Thursday, 30 May 2013

Spotlight: Beauty in the Breakdown by E. L. Esch

Beauty in the Breakdown by E. L. Esch

Luke Martin Cleary isn't out of the closet to his brother, and that's always been okay since he isn't involved. Then he meets Rowan, a fragile man with a dark past and one hot body. But Rowan's heart and body are broken and guarded, and it's going to take a lot of love to touch someone so completely untouchable. Literally.

Rowan Wilheim Nails is a man in pain. Ever since an abusive falling out with his ex-boyfriend, he's developed a phobia of being touched by another person--a phobia of being hurt again. So when Luke and Rowan meet at a bar and end up at Luke's apartment later on, Rowan is skeptical of spending the night in Luke's bed. There's only one thing he can do to make touching Luke's skin bearable--get drunk.

Luke hates Rowan's coping method, but how can he help change it when he doesn't understand Rowan's situation? By getting involved, he decides, even if that means divulging his secret to his brother. And so Luke begins breaking Rowan and his walls down, slowly and tenderly and maybe a little more roughly in the bedroom, but definitely without hurting him again. No matter how long it takes or how untouchable Rowan claims to be, Luke is determined to heal Rowan so that one day there'll be nothing between their hearts but each other's skin.
  • Note: This book contains explicit sexual situations, graphic language, and material that some readers may find objectionable: male/male sexual practices.


I often wonder things. I often wonder things that, once upon a time, people would have been sent to asylums for thinking. Now people can think whatever they like, and the worst they’ll get is a cross look. That’s a good thing, though, for someone like me.

Now let me say this first—I’m dying. “We both are. You’ll understand someday.” At least that’s what I’ve been told. That’s why I suppose I’m wondering things now. I’m wondering things that, once upon a time, people would have been sent to asylums for thinking.

For instance, if I muse over what the flesh of another human being tastes like, does that make me a cannibal? If I think the world needs to change no matter the cost, does that make me a terrorist? If for some reason I know we, he and I, are both dying but refuse to elaborate on how, does that make me a criminal?

These are just thoughts, though. No harm, right? Not anymore. Not today. However, everything evolves from thought: danger, peace, love, hate, change, everything.

Maybe I’m just getting dramatic because I’m dying. “We both are. You’ll understand someday.” Or maybe it’s just that I’m confused by the fact that I’m dying when I feel fine.

Why would I be confused? Simply, it’s because of him. He’s the reason for all of these thoughts.

He is a slim, nimble young man, maybe in his midtwenties. He’s a pretty normal character, except that he makes me think things that, once upon a time, people would have been sent to asylums for thinking. He’s beautiful and fair-skinned and gentle and shy. He has a problem with people touching his body, and he gets harassed for it. Around his eyes sit horn-rimmed glasses, just the right fit over his elegant nose and cheeks, protecting the greenest eyes I’ve ever seen. Capping his head is wispy, soft, and naturally untamable hair of a color I likened to that of a dingy fire. His hands aren’t large, but they aren’t small either, with slender fingers that match the knobbiness of his hips and shoulders perfectly. He is him, and God did he make me think.

When I asked him his name, his thin, pale lips curved into a smile, and I suppose what he said in response started all these thoughts. “I’m dying. We both are. You’ll understand someday.”

If at that moment I wondered what his skin tasted like, did that make me a creep? Did that make me wrong or a sinner or a breaker of taboo? If at that moment I wanted to change myself, did it make me a terrorist to my own conscience? Or did it just make me a fool?

“Wait!” I remember myself calling out to him, to that majestic creature who made me think. I was confused then too. Maybe he really was dying. Maybe we all were somehow, but I didn’t care.

He stopped and turned halfway. “Yes?”

He was a contortionist, I’d thought then. He had to be.

“I want to know your name,” I’d repeated. I think I’d smiled too, but recalling it makes me feel rather stupid so I can’t say I’m sure I did.


“Ah, an olden name.” I did smile then.



“Also olden.” And then he shook his head and stared at me up through his eyelashes. “I told you, I’m dying.”

“I heard.”

“But you asked my name.”


He paused. “Get a drink with me, stranger?”




It was the only instance since I’d met Rowan that I didn’t think. I just took him by the arm and let him lead me down the street like we were a happy couple.

I think I realized then—I was a terrorist, a sinner, a criminal, a fool, and even a bit of a creep. The only thing I wasn’t was a cannibal, but that still didn’t stop me from thinking thoughts that, once upon a time, people would have been sent to asylums for thinking.

* * *

“So, Luke, do you let yourself get picked up by strangers often?”

