

“Are you sure you don’t want some malt?”

“I never mix liquor and business; and this is business, Minister.”

“I’ll make the arrangements tomorrow morning. Be assured that from tonight we enter a new period of friendly cooperation for both sides.”

Henderson seemed pleased with the minister’s conclusive reply. He looked at his watch.

“It’s already one o’ clock. I need to be back in Rhodesia in two hours, but I enjoy myself every time I am in the Cape, especially tonight.”

About the Author

Geórgeos Constantin Awgerinøs, author of EUGENIA: DESTINY AND CHOICE was born and raised in Athens Greece. He lives in New York City.

www.EugeniaNovel.com * www.EugeniaTheBook.com *  www.EugeniaDestinyAndChoice.com * Twitter

Book Title: The Stranger

Author Name: Anna del Mar

Series: The Stranger, A Wounded Warrior Novel, Book Two

Genre: Romantic Suspense, Contemporary romance, SEAL romance, Military Romance

Publisher: Carina Press

Date of Publication: August 22, 2016

Synopsis

When a mysterious stranger is your only hope…

The scars of the past have left their mark, both physical and emotional, on former military pilot Seth Erickson. Off-grid in the far reaches of the bitter Alaskan wilderness, he wants only to be left alone with his ghosts. But he can’t ignore a woman in need—beautiful, stranded and nearly frozen with fear.

Summer Silva never imagined that the search for her missing sister would leave her abandoned on a wintry back road, barely escaping with her life from a cold-blooded killer for hire. Now, hiding out in the isolated cabin of the secretive wounded warrior who saved her, Summer knows she must do what she fears most. Putting her trust in a stranger is all she has left.

All defenses are down

After a fiery first night together, Seth and Summer are bound by a need as powerful as a Bering Sea superstorm—and vulnerable to enemies just as fierce. For Seth, reawakened by desire, there is no sacrifice too great, no memory too dark, to keep Summer safe. But murder and treason lurk everywhere and Summer may not survive Alaska’s ruthless winter.

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Guest Post

The Story Behind The Stranger

By

Anna del Mar

I never really wanted to go to Alaska BAK, Before Adventuresome Kids. San Francisco and New York? Sure. London? Check. Rome and Paris? Absolutely. Alaska? Not so much. That is, until my daughter insisted on a trip that led to my son volunteering at Denali National Park. Each time I went back to Alaska, I fell deeper for it. So I kept going back for more.

From this personal, life-transforming journey comes my latest romantic suspense, The Stranger, the story of Summer Silva, a warmth-loving Miami architect who chases her reckless sibling to Alaska when her sister runs away with a guy she met on the internet. Summer is a tropical being, kind of like me, and yet as her story begins, we find her stranded on a desolate Alaskan road, having just survived a murder attempt with a Bering Sea superstorm bearing down on her.

The Stranger who reluctantly comes to her aid is Seth Erickson, an Alaskan tycoon with a quarreling family as complicated as Summer’s own. Seth is also a helicopter pilot, a wounded warrior struggling to recover from injuries he sustained while serving in Afghanistan. He’s got no time for a lady in distress and yet he can’t just abandon Summer to fend for herself. When they shelter in his high-tech cabin and she comes to his bed, he embraces her sweet seduction. Entwined in his arms, she becomes the superstorm of his lifetime.

But Summer has a secret. Dream chasing, the Native Athabaskans call it. You’ll have to read the novel if you’d like to know more about it. Yes, I’m grinning. And now two strangers from different worlds and opposite spectrums of the thermometer are caught in a vortex of passion that defies their differences and enrages their enemies. To survive, they must unravel the intrigues that threaten their lives and chase after a new dream in spectacular Alaska.

About the Author

Anna del Mar writes hot, smart romances that soothe the soul, challenge the mind, and satisfy the heart. Her stories focus on strong heroines struggling to find their place in the world and the brave, sexy, kickass, military heroes who defy the limits of their broken bodies to protect the women they love. Anna enjoys traveling, hiking, skiing, and the sea. Writing is her addiction, her drug of choice, and what she wants to do all the time. The extraordinary men and women she met during her years as a Navy wife inspire the fabulous heroes and heroines at the center of her stories. When she stays put—which doesn’t happen very often—she lives in Florida with her indulgent husband and two very opinionated cats.

