Friday, May 24, 2013
Thursday, May 23, 2013
Kiss Me, Curse Me by Kate Shay
Release date: March 6, 2013
Genre: Paranormal/Historical Fiction
Age Group: Young Adult
This is a story of a kiss--a simple kiss. . . and a boy. . . and a girl.
It's the Great Depression, but you would barely know it in Dam Town. The building of the great Carnee Dam has brought money, men, and mischief into an otherwise seemingly quiet desert
Ahanu is an outcast, born into a culture that despises him. He is Native American, of the land, a free spirit. If he wasn't in love with a girl that was already taken, maybe he could spend his days in the forest just as he pleases, but life isn't that simple.
Coreen is on a path to nowhere, dating the typical boy, and doing as her father always asks, or that's how it appears. On one moonlit night, her fate becomes entwined in an old curse unlocked by the boy of her dreams--true love--Ahanu.
This curse is old and it will have its way, it will do its damage.
About the Author
Kate Shay was born in Scotland under a full moon amongst the misty moors. Her homeland calls to her still, but now she basks in the Seattle rains and visits the Isle only in her dreams.
She took creative writing in college for two years and has been writing for the last five years. She keeps a diary with her sad and romantic poems for when she's in the mood: usually it's after watching The English Patient--her favorite all-time movie.
Hank stood tall and slender where she had been sitting; he leaned down and picked up her shoe.
“Coreen?” His voice was lost on the water echoing across to the other bank. “Coreen!”
After waiting and calling until he was certain she wasn’t around, he continued up the river’s edge along the wilderness and away from people. Surely, she hasn’t ventured out too far, he thought.
Coreen hung back. She had a deep cut on her bare, white leg, and she didn’t want to move. The pain told her how bad it really was. She watched it bleed, watched a red puddle form on the earth and seep into it, the blood feeding the earth as it did her.
My life is fleeting.
It was the first time she had realized it to be the truth, and as this epiphany came, so did the wolf.
The deep, throaty growl filled Coreen with dread. She froze at first but mustered enough will to back herself up against the tall, strong pine. It was all she could do; she’d rather face the wild animal than go to Hank, so she sat, and it growled, and its eyes flashed an intense yellow as they caught the glow from mother moon.
“Go for it,” she whispered. “I’d rather die here and now than go back to a life that I’ll hate.”
Tuesday, May 21, 2013
We want to thank everyone for the positive feedback we have been receiving as it really is shocking how much support we have managed to maintain in such a short amount of time that's why we thought it'd be a good time to do a giveaway.
Fill in the instructions on the rafflecopters and good-luck! :)Up for grabs is:
A £7 Amazon Gift Certificate
Open to: anyone who can receive an Amazon.co.uk gift certificate.
Sunday, May 19, 2013
Castles on the Sand (Shattered Castles, #1) by E.M. Tippetts
Genre: Contemporary Romance/coming of age
Age Group: Young Adult
Find the book: Amazon - B&N - Kobo - Goodreads
"A fast-paced blend of high-stakes drama and average teenage concerns (sex, appearance, friends), capped with a welcome message of hope." ~Kirkus Reviews
If there’s one thing Madison Lukas understands, it’s pain. The pain she feels when her mother ignores her completely. The pain her best friend endures as her parents starve her as punishment.
The pain of a dangerous boy whose mother has to be carried away by law enforcement on a regular basis.
She gets it. She feels the pain of others as if it were her own.
But when a mysterious man claiming to be her long lost brother appears with promises of relieving her suffering, trusting him could reveal more truths than Madison is ready for.
Because the truth can hurt, too.
About the Author: Emily Mah Tippetts writes romance under the name E.M. Tippetts and science fiction and fantasy under the name Emily Mah. Originally from New Mexico, she now lives in London with her family. Before she was a published author, she was an attorney who specialized in real estate, contracts, and estate planning, especially literary estate planning.
Find the author: www.emtippetts.com - http://twitter.com/emtippetts - http://facebook.com/emtippetts
Giveaway: (1) eBook copy or (1) Print copy of CASTLES ON THE SAND. Open international. Please comment below with your email for the chance to win. If you like E.M. Tippetts on Facebook, you get an extra entry, just make sure you tell me your facebook name so we can confirm.
ENDS MAY 23 @ 12:00 PM EST
Excerpt: Several hours later, as I'm drying my hair, the doorbell rings, or I think it does. I turn off the hairdryer and listen. Sure enough, it rings again. I put my hair up in a ponytail.
