All posts by admin

Guest release promotion–Tempered Truth by Pamela S. Thibodeaux

Fate declared them neighbors. Scandal insisted they were brothers. The fact that they looked enough alike to be twins only added fuel to the rumors flying about their parentage.

For fifty-plus years Craig Harris and Scott Hensley have enjoyed a bond nothing can sever.

Not the insinuations that they share the same father.

Not the years of strife and grief and heartache.

Not even death.

Will the truth set them free or will it destroy the friendship that has lasted a lifetime?

BUY LINK

EXCERPT

February 28th, 2005

Craig settled in for the seven-plus hour drive to Scott’s home in Lafayette, Louisiana. His daughter-in-law sat in the back seat so she could take care of his granddaughter should she awaken. Her continued weeping unnerved him. “Lex, please, you’ve got to get a hold of yourself.”

“I don’t know what I’m going to do if he dies, Craig. I don’t think I can handle it. He’s my father. I’ve already lost one father; I’m not ready to lose Scott too. Oh, God, I can’t believe this is happening!”

“We don’t yet know how he’s doing. Trina said he’s stable. Whatever the situation, what he and Trina, need from you now is your strength and your faith. Besides, being this upset is not good for you, especially in your condition. Nor is it good for Tamera Joy.”

She sniffled. “You’re right. I’m sorry.”

He glanced in the rearview mirror and smiled as she rubbed her gently rounded abdomen, then returned his gaze to the road. “No need to apologize. Let’s focus on the positive here.” Easier said than done but I hope she can get it together. Neither my heart, nor my nerves, can take much more of her crying.

Craig swallowed the bitter bile of fear in his throat. Hard to believe barely two months ago Scott sat at his kitchen table toasting the holidays, the upcoming New Year, and their joy over their second grandchild.

Now he clung to life in a hospital room.

Award-winning author, Pamela S. Thibodeaux is the Co-Founder and a lifetime member of Bayou Writers Group in Lake Charles, Louisiana. Multi-published in romantic fiction as well as creative non-fiction, her writing has been tagged as, “Inspirational with an Edge!” ™ and reviewed as “steamier and grittier than the typical Christian novel without decreasing the message.”

WEB CONTACTS

Website address: http://www.pamelathibodeaux.com

Blog: http://pamswildroseblog.blogspot.com

Newsletter: http://bit.ly/psthibnewsletter

FB Author Page: https://www.facebook.com/pamelasthibodeauxauthor

Release Promotion–Destiny’s Secrets by Kara O’Neal

I’m so excited to introduce you to Andrew and Ben, mischief-making twins, who are private investigators and catch the case of their life. They must reunite sisters who were kidnapped and torn apart at ages 3 and 2.

I have to tell you that my fingers flew over the buttons of my laptop on this one. There was so much to write, so many characters to flesh out. And I absolutely adore that steadier, calmer, and quieter Andrew gets trail-blazing, pants-wearing, veterinarian, Jo Tatum as his lady love, while fun-loving, never serious, mischievous Ben ends up with Charlotte Ryan, a math wizard who has more courage in her pinky than you can shake a stick at.

These sisters don’t know each other, and Andrew and Ben must bring them together. It’s a story filled with joy, sorrow and bravery. I loved writing every word of it.

BLURB

Pike’s Run, Texas, 1882

Andrew and Ben Lonnigan, brothers and private investigators, have accepted an important case—to reunite the long-lost DuBois daughters with their rightful inheritance. Abducted from their childhood home in New Orleans when they were three and two-years-old, Jo and Charlotte were adopted by separate families.

Andrew heads north to find Josephine Tatum—a pants-wearing, spitfire veterinarian who challenges his mind and captures his heart. Ben travels south to find Charlotte Ryan—the financial mind behind her father’s ranch, with a sweet disposition and, unfortunately, a fiancé.

As the sisters journey toward destiny, Charlotte must guard her heart against Ben, a man too daring to ever return her love. And Andrew must hide his feelings from Jo, a woman determined to carve her own path. While the foursome battle feelings, they must also war with a villain from the sisters’ past, one with the will and the means to destroy everything the DuBois daughters hold dear.

BUY LINK

EXCERPT

“You aren’t gonna talk just because I won’t sleep in the tent with you?” Andrew asked.

Jo took a deep breath and glared at him, trying to rein in her temper.

“That’s more of a punishment for you than me,” he went on. “I’m not much for conversation. My brother is better at it. I prefer silence, but you sure seem ready to explode with things to say.”

He looked at her with such ease that her good sense left her. “I think it’s rude of you to tell me outright that you find me ugly.”

“When did I say that?” he replied.

“When you told me you weren’t going to sleep in the tent with me.”

He made a face. “No, I don’t think I said that.”

She rolled her eyes. “Fine. You implied it.”

“No, you inferred it. I implied something altogether different.”

She sat ramrod straight. “What do you mean? What else could you have meant?”