He kept saying “stranger.” “No. Much less…”


I laughed, and I couldn’t help it. Much, much less men, but the way Rowan put it, flat and blunt, was hilarious. Or maybe the fact that it was the truth, the bizarre, unlikely truth, was what made it funny.

We were sitting at a bar, the one I’d seen him in front of. The name I didn’t recognize, but Rowan seemed familiar with the place. Naturally it smelled of liquor, but there was another scent on the air that I couldn’t place. It was thick and heavy and toxic, a bit dangerous and kind of exciting. I liked it.

“Luke, then,” Rowan said suddenly, tracing the edge of his glass with his forefinger. He was drinking ouzo, and the very sight of it made me anxious. This man was obviously planning to get drunk, where my malt whisky would give me a light buzz at most.

I ordered another.

“Luke?” Rowan touched my shoulder, my knee, but never my skin.


“Luke. It’s Greek, did you know? It means ‘from Lucania,’ a region of Italy. Are you Italian?”

Somewhat startled by this man’s vat of knowledge, I shook my head. “Maybe, maybe not. I never cared to find out. What about you, Rowan?”

He laughed. “It means red-haired and rugged, nothing interesting.”

It was interesting to me, but I didn’t press the subject. Both Rowan and I knew what was going on. We knew where that night would end, or at least I thought we did. This prattle about name origins was just a conversation starter, a fire kindler. I could guess this from the ouzo, yet another thing Greek.

“Rowan…” I took a swig of my Scotch, hoping it would make the question easier. “Are you really…dying?”

“We both are.”


Rowan chuckled, a low sound deep in his throat. He fumbled with the edge of his glass again, finding a nick and pulling back his hand with a start. “Yes, I’m dying. I was diagnosed with death.”

“With death?”

“It’s not cancer or anything like that. It is what it is. It’s death. I just know it is.”

Was this man a seer of some sort? A psychic? Or was he just playing with me? No, he didn’t seem the type for that.

“Just death? That simple?”

Much to my surprise, he nodded. Nodded! Death wasn’t simple! Yet I forced myself to let it go. Maybe it was personal and he just didn’t want to talk about it. There were a lot of maybes when it came to this guy.

“So why ouzo?”

“Ouzo.” Rowan smiled down at his reflection in the bar top. “Because I don’t like being touched.”

At this I was gravely insulted. Who wouldn’t be? “Then why did you ask me—”

“For a drink? Because I wanted to.”

My expression must have been ridiculous, for Rowan laughed long and hard.

“Don’t look that way. It’s not you. I have a psychological problem. I just don’t like being touched.”

“Then why—”

“So I don’t realize it.”

“Ah.” Did strangers usually tell each other about their psychological issues? I was beginning to think this man, who had gone with me, sat down, and planned on getting happy-ass drunk, and I were going through some demented kind of therapy session. Who the therapy was for, I couldn’t tell.

“I know what you’re thinking.” Rowan’s hand was on my knee again, but not my skin. “If I don’t realize it, why even bother?”

“Something like that.” I nodded. It wasn’t a complete lie.

“Because.“ Rowan’s hair fell in front of his glasses.

His nose was pointed down again so I couldn’t see his face, and it worried me. Something dark and unwanted loomed over the man’s shoulders then, something I couldn’t help but want to shoo away. I couldn’t, though, because I didn’t know how.

“I want to get over it.” Rowan lifted his head. “I don’t want to die until my time.”

I tried not to look confused. “If you want to get over it…” I stood, reaching into my back pocket for my wallet. ”Let the drink sit, and come home with me.”

Rowan’s eyes widened. He looked as if he stared death square in the face that very moment. All of a sudden his prim, orderly demeanor vanished. “I…I can’t. Let a dying man have a drink and wait, won’t you?”

“No.” I snaked a hand into Rowan’s dull-fire hair. He twitched but didn’t pull away, probably because I never touched his skin. He had a piercing, I noticed then. A single, simple, silver ball embedded in the lobe of his right ear. It flashed with the reflection of my hand as I stroked his hair behind his ear to get a better look. The bartender shot me warning glares, but I didn’t care. Who was she, this lanky girl with her brown hair up in curls and a beer in each hand, to tell me what to do? “No,” I repeated, forcefully this time. “Because you’re not dying. We’re not dying. I say so.”

What gave me the right to say so? Nothing, but I said so anyway.

“You’re gonna stop death?” Rowan folded his arms and looked at me with such sharply intense eyes that I would have backed off if not for the way he tilted his head into my fingers.

I shrugged. Screw it. I was lost, puzzled, a bit upset, and a terrorist, a fool, a sinner, a criminal, and even a bit of a creep. Why couldn’t I stop death too? “Sure, for you.”