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Title: Scar Tissue
Author: MC Domovitch
Publisher: Lansen Publishing
Pages: 396
Genre: Romantic Suspense/Thriller/Paranormal

Synopsis

When successful model Ciara Cain wakes up in hospital, remembering nothing of the weeks she has been missing, her only clues are the ugly words carved into her skin. According to the police she was a victim of the Cutter, a serial killer who has already murdered three women. For her protection the police and her doctors give a press conference, announcing that because her amnesia is organically caused, her memory loss is permanent. But, whether her memory returns or not is anybody’s guess.
Overnight, Ciara’s glamorous life is gone. Her scars have killed both her modelling career and her relationship with her rich boyfriend. With nothing to keep her in New York, she returns to her home town of Seattle, moves in with her sister and goes about building a new life. But when her sister lets it slip that Ciara’s memory is returning, the killer comes after her again. If Ciara is to stay alive, she must keep one step ahead of the Cutter.

Excerpt

It was the pain that pierced the fog in her brain. It seemed to come from all over her body, more intensely from her right leg, where it pulsated to the rhythm of her heart. She tried to open her eyes, but her lids felt…so…very…heavy. It was easier to fall back into the haze inside her mind. She floated there, vaguely aware of somebody calling her name.

“Ciara, it’s me.” The voice sounded familiar, but she couldn’t place it. “Please wake up.”.”” She drifted off again.

Time had lost all meaning. She wandered in and out of a great void. She might have been sleeping for minutes or days. Occasionally her eyelids fluttered for a few seconds, only to grow still again. One day when she opened her eyes, the fog had lifted. The first thing she saw were old acoustic ceiling tiles. Puzzled, she blinked. A beeping caught her attention and she shifted her gaze to the side. Next to her was a monstrous machine. Tubes were running from it to her and back again. Where was she?

She tried to speak, but there was something in her mouth. She moaned, and then a woman was bending over her, her eyes full of tears.

“Ciara. Can you hear me?” Her sister? Deirdre was here? All the way from Seattle? She must be in a hospital. If she was sick, whatever she had was serious.

“If you can, squeeze my hand.” She strained to move, but her limbs were great weights. Her movements were sluggish. But she must have squeezed because suddenly Deirdre was yelling, “She’s awake. Ciara is awake.” But she was asleep again.

Over the next few days, there were more and more moments of awareness. The tube in her mouth was removed and she was given ice chips, and then water. She couldn’t seem to get enough.

“Good morning, young lady,” a doctor said.

It was morning? She’d had no idea. He shone a penlight in her eyes. She vaguely remembered him doing this before. She must have drifted off again, because she blinked and he was gone.

A different doctor came to visit. He wore surgical greens. He too peered into her eyes with a light and then asked her a number of questions, starting with her name.

“Ciara Kelly,” she said in a voice she barely recognized. From a corner of her room came an excited voice. “Oh, my God! She’s speaking. That means she’s fully out of the coma, doesn’t it?”

She hadn’t dreamed it. Her sister truly was right here in New York.

This is New York, isn’t it?

“It’s still too soon to be certain, but things look good so far.” The doctor continued with his questions. “Can you count backward from one hundred for me?”

She had to think hard. “One hundred, ninety-nine, ninety-eight.” Had she gotten that right?

“Very good.” After another half dozen questions, the doctor smiled at last. “Welcome back, Ciara. You’ve had a lot of people very worried for a long time. Do you remember what happened?”

“I was in an accident?” she guessed.

“That’s right. Do you remember it?”

She wrinkled her brow in concentration. “I was at a photo shoot for Prêt-a-Porter,” she said, naming a popular magazine. “Oh, my God. I was supposed to fly to Milan today. I’ve got to get out of here. My agent will kill me if I miss my flight.”

“You already missed that flight,” her sister said. “You’ve been in a coma for a while.”

“In a coma?” Ciara looked at her blankly. “How long of a while?”

