Friday, July 18, 2014
Guest Post Lorelie Brown-Riding The Wave
Today on the blog I'm welcoming author Lorelie Brown who is celebrating the release of her new novel Riding The Wave, first in the Pacific Blue series. And her guest post is on, you got it surfing.
Cowabunga!
- ISBN-13: 9780451468420
- Publisher: Signet
- Publication date: 7/1/2014
- Series: A Pacific Blue Novel Series , #1
- Format: Mass Market Paperback
- Pages: 336
Overview
The gray-green swells of San Sebastian haven’t changed in ten years, but Tanner Wright has. The last thing he expects to find back on his home turf is the love of his life....
With a make-or-break world championship on the line, professional surfer Tanner Wright has come back to the coastal California hometown he left a decade ago, carrying only his board and the painful knowledge of his father’s infidelity.
Thursday, July 17, 2014
Christi Barth -Up To Me - Guest Post "How To Make Sex Interesting"
Today on the blog I welcome yet another new to me author who writes sexy and smart contemporary romances. She just recently released the first novel in her new Shore Secrets series, Up To Me.
I gave her the task of coming up with a guest post that my romance-addict readers would love to read and she decided on a little exposé about How To Make Sex Interesting.
Okay Christi we're all um ears :) !
- ISBN-13: 9781426898518
- Publisher: Carina Press
- Publication date: 6/23/2014
- Series: Shore Secrets
OVERVIEW:
Ella
Mayhew’s always appreciated the beautiful view of Seneca Lake from the spa
window of her family’s hotel. But the view improves dramatically when a hot
stranger runs across the grounds—shirtless. He’s the first man to kickstart her
hormones in the three years since she lost her parents, and she doesn’t even
know his name.
Graydon
Locke’s on his umpteenth undercover assignment. The routine’s always the same:
assess a business, recommend it for closure, then roll out before anyone
discovers his decisions impact hundreds of lives. He’s always believed nothing
good comes out of small towns. Why would this one be different? Then he makes
two classic rookie mistakes—falling for the sweet, sexy girl who owns the very
business he’s on the verge of axing. And letting the town’s residents get
involved in both his life, and his relationship with Ella.
Ella’s
the best thing to ever happen to Gray, but he’s lied to her from the start. If
he pulls the plug on Mayhew Manor, the entire town may crumble. Ella couldn’t
save her parents, but it’s up to her to save their hotel. Even if that means
turning her back on true love.
Read an Excerpt :
“Come do yoga with me tomorrow.”
“Come do yoga with me tomorrow.”
“I’m a guy. We’re all about being hard and
stiff, not soft and bendy.”
Ella blinked rapidly to clear the images of a
naked, hard-muscled Gray that popped into her mind. And hardness…other places.
“Don’t be so close-minded. Didn’t you end up enjoying the massage I gave you?”
“Yes.” He sounded adorably sulky at being forced
to acknowledge it. Why was it that men found it so hard to admit when they were
wrong? Definitely a topic of discussion for her next margarita night with the
girls.
“See? You can’t dismiss something out of hand
without at least trying it.”
Gray wrinkled his nose. “Do I have a choice?”
“No.” Ella brought up her other hand to cup his
face. “You deserve to be looked after. It’s not much, I know, but let me help
you in the only way I can.”
“I’ll do it—”
Ella bounced a little. “Terrific.”
“—on one condition. I’ve just come up with a
good plan for stress release. Let’s try my way first.” Gray wove his fingers
through the loose knit of her turquoise sweater. In one swift move, he pulled
it off over her head and tossed it into the corner. “Come swimming with me.
Right now.”
Was he serious? To stall for time while she
processed the preposterous suggestion, Ella stammered, “We…we don’t have
suits.”
“You said the pool’s still officially closed. No
one will interrupt us.” He toyed with the strap of her matching tank. “You’ve
got this thing. I’m wearing boxer briefs. We’ll be more covered up than in
suits. Unless you don’t think you can control yourself around me?”