When I go to answer the door, I find those same two Mormon missionaries from the other day on my doorstep. “Madison, right?” he says the blond one. His name tag says he is Elder Britton.
Kailie must've told him my name.
Udall is Mom's last name, and the way Elder Britton breaks off lets me know that he saw my reaction. “No,” I say.
“Madison...” He frowns, deep in thought. “Lukas?”
Now I just stare. How on Earth would he know my last name?
At that, the missionary's eyes moisten with barely contained tears. “Listen. My name's John Britton, and I'm your brother.”
For what feels like eternity, Elder Britton and I just stare at each other. Then he presses his palms together in front of his face and shakes his head slowly. “I don't know what to say right now, other than sorry. I know I scared you yesterday. I wasn't thinking. One minute I'm just out tracting and the next, there you are, plain as day. I've been looking for you for fifteen years.”
“Elder Britton,” says the other missionary. “You sure?”
“Your name is Madison Lukas,” he recites, “and your mother, our mother, is named Sharon Udall. She used to be Sharon Britton. She's got dark blond hair, about this color-” he points to his own head “-and you'd be sixteen years old, as of last April twenty-seventh. Mom would have turned forty on December fourth.”
I can only stare. All the facts are right, but the situation feels all wrong. For my entire life, it's been just me and Mom. Every time I asked about my father, she'd say, “He's long gone, so it doesn't matter.” She never mentioned being married before or having other kids, and that seems like the sort of thing you'd bring up now and then.
He looks around at the large pot that doubles as an umbrella stand just inside the door, the wall hangings with glazed clay scales that overlap like fish scales, the potshard wind chime on the front porch, and the enormous planters on either side of the front door. “I'm gonna to out on a limb and guess that she still makes pottery.”
“And I have no idea what to say now. Or do.”
“Hey,” says the other missionary, “you'll be released from your mission in less than a week. Figure it out then? Maybe we call the mission president now just to let him know?”
“Yeah, good point. Listen, Madison, we're not supposed to have contact with our families outside of letters or emails while we're on our missions. I'll get in touch with you the moment I finish mine, all right?”
“Um...” That's about all I can say. I try to force my thoughts into some kind of order.
“Mom was Mormon?”
“She didn't tell you about that?”
“She never told me about you.”
“Really? At all?”
I shake my head.
“Then this has to be really, really strange for you. She mention Lance and Logan?”
“Who are they?”
His eyebrows shoot up. “The twins? They're our oldest brothers.”
The world shifts under my feet and I grab the doorframe to steady myself. From the way both missionaries look at me, I can tell it wasn't an earthquake. It was my knees starting to buckle.
The guy who claims to be my brother radiates sympathy and concern, and now that I take a good look at him, I have to admit, he does look like Mom. Same shape to the eyes. Same stance, one shoulder forward. Same way of pursing his lips.
I picture Mom, back in the shed, oblivious to all of this, and wonder if I should mention she's only about thirty feet away. She does not tolerate interruptions while throwing pots, but this is the most extreme circumstance I can think of.
“Okay,” says the other missionary. “We need to call the mission president. Madison, Elder Britton, write down your email addresses. We'll figure out what to do once we talk to our priesthood leaders.”
“Yeah, okay,” says my alleged brother. “Right. Sure.” He pulls a pad of paper out of his breast pocket and starts to write. After he rips the page off like a doctor tearing off a prescription, he hands it to me.
With shaking fingers, I write down my email address, while a little voice at the back of my mind babbles that I shouldn't give this info out to a stranger. What if, it babbles, this missionary is a stalker? What if he's wearing a disguise? Maybe he looked up all this information on me, put on a suit, got a name tag, and this is all part of some elaborate ruse?
I should take him back to see Mom. I should stop right here, right now, and take control of this situation.
I finish writing and hand the pad of paper back. He takes it, tucks it in his pocket, looks into my eyes, and says, “I'll talk to you soon. Any questions you have, ask, okay?” He hands me his email address and I fold it over and over again.
The other missionary guides him away from our door with a hand on his shoulder and pulls a cellphone out of his pocket. “...figure this out...” I hear him say.
I make myself step back and shut the door, then lean my forehead against it. Talk to Mom, I think. She'll clear this up. I stuff the missionary's email into the pocket of my jacket on the way past. That's where I keep every slip of paper, receipt, tissue, and used tissue I accumulate. It's a bad habit. Right now I couldn't care less.