He shrugged. “Maybe I can’t share that cramped space with you because I find you too damned attractive.”

She reared back.

“Maybe I’m trying to protect you from my inability to leave you be and not touch you.” He watched her carefully, his gaze direct and intent.

Her breath came more quickly. “Do you mean to tell me…that you…you find me desirable?”

“I do.”

She almost declared the ridiculousness of the statement. But it wasn’t. Not at all. It shouldn’t be. What was absurd was his honesty. And even more unbelievable…she tried the control of someone as disciplined as he.

Pleasure burst through her. She couldn’t help but grin at him.

He cursed.

The heat in his gaze made her pulse race, and she stood.

He shot to his feet.

And now she picked up on his nervousness. It was subtle, but she could tell he considered running away. He’d given her a powerful piece of information, and he didn’t even know if she found him attractive.

She walked the ten paces necessary to get to him.

He didn’t back away, but she could sense he steeled himself against whatever she planned.

“You can sleep in the tent with me. I’d like that very much.” She heard the husky note in her voice.

His brown eyes went warm, and her body melted. She refrained from leaning into him.

“We probably ought not to,” he ground out.

“Why?” she murmured, stepping even closer. Her breasts almost pressed against his chest. “I won’t tell anyone.”

He narrowed his eyes at her. “Have you done this before?”

“What?”

“Seduced a man.”

“Is that what I’m doing?”

“Yes,” he clipped.

Born and raised in Texas, I had to make the state the setting for my first series. From the food to the fun, like floating the rivers, it is the fire in my blood that inspires me. My family and friends take center stage in my books. My sisters and best friends are my heroines, and my husband created my favorite hero. Love and family are the point of my stories, and I seek to entertain, relieve stress, and inspire people. Books can take one on a journey that one can relive over and over. I am extremely grateful to those authors who did that very thing for me. I learned and I fell in love with their words and characters. From the bottom of my heart, thank you.

WEB CONTACTS

Website

Bookbub

Amazon

Barnes and Noble

Facebook 

Twitter

Pinterest

Goodreads

Blog 

Blog – The Story Continues

99cent Multi-Genre Bookish Event

Each day, from April 6 to 12, four different titles and the respective authors will be featured. My feature will post at 8AM EDT on Saturday, April 10. Enter the rafflecopter (see end of this post) for a chance to win a $30 gift card. Winner will be announced April 15.

All spotlight features can be found here at the event here.

I’m excited to be part of this event with a backlist contemporary title, When Lonely Hearts Meet.

Tagline:  Can online dating entice a divorced woman and a rancher to reveal the secrets of their lonely hearts?

Amazon

Amazon UK

Barnes&Noble

KOBO Books

Apple ibooks

Smashwords

a Rafflecopter giveaway

or the direct link https://www.rafflecopter.com/rafl/display/92db7750105

Reflection on New Venture by Liz Flaherty

A Cruise in A Different Kind of Boat

I love metaphors and similes and anything else involving comparative language, which is why I’m talking today about a cruise in a different kind of boat.

I’m a romance author. Mostly contemporary, although I did jump into a rowboat once and write a historical. I’m pretty sure it’s sold a couple hundred copies by now and I still love it, but no matter how hard I pulled on the oars, I just wasn’t cut out to write historical romantic fiction. (Now, if you want to talk about reading historicals, I go right from the rowboat to the ocean liner as far as expertise goes.)

For even longer than I’ve been published in romance, though, I’ve written a column called “Window Over the Sink.” I’ve written it for newspapers, for a magazine or two, and in several spots online—including my own blog. It’s my favorite thing to write, so my husband asked me to compile some favorites into a book. I agreed, and 15 or so years later, I did it.

The reason I published Window Over the Sink when I did was because the romance boat was becalmed. I’d gotten a rejection that threw me for a much bigger loop than it should have, and I needed something to pull me back toward shore.

It’s been interesting and fun. I love the book’s cover. I love that I did what I promised my husband I would do.

I love that a ride in a different kind of boat gave me time to refurbish and overhaul the engine of the romance-writing boat. It also reminded me that it’s always good to try different vessels now and then.

EXCERPT

TURKEY, JOY, AND A SMALL GLASS OF BEER

“Let us be grateful to the people who make us happy; they are the charming gardeners who make our souls blossom.”

~~ Marcel Proust

Aunt Nellie was my great-aunt. She was born in 1892, loved and married two men, and never had any children. She was the other side of the coin from my grandmother, who’d undoubtedly been the Good Daughter, and even though I loved them both, I worshiped the ground Aunt Nellie walked on.

My mother’s side of the family were all teetotalers, but when my brother-in-law asked Aunt Nellie if she’d like a beer, she said, Yes, she wouldn’t mind a small glass. I don’t know that she ever drank beer again, but she did indeed enjoy every drop of that “small glass.” Where Aunt Nellie was, there was always laughter.