That was it in a nutshell. Not that she’d admit
it to Gray. Not when he had that sharp eyebrow arched and a smug quirk to his
lips. If he was trying to shock her…well, he had, no denying that. But what
better way was there to embrace life fully than to embrace a dripping wet,
mostly naked Gray? While she’d never work up the courage to tell him, this was
the kind of activity Dr. T. would probably applaud. Or at least give her a gold
star. He had asked her to email him with progress reports if anything big
happened. Unable to resist, she glanced down at Gray’s crotch. Ella expected
something very big, indeed, was about to happen.
“Water’s extremely therapeutic,” she said in her
most serious, I’m massaging you but not
judging your naked body in any way professional voice. “Swimming is a good
counterpart to yoga. They use the same long muscles.”
Yup. Her matter-of-fact delivery dropped his
eyebrow back to its usual straight line and wiped the smug from his lips. Ella
kept the surprises rolling. She stood, unbuttoned her skirt and let it slide
the floor into a big blue puddle. Then she reached out, grabbed his wrist, and
yanked him sideways into the pool with her.
The simultaneous body flops slapped noise and
water all around the room. Ella recovered first, treading water while waiting
for Gray to get his bearings and surface. Keeping her head above water was
easy. Breathing, however, was not, as she was laughing her head off at catching
him off guard. Finally, with much thrashing and churning of the water, Gray
popped up near the middle of the pool.
“What the hell?” he yelled, his voice bouncing
off the rocks with a hollow echo. “I’m wearing clothes!”
“So take them off,” she yelled back. Geez, it
was his idea. Ella had just implemented it without talking it to death first.
She’d thought he’d appreciate her spontaneity.
Gray stared at her for a minute, totally
unreadable. Then his head disappeared beneath the water again. In fact, he sank
straight to the bottom. It worried her. But just until a heavy, sodden pair of
jeans landed like a giant blue spitwad in front of her. Laughing, she tossed
them over her shoulder in the general direction of their shoes. Then Gray’s
shirt appeared, floating near the filter. Something she’d have to remember to
retrieve before morning when maintenance would make their final sweep before
reopening the pool.
She felt Gray first. His head brushed against
her stomach. Using her body like a swim ladder, he climbed it with his hands
until just those brilliant blue eyes broke the surface. Blinked at her once.
Then he tilted his head back and arced a stream of water from his lips to the
dead center of her forehead. Laughing even harder, Ella reached under his
shoulders to pull him the rest of the way up.
That’s when the laughter stopped. When buoyancy
slammed his oh my God so hard cock
right against her. When it was the most natural thing in the world to wrap her
legs tight around him to keep him nestled against all her heat and what felt
like every freaking nerve ending in her body. And when she twined her arms
around his neck just for the thrill of rubbing her breasts across his chest.
With two powerful kicks, Gray propelled them to
the wall. He sandwiched Ella against it and hung on to the rocks to keep them
both afloat. “I’m on board with your idea. As you can tell.” He ground against
her in a way that absolutely proved not only that he was enthusiastic about
stripping, but that there was definitely nothing between them other than two
thin, skintight layers of cotton. Gray’s impressive length was no longer just
an impression or wishful thinking. It was hard and long and she couldn’t wait
to impale herself on him. For now, she locked her ankles together and let the
water do most of the work of bobbing her up and down in a rhythmic, full-body
caress.
Water glistened at the tips of his lashes. Ella
kissed it away, then just kept heading south. Over his early-evening stubble.
Down past the Adam’s apple that jerked reflexively. She’d always thought them
sexy. So uniquely masculine.
A nibble in the hollow of his collarbone. Down
till her lips were just underwater, closed around his nipple. Ella flicked it
against her teeth. Gray…growled? Whatever the noise was, it came from deep
inside him and turned her core body temperature up by about twenty percent.