Long and hard, Rowan laughed. So did I, although I didn’t understand why.

“Even so.” The gloom leeching off Rowan seemed to have disappeared. “I still need my drink.”

“Only if you tell me how we’re both supposedly dying.”

“We’re not. We’re healing, hopefully, though we both still might die.”

“Everyone does.”

“Yes.” Rowan smiled. “I’m glad you understand.”

“You know…” I sat back down with a sigh, scratching my head. God, did Rowan make me think. “You know,” I started. “You could have just asked me out for drinks.”

“Nah.” Rowan shook his head, taking a nice, long draught of ouzo and winking sidelong at me. The empty glass hit the bar with a clatter and an almost suffocated sigh. “Because then you wouldn’t have understood why I asked you.”

“Strangers and a couple of drinks, it’s not that uncommon.” Damn, now I’m saying “stranger.”

“No.” Rowan called for another glass of alcohol.

My jaw almost dropped. Happy-ass drunk, I thought. Beyond happy-ass drunk.

“Luke and Rowan,” Rowan continued. “Neither strangers nor common.”

“Then I’ll make sure I have a bucket for you in the morning.” I snickered, eying his second glass. “And a nice long lecture about how we’re not going to die.”

“I never really was dying, you know. And hopefully I have quite some time before I do. You too.” The expression on Rowan’s face was fantastic—devilish and gentle; sly and weary; uncertain yet fearless.

So I wasn’t dying, then. Well, not anytime soon. Neither was Rowan, the clever bastard. But that didn’t mean the sneaky man could ever make me stop thinking thoughts that, once upon a time, were asylum-worthy thoughts.

Buy Links:    Amazon           Barnes & Noble         Loose Id

About The Author:
I can mostly be found staring into the screen of my PC or laptop into all hours of the night, hyped on caffeinated soda and likely procrastinating something important by losing at Internet Checkers or browsing the web (The day I win a game of Internet Checkers is the day I can write more than a few pages at once without procrastinating). When I'm not doing that, I'm either out being my nerdy self or, of course, writing. I've been writing since the fourth grade, and have no plans to stop. To me, one of the greatest pleasures in life is being able to create worlds and characters whose lives I can share with others.

Author Links:     Website     Facebook   DeviantArt    Blog

E.L. Esch is giving away a digital copy of Beauty in the Breakdown during her tour. To enter just fill out the Rafflecopter below

Wednesday, 29 May 2013

Cover Reveal: Malicious Mischief by Marianne Harden

Malicious Mischief (Mischief and Mayhem, #1)
 by Marianne Harden

Book Summary

Career chameleon, Rylie Keyes, must keep her current job. If not, the tax assessor will evict her ailing grandfather and auction off their ancestral home. When a senior she shuttles for a Bellevue, Washington retirement home winds up dead in her minibus, sticky with a half-eaten s'more, head clad in a cellophane bag, and a pocketed complaint letter accusing her of driving by Braille, her goal to keep her job hits a road bump.

The deceased was thought to be a penniless Nazi concentration camp survivor with a silly grudge against Rylie. However, the victim has enemies who will stop at nothing to keep their part in the murder a secret.

Forced to dust off the PI training she's kept hidden from her ex-detective grandfather, Rylie must align with a circus-bike-wheeling Samoan to solve the murder, all while juggling the attentions of two very hot police officers.

Giveaway Rafflecopter Code
Marianne is giving away a $25 gift card to the book retailer of the winner’s choice. 