We used to go to her house for Thanksgiving. I’m not sure how many of us were there. It seemed like dozens at the time, but the number was probably closer to 25. She lived in a pretty little Cape Cod house on a pretty little street in Goshen, Indiana, and she had…oh, even in memory, it thrills me…she had a step stool you could sit on and the steps pushed out in front! She also had a finished basement with its own kitchen! In the living room part of the basement, there was a cabinet Victrola with a stack of records. They were tinny and scratchy and it was hard to get them going the right speed with the crank, but there was such safety lying on the rug listening to Bing Crosby and Dinah Shore.

Even though I grew up on a small farm, the only time we ever had turkey was on Thanksgiving. I’m pretty sure I ate my weight in it every year. I loved eating whatever I wanted and never having to touch the squiggly red stuff that slid out of the Ocean Spray can. The dessert table was impressive, to say the least, and it was pretty much stripped by the end of the day. Even then, leftovers went home with each family, and the feeling of fullness and warmth would go on with turkey and noodles the next day.

I imagine being poor was a key player in my satisfaction with Thanksgiving, but that’s really neither here nor there. What matters are the memories and the lessons Aunt Nellie left behind. She was somewhere in her 80s when she died. She’d been packing for a trip to Grand Rapids with friends when she passed away. Grief created a hard, empty place in my chest at the loss, and I just knew I’d never get over it. However, at the funeral the officiating pastor mentioned her preparing for her trip and said she’d been just as ready to go to heaven as she’d been to go to Grand Rapids. My grandmother, who’d loved her younger sister even more than we did, said she thought if she’d had her choice, Aunt Nellie would rather have gone to Grand Rapids. Laughter softened the grief and added one more rung to the memory ladder.

Aunt Nellie was one of the first people I thought of when I became a Harlequin Heartwarming author. She’d have loved the line’s premise, its joy and sense of family, and its humor. She’d have also told everyone at the beauty shop all about her niece, the author. Knowing that reminds me again of how lucky I was to have her.

Happy Thanksgiving to all. If you have that small glass of beer, be sure to enjoy every drop.

BUY LINKS

Amazon

Books2Read

Retired from the post office and married to Duane for…a really long time, USA Today bestselling author Liz Flaherty has had a heart-shaped adult life, populated with kids and grands and wonderful friends. She admits she can be boring, but hopes her curiosity about everyone and everything around her keeps her from it. She likes traveling and quilting and reading. And she loves writing. You can reach her at lizkflaherty@gmail.com.

WEB CONTACTS

Website

Blog

Facebook

Twitter

Goodreads

BookBub

Guest release promotion–The Earl’s Error by Kathy L. Wheeler

BLURB

The countess of Kimpton, can’t trust her husband. Not only did he exile her brother from England without a word to her, but she’s since learned he fathered his ex-mistress’s unborn child. She’d had only one stipulation at the start their marriage… to treat her with respect.

The Earl of Kimpton, wants his wife. When she threatens to leave over an accusation so far beyond the pale, he panics and offers to pay her to stay. He’s bought himself two weeks and prays it allots him enough time to find her missing brother and prove he’s not the scoundrel she believes.

Neither is able to ignore the explosive passion between them, but in their search for her brother, they encounter a threat that could not only destroy their relationship, but their very lives.

BUY LINKS

Amazon

Barnes&Noble

Smashwords

Apple ibooks

KOBO

EXCERPT

“Dammit, Lorelei. Don’t. Don’t run from me.” He took the stairs two at a time. Reached the top as she turned down the hall of the wing where their chambers nestled side by side. He should never have allowed her a separate room. At the end of hall, her hand twisted the knob on her door. “I’ll pay you,” he blurted. She stopped but didn’t turn. “One thousand pounds if… if you can manage a fortnight. Just until—” Until what?

The tightness in his gut registered as fear. Fear he’d never gain ground. But he had the advantage. Lorelei had nothing. She’d had no dowry. He didn’t need or want one. She’d be destitute without him. He’d saved her useless brother from debtor’s prison. But now, her brother had stooped to a new low. Abandoning not only his sister, but a child as well. So what if the mother was one of the most sought-after courtesans in London? Lorelei would never care about such a detail, though most of the beau monde would turn her away if they knew she felt that way.

Blast. The short, cruel thing would be to enlighten her. Take her by the shoulders and shake her until she heard the truth. Make her realize that he hadn’t put her brother on board a ship, show her that her precious Brandon was acting as an irresponsible cad, running from his responsibilities of a mistake—a mistake most men of their standing took pains to buy their way out of.  Hell, the man was more a noose around one’s neck. Had been since Thorne and Lorelei’s wedding.

Lorelei’s body stiffened, and he swallowed the words. Thorne could never hurt her so callously. She turned, pierced him with flinty blue eyes. The world revolved to a stop, and perspiration gathered at the nape of his neck. He inhaled through his nose, letting out a slow stream through pursed lips.

