Read an excerpt from Hiding by Jenny Morton Potts

Keller Baye and Rebecca Brown live on different sides of the Atlantic. Until she falls in love with him, Rebecca knows nothing of Keller. But he’s known about her for a very long time, and now he wants to destroy her.

This is the story of two families. One living under the threat of execution in North Carolina. The other caught up in a dark mystery in the Scottish Highlands. The families’ paths are destined to cross. But why? And can anything save them when that happens?

Excerpt

Chapter 3

The Birthday Party

(as the mystery surrounding Taransay and the death of their parents mounts, the children begin to take matters into their own hands)

After the appalling start to Rebecca’s 10th birthday at the breakfast table, her hopes rallied when she found a cake in the fridge. Colette must have baked it. And though as Austen often declared, Colette must be the idlest of girls, she did make exceedingly good cakes. On the occasions Colette made a cake, and Austen was at home, he would call her ‘Kipling’ for the entire day. Colette seemed to like this and since she and Austen did not get on at all otherwise, everyone brightened when the smell of Colette’s baking rose from the kitchen. And now there it was in the fridge, a glorious gateau, with the light shining upon it. Gosh, it looked amazing. Rebecca felt a sudden surge of love for her big sister.

Colette never ate even a morsel of cake herself, since she was always aiming for the kind of body weight where your bones clacked together. But she loved to make them, to set them on a table and pace around them, to be praised copiously for her genius and selfless commitment. This cake was chocolate, with creamy filling and snowy icing and red writing, with a new number atop and Rebecca’s name in extravagant swirls over the crown: Ten Today Rebecca!

At 4.00pm, as was customary for such events, the family were all seated in the high-ceilinged dining room. Rebecca’s tummy turned over, like a pancake was getting flipped in there. She didn’t settle her eyes on any of her party companions but gazed around the walls at the hunting scenes and seascapes. Where had they come from, these enormous oil paintings in their gilt frames? Who had lived here before? Why did they put metal bars on all the downstairs windows?

‘Stop your gawping, birthday girl.’ Primmy said but with almost a smile. ‘Or if you must gawp, gawp at that.’ She pointed to Colette’s wonderful cake in the centre of the grand table.

Colette herself pushed back her chair and stood up. ‘I have something important I want to discuss.’

‘Oh God, another one.’ Primmy squirmed with discomfort.

Ralph’s expression was open. Austen’s face was highly amused. And Rebecca’s inquisitive nose almost twitched; indeed she was so curious to hear what her sister was going to say next that she forgot to be annoyed at having her birthday thunder stolen.

Colette took a deep breath. ‘Thing is, the actual thing is, this house is going to rack and ruin.’

Austen sniggered. Without even looking, Rebecca knew that her brother’s mouth would have taken on that twisted sneer and she knew also that her sister’s treacherous stammer would take full advantage of Austen’s mocking.

Colette cleared her throat. ‘I’d expect nothing less from you, Austen. But you don’t really have to live here, d-d-do you. Oh yeah, you come by, in the holidays, or for the odd occasion. Like t-t-today. When you know the grub’ll be d-d-decent. But the rest of us, we four…’

Austen burst out laughing. ‘Fuck me, it’s the grand orator.’

Primmy picked up her napkin from her plate and threw it across the table like a gauntlet. ‘How dare you use that kind of language in front of your Grandfather and I. How dare you!’

Rebecca ground her elbows into the dining table. The cloth moved as she huffed and puffed with distress. She’d been hoping they could have used the whole length of the table but as usual, they were huddled down at one end, near the fire. The dining table was covered with enormous pads to protect the wood. What was the point of its grandeur if you were never to see it? The French polisher had come a few months ago but as soon as he’d finished treating the mahogany, it was hastily covered again. Perhaps it was like a Greek myth and its glossy surface couldn’t be looked upon, or you’d be blinded. Rebecca scratched at the eczema in the crook of her arms.

‘Don’t!’ Primmy Brown fixed her stare on Rebecca.

‘What did I do?’ Rebecca could feel the flaking skin under her finger nails and put her hands in her lap.

Colette wasn’t finished with them yet. Normally, this level of tension would have got the better of Colette Brown. She had a sort of lock gate emotional release. When sadness or injustice rose too high, it all sluiced through. Her younger sister generally found it safer to stand back a little when Colette reached this flashpoint but today, she seemed to be holding it together. Colette laid her palms on the table and looked desperate. ‘We’re not managing. Are we? Well, are we?’

‘Hey. Are you wearing lipstick?’

‘Oh shut up, Rebecca. For a minute.’

‘It’s my birthday.’

‘Well, duh, this we know. Look, all I am t-t-trying to say is that we have to… we’re going to have to b-b-buckle down. We can’t just accept things. Not as they are. We’re… not pathetic, but like that.’ Colette looked at her brother.

‘We’re apathetic, Kipling.’