There was a hesitation, until at last Deirdre said, “Seventeen days.”

“Seven…” That was impossible. Why, that photo shoot was only yesterday. She was sure of it. She’d been looking forward to her flight to Italy and auditioning for all the glamorous designer shows. Could that really have been over two weeks ago? She suddenly noticed her forearms. She hardly recognized them as her own. They were so thin. She must have lost a ton of weight. Her first reaction was one of joy. Even her agent would have to agree she was thin enough now. She imagined what she might say when she saw her. Why Ciara, you’re a perfect size two. Armani will adore you.

But from what her sister had just said, the collections were already half over. And come to think of it, she had no idea what kind of shape she was in. How badly was she hurt? Could she even walk? She flexed her toes and was relieved to see movement under the bedsheet. At least she wasn’t paralyzed.

“What’s wrong with me?” At the same time she became aware of a dull pain in her right leg. “Please tell me I don’t have a broken leg. I don’t have time for that. I have to get back to work.”

Deirdre came closer, placing a comforting hand over hers. “Work will have to wait. You have some healing to do first. You were pretty banged up when you were brought in. You had a compound fracture of the leg, not to mention a lot of cuts and bruises. But, didn’t I always tell you, you have a really hard head, Ciara Kelly, because with the blow you got you should have had a broken skull. Instead, all you got was a concussion.”

The doctor took over from there. “But as far as concussions go, yours was a beauty. Your leg will be fine. We had to put in a few screws, so from now on you might beep when you go through airport security. Your cuts are healing nicely. All in all, you are one very lucky young lady.”

He called this lucky?

“What about my head? Am I… Will I…” She could deal with all of that, but the thought of having a brain injury was too much.

“You did have a brain bleed when you came in. But we were able to treat it without surgery. You’ve had an MRI, and from what we can tell, except for a tiny bit of scar tissue in the posterior cingulate cortex, everything is fine. If you had lingering problems, they most likely would have shown up by now.”

“Posterior cingular…What does that area of the brain do?”

“The posterior cingulate cortex,” he repeated with a teasing smile. “That’s an area most people have never heard of. It’s one of the most metabolically active regions of the brain, but the simple truth is nobody really knows what its true cognitive role might be.”

“Are you telling me I might have brain damage, and you don’t know how it might affect me?”

The teasing glint was gone, but his tone was still light. “No idea whatsoever.” He picked her chart and scribbled a few words. “But we’ll keep an eye on you and if we notice anything, we’ll deal with it then.”

Her sister gave him a reproving look. “You’re fine, Ciara. Don’t worry about it. They’ve taken every possible test and everything looks perfectly normal.”

A nurse walked in at that moment, signaling for the doctor’s attention. “The police are sending somebody over to question the patient.”

“The police?” Ciara said. “Of course. The accident.” They’d want her version of what happened.  “Why can’t I remember anything between the photo shoot and waking up here?”

The room became quiet. “That’s not abnormal,” the doctor said at last. “You’ve only been fully awake for a few hours. It could take days, maybe even longer before everything comes back to you.” Ciara nodded, her eyes darting from the doctor to her sister. She had the feeling they were keeping something from her.

About the Author

M C Domovitch is the author of nine novels, four of which were published under the name of Carol Ann Martin (by Penguin), another two under the name Monique Domovitch (by Carina Press) The other three are published as M C Domovitch, Scorpio Rising, The Sting of the Scorpio (Both now republished in one single tome) and Scar Tissue. The decision to use a different pen name was based on her departure from cozy mysteries and entering the Romance and Romantic Suspense genres.

Before becoming an author, Monique had multiple careers, beginning with modeling. She won a modeling contest in the 70s and became one of Canada’s top models. After retiring from the fashion industry, she studied finance and joined an investment company. This led to a new career as host of her own television show about investing, with the television network, WTN. Following her retirement from finance, she decided to pursue her true passion, writing. At a writing workshop at San Diego’s Writers’ Conference, one of her unpublished books caught the eye of a publisher and of an agent. And the rest, as they say, is history.

Domovitch lives with her physician husband and their dogs. They divide their time between homes in Victoria and Toronto Canada and Key Largo Florida.