“Per week,” she said. His wife’s tone, usually warm and full of husky mischief, radiated cold gray steel.

“What?”

“A thousand pounds. Per week. For two weeks I shall stay. And I want half now.” Her crystallized pitch would have made Medusa proud. Curiosity driving him, Thorne looked her in the eye, certain he would turn to stone, while bitter irony held him in a firm grip.

Two weeks. Could he find that no-good brother of hers in that amount of time? Force him to acknowledge his responsibility? Thorne had his doubts, but he would accept her offer. Give her half now, and pray it was enough to keep her from leaving before he located Harlowe.

But he had his pride as well. In a tone that matched her cold glare, he said, “Done.” He stepped back, enough out of reach to keep from grabbing her, with the scent of her hair annihilating what was left of any remaining sense, good or bad. He tipped his head, unable to stem the sarcasm. “Perhaps you’ll excuse me, my lady, I’ve urgent business to attend.” He stalked down the stairs to his study and shut the door with a solid click. Someday he might learn to hold his tongue. Not speak until spoken to—a quality his father had tried beating into him until the day the old bastard dropped dead of an apoplexy when Thorne was but ten and three.

He tossed the note he still clenched on his desk, furious with his reaction—no, overreaction—and moved behind the desk. He peered up at his father’s portrait with disgust. The pompous ass. It showed in the set of his shoulders, his grim facade. He made a silent vow to remove it to the attic. Or perhaps make Harlowe paint over it as retribution.

Thorne reached up and ran his fingers along the gilded edge of the frame, just inside one corner, and pressed the minute mechanism. The large painting parted slightly from the wall without a sound. He slipped a key from his watch fob pocket and fit it into his pride and joy—one of the first burglar-resisting safes created by Charles Chubb. Granted, it was a test model, but it worked magnificently. Talk about an exquisite piece of art.

Thorne counted out several hundred guineas, locked the safe, and restored the painting to its rightful position.

Of all the asinine things he could have thought of to entice his charming and beautiful wife into remaining by his side, he had to offer money. It was the panic, of course. Money she would likely use, inevitably leading him to the same fate she’d threatened. Losing her.

Well, he’d bought himself a fortnight to locate Harlowe and hopefully convince Lorelei to stay. He jerked out the bottom drawer of his desk and grabbed a sheet of paper. He scribbled off a quick note and rang for Oswald.

Minutes later, snatching up his top hat, he jammed it on his head. There was some satisfaction in slamming the door behind him. Only fifty feet from the stables, the heavens parted, dumping a waterfall of ice-cold tears that soaked through every layer he wore.

The perfect ending to the perfect day, eh? There was nothing now but to follow through on this idiotic voyage he’d forged for himself. For if his wife found out about the babe …

Kathy L Wheeler loves the NFL, the NBA, musical theater, travel, reading, writing, and … karaoke.

 

WEB CONTACTS

Website

Blog

MeWe

Instagram

Twitter

Pinterest

Linked In

BookBub

Goodreads

Facebook

Amazon Author

Release of A Quilter for Quint

Daydreamer Melisande Avenelle wishes all the social engagements her mother insists on would just disappear so she can focus on her quilt making. Where some artists see images in dabs of paints, Melisande imagines landscapes made from the fabric of the dresses worn at a tea party. After her refusal of the third man put forth by famed matchmaker Madame Treszka, she’s informed she must choose from three groom candidates arranged by her mother. Thinking Texas can’t be as bad as Newport, Rhode Island, for social engagements, Melisande boards a westbound train with the matchmaker as chaperone.

Widower Quinton Azar has a six-year-old son who wants a mama. Since his late wife’s passing four years ago, Quint divides his days between breaking horses for the Army and parenting his son with no time for courting. His mother manages the household and tends to her youngest grandchild, although she would love to move to Galveston to live with her sister. The telegram announcing the arrival of his mail-order bride—a woman his mother corresponded with—on the next stagecoach is a shock. Quint drives the wagon into town, intending to pay for her return ticket. The beautiful, but disheveled, woman who disembarks the stage is too dazed to trust traveling on her own. What has his mother arranged for his life?

BUY LINK

EXCERPT

If only she could back home, and in her sewing room, working on her latest fabric creation. She looked toward the closest window. Ah, to be outside and breathing the fresh breezes off the Rhode Island Sound. Through the glass spread a bounty of pink buds on a cherry tree. If she gazed long enough, the edges of the tiny blossoms would blur, creating clouds of—

“Did you hear me, Miss Avenelle?”

Jerking her head to the left, she cleared her throat. Had the man across from her asked something? Earlier, his droning, nasal voice delivering his highly acclaimed poem scattered her thoughts, like they escaped ahead of a buzzing bee.

Abner Thistle arched a bushy eyebrow and looked down his long nose, an action which flattened his double chin.

“No, Mister Thistle, I didn’t. Could you please repeat it?” Melisande dared not look in her mother’s direction for fear of the condemnation she’d see. Mother dragged her to this poetry reading for the specific purpose of encouraging another meeting with the acclaimed poet.