‘Yes, thank you Austen. We’re apathetic. And I don’t want us to be. I want us to make an effort. I want us to fix up this house. There, that, for a start, we never call it Taransay. But that’s its name. We treat the house with d-d-d, with dis-dis…’

‘With disdain, Kipling.’

‘Yes. Like we don’t care about it. I mean Austen calls it The Orphanage. Like it’s all a big joke. But I don’t think it’s funny.’

‘I don’t either. It isn’t funny.’ Rebecca looked down at her empty plate.

Primmy closed her eyes and spoke in her medium at a séance voice. ‘Once upon a time there were three little orphans who lived with their wicked grandparents in a creaky old house by the sea. Taransay.’

Ralph Brown didn’t like his wife’s sinister tone and steered them back towards debate. ‘Insofar as a house really has a name. It’s just something plucked from somewhere. An idea that—’

‘You see, Grandad, that’s exactly the kind of thing I’m talking about. You’re d-d-d.. deh, deh, den…’ Colette looked at Austen once more.

‘You’re denigrating the idea. You’re putting her down, Ralph. She’s had enough. And look at Rebecca, bless her. She’s about to explode. I fear for the crockery.

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About the Author

Jenny is a novelist, screenplay writer and playwright. After a series of 'proper jobs', she realised she was living someone else's life and escaped to Gascony to make gîtes. Knee deep in cement and pregnant, Jenny was happy. Then autism and a distracted spine surgeon wiped out the order. Returned to wonderful England, to write her socks off.

Jenny would like to see the Northern Lights but worries that’s the best bit and should be saved till last. Very happily, and gratefully, settled with family.

She tries not to take herself too seriously.

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Read and excerpt from Sons of Gods by Arthur J. Gonzalez

Long ago, the wrath of the three God brothers marked the onset of the Great War. The other Gods watched in horror, until they, too, were forced to take sides. Their beloved Mt Olympus collapsed, ruin was brought to all Divine, and the Age of Darkness gripped the world in its clutches. But a group of Gods was wise, and before their impending deaths, they had crafted a pact, committing to one day rebuilding the Territories – the Heavens, Seas, and the Underworld. It would usher in the world they protected and honored out from its darkness. And from it would rise the new Greats: the Sons of Gods.

Cienzo has always had an affliction for metal and fire; never did he anticipate it would one day translate to wielding dormant powers. It is during a journey to fulfill a promise to his dying sister, that he is plunged into a dark and magical world, and where great responsibility is bestowed upon him.

Is he worthy of assuming the throne of the Territories? Can shattering steel and splitting fire change his mind?

Excerpt

“Cal,” he said softly. “Trust me.”

Caleseus glared into Cienzo’s eyes. There was a small glimmer of something he had never seen before in them. The trip had surprised everyone, even Caleseus, a creature that had survived a world of extinct enchantment. But even this reality was incredibly untouchable for anyone’s imagination to conjure. Something grand was happening, Caleseus could feel it too.

“I did not see what your eyes did,” Caleseus continued. “But I promised Kayana to look after you. For me to do so, I must trust you. You have my word.”

Cienzo gave a nod. Caleseus nodded back, a slight bend in his step. And in that small moment, a world of understanding had been exchanged between the two. Cienzo sensed it at his core. Cal no longer accompanied him for the sake of Kayana. He might say so, but his earlier hesitation had been replaced, swapped by the belief that something great waited to expose itself. The world was changing, and together, they would encounter it.

“Now that that’s settled,” Zendaya said, gesturing for Cienzo to climb aboard Phobos. “Can we get on?”

Cienzo climbed Phobos’s back, grappling the jutting skin of the beast to pull himself upward. He flopped onto the velvet-cushioned seats. His heart raced as he strapped himself in. I’m about to take flight. His fingers trembled. What would it feel like? Never had he thought it a possibility to travel by air and not by land.

What else had he missed out on? The possibilities seemed inestimable.

Zendaya took her place beside him. She did not waste time strapping herself in. A sign of adeptness. Cienzo moved the same way around metal and fire. “Ready?” she asked.

He blew out a breath. “As ready as I’ll ever be.”

“Our adventure begins.” She leaned forward and petted Phobos’s neck. The creature let out a moaning growl. “Let us fly,” she said. “Our time is now.”

Phobos’s wings launched outward like giant sails on a ship; so vast and dominating they veiled the view of the mammoth, frosted willow. She flapped lightly until they hovered just slightly in the air; the braided chain of the metal hung from her neck as it tugged on the cabin that held the centaur and the nymph. Then Phobos clenched her razor talons around the outcropped handle of the cabin’s domed roof and whisked them into the air as one would a pail of water.

Phobos plunged skyward toward the glittering moon. The beating, cold wind of flight tickled at Cienzo’s skin. A new sensation for his senses to query, for wind was an absent thing in Thilos. The pillow clouds broke away against the angles of his face; the collisions turning them to dust in the night.

He looked down as they soared over the crown of Thilos. The sinkhole swirled less furiously, the giant net sparkling against the moonlight like its own constellation.