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Synopsis

In the remote Rocky Mountains, lives depend on the Search & Rescue brotherhood. But in a place this far off the map, trust is hard to come by and secrets can be murder…

George Holloway has spent his life alone, exploring the treacherous beauty of the Colorado Rockies. He’s the best survival expert Search and Rescue has, which makes him the obvious choice to lead Ellie Price through deadly terrain to find her missing father. There’s just one problem—Ellie’s everything George isn’t. She’s a city girl, charming, gregarious, delicate, small. And when she looks up at him with those big, dark eyes, he swears he would tear the world apart to keep her safe.

With a killer on the loose, he may have no choice.

Ellie’s determined to find her father no matter the cost. But as she and her gorgeous mountain of a guide fight their way through an unforgiving wilderness, they find themselves in the crosshairs of a dangerous man in search of revenge. And they are now his prey…

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Excerpt

Shifting so she had a better view, Ellie made a face. “Sorry I was so slow today. How long do you think it’ll take to get to the cabin?”

The wind picked that second to howl, the gust shoving at the tent as if intent on blowing them off the mountain. Ellie leaned closer to George.

“Depends,” he said after the wind died down enough that she could hear him. “This storm might last a couple of days.”

Huddling deeper in her sleeping bag, she asked, “Do you think he’s out in this?”

“Baxter? Could be. When did he leave?”

“The deputy, Chris, saw him Sunday morning at the Blue Hook trailhead.”

“Your dad experienced?”

“With hiking and camping, you mean? Yes. He took me with him a few times when I was little, before… I’m just worried because he seemed so confused and scared the last time we talked on the phone.”

“He’s most likely already there.” His finger brushed the spot on the map where the cabin was located. “If not, he’ll have supplies.”

“That’s true.” Giving in to the need for contact, even if it was with two sleeping bags between them, Ellie leaned against George’s side. She ignored it when he went rigid, and soon she felt some of the tension leave him. “Thanks for agreeing to be my guide. If Joseph had been the one to bring me out here, I’d probably be running out into the storm just to get away from his wandering hands.”

The stiffness returned to George’s body at the mention of Joseph.

“Do you not like him?” she asked, tilting her head to look at him. His face was canted away from her, though, so she couldn’t see his expression. “Is that why you decided to take me?”

There was a long pause before he spoke. “He’s good at what he does. You would’ve been safe…in that way.” He put an odd emphasis on the last three words.

“So, he wouldn’t have led me into an avalanche, but I might have woken up in the night with him trying to squeeze into my sleeping bag?” Her voice was teasing, her discomfort with Joseph diluted by distance and George’s reassuring presence. When he turned his head to meet her eyes, though, his expression was completely serious.

“The other search and rescue people, they talk.”

Unlike you, she wanted to say, but she kept her mouth shut instead. George was saying more than he ever had before in her presence, and she didn’t want to make him shut down again by cracking jokes.

“I didn’t want him to take you.”

There was an entire story in his two sentences, and Ellie’s stomach churned a little at the thought of being trapped in the tiny tent in a snowstorm with Joseph rather than George. She wanted to think it would never have been an option, but then she remembered her desperation at the fire station two nights before.

Leaning her head against his shoulder, she said, “I’m glad it was you.”

They sat in silence for a few minutes, listening to the wind shrieking outside the tent, until Ellie sighed and sat up straight.

When George looked at her in question, she admitted, “I need to pee, but I really don’t want to go outside.”

He reached over to grab her coat. She let the sleeping bag fall to her waist, and he held her jacket for her so she could slide her arms into the sleeves. Taking a bracing breath, she shoved the sleeping bag off her legs and yanked on her windproof pants, skipping the fleece middle layer.

As she fished the stuff sack containing her boots out of the bottom of the mummy bag, she noticed that George was pulling on his own outer layers.

“You don’t have to come,” she protested, pulling on her boots and wincing as they instantly pressed on her blistered spots. Dipping her head to hide her grimace, she pulled on her bootlaces.

He frowned and covered her hands with his. “Not so tight. No wonder your feet were cold.” Pushing her hands aside, he loosened the laces and then tied them before repeating the process on her other boot.