~When the chips are down, the buffalo is empty~
Am I a flake? Sort of. But I’m trying to change. My grandfather has property tax issues, and what troubles Granddad, troubles me. Good thing I’ve held down a steady job for months. A major big deal. Not the getting a job part—I’ve had lots—but the held down aspect. Somehow, I always end up unemployed, but not today.
Today, I am Rylie Tabitha Keyes, chauffeur to the seniors at Fountain of Youth Retirement Home (FoY.)
It was dawn Sunday as I eased my employer’s van from one freeway onto another. After that, I concentrated on the wet asphalt up ahead. I didn’t want to think about my job history or our financial woes. Instead I focused on the summery sunrise over the Cascade Mountains due east. I stared at it a moment, charmed by its contrast to the more typical Bellevue, Washington gloom brooding overhead.
I should’ve been asleep, but I needed to toss trash from a fundraiser rolling around in the back of the van. Leland Rosenberg, my boss at Fountain of Youth Retirement Home, had asked me to dump the bags at his second business, Rosenberg Laboratory, as FoY’s Dumpsters were full from a recent bathroom remodel. His mood had been edgy, kind of insistent I dispose of them last night. I confess, before I could carry out this task, a minor traffic accident and an all-important overnight obligation had waylaid me. I didn’t bother to sigh over how blunders always seemed to pepper my work performance. Some things were fated to be. After all, I slogged at my job for money not joy. It isn't that I don't like working at FoY, it just isn’t my dream gig. You see, I yearned to be a private detective, a Veronica Mars 2.0. Problem is, my grandfather is against the idea. Dead set against it.
So with the stench from the trash bags mounting, I steered FoY’s van onto the off-ramp and headed toward Rosenberg Laboratory just off the freeway exit. My mind was filled with thoughts of a steamy shower, maybe a few hours of shut-eye before punching the clock at nine. I stared forward, squinted. And iced over. Up ahead. Wrong-way traveling. A panel truck advanced, peeling rubber.
Zeroed in to hit me.
I whipped the van off the road, the red, white, and blue panel truck whizzing past. I slammed on the brakes, fighting to control the wheel. I wrestled with it, panicked, my mind flashing on one fortunate thing: no seniors were in the van.
Tons of hazards burst before my eyes. I struggled to absorb them. A mangled guardrail zigzagged up ahead; its many gaps from other out-of-control vehicles big as life. Worse was the wall of giant Douglas-firs growing beyond, lower trunks scarred, limbs low and swaying.
I was going to careen through the railing.
I was going to hit the trees.
I was going to die.

Book Links

About Marianne Harden

Marianne Harden loves a good laugh. So much so, she cannot stop humor from spilling into her books. Over the years she has backpacked through the wilds of Australia, explored the exotics of Asia, soaked up the sun in the Caribbean, and delighted in the historic riches of Europe. Her goals in life are simple: do more good than harm and someday master the do-not-mess-with-me look. She divides her time between Switzerland and Washington State where she lives with her husband and two children.

Find Marianne Harden


Monday, 20 May 2013

Interview: Betrothal by Jenna Jaxon

1.     Tell us a little bit about yourself?
          I’ve been writing since forever it feels like.  I’ve always loved to write.  Writing assignments were always my favourite in school.  I wrote my first short story in 3rd grade and ended up with I think four or five before that year was through.  Too bad it took me so long to realize this is what I want to do with my life.  But then theatre was also a great passion of mine, so I went with that as my career goal instead.  Now they sort of work in tandem.  I use the one set of skills to compliment the other discipline.

2.     Tell us a little about the book you are here to promote?
          Betrothal is Book 1 in a series, actually one bigger book, called Time Enough to Love.  This was the first book I wrote when I said to myself, “I can write a romance novel.”  But the end product was way too long for publication, so someone suggested publishing it in three sections and publishing it that way.  Book 1 is about the arranged marriage of Lady Alyse de Courcy and Sir Geoffrey Longford--not a big deal in the medieval period when the story is set.  However, Lady Alyse is in love with Sir Geoffrey’s best friend, Lord Braeton, and the dynamics of this triangle resonate not only in Betrothal, but throughout the entire novel.

3.     What was your main inspiration for this story?
          The idea came to me from watching a History Channel program on the Black Plague. LOL  Not the usual fare for romance novels.  But the program talked about how the plague did not discriminate between noble and peasant and how the impact of all these deaths changed the world in just a few years.  A time of change is always interesting to look at--how do people cope when the world as you knew it is gone?  I think this question is one we all find fascinating--look at all the zombie apocalypse movies, the dystopian novels that now abound.  We are interested in thinking about how would I react/survive if the world turned upside down.

4.     If your book was made into a movie, which stars would you want to play your Hero and Heroine?
          Wow.  That would be too cool!  I think Clive Owen would be an amazing Geoffrey.  And Jennifer Lawrence has the strength and softness to play Alyse.
5.     Describe your Hero/Heroine in five words?
          Geoffrey:  passionate, honorable, loyal, loving, jealous
          Alyse:  naive, passionate, intelligent, strong, caring
6.     If you could go back and give your-struggling-author-self one piece of advice now that you are published what would it be?
  Don’t publish too soon.  Once you publish you are sucked into promotion which eats ravenously into your writing time.  Before I was published I could focus solely on my writing.  Now I don’t have that luxury.

7.     Do you have any interesting writing quirks?
          I’m not sure how interesting they are but I write best when it’s completely quiet--no music, no background noise.  Like it is right now.  So quiet I can hear the refrigerator turn on from two rooms away.  And I have to write straight through a book.  I can’t stop and write the last chapter and then go back.  I can jot down points that I want to happen, but I can’t write chapter 13 before chapter 12.  I’m too linear.