Please don’t ask what I think of your work. She would hate to have to admit she’d been transfixed by Penny Dunbar’s gown of green faille silk patterned with yellow and white flowers. With a reinforcing layer of muslin, the fabric would be perfect for the patch of landscape in her latest quilt hanging commission.

“I asked if you had any thoughts on the poem I read.” He wedged the Delft-patterned tea cup under his long mustache and slurped. His watery blue gaze stared across the low table between their seats.

She expected to see drips falling from the whiskers but they remained dry. “Oh, yes. Of course, you’d want to know.” How could she politely verbalize she really had no thoughts about the plight of a slug working its way across a gravel pathway? She’d read the great poets—Lord Byron, William Wordsworth, Phillis Wheatley, Robert Burns —and Mister Thistle would not be remembered among their number. “Well, sir…” She glanced down, wishing her cup wasn’t empty so she might stall by taking another sip. “I like to spend time in our garden and appreciated your inclusion of a lesser-known insect in your work. Not everyone appreciates how hard life is for slugs.” A statement containing a compliment and an indication that she had been listening must prove worthy of polite conversation.

His brows pinched, and he huffed out a breath. “Not an insect, Miss Avenelle. Slugs are gastropods.” He set aside his cup on a nearby table and leaned his elbows on his thighs. “I chose the slug because its vital purpose of ridding the garden of dead vegetation is often overlooked. I thought the imagery was so clear. But you appear to have missed the entire spine of the poem. I was making a comparison about how hard man must struggle through the dead ends of life to achieve each and every reward.”

Why did he use the word spine about a creature who possessed none? Telling her she didn’t understand the poem’s theme bordered on rudeness. Rather than dwell on hurt feelings, she admitted, at least to herself, she just hadn’t cared. “Oh, I see.” But she truly didn’t. If that’s what he meant to say, why not use those words? Weren’t poets supposed to be masters of the English language?

FREE in KU

BUY LINK

Interview with Robert Herold

Welcome, Robert. Let’s get to the questions.

What are your hobbies away from the computer?

I play sax and flute in a jazz/blues band (currently on hiatus due to COVID-19) and love listening to music particularly jazz and classical (I’m totally into Beethoven right now!). I also love to read and watch films and tv shows (particularly dark detective series from Europe).

I also collect books and records. Lately, I’ve been collecting Mexican Lobby Cards for famous horror movies. I have about a dozen, some of which are autographed by famous writers (Robert Bloch, author of Psycho, and Richard Matheson, author of I Am Legend). Why Mexican? They are much cheaper than their English language counterparts!

Can you share a tip about what you do when you get stuck in creating a story?

Whenever I get the least bit stuck, I ask myself, what is the worst thing that could happen to my characters? It invariably works! 🙂

Describe a normal writing day (or period, if you have other employment obligations).

After losing to my wife at cribbage over breakfast, I retreat into the bowels of my house where my office is located. There I spend the first few hours answering emails and doing promo-related work on social media.

During or after lunch I typically spend writing/editing, which I do until around 5:30 when I watch BBC America on PBS. My whole day is punctuated by walks with my 5 ½ pound chihuahua, Jangles.

What’s your dream vacation destination?

My dream vacation is to visit NYC and binge on theater, ethnic food, museums, and jazz clubs. This was a regular pilgrimage until COVID reared its angry head. ‘Hope to resume this as soon as it’s safe.

In what genre do you read?

I have eclectic tastes and tend to read broadly; however, I most enjoy historical mysteries/adventures/horror. I am currently Mexican Gothic.

Are you a pet person? If so, what do you have?

Yup, pet person. We inherited Jangles, our 5 ½ lb. chihuahua, from my sister when she passed away. He alternates between being incredibly loveable and incredibly annoying. Jangles watches television and barks at any animal or animated figure. He also doesn’t like violence. Given my penchant for the news, period pieces (when using horses were common), spooky movies, and dark detective series, he has plenty of opportunities to bark!

What do you hope readers gain from your stories?

Horror can be a wonderful vehicle for social commentary in a fun and exciting way. My 19th Century characters are dealing with racism, sexism, drug abuse, and many other social ills that still haunt us today.

The Eidola Project travels to Petersburg, Virginia, to investigate a series of murders in the Black community—rumored to be caused by a werewolf. Once there, danger comes from all quarters. Not only do they face threats from the supernatural, the KKK objects to the team’s activities, and the group is falling apart. Can they overcome their human frailties to defeat the evil that surrounds them?

          Moonlight Becomes You earned two first place wins from the Southeastern Writers Association, including Best Novel!

BUY LINKS

Amazon US

Amazon CAN

Amazon UK

Barnes & Noble

Apple books

EXCERPT

Doc Curtis fought for every reserve of strength and managed to quicken his pace. He could hear them shouting behind him and dared not look back, fearing it might slow him just that much more.