“I thought they wouldn’t rub as much if they were tight.”

Shaking his head, he tugged on his own boots. “Not worth it. It takes away the cushion of insulating air, plus it cuts off your circulation.”

“Besides, they gave me blisters anyway,” she said wryly, unzipping the door. “And, seriously, I’ll be okay by myself. You don’t have to supervise.” She dug a couple squares of camping toilet paper and a flashlight out of her pack.

“I won’t watch you,” he huffed, and she turned to give him an appalled look.

“I didn’t think you would—at least not until you said that.” His cheeks had flushed above his beard, and Ellie had to bite back a smile. “I just meant that there’s no reason for both of us to get cold.”

He grunted, his face still red. “I have to go, too. Move. You’re letting in the cold air.”

Losing the battle against her grin, she faced forward to hide it. “Yes, sir.”

Once she crawled out of the vestibule, the wind smacked the smile right off her face.

“Don’t go far!” George bellowed over the wail of the wind.

It was cold, windy, and she just wanted to get back into her sleeping bag, so Ellie didn’t take the time to point out the ridiculousness of his warning. She barely stepped to the side of the tent before yanking down her pants. Biting back a shriek as the cold wind slapped her bare parts, she hurried as fast as she could. Her pants were scarcely back in place before she dove for the tent entrance. George followed her in just seconds later.

“Do you have any wet wipes?” she asked through chattering teeth. “I’m filthy.” That morning, she’d brushed her teeth and washed her hands and face with some melted snow, but it would be nice to clean up more than once a day. She added “washing her hands” to the list of things she’d never take for granted again once she returned to civilization.

He pulled out an alcohol wipe from the first-aid kit and offered it to her, but Ellie shook her head.

“Better to keep those in case of emergencies.” Her boot rubbed against her heel as she removed it, making her wince. “Or blisters.”

With a nod, he returned it to the kit and started stripping off his coat.

Once they were tucked back into their sleeping bags, Ellie turned onto her side facing George and propped herself up on an elbow. “How about Truth or Dare?”

His eyes widened with a look of sheer terror.

“That’s a no, huh?” When his look of panic didn’t change, she waved her hand, dismissing the idea. “It would’ve been hard to think of dares we could complete without leaving our sleeping bags, anyway. Okay, what about Tic-Tac-Toe?”

***

George couldn’t sleep. He couldn’t stop looking at her, and sleeping required closing his eyes. Therefore, sleep was not an option. He didn’t mind. Once she’d collected her father and returned to the city, he’d have plenty of dull, empty nights he could fill with sleep.

After several rounds of Tic-Tac-Toe and Hangman, she’d fallen asleep while the flashlights were still lit. Despite the nagging voice in his head telling him that he was wasting batteries, he left them on so he could see her. His conscience lectured him, said that he was as bad as Acconcio, leering at her as she slept.

A dark strand of hair had escaped her hood and lay against her cheek. His hand twitched, needing to brush it away from her face, but he didn’t touch her. That would be crossing the line, a line he already straddled by watching her without her knowing.

She was just so pretty. When he’d first seen her sprawled in the coffee shop parking lot, with her perfectly smooth and glossy sheet of hair and impractical city clothes, he’d assumed she’d be snobbish. Then she’d met his gaze, her eyes warm and round, shining with bits of green and gold and brown, and he’d changed his mind. She wasn’t a snob, but a china doll, beautiful but fragile. When he’d picked her up and carried her to the door, her lips had rounded so they’d matched the shape of her eyes, making her look even more doll-like.

He hadn’t wanted to lead her into the wilderness. Something that delicate shouldn’t be exposed to cold and danger and exertion. When Acconcio had pushed himself against her, though, grabbing her with that look on his face, the one that reminded George of a well-fed house cat playing with a mouse, he couldn’t let it happen. He couldn’t let the coyote lead the bunny into the wild.

The fragile doll had surprised him, though. Although slow and unfamiliar with things that were second nature to George, she’d listened and helped and kept on walking, no matter what.