Wednesday, July 16, 2014
The Psalmist-Showcase-Givewaway - Partners In Crime Blog Tour
The Psalmist
by James Lilliefors
on Tour July 2014
Book Details:
Genre: Crime, Suspense
Published by: Witness Impulse
Publication Date: 7/22/2014
Number of Pages:
ISBN: 9780062349682
Series: A Luke Bowers and Amy Hunter Mystery, 1
Purchase Links:
Synopsis:
Luke Bowers is in the good and evil business.On a cold, late-winter morning in the Chesapeake Bay community of Tidewater County, Bowers discovers a dead woman seated in a pew at the church where he is pastor—her eyes open, her hands clasped as if in prayer.
Nothing at the scene identifies the woman or explains why she was at the church. And when state police homicide investigator Amy Hunter comes to town to head up the case, not everyone is pleased that a young, female outsider has the job. The only lead in solving the crime is a sequence of numbers that has been carved into the victim's right hand, which Bowers suspects may be a reference to the Book of Psalms.
With Bowers's help, Hunter follows a chain of seemingly innocuous clues to track down a deranged serial killer and unravel an elusive criminal enterprise that is more powerful than they ever could have imagined.
Author Bio:
JAMES LILLIEFORS is a journalist and novelist who grew up in the Washington, D.C. area and currently lives and works in Florida. He has written for numerous publications including The Washington Post, The Miami Herald, The Boston Globe and the Baltimore Sun. He started his journalism career as a writer and editor for Runner's World magazine and worked for many years as a newspaper editor and reporter, in Maryland and in Florida, winning a number of reporting awards. Since the late 1990s, Lilliefors has been head writer at the Philharmonic Center for the Arts in Naples, Florida. He is the author of several non-fiction books, including AMERICA'S BOARDWALKS, BALL CAP NATION and HIGHWAY 50, as well as a satirical mystery novel, BANANAVILLE.
Catch Up With JAMES LILLIEFORS:
Tour Participants:
a Rafflecopter giveaway
Tuesday, July 15, 2014
Interview with NYT bestselling authors, mother and son Iris & Roy Johansen-Sight Unseen
Please welcome New York Times bestsellers and the mother and son team of some great thrillers, Iris and Roy Johansen who are both here today to discuss their latest joint effort, Sight Unseen which brings back the Kendra Michaels character from not only their past collaborations but she also co-starred in some of Iris's Eve Duncan novels.
Sit back and enjoy my chat with mother and son!
- ISBN-13: 9781250020529
- Publisher: St. Martin's Press
- Publication date: 7/15/2014
- Pages: 336
- Sales rank: 382
Overview
She was safe in a world of darkness.
Now danger threatens in the cold light of day…
Before the experimental surgery that gave her sight, Kendra Michaels developed her other senses to an amazing capacity. Now she can identify a Nissan by the sound of its engine, a Norelco electric razor by the pattern of stubble it leaves behind, or an obscure colorless fire accelerant by its sweet smell. Law enforcement agencies clamor for her rare powers of perception and observation, too often disrupting the life she has built helping others through music therapy. Because so very often, only Kendra can get the job done.
Friday, July 11, 2014
**GIVEAWAY** Interview with author Lisa Jensen-Alias Hook
Please welcome to the forum seasoned author Lisa Jensen who is here today to tell us a bit about her re-telling of the Peter Pan story only this time from the perspective of the infamous Captain Hook.
Lisa's Publisher St. Martin's Press has offered one print copy US ONLY to one lucky entrant. Giveaway Details below!
- ISBN-13: 9781250042156
- Publisher: St. Martin's Press
- Publication date: 7/8/2014
- Pages: 368
Overview
"Every child knows how the story ends. The wicked pirate captain is flung overboard, caught in the jaws of the monster crocodile who drags him down to a watery grave. But it was not yet my time to die. It's my fate to be trapped here forever, in a nightmare of childhood fancy, with that infernal, eternal boy."
Meet Captain James Benjamin Hook, a witty, educated Restoration-era privateer cursed to play villain to a pack of malicious little boys in a pointless war that never ends.