He made it through the field and emerged onto a rough access road running between the cultivated land on one side and the woods on the other. The doctor dashed across the dirt road and through the weeds and scrub bordering its opposite side. The trees stood twenty yards ahead. He would make it, find a thick trunk to hide behind, and fire a warning shot. If he could drive them off, it would be best. If not, he would do what needed to be done. Life had reduced itself to its most basic terms: kill or be killed.

Just five yards from the trees, a gigantic black beast bounded from the woods and landed before him. The doctor skittered to a stop, and his feet went out from beneath him. The creature stepped closer, looming. Its eyes glowed red, and the skin around its muzzle drew back, revealing a mouthful of sharp canine teeth.

The Klan had come at him in two directions, the doctor realized.

He raised his pistol and fired into the snarling face above him.

Snippet from 5+ Star Review From N.N. Light Book Heaven:

“Moonlight Becomes You is exceptional in pacing and storytelling. The reader is captivated in myriad ways… (It) was a great read from start to finish.”

The supernatural has always had the allure of forbidden fruit, ever since Robert Herold’s mother refused to allow him, as a boy, to watch creature features on late night TV. She caved-in. (Well, not literally!)

As a child, fresh snow provided him the opportunity to walk out onto neighbor’s lawns halfway and make paw prints with his fingers as far as he could stretch. He would retrace the paw and boot prints, then fetch the neighbor kids and point out that someone turned into a werewolf on their front lawn! (They were skeptical.)

Mr. Herold has pursued many interests over the years, but the supernatural always called to him. You could say he was haunted.  Finally, following the siren’s call, he wrote The Eidola Project, based on a germ of an idea he had as a teenager. Moonlight Becomes You fulfills his childhood wish to become a werewolf, at least vicariously.

Ultimately, he hopes his books give you the creeps, and he mean that in the best way possible!

WEB CONTACTS

Website

Amazon

BookBub

Facebook

Goodreads

Instagram

Pinterest

Twitter

Sign up for his newsletter by sending email to email@robertheroldauthor.com

Guest release promotion–The Cowboy’s Embrace by Kara O’Neal

Fate brings his greatest regret back into his life…

 

Sixteen years ago, Lily Spero lost her parents and siblings to a villain on a white horse. When she visits the Swinging A Ranch, her past collides with her present, opening wounds long buried and shockingly creating hope where none had been before.

Deacon Tolbert is the foreman of the Swinging A Ranch. He’s carved a niche in the world all his own. But when Lily Spero arrives, the girl he abandoned years ago, he’s forced to face the most gut-wrenching moment of his life.

BUY LINK

EXCERPT

He would come back soon. He would. He wouldn’t leave her here.

Lily assessed the park with its strong oaks and maples and winding packed dirt paths. She bit her lip and worked hard not to cry. She was a big girl. She was eleven, and he’d asked her to be brave while he was gone.

As she hid in the shade, she sank down to the grass, huddled against a trunk and hoped no one noticed a frightened, stranded, black girl. Where was he? What was taking so long? He only went to find food for them.

Morning turned into noon. People came. Some to eat their lunches on blankets they spread on the ground. Others to walk the picturesque paths. She pulled her knees into her chest and buried her nose in her dirt-caked pinafore. It had been yellow once. A pretty color as bright as the sun.

As she rocked back and forth, she prayed. She repeated over and over the words her mother had taught her. With her eyes clamped shut and her lips moving without ceasing, she implored to Heaven for Deacon to return.

But hours passed. Faces swam before her, asking her questions, giving her food. She couldn’t answer the nice strangers. Just gazed down the path, hoping, waiting, her heart dying.

Where are you? Please come. Please come back.

She silently begged to see his familiar form, dressed in overalls and a threadbare work shirt, coming around the bend to carry her away. But he didn’t come. And the kind people didn’t leave. They took her home with them, and Lily didn’t argue, even though their pale skin struck uncertainty in her heart. She couldn’t think. Deacon, she grieved.

And his name was the pained whisper on her lips every night, the perpetual cold ache in her heart…that could never be filled.

Born and raised in Texas, I had to make the state the setting for my first series. From the food to the fun, like floating the rivers, it is the fire in my blood that inspires me. My family and friends take center stage in my books. My sisters and best friends are my heroines, and my husband created my favorite hero. Love and family are the point of my stories, and I seek to entertain, relieve stress, and inspire people. Books can take one on a journey that one can relive over and over. I am extremely grateful to those authors who did that very thing for me. I learned and I fell in love with their words and characters. From the bottom of my heart, thank you.

WEB CONTACTS

Website

Bookbub

Amazon

Barnes and Noble

Facebook

Twitter

Pinterest

Goodreads

Blog

Blog – The Story Continues

 

Guest promotion for Gemini Rising by Bianca Swan

Monozygotic twins, or identical twins. result from the fertilization of a single egg with a single sperm. Fraternal twins, or dizygotic twins, are the product of fertilization of two different eggs.