8.     How do you stay motivated when the Muse is being temperamental?
          My muse is always whispering in my ear.  I haven’t had any trouble with her being silent.  I do, however, have to ‘gear up” to write.  You might call it procrastination, but my creative juices need to reach a critical mass before I can sit down to write.  So if the time’s not right, I’ll check email, do promo, get something to eat or drink, load the dishwasher, go to the store, anything but write.  But when the time is ripe, I sit down and simply vanish into the manuscript.  The world disappears and the family has to come drag me into the kitchen to make dinner.

9.     What’s your favourite thing to do when you’re not writing?
          Reading and watching TV--my favourite show right now is Big Bang Theory.  ‘Cause I’m a nerd too!

10. Fast Five:
a.      Tea or Coffee?  Tea
b.     Kindle or Nook?  kindle
c.      Beer or Wine or Spirits? Whatever Bailey’s Irish Cream is. LOL
d.     All-time favourite book?  Devilish by Jo Beverley
e.      All-time favourite Movie?  Last of the Mohicans with Daniel Day Lewis


Lady Alyse de Courcy has fallen in love with Lord Braeton, a nobleman in King Edward III’s court and a man to whom she has barely spoken. Fate, however, has decreed her betrothal to his best friend, Sir Geoffrey Longford—a handsome and imposing knight, yet hardly the man she wants to wed.
When Sir Geoffrey is bound in betrothal by his father, he could not have expected the beautiful stranger to win his heart the moment they meet. Nevertheless, the fascinating Lady Alyse has done exactly that, and his feelings for her only grow as he learns more of her gentle yet spirited nature. But Alyse’s infatuation with his friend casts doubt on whether she can ever return his regard and their wedding day is fast approaching…
Will he have time enough to win her love?


“What do you require of me, Majesty?” Her mouth so dry she could taste sand, Alyse fought to speak in a normal tone. With a sigh of relief, she dropped into a deep curtsy, hiding her face in the folds of her skirt. If only she could remain bowed thus before His Majesty for the remainder of the evening.

King Edward laughed. “Obedience, Lady Alyse, as I require of all my subjects. As your father requires of his daughter.”

Her heart thumped wildly in her breast. That could mean but one thing.

“Rise, my lady.”

She did so on unsteady feet. “I am ready, as always, Your Majesty, to obey my father as I would you.”

Holy Mary, let it be Lord Braeton.

King Edward lifted an eyebrow toward Alyse. “A very pretty answer, my lady. And are you ready to accept your father’s decree for your betrothal? His messenger has today reached me with the contract, as I am to stand in his stead in this matter.”

Alyse took a deep breath and hoped her voice did not tremble. “Yea, Majesty, I will obey my father.”

King Edward nodded and leaned over to whisper something to Queen Phillipa, who sat beside him, heavy with their twelfth child.

Mere seconds before she learned her fate. She could scarce affect an indifferent pose before the court when inside every inch of her quivered with anticipation of the name. His name, pray God, on the king’s lips.


In her mind, she heard the word.

The king straightened, glanced at her then at the man by her side.

“What say you then, Sir Geoffrey? Does the lady not speak fair? I vow she will make you a proper wife and a dutiful one as well.”

Alyse turned, until that moment unaware that Geoffrey Longford stood beside her. Chills coursed down her body as the king’s words echoed in her mind. The sensation of falling backward assailed her, as though she rushed away from the tall man at her side even as his figure loomed larger and larger in her sight.
Not Lord Braeton.

Her numbed brain repeated the phrase, trying to comprehend that instead he would be her husband. Geoffrey Longford.

God have mercy on me, for by the look of him, this man will not.

Fearful, she cringed as her gaze climbed higher, over his chest, over his chin, finally resting on the dark blue eyes turned toward her.

Geoffrey returned her appraisal, his gaze sweeping her figure as a smile crept over his face. “Your Majesty.” He spoke to the king but his attention remained fixed on Alyse. “When my father told me of the betrothal contract before I left his home, I resolved to play the dutiful son. Now, however, I find I do not wish to act that role after all.” His eyes held hers as he paused.
Dear God, does he mean to renounce me here before the entire court?

Alyse stared at the man beside her, willing herself to remain upright, despite the waves of ice and fire alternating through her body.

“Now I find I would rather play the ardent lover.”

An amused murmur ran through the Hall at his words. Sir Geoffrey grinned, his eyes sparkling with humor and something more. Despite the uneven light, Alyse saw an unfathomable promise in their dark depths. She took a shaky breath and looked away.