Read an Excerpt :
BRISTOL, 1688: JAMIE
“James Benjamin Hookbridge! What is the meaning of this object?”
My father was a mild man, most often buried happily in his accounting books or off to his warehouse. He did not countenance disobedience, but on this morning, I had no notion I had disobeyed, eager to claim credit for the marvel he held in his hand.
“It’s a ship, Father,” I crowed, jumping up to greet him, glad to escape my tutor. My father’s appearance in the nursery was a rare event to a lad of seven. “I built it!”
For weeks I’d scavenged scrap wood, chips, shavings from the floor of the woodshop down by the stables on our estate. It was a patchwork affair, dark mahogany from the Indies jumbled with native oak and white pine, no larger than a small half-melon, discounting the thin doweling mast and handkerchief sail. But old Turlow himself, the senior carpenter, had shown me how to lap the narrow strips of board for the hull and nail down the deck.
“So I heard.” Father did not look pleased. Perhaps my work wasn’t fine enough.
“Turlow said it was handsome done,” I said hopefully. “He says I’m clever with my hands.”
My father gazed down at me, pale blue eyes stern behind his spectacles. “I shall have a word with Turlow. You are not to go to the carpenter’s yard any more.”
“But … why?” I stammered, horror-struck. My happiest hours were spent among the joiners and planers in that busy place.
Father bent down with a sigh and laid a hand on my shoulder, an unusual gesture of affection. “You are a gentleman, sir. Only common laborers work with their hands.”
My mother always received me with warmth and tenderness when I came to her with my troubles. I recall the armies of tiny pearls worked into her bodice, a halo of fine white dust from her powdered curls, her fragrance of violets and tonic. She was a fragile creature to be cherished and honored, but she had no power to influence my father on my behalf. “You are his only surviving child,” she told me gently. “He only wants what’s best for you.”
But I forgot my disappointments on those grand days when I was permitted to go with Father down to the Bristol docks to his warehouse. How I loved to go racketing around the waterfront, its cobbled streets worn smooth from the horse-drawn sledges that ferried heavy loads to and from the ships. But my father had ambitions for his only son, and shortly after the incident of the toy ship, I was sent off to school to be educated as a gentleman.
* * *
Master Walters was snoring like an army of kettledrums in the next room by the time we finished the Purcell prelude. It was the hour after midday when no one had any business in the chapel and we were least likely to be disturbed. Carver and his mob of bullies were off shrieking at their games. Master Walters, the organist, was sleeping off his dinner of mutton and port, but his servant knew to let us into the study where he kept a harpsicord for his private compositions.
“Bravissimo!” I cried, as we made our final flourish. Four hands gave the music wings. By then I might have managed a tolerable accounting on my own, but it was always more fun with two of us.
“Nay, sir, we have put our audience to sleep,” said Alleyn in mock reproof, with a nod toward the rumbling from the next room.
“Then we have played well,” I pointed out, “for I am sure no one can hear us over the din.”
Teddy Alleyn was eleven years old, two forms above me, and by his careful instruction alone had I progressed thus far in my illicit studies. He’d been playing since he was big enough to sit on a bench, and I treasured our stolen hours playing preludes and airs. He grinned now, and tucked a glossy curl behind his ear with one of his long white fingers. Alleyn’s delicate features and soft curls enraged the other boys; they thought him weak and girlish, harried him without mercy. But he was kind to me. He taught me to play. He was my friend.
“You must learn to get on, Jamie,” my mother tried to soothe me after my first year away, when I complained of how the bigger boys taunted me. They derided my small size, my fancy clothing, a father in trade. My father’s advice was more succinct. “Be a man,” he commanded me.
“You’re certain no one saw you come in here, Hookbridge?” Alleyn asked me.
“No one pays any attention to me,” I reminded him.
Alleyn’s mother paid extra fees to continue his musical instruction, which the organist earned chiefly by allowing his pupil access to his instrument whenever he pleased. It was our only refuge, and Alleyn guarded it absolutely, as he guarded the fact of our friendship, to spare me the stain of our association in the eyes of the mob. Alleyn had a way of turning inward when the older boys tripped him up in the commons or called him names. He neither cried, nor fought back, nor defied them with insults, and they could never forgive him for it. I hated to see him so abused, longed for the power to defend him.