Mom, I know, is going to ream me out for interrupting her work. She's an artist through and through. She lives to make pottery and if she doesn't get to make enough of it in one day, she makes sure to spread the misery around. “Interrupting my pottery making is like choking me,” she's said before. “You don't like it if someone interrupts your breathing.” And true to analogy, she'll push every interruption away, no matter who they are or what it is they might want to tell her.
Today, however, I'll risk it.
Thursday, May 9, 2013
Wednesday, May 8, 2013
Release date: May 2, 2013
Genre: Romance humorous
Age Group: New Adult
Paris Love Match
Getting a taxi in Paris can be hell.
Piers Chapman expected a boring business trip to Paris.
What he didn't expect was to fight over a cab with a beautiful girl.
After a bad meeting, Sidney Roux just wanted to hail a cab, go home, and have a glass of wine.
She didn't expect to fight over a cab with some pompous British tourist.
Neither of them expected another man to jump in their cab.
Or to be involved in a gun fight.
Or a car chase through the streets of Paris.
Or for the man to die.
But they're thrust together when the mob demands they return what the dead man stole.Will Piers and Sidney work together?
Will they find what he had stolen?
Will they stay alive?
And will they do the last thing they expected?
Will they fall in love?
About the Author
Nigel Blackwell was born in rural Oxfordshire in England. He has a love of books, a PhD in
Physical Chemistry, and a black belt in pointing out the obvious. As a teenager he toured Europe
and loved seeing the wonders of the world and the people in it. Since then he has been fortunate
enough to travel across Europe, North America, the Middle East, and Japan, and hasn't been
anywhere that doesn't have the potential for a story.
He now lives in Texas with his wife and daughter, where they enjoy the sunshine and listen to the coyotes howl at night.
Piers slammed the taxi door and sank into a seat that had long since given up any effort to support its occupants. “Hotel Lafayette, si vous—“
The opposite rear door whipped open. Piers’ mouth froze half-open with his tongue poking out. His forehead wrinkled and his eyebrows inched closer together. The face of an angel stared at him and he glimpsed the mesmerizing curve of a tight-fitting skirt and long legs as she bounded into the taxi. The angel leaned back in the seat and undid the top button of a business suit. His thoughts danced uncomfortably between modesty and wanting to look at her cleavage.
She ran a hand through her long, jet-black hair, flipped one side over her ear, and turned to look at him with deep mocha eyes. She smiled, big and broad, intense and confident, a full thousand watts. Her high cheekbones and soft lips underlined her angelic presence. Tiny dimples rippled as she opened her mouth to speak.
Piers held his breath as the sight of her paralyzed his voice.
“Get out,” she said.
Piers blinked in shock. “What?”
“Get the fuck out.”
“What?” The wattage had gone from her smile, but Piers still feared his heart might stop as he looked at her. “But I—“
She leaned across him and yanked at the door handle on his side. “Go on, get out.”
The sounds of Paris wafted in through the open door, a hundred languages, all spoken at once.
“I beg your pardon, but I was here first.”
“Well, doesn’t that mean it’s my taxi?”
The voices outside turned to shouts.
She shook her head.
Piers sighed. “I hate to be rude, but I was seated before you arrived, and I was giving the driver the address when you got in.”
She huffed. “You are being rude. In Paris there is a certain etiquette regarding taxis.”
He raised his eyebrows. “Etiquette?”
She gave a patronizing smile. “I started for the taxi before you. That means it’s my taxi.”
The driver leaned back over his seat. “Will one of you tell me where we’re going?”
Her eyes remained locked on Piers. “I saw it first. And you’re just some tourist. Get out. I live here. I need a taxi.”
“Please. One of you tell me where we’re going,” the driver said, agitated.
Piers glanced at the driver. “Hotel La—“
She waved her hand in front of his face. “Non, non. Rue de—“
There was more shouting outside the cab then a large, wet man dived headlong through the open door and across the rear seat. The man rolled around, his elbows and knees digging into Piers. The girl lurched away from them.
Piers opened his mouth, but his throat closed up at the sight of a gun in the man’s hand. His heart thumped hard against his ribs. His arms locked solid and his legs felt like lead. He tried to swallow, but his mouth was dry.
The man waved the gun at the driver. “Vite, vite! Drive! Go!”