In identical twins, as the cells divide and multiply, at some point very early in the embryonic growth, they spit into two individuals. As you can imagine, the genetic material in these twins is identical, hence the name identical twins. Monozygotic twins are always the same sex (except in my dark fantasy Gemini Rising!)

Fraternal twins, can be different genders, look different, and have different characteristics. Even though we call identical twins identical and think of their genetic material as identical, we need to keep in mind that there is another important factor—environmental influences—which means identical twins come from the same genetic material, but, in characteristics they may actually have differences as well.

Whose genes produce monozygotic twins? Only women ovulate. So, the mother’s genes control this propensity to twins, and the father’s genes don’t. This is why having a background of twins in the family matters only if it is on the mother’s side.

In vitro fertilization (IVF) embryos are more likely than naturally conceived embryos to split into identical twins A fertility doctor can transfer just one embryo—in hopes of reducing the risk of non-identical twins—but identical twins may still occur, and more frequently than in the general population.

BLURB

Science said male/female identical twins were impossible until the Alastair twins were born. Were Alina and Alain genetically encoded or did growing up in an isolated island castle determine they walk the forbidden trails?

The Alastair twins are a scientific impossibility. To parents who’ve tried every way to have a child, their male and female identical twins are a miracle.

Isolated in their island castle, the Alastair twins Alain and Alina turn to each other for friendship and love. But when their love shifts from fraternal to frighteningly deep, they’ll each dance with their lust in their own way.

A dark fantasy of forbidden longings and midnight pledges, spoken only to be broken or kept. How can these phenomenal twins possibly unleash their innermost desires? The answer will shock you.

BUY LINK

EXCERPT

Rory rushed him, grabbing his shirtfront, his fist drawn back to strike. Alain raised a defense. The horses snorted, hooves scrambling on cobbles. Aiden Alastair strode into the barn hall, assessing the situation at a glance.

“By all that’s holy!” Father’s hands fisted. “Have you both taken leave of your senses?”

Rory freed Alain with a shove. “I’m rearranging your son’s pretty face. You’ve said yourself that Alain’s too pretty for his own good.” The old, familiar humiliation and pain twisted in Alain, but he squared his shoulders, and with blood on his mouth, faced his father. His brother-in-law’s lips curled in a mocking smile. “I was just trying to help you out, Lord Alastair.” He put hateful emphasis on the title.

Alastair crossed his arms, glaring at his son-in-law. “You’re my daughter’s husband and as such this is your home, but I won’t tolerate fighting beneath my roof.”

Rory hung his head, staring at the cobbles, said nothing. His stiff posture sagged.

Father’s eyes found Alain. His expression altered from angry to hurt. “I would have expected more of you. Did you start this?”

Of course, he’d jumped to the conclusion Alain was to blame. He was always ready to believe the worst of his only son. He could tune them out, suppress his feelings and stoically endure. But not this time. Damage, like love and hate, came in degrees. All his life Alain had suffered at this man’s clumsy hand. He arched an eyebrow.

Rory’s gaze lifted to Alain’s face. He gasped, “Don’t.”

“You’ve always been disappointed in me, Father.” The chill in his voice bled into his limbs. “But frankly, I don’t give a damn. Never have. Never will.”

Splotches of anger dotted Aiden Alastair’s face. “How dare you say that to me? You’re a damned fine excuse for a son. If I could, I’d pass the title to Rory.”

The painful attack knocked the wind out of Alain.

To be told he meant less to his father than this bastard, hurt. He hadn’t believed Aiden had the power to break his heart. He collapsed on the wooden bench beside the bridles and stared at the old oriental carpet he used for polishing Spirit’s hooves. Suddenly, he hated the wealth surrounding him.

“Aiden.” Mother strode down the aisle, seized her husband’s arm and shook him. “I overheard. How could you say such a thing? Be so cruel to your son? I’m beginning to question how I feel about you.”

Bianca lives in the Lone Star State with a baby grand piano and Zippy Z, her swift, little sports car. Her two sons are the stars in her crown. Besides writing, she enjoys reading, horses, symphony, theater, etc. She still believes in the power of love—and the power of lust—and enjoys delving into the soul of both the L-Words, bringing to life hot, passionate men and the lucky, fiery women who love them.

 

 

WEB CONTACTS

Facebook

Website

Blog

Goodreads

 

Interview with Zeppy Cheng

Welcome to my blog.

Tell us a bit about you and your background.

I went to college at Louisiana Tech University, studying psychology, but my passion really lies in writing. I watch a lot of anime and play some video games, and I hope to become a full time writer at some point in the future.

Do you start a new story with the plot or characters first?

I start with the story and let the characters do what they want with the thing. It’s an exploratory process.

Is your writing style planned or freestyle?

My writing style is very freestyle. I am very much a pantser.

If you use music while writing, name your favorite types.