“When you’ve attained my great age, sirrah, you will understand what a mercy that is,” Alleyn said loftily. And then we both snickered, outcasts together, confederates in exclusion.
“Come, what next?” he went on, paging through the sheets of music on the stand above the twin keyboads. “We’ve time, I think, for the minuet—”
A babble of voices erupted out in the passage; the study door burst open to disgorge a gang of shouting boys, Carver in the lead, stout, ruddy, sandy-haired, eyes bright with belligerent glee.
“There they are, the little lovebirds!” he cried, and several of the others made smacking noises with their lips.
“I told you!” shrieked another, as a half dozen more tumbled in, above the feeble protests of the servant out in the hall.
Two boys dragged Alleyn away from the bench, held him fast. Carver himself came for me, plucked me from the bench like a flea off a hound, pinned my arms behind me.
“Don’t touch him!” shouted Alleyn, setting all the other boys atwitter.
“I won’t have to, will I?” Carver smirked down at me, looming, feral and terrifying in the enormity of his power. “He kissed you, didn’t he?” His big hands were crushing my arms. “Say it, Hookbridge! The filthy invert kissed you. Say it!”
I shook my head, but the other boys were all crowding around us, chanting, “Say it! Say it!” like a game. Alleyn stood frozen, dark eyes sad and urgent, watching me. His guards were heavy, pitiless boys, baying with the others, itching to strike.
“No!” I yelped in my impotent outrage, only to see Alleyn wince in pain; one of his captors was twisting his fingers.
“Yes,” I squeaked.
Such whooping and confusion followed this utterance, I scarcely knew what I was about, but that the racking of my arms out of their sockets ceased, and Alleyn’s captors let him go. No such thing had ever occurred between us, of course, but my heroic delusion that my false confession had saved us lasted just until I saw the usher, the headmaster’s assistant, in the doorway, pursing his lips in a very worried look.
“You heard him!” Carver crowed over the heads of the throng.
And the chattering boys parted as the usher came to lead Alleyn away. The last look he turned on me was not angry, nor hurt at my betrayal, so much as resigned, as if he had expected no more. It stung worse than if he’d peppered me with invective.
“Well done,” Carver said to me. He motioned to one of his toadies, a smaller boy clutching the muddy stick Carver liked to use at games, and nodded for him to give the thing to me. “Carry that for me, Hookbridge. Let’s go, men.”
Teddy Alleyn was expelled the next day, collected in a carriage and bustled off the grounds. I never saw him again. But I was taken in by Carver and his mob. At first, I consoled myself that I’d worm my way into their good graces in order to wreak a terrible revenge on them all. But as time passed, I was glad enough to have traded a lie for their protection, bartered away my only friend for a pack of allies in petty schoolyard rivalries. They were wild things searching for a target for their malice, and Carver was clever enough to give them one, else they had fallen on each other.
Alleyn’s weakness had forced me to perjure myself on his behalf, or so I convinced myself. How else could I bear what I’d done? Affection made a person vulnerable, and so I learned to mask whatever feelings might be seen as weak in myself behind a show of bravado, and advanced among their ranks.
Thus my education began.
Copyright © 2013 by Lisa Jensen
BRISTOL, 1688: JAMIE
“James Benjamin Hookbridge! What is the meaning of this object?”
My father was a mild man, most often buried happily in his accounting books or off to his warehouse. He did not countenance disobedience, but on this morning, I had no notion I had disobeyed, eager to claim credit for the marvel he held in his hand.
“It’s a ship, Father,” I crowed, jumping up to greet him, glad to escape my tutor. My father’s appearance in the nursery was a rare event to a lad of seven. “I built it!”