Author Bio:

Jenna Jaxon is a multi-published author of historical and contemporary romance.  Her historical romance, Only Scandal Will Do, the first in a series of five interconnecting novels, was released in July 2012. Her contemporary works include Hog Wild, Almost Perfect, and 7 Days of Seduction.  She is a PAN member of Romance Writers of America as well as a member of Chesapeake Romance Writers. Her medieval romance, Time Enough to Love, is being published this summer as a series of three novellas.  The first book, Betrothal, released on April 19th.

Jenna has been reading and writing historical romance since she was a teenager.  A romantic herself, she has always loved a dark side to the genre, a twist, suspense, a surprise.  She tries to incorporate all of these elements into her own stories. She lives in Virginia with her family and a small menagerie of pets.  When not reading or writing, she indulges her passion for the theatre, working with local theatres as a director.  She often feels she is directing her characters on their own private stage. 
She has equated her writing to an addiction to chocolate because once she starts she just can’t stop.
Buy Links:

Published Works:
Betrothal--Historical Romance
Only Scandal Will Do--Historical Romance
7 Days of Seduction--Contemporary Erotic Romance
Almost Perfect--Contemporary Erotic Romance
Hog Wild--Contemporary Erotic Romance
Heart of Deception--Historical Romance

Friday, 17 May 2013

Spotlight: Bed, Breakfast and You by Lacey Wolfe

Bed, Breakfast, and You by Lacey Wolfe
The Brookfield Series Prequel

Claire holds the keys to her future, in more than one way.

As if the recent death of Claire Stevens’ parents isn’t enough, someone wants to steal Honeycreek Bed and Breakfast right out from under her. But Claire isn’t about to roll over and let them. She’s prepared to fight.

Jace Brown is Brookfield’s main attorney, and after delivering the bad news to Claire about her property, he knows all about being on her bad side.

As Claire gets to the bottom of this scandal, she’s surprised to have Jace by her side, fighting along with her. The attraction is instant, but can it last after the dust settles?

Buy Links: Amazon Nook All Romance Kobo 

Claire walked around the inside of Honeycreek Bed and Breakfast and made notes on things she wanted to do before the grand reopening. She’d planned on opening it almost right away, but with this tax crap, she knew she needed to wait. Which meant she had no money coming into her pocket. 

She remembered Jace needed a receptionist. Maybe she could temporarily work for him—the enemy. Then she’d be on the inside and she’d have access to files. She was brilliant. Why hadn’t she thought of this before?
But would Jace hire her?

The chances were pretty slim, but it never hurt to ask.

She headed back to her cabin to find the card he’d given her with his info on it. She’d much rather be shot down for the job over the phone than in person. The papers were now in her bedroom on her nightstand. She sifted through them until she found the small rectangular business card. 

She pulled her cell phone from her back pocket and dialed the number.
“Jace Brown speaking,” he answered.

“Jace, it’s Claire.”

“What can I do for you?”

She smiled, now wishing she could see his face. “I’m calling about the assistant job. Do you still need someone?”

“Yeah, but—”

“With this mess going on, I could temporarily fill that position. I have no money coming in since I can’t reopen Honeycreek at the moment. And it would be a win-win for us both,” she explained.

“Yeah, but—”

“I just can’t see how it would be bad. You have someone to answer your phones and I’ll be able to make some money. And if I’m being honest, it might help me find the bad guy. Unless you’re the bad guy.”

“Can I speak now?” he asked.

She giggled. “Sure.”

“I’d love to hire you, but that would look odd, wouldn’t it?”

“What’s so odd about it? I need a job and you’re desperate to hire.”

“I’m not—”

“Yes, you are. So how about it? I’ll be there in the morning at eight sharp,” Claire said.
He sighed. “I’m not going to get a word in, am I?”

“The sooner you give me what I want, the sooner I’ll be out of your hair. And I have a feeling you’d like my case to get solved quickly. So, if you let me help, we can solve this together.”

“What about the sheriff? Isn’t he working on it?”

“He is. But I’ve never been one to sit around and wait. I like to take control.” She grinned. “If you know what I mean,” she added the last part for the laugh. She was sure Jace’s eyes were wide at the moment. 

“I’m only agreeing to this because I do need the help. I have no idea how this is going to work. But I guess I’ll see you at eight tomorrow.”

“Great. See you then.” She ended the call. 

That had worked out better than she’d expected. Then again, she hadn’t even given the poor man a chance to speak. She plopped down on her bed. Tomorrow she was going to begin getting to the bottom of this.

Watch the Trailer:

Other books available in the Brookfield Series:
Finding Home
Bare Necessities
Not Just Friends

About the Author:
Lacey Wolfe has always had a passion for words, whether it’s getting lost in a book or writing her own. From the time she was a child she would slip away to write short stories about people she knew and fantasies she wished would happen. It has always been her dream to be a published author and with her two children now of school age, she finally has the time to work on making her dream come true.