It worried him how much he liked taking care of her, feeding her and doctoring her feet and making her tea. It gave him ideas he shouldn’t be considering, like keeping her. The thought of having someone else living in his house for the first time since his father died was as seductive as the feel of her breath against his neck when she’d rolled into him the night before.

And she’d kissed him.

His breath left his lungs in a harsh exhale as he focused on her lips, the lips that had touched his, leaving him frozen while every part of him burned. As much as he reminded himself that it had been a joke, a tease, a way to win the silly game she’d insisted they play, he still couldn’t shrink it down to the right size in his own mind. It was huge, and important, and he’d always remember those few, earth-shaking seconds.

How could he forget his first kiss?

About the Author

When she’s not writing, Katie Ruggle rides horses, shoots guns, and travels to warm places where she can scuba dive. A graduate of the police academy, Katie received her ice-rescue certification and can attest that the reservoirs in the Colorado mountains really are that cold. While she still misses her off-grid, solar- and wind-powered house in the Rocky Mountains, she now lives in Rochester, Minnesota, near her family.

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Giveaway

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DEADLY ENCOUNTER (FBI: Task Force)

by DiAnn Mills

Genre: Romance / Suspense / Christian

Publisher: Tyndale House

Date of Publication: August 1, 2016

Number of Pages: 376

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Airport Ranger volunteer Stacy Broussard expected a peaceful Saturday morning ride around the perimeter of Houston’s airport. What she encounters instead is a brutal homicide and a baffling mystery. Next to the body is an injured dog, the dead man’s motorcycle, and a drone armed with a laser capable of taking down a 747.

Though FBI Special Agent Alex LeBlanc sees a clear-cut case of terrorism, his past has taught him to be suspicious of everyone, even witnesses. Even bleeding-heart veterinarians like Stacy. But when her gruesome discovery is only the first in a string of incidences that throw her life into a tailspin, Alex begins to wonder if Stacy was targeted. As a health emergency endangers Stacy’s community, and the task force pulls in leads from all directions, Alex and Stacy must work together to prevent another deadly encounter.

Praise for the FBI: Houston novels

Deadlock: “This is a fast moving crime story with several interesting twists and turns. [Deadlock] is a page turner.” — Online Reviewer

Double-Cross:  

“Mills does a superb job of character and plot development in this faith-filled series.” — Christian Library Journal

“Mills’ writing is transparently crisp, backed up with solid research, filled with believable characters and sparks of romantic chemistry.” — Novel Crossing

Firewall:  

“Christy Award–winning Mills skillfully builds a menacing overall tone, and the tension level rises as layers of lies are peeled away in multiple plot twists. This novel, which takes off at a breakneck pace with a narrative arc that could have been ripped from today’s headlines, will greatly appeal to fans of James Patterson’s “Alex Cross” series and readers who enjoy psychological thrillers.” — Library Journal starred review

“Mills takes readers on an explosive ride. The terror is all the more chilling because it could easily be a headline story on the nightly news, and Mills’ characters spring to life through their fears, strengths, and quirks. A story as romantic as it is exciting, Firewall will appeal to fans of Dee Henderson’s romantic suspense stories.” — Booklist 

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Today we welcome author DiAnn Mills to StoreyBook Reviews.  We had a chance to sit down and talk about her writing and here are the results of our Q&A!

How has being a Texan influenced your writing?

I see characters and plot everywhere I look and listen. My state is filled with courageous people who have dynamic stories. The problem is choosing which one to write!

Why did you choose to write in your particular field or genre?

We live in a dangerous and scary world. Tragedies occur on a daily basis. I write romantic suspense in which at least one character solves his/her problems from a Christian worldview. The crimes are real, and the heroes and heroines are committed to keeping others safe. I write with hope and reality.

Where did your love of storytelling and writing come from?

I must have been born with the gene! My normal response is I used to get spanked for lying (it was okay then) and now I get paid for it.

How long have you been writing?

I wrote my first book in the second grade on a Big Chief notebook pad with a #2 pencil. But I didn’t pursue writing seriously until 1996 when my husband challenged me: “Stop telling me you’re going to one day write a book. Do it now. Quit your job. I’ll give you one year to get anything published.” I accepted the challenge and my first book was released in 1998. Never went back to my old job. 🙂

What kind(s) of writing do you do?