For weeks I’d scavenged scrap wood, chips, shavings from the floor of the woodshop down by the stables on our estate. It was a patchwork affair, dark mahogany from the Indies jumbled with native oak and white pine, no larger than a small half-melon, discounting the thin doweling mast and handkerchief sail. But old Turlow himself, the senior carpenter, had shown me how to lap the narrow strips of board for the hull and nail down the deck.
“So I heard.” Father did not look pleased. Perhaps my work wasn’t fine enough.
“Turlow said it was handsome done,” I said hopefully. “He says I’m clever with my hands.”
My father gazed down at me, pale blue eyes stern behind his spectacles. “I shall have a word with Turlow. You are not to go to the carpenter’s yard any more.”
“But … why?” I stammered, horror-struck. My happiest hours were spent among the joiners and planers in that busy place.
Father bent down with a sigh and laid a hand on my shoulder, an unusual gesture of affection. “You are a gentleman, sir. Only common laborers work with their hands.”
My mother always received me with warmth and tenderness when I came to her with my troubles. I recall the armies of tiny pearls worked into her bodice, a halo of fine white dust from her powdered curls, her fragrance of violets and tonic. She was a fragile creature to be cherished and honored, but she had no power to influence my father on my behalf. “You are his only surviving child,” she told me gently. “He only wants what’s best for you.”
But I forgot my disappointments on those grand days when I was permitted to go with Father down to the Bristol docks to his warehouse. How I loved to go racketing around the waterfront, its cobbled streets worn smooth from the horse-drawn sledges that ferried heavy loads to and from the ships. But my father had ambitions for his only son, and shortly after the incident of the toy ship, I was sent off to school to be educated as a gentleman.
* * *
Master Walters was snoring like an army of kettledrums in the next room by the time we finished the Purcell prelude. It was the hour after midday when no one had any business in the chapel and we were least likely to be disturbed. Carver and his mob of bullies were off shrieking at their games. Master Walters, the organist, was sleeping off his dinner of mutton and port, but his servant knew to let us into the study where he kept a harpsicord for his private compositions.
“Bravissimo!” I cried, as we made our final flourish. Four hands gave the music wings. By then I might have managed a tolerable accounting on my own, but it was always more fun with two of us.
“Nay, sir, we have put our audience to sleep,” said Alleyn in mock reproof, with a nod toward the rumbling from the next room.
“Then we have played well,” I pointed out, “for I am sure no one can hear us over the din.”
Teddy Alleyn was eleven years old, two forms above me, and by his careful instruction alone had I progressed thus far in my illicit studies. He’d been playing since he was big enough to sit on a bench, and I treasured our stolen hours playing preludes and airs. He grinned now, and tucked a glossy curl behind his ear with one of his long white fingers. Alleyn’s delicate features and soft curls enraged the other boys; they thought him weak and girlish, harried him without mercy. But he was kind to me. He taught me to play. He was my friend.
“You must learn to get on, Jamie,” my mother tried to soothe me after my first year away, when I complained of how the bigger boys taunted me. They derided my small size, my fancy clothing, a father in trade. My father’s advice was more succinct. “Be a man,” he commanded me.
“You’re certain no one saw you come in here, Hookbridge?” Alleyn asked me.
“No one pays any attention to me,” I reminded him.
Alleyn’s mother paid extra fees to continue his musical instruction, which the organist earned chiefly by allowing his pupil access to his instrument whenever he pleased. It was our only refuge, and Alleyn guarded it absolutely, as he guarded the fact of our friendship, to spare me the stain of our association in the eyes of the mob. Alleyn had a way of turning inward when the older boys tripped him up in the commons or called him names. He neither cried, nor fought back, nor defied them with insults, and they could never forgive him for it. I hated to see him so abused, longed for the power to defend him.
“When you’ve attained my great age, sirrah, you will understand what a mercy that is,” Alleyn said loftily. And then we both snickered, outcasts together, confederates in exclusion.