Lacey lives in Georgia with her husband, son and daughter, their six cats and one black lab who rules the house.

Author Links:    Her Site      Twitter    Facebook

Thursday, 16 May 2013

Spotlight: Indulging the Professor by Ella Jade

Indulging the Professor by Ella Jade

A  Pleasure Inn Series Steamy Short.
Featuring  Logan  and  Elyse  from  Master  of  The  Inn.

Meet the first guests to stay at Pleasure Inn…
Where all of your fantasies become reality.

Professor Marcus Santos has become unsatisfied in his life. His career is at an all time high but he has no one to share it with. He’s buried himself in his work for so long he’s missed out on a social life. His policy of not dating university students has limited his search to find the perfect girlfriend. While out at a bar one night he runs into his intriguing research assistant. Their brief encounter changes the dynamics of their relationship.

Shy graduate student Jacqueline Kincaid has been taken with Professor Santos since her freshman year. His charismatic personality and driven work ethic drew her to him, but now that she’s getting to know him on a personal level she can’t get him out of her head. He shows interest in her but won’t take things further than kissing.

Marcus offers her a special graduation present. Spend two nights at Pleasure Inn with him. Jacqueline jumps at the chance to move forward in their new relationship. Now that she’s no longer his student he wants more with her. Pleasure Inn is just the place to make all of their fantasies realty.


Jacqueline stood at the large picture window. Coming up behind her, Marcus wrapped his arms around her waist and took in the sweet aroma of her hair. He loved the way her fragrance lingered in his car or office hours after they had parted. Her signature smell was a constant reminder of her and the memory of it had gotten him through some long, sleepless nights these past couple of months.

“You smell so good.” He moved her hair to the side and trailed his lips along her neck. He’d always been so careful with her. He never wanted to overstep or make her feel uncomfortable. Her decision to spend the weekend with him had changed things. He couldn’t seem to keep his hands off her.

“I can’t tell you how many times I’ve wanted to touch you like this.” Their casual dates and late night research sessions were getting harder to deal with. Each time he took her back to her apartment he’d prayed for her to invite him in. He often wondered if he would accept. She seemed to quietly respect his position on the subject of dating students. Always letting him take the lead, she never pushed him further than he was willing to go. He appreciated that, but he had to find a way to make her see just how much she meant to him.

“What took you so long, Professor?” She leaned her head back offering him more of her neck. “I was beginning to think it was me.”

“Never.” He gripped her hips before slipping his hands under the thin material of her t-shirt. “I have rules. At least, I did before I met you.” He circled his fingertips along the soft skin of her stomach. “I don’t like to create chaos.”

“Is that what I am?” She placed her hands over his and guided them to her breasts. His palms grazed her hardened nipples. “Chaotic?”

Her boldness surprised him but didn’t stop him from cupping her full breasts in his hands. “Now that you’re no longer my student…” He swirled his thumbs over her aroused nipples. “I’ll create as much chaos with you as you can handle.”

She turned to face him, his hands still caressing her nipples through the lace of her bra. Leaning closer to him, she brushed her lips along his jaw as she threaded her fingers through his hair. “I want more.”

“You’ll have it.” He removed his hands from underneath her shirt. “I promise.”

***All books in the Pleasure Inn series stand alone but if you’d like to see how it all began check out Master of the Inn.

Buy Links:   Amazon       Barnes and Noble

About the Author:

Ella Jade has been writing for as long as she can remember. As a child, she often had a notebook and pen with her, and now as an adult, the laptop is never far. The plots and dialogue have always played out in her head, but she never knew what to do with them. That all changed when she discovered the eBook industry. She started penning novels at a rapid pace and now she can't be stopped.

Ella resides in New Jersey with her husband and two young boys. When she's not chasing after her kids, she's busy writing, attending PTO meetings, kickboxing, and scrapbooking. She hopes you'll get lost in her words.

Connect with the Author:     Site     Facebook Author Page      Twitter

Wednesday, 15 May 2013

Guest Blog: Queen of Jastain by Kary Rader

Queen of Jastain
Book One in the Reign of Light Series
Kary Rader

For twenty years, Avant plotted revenge against the dark king, but when a mysterious woman suddenly appears, everything changes. Although his prophetic Gift reveals she's the Seed of Light chosen to restore the Crown, his overwhelming attraction to the women threatens his long-held plan for revenge and two decades of fidelity.