This made me think. I write romantic suspense novels; blogs on the craft and social media; devotions; suspense short stories; a how-to write a novel (nonfiction) and tons of social media posts.

What cultural value do you see in writing/reading/storytelling/etc.?

Since the beginning of time, people have crowded around camp fires to hear stories. Fiction writers are able to show culture and history in story form. Many people refuse to read nonfiction: it’s frightening and real. They want an escape. A novel entertains, inspires, and encourages the reader to be a better person while learning how a hero or heroine solves a problem.

If you could speak with any accent from anywhere in the world, what would you choose? 

French

If you were an animal in a zoo, what would you be?

A lion.

DiAnn Mills is a bestselling author who believes her readers should expect an adventure. She combines unforgettable characters with unpredictable plots to create action-packed, suspense-filled novels.

Her titles have appeared on the CBA and ECPA bestseller lists; won two Christy Awards; and been finalists for the RITA, Daphne Du Maurier, Inspirational Readers’ Choice, and Carol award contests. Library Journal presented her with a Best Books 2014: Genre Fiction award in the Christian Fiction category for Firewall.

DiAnn is a founding board member of the American Christian Fiction Writers, a member of Advanced Writers and Speakers Association, Sisters in Crime, and International Thriller Writers. She is co-director of The Blue Ridge Mountain Christian Writers Conference and The Author Roadmap with social media specialist Edie Melson where she continues her passion of helping other writers be successful. She speaks to various groups and teaches writing workshops around the country.

DiAnn has been termed a coffee snob and roasts her own coffee beans. She’s an avid reader, loves to cook, and believes her grandchildren are the smartest kids in the universe. She and her husband live in sunny Houston, Texas.

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CHECK OUT THE OTHER GREAT BLOGS ON THE TOUR

8/10	Review	It’s a Jenn World
8/11	Author Interview	StoreyBook Reviews
8/12	Review	Chapter Break Book Blog
8/13	Promo	A Novel Reality
8/14	Author Interview	The Page Unbound
8/15	Excerpt #1	Margie’s Must Reads
8/16	Review	Byers Editing Reviews & Blog
8/17	Guest Post	Country Girl Bookaholic
8/18	Review	Kara The Redhead
8/19	Author Interview	My Book Fix Blog
8/20	Excerpt #2	Forgotten Winds
8/21	Review	Reading By Moonlight
8/22	Promo	The Crazy Booksellers
8/23	Author Interview	Missus Gonzo
8/24	Review	The Librarian Talks

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Synopsis

Police officer Mia Donovan is studying for the detective’s exam when her captain offers her an assignment – be Finn O’Rourke’s personal bodyguard for the next three weeks.  He’s in town to film a movie, he has a stalker, and the threats are escalating.

Mia isn’t interested – she’s focused on the looming exam.  But her captain convinces her that successfully protecting Finn will look very good on her record when promotion decisions are made.  So, reluctantly, she takes the assignment.

Finn isn’t the arrogant, egotistical actor Mia expected.  There’s more than meets the eye when it comes to the ‘most hated man in America’, Finn’s nickname since he cheated on his girlfriend, a beloved pop star.

But his stalker is lurking and the threat is escalating.  Although Mia’s feelings for Finn are growing, her job is to protect Finn, not fall in love with him.

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Excerpt

Finn shoved his hand through his hair as he paced in front of the window, both appreciative of his godfather’s concern and irritated by his interference.  “Doug, it’s great that you want to protect me.  I appreciate it.  Really.  But I don’t need a cop hanging around for the next three weeks.  I’ll hire private security if the situation escalates.”

Finn’s hand tightened on his phone as he imagined the field day the paparazzi would have with a cop following him around.  ‘Cops called on Pretty Boy O’Roarke!’  ‘O’Roarke a danger to Chicagoans?’  ‘O’Roake arrested!’

Yeah, he didn’t want anything to do with the cops.