“Come, what next?” he went on, paging through the sheets of music on the stand above the twin keyboads. “We’ve time, I think, for the minuet—”
A babble of voices erupted out in the passage; the study door burst open to disgorge a gang of shouting boys, Carver in the lead, stout, ruddy, sandy-haired, eyes bright with belligerent glee.
“There they are, the little lovebirds!” he cried, and several of the others made smacking noises with their lips.
“I told you!” shrieked another, as a half dozen more tumbled in, above the feeble protests of the servant out in the hall.
Two boys dragged Alleyn away from the bench, held him fast. Carver himself came for me, plucked me from the bench like a flea off a hound, pinned my arms behind me.
“Don’t touch him!” shouted Alleyn, setting all the other boys atwitter.
“I won’t have to, will I?” Carver smirked down at me, looming, feral and terrifying in the enormity of his power. “He kissed you, didn’t he?” His big hands were crushing my arms. “Say it, Hookbridge! The filthy invert kissed you. Say it!”
I shook my head, but the other boys were all crowding around us, chanting, “Say it! Say it!” like a game. Alleyn stood frozen, dark eyes sad and urgent, watching me. His guards were heavy, pitiless boys, baying with the others, itching to strike.
“No!” I yelped in my impotent outrage, only to see Alleyn wince in pain; one of his captors was twisting his fingers.
“Yes,” I squeaked.
Such whooping and confusion followed this utterance, I scarcely knew what I was about, but that the racking of my arms out of their sockets ceased, and Alleyn’s captors let him go. No such thing had ever occurred between us, of course, but my heroic delusion that my false confession had saved us lasted just until I saw the usher, the headmaster’s assistant, in the doorway, pursing his lips in a very worried look.
“You heard him!” Carver crowed over the heads of the throng.
And the chattering boys parted as the usher came to lead Alleyn away. The last look he turned on me was not angry, nor hurt at my betrayal, so much as resigned, as if he had expected no more. It stung worse than if he’d peppered me with invective.
“Well done,” Carver said to me. He motioned to one of his toadies, a smaller boy clutching the muddy stick Carver liked to use at games, and nodded for him to give the thing to me. “Carry that for me, Hookbridge. Let’s go, men.”
Teddy Alleyn was expelled the next day, collected in a carriage and bustled off the grounds. I never saw him again. But I was taken in by Carver and his mob. At first, I consoled myself that I’d worm my way into their good graces in order to wreak a terrible revenge on them all. But as time passed, I was glad enough to have traded a lie for their protection, bartered away my only friend for a pack of allies in petty schoolyard rivalries. They were wild things searching for a target for their malice, and Carver was clever enough to give them one, else they had fallen on each other.
Alleyn’s weakness had forced me to perjure myself on his behalf, or so I convinced myself. How else could I bear what I’d done? Affection made a person vulnerable, and so I learned to mask whatever feelings might be seen as weak in myself behind a show of bravado, and advanced among their ranks.
Thus my education began.
Copyright © 2013 by Lisa Jensen
GIVEAWAY DETAILS
SPONSORED BY ST. MARTIN'S PRESS
ONE PRINT COPY OF ALIAS HOOK
US ONLY
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THANKS ST. MARTIN'S PRESS
GOOD LUCK!
SPONSORED BY ST. MARTIN'S PRESS
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Thursday, July 10, 2014
Interview with author Tom Young - Sand and Fire
Please welcome seasoned author and veteran of Iraq and Afghanistan, Tom Young to the blog. He is here to tell us about his new military novel Sand and Fire.
Tom the floor's yours!
- ISBN-13: 9780399166884
- Publisher: Penguin Group (USA)
- Publication date: 7/10/2014
- Series: A Parson and Gold Novel Series , #5
- Pages: 384
Overview
North Africa. A jihadist leader has seized a supply of sarin gas and is wreaking havoc: a nightclub in Sicily, a packed street in Gibraltar. Acting on information, Marine gunnery sergeant A. E. Blount, at six-foot-eight a formidable warrior, the grandson of one of the first black Marines, sets out with his strike force to kill or capture the terrorist.
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