Abby Randall is inexplicably transported from Dallas to the medieval land of Jastain. There she meets Avant, who claims she's the foretold champion of his people. While the hot guy has her hormones pumping, his crazy talk of defeating an evil king leaves questions to his sanity. Through his supernatural Gift, Avant transplants his memories into her, but neither are prepared for how their hearts intertwine.

Together they embark on their quest, but when Abby and Avant come face to face with destiny, will they sacrifice what matters most to provide a happily-ever-after for the people of Jastain?

The Opposite of Love
By Kary Rader

Thank you for having me on your blog today!

I want to tax your brain (just a little) with my philosophical ramblings. Can anyone tell me the opposite of Love?
I bet, for most of you, the word hate popped into your mind. At first glance, that seems a solid answer. Love vs. Hate. It’s a logical juxtaposition in our culture. Certainly Love does combat Hate, but not elementally. Not at its deepest root, because hate at its deepest root…at its seed isn’t hate. It’s something much more sinister.
I’d like to adjust your thinking a bit and submit another alternative—one I believe is more accurate. Fear.
Fear is the elemental beginning of hate, as well as a host of other bad karma things.
In Genesis Chapter 3, the first thing that happened in the Garden of Eden after Adam and Eve ate the apple was an awareness that they were naked, vulnerable, without protection. They became afraid.
Fear is the root of our insecurities, unkindness, hate, jealousy, greed, etc… These things are just symptoms of the bigger issue—fear. If fear can be eliminated, the other things will disappear.
So, how can we get rid of fear?
Love is the answer

I John 4:18 says  There is no fear in love. But perfect love drives out fear, because fear has to do with punishment. The one who fears is not made perfect in love. (NIV)
Now, I want to be clear, we only have control over ourselves. The acts of others may or may not change when we show love, but internally, we can change how we respond to unkindness and injustice, hate and fear. When you can identify the source of your own fear you can change your attitude and your outcome with the help of Love. Then you can change the world.
Cliché as it sounds—Love really is the answer.

Authors Bio:

Kary Rader is a stay-at-home mother of three, avid reader and slave to the characters and worlds inside her head.
Always creative, she's drawn to stories with fantastical worlds and creatures. With a little bit of magic and divine guidance, there isn't anything that can't be accomplished with words. It's the power of words that creates and destroys.
Vanquishing evil and injustice while finding eternal love in the process is all in a day's work. And with the help of her critique partners and master cartographer imaginary places come to life.

When Avant climbed back to the cave, his hair was wet. He'd slicked it back from his face and tied it into a little ponytail with a leather string. The sexy shadow of a light beard softened his angular jaw, and the thick waves of his hair shined with chestnut highlights in the morning sun. It was a good look for him, but then again, what wasn’t? Abby ran her fingers through her own tangled tresses and pulled her hair back. What she wouldn't give for a hairclip.
Would you like a thong for your hair?”
She giggled at the word thong, certain that what she pictured was not what he referenced. “Do you have an extra one? I’d like to get it out of my face, and I don’t have anything.” Actually she had her own thong, but she sure as hell wasn't putting it in her hair.
He immediately unlaced the tie at the neck of his shirt and handed it to her.
She gasped and put a hand to her face to hide the heat in her cheeks as his shirt fell open below his breast bone. “You don’t have to do that.”
Her blood coursed wildly at the sight of the smooth muscles of his chest. A soft sprinkling of dark hair beckoned her fingers. She swallowed hard.
 “It’s all right. Please use it. It will be a hard day’s journey with hair in your face.” His words rang in her mind so sincerely she forgot her embarrassment, but her eyes kept flitting to his heavenly chest.
Thank you, Avant, and not only for the lace but for everything you're doing to help me.
Holding her gaze, he nodded once, and her heart fluttered. Was it getting warm in the cave? She wiped the beads of sweat from her forehead.
 “It is time to be off if we are to make it to the next shelter before nightfall.” He picked up his pack and walked to the mouth of the cave. She grabbed her bag and followed.
Climbing down proved to be more difficult than going up. The muscles required to lower herself from one level to the next worked her thighs and butt like no gym equipment she'd ever experienced. It was like doing hours of squats. She trudged down the mountain with the previous day's tumult weighting her down like the “freshman ten.” Avant helped her along on the steeper steps, but, for the most part, she made them on her own, clippity-clopping in those damned Docinis all the way.
When he reached the bottom, he disappeared around an outcropping. Abby took the last little step to the base and hurried after him. As she turned the corner, Avant grabbed her arm and spun her around. Driving her back against the rock, he pressed the length of his rigid body against her. His face, barely three inches from hers, clenched in thin lines of stress. Her heart raced…with fear.
She was pretty sure it was fear.