“You hire all the private security you want, Finn.”  His godfather’s voice boomed over the phone, as rough as the waves crashing onto Oak Street Beach below Finn’s window.  “But I’m the goddamned police superintendent in Chicago, and I want a cop in there.  This stalker is escalating.  First that note, then a wedding ring?  This is serious.”

“No cops.  Okay?”

“No one will know she’s a cop.  She’ll be posing as your girlfriend,” his godfather retorted.

“That’s even worse,” he groaned.  “I don’t want a pretend girlfriend.  If the stalker is a woman obsessed with me, the situation could escalate.  I’m not going to do this, Doug.”

He hadn’t dated anyone since the fiasco with Gemma a year and a half ago.  Hadn’t had the stomach for it.  Pretending would be awkward and uncomfortable and unnecessary.  And he’d be trapped, since Doug’s cop would be staying in his suite if he went along with this crazy scheme.

“Really?”  Doug’s voice took on the steely tone Finn had dreaded when he’d played with Doug’s sons twenty years ago.  “You don’t want a cop protecting you?  You want me to have to look your father in the eye and tell him I let some psycho nut job kill his son on my watch?  Huh?  Is that what you want, Finian?”

Finn closed his eyes and banged his head lightly on the window.  Doug was bringing out the big guns.  Finian.  If his full name didn’t work, the next step would be calling Finn’s mother.  They both knew what would happen then, and it wouldn’t be pretty.

“Damn it, Doug!”  Finn knew the hell that would rain down on him if his mother got involved.  “Fine.  But don’t expect me to hold her hand in public.  Or kiss her.  I’m not giving the vultures any money shots.”

“That’s fine, Finny.  Wouldn’t expect you to.  Wouldn’t expect her to, either.”  Doug’s voice was smooth and happy, now that he’d gotten his way.  “She’ll be on the job.  All business.   But she’s going to be with you, wherever you go.”

And wouldn’t that be fun.  “Yeah.  Fine.  Send her over.”

“First thing in the morning, son.”

Finn could hear the self-satisfied smile in his godfather’s voice.  “Doug, I know you mean well, but you’re a pain in my ass.”

“And your ass will still be alive when you leave Chicago,” Doug retorted.  “Now go be evil and nasty in that movie of yours.”

“Give my love to Marie,” Finn said, hanging up the phone a little harder than necessary.

About the Author

Two-time Rita finalist Margaret Watson has sold millions of copies of her thirty eight books.  After writing spicy Harlequin romances, Margaret dials it up a notch with her latest, the Donovan Family series.  Once you start reading these sexy romantic suspense stories about a family of Chicago cops, you won’t be able to stop.

When not writing, Margaret practices veterinary medicine.  She lives near Chicago with her husband, three daughters and a menagerie of pets.

Susan Elizabeth Phillips, NYT bestselling author, says, “Margaret Watson, a star in the world of contemporary romance, grabs you on the opening page and keeps you reading to the happily ever after.”

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Romantic Suspense
Date Published: 06/08/2016

Synopsis

FBI analyst Jake Bernstein is recruited to go undercover and investigate an American grandmother wanted for war crimes during WWII but currently on a tour of England and Ireland with her granddaughter. Jake joins them and runs into complications when his growing attraction to the woman’s granddaughter challenges his obligation to remain emotionally detached. As the investigation intensifies, a neo-Nazi group tries to prevent him from learning the truth and Jake struggles to stay alive long enough to either prove the woman’s guilt or exonerate her.

Despite Meg Larsen’s mounting passion for the stranger who has joined their tour, she suspects he’s not who he claims to be. When she realizes her grandmother, the woman who raised her, is the target of the man’s investigation, her first instinct is to protect her. Eventually, however, Meg must face the possibility of her grandmother’s lifetime of lies while forced to trust a man who has become both their nemesis and bodyguard.

The Wild Rose Press

About the Author

NY Times bestselling author Brenda Novak says of A BODYGUARD OF LIES, Book One in the Jake Bernstein Mystery Thriller series, “The past and the present collide in this intriguing romantic thriller that captures the angst and pain a lifetime of lies can cause…combines politics, romance and history. This story positively captivates!”

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