I really enjoy dubstep, chillstep, and electro swing.

Can you share a tip about what you do when you get stuck in creating a story?

Just keep writing, even if you don’t want to! It’s the only way to truly finish what you’ve started!

What do you hope readers gain from your stories?

A sense of adventure, a sense that anything can be done if you really want to do it.

BLURB

Forty years ago portals opened all around the world, leading to dungeons with dangerous monsters inside, monsters that can escape into the real world and do incredible damage. At the same time, people began manifesting spirits that allowed them to fight back.

Markus Red just manifested his spirit and it’s a weak one, the weakest one there is. But he squeezes into the position of Adventurer and is sent to Ixtham Academy, where he’ll learn to fight those monsters and destroy the dungeons invading New York City. He is on the lowest rung, but he soon finds an ally in Dr. Barrimore, an eccentric scientist with views that no one else seems to take seriously.

Together the two of them work on a project that will change everything Markus is. But will surviving at the bottom give him the power and courage he’ll need to make it to the top?

Dungeons and Dragons meets Harry Potter in this new, imaginative urban fantasy that will keep you turning pages long into the night!

The Lesser One is available only at Amazon:

EXCERPT

“Good luck,” mouths the commander.

The three of us nod and jump off the tank at the same time. The tank backs away as soon as we hit the ground. The balrog is a block and a half away, striding through the streets with the presence of a movie monster

Corbin kicks in the door of the building closest to us and points to the interior. “I’ll stay here and keep the devils out!”

Esla nods. She and I run inside and start climbing stairs.

I’m happy that I’ve been working out lately. If I hadn’t, I wouldn’t have been able to keep up with her. As it is, I barely manage. We reach the twentieth floor just as the balrog passes by the nearest window. Esla holds up the laser device. There’s a timer. A minute and twenty seconds. She runs to the window framing the balrog and points the laser at the spot between its horns. I make sure my bow is in its place on my back.

A green dot appears on the balrog’s head. Half a second later, it stops and looks straight at us. With a single meaty hand, it claws out the nineteenth floor. The ground begins to tilt. Steel groans.

Esla manages to keep her balance, and keep the dot trained on the balrog’s head.

The balrog rips out another floor out beneath us. I’m starting to slide, but manage to lean against a pillar and hold on.

Esla is not so lucky. She slides towards the window, feet first, and hits the glass. The glass shatters and she falls out. Grabbing the ledge with one hand, she uses the other to toss the device. “Catch!”

I catch the device — a feat I have never managed before in my life. Holding on to it with my free hand, which is now completely green, I notice the time is almost done. Quickly, I point it back at the balrog’s head.

10… 9… 8… 7…

The roar of a huge droneaircraft blossoms overhead.

6… 5… 4…

The balrog smashes the building with its side, sending ripples through the concrete. My hand is now completely green. It is so close, its heat haze drifts over the floor. Worse, I can see the whites of its eyes.

3… 2… 1… 0…

A blast of fire with the intensity of the sun rips through the air and slams into the balrog right where the light was shining. Molten metal and rock flies everywhere. The balrog reels. The pillar I am leaning against collapses, sending me sliding straight towards the firestorm in front of me.

I am in a life or death situation.

I am near a huge monster.

And I don’t even care about what will happen to me next as long as I survive.

I brace my heels against the floor, stabilizing myself for a half-second, then grab my bow and nock an arrow. The fire around the balrog slips down its body, revealing a patch of its head where the red crackling slade-rock armor has been broken. The balrog is still very much alive, and is turning to me with its gigantic, devilish eyes.

My Anima vision spots a tiny point. It’s where the missile hit, about the size of a penny.There, the balrog’s very essence is exposed.

I fire my bow. My entire body turns green, and I am suddenly am convinced that I am a papaya. A piece of fruit sliding off a grocery store shelf.

My arrow buries itself inside the balrog, diving deep. The balrog’s eyes go wide. A light switch flicks in its brain. It staggers, rips some holes in the buildings around it, and stomps on a tank. The flames around it erupt in a display of fireworks that shoots hundreds of meters into the air. The balrog moans, roars, and then collapses to the ground. I slip off the tilting floor and float into the open air.

I am aware of everything. Yet I know nothing. A beam of light cuts open the balrog’s body. A blood-red ring floats out of its chest, spinning, and wraps around my stomach. I am floating, not falling.

Unimaginable power flows through me. My entire being explodes into magic, pain, and the pure essence of reality. I scream without making a sound as I float towards the street.

I land with a bump. My vision snaps back into focus, and so does reality. I am no longer a papaya, and my hands are back to normal — except for the blood-red cracks running through them. They shimmer with a starry radiance, almost as if they are alive.

Zeppy Cheng is a Wisconsin author who loves to write, play video games, and watch anime. He spends most of his time doing one of those three. He has a BA in psychology from Louisiana Tech University.

 

WEB CONTACTS

Facebook

Twitter

Blog