The flames of firelight from the rescued houseboats flickered below them. The higher they ascended, the more a sense of freedom swelled in his chest. It was a feeling of invincibility, of infiniteness. He felt an air of the God that Zendaya claimed him to be.

Everything at this altitude was peaceful. Pain, he thought, was a disease of the land. He thought of Isla then and how much she would have enjoyed this adventure. In the sky, the moon offered tranquility, a melody to soothe away worry. Out in the deep distance, the Forcaian Mountains skewed the steamrolled horizon. Stars continued their tango around its peaks.

The Sea of Air blanketed the borders of Thilos and foaming waves fed the coastlines. From here, even the dangerous ocean seemed harmless and docile, as it was once made to be.

Zendaya eyed Cienzo as he inhaled the skies. His hair wildly slapped at the clouds. He felt her stare and turned his face. I probably look like a child. Eyes opening to a world that is only just unraveling around me. A deep longing shifted within him and his mind scrambled for peace.

“You think too much,” she said, the wind pummeling at her words. Her eyes remained unwavering. “The Skies will forever be yours to marvel over. For now, you should rest. Soon we will arrive.”

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About the Author

Arthur J. Gonzalez is a Young Adult author of the Photo Traveler series. Originally born in Miami, FL, you can now find him living on the West side in Los Angeles. If he’s not drinking coffee or playing with his adorable Schnoodle, Sookie, then he’s probably enjoying a nap. Also, he forgets the lyrics to nearly every song.

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Read an excerpt from Such Dark Things by Courtney Evan Tate

From New York Times bestseller Courtney Cole, writing as Courtney Evan Tate, comes the psychological thriller that will keep readers up turning pages long into the night, SUCH DARK THINGS! "Written in breathless style, this page-turner relies on quick thrills, surprise twists...[for] readers seeking a fast entertaining tale..."(Publishers Weekly).Grab your copy of SUCH DARK THINGS today!

A HORRIFIC RECURRING NIGHTMARE IS THREATENING TO STEAL HER SANITY…

Dr. Corinne Cabot is living the American dream. She’s a successful ER physician in Chicago who’s married to a handsome husband. Together they live in a charming house in the suburbs. But appearances can be deceiving—and what no one can see is Corinne’s dark past. Troubling gaps in her memory mean she recalls little about a haunting event in her life years ago that changed everything.

She remembers only being in the house the night two people were found murdered. Her father was there, too. Now her father is in prison; she hasn’t been in contact in years. Repressing that terrifying memory has caused Corinne moments of paranoia and panic. Sometimes she thinks she sees things that aren’t there, hears words that haven’t been spoken. Or have they? She fears she may be losing her mind, unable to determine what’s real and what’s not.

So when she senses her husband’s growing distance, she thinks she’s imagining things. She writes her suspicions off to fatigue, overwork, anything to explain what she can’t accept—that her life really isn’t what it seems.

Excerpt

I miss you. I hate this place.

The text is from my wife.

My head falls back on the pillows, my hand grazing the empty side of the bed. The sheets there are cold. Corinne should be there next to me, her breath even and strong, her hair splayed out on the pillow, her warmth leaching into my body.

But she’s not.

I don’t know how she got access to her phone.

I miss you, too, babe, I answer. Um. How do you have your phone? Isn’t that against the rules?

They aren’t supposed to use their cellphones at Reflections since the devices are considered a distraction from treatment. As a therapist myself, I can’t say I disagree with that theory.

I had a bad night, so the day nurse is giving me 5 min to chat with you.

My gut contracts at that, at the notion that she has to get “permission” to talk with me, and once again I wonder if we’re doing the right thing. If I’m doing the right thing. I pushed hard for her to admit herself, so that I wouldn’t have to do it against her will.

But the idea of Corinne in a mental hospital kills me.

Are you ok now? I ask.

Her answer is immediate. Not really. I’m ready to come home.

She adds a smiley face, but I know she’s not feeling smiley. No one in her situation would.

It’ll be ok, I assure her again, as I have four thousand other times this week. I promise.

I’ll take your word for it, she replies, and if I concentrate, I can almost see the wry expression on her face as she types. Her blue eyes will be wide, her brow furrowed. I smile. I love you, Ju.

I love you, too.

I gotta go, she tells me. My five minutes are up. See you Saturday?

Yes! I answer. I’ll be there.

Who would’ve ever thought I’d have to schedule a visit to my wife within a two-hour visiting window? Not me. Not her. In fact, not anyone who knows us.

But it’s our reality.

I burrow my head under my pillow, as though if I tunnel far enough into my bed, this new reality will escape me. It doesn’t, though. The image of finding my wife the way I did, in a pool of blood and insanity, will stay with me for the rest of my life.

I’ll never be able to un-see it.

My dog whines two minutes later, saving me from the memory, her bladder having shrunk with her old age.

“Just a minute, girl,” I mumble. “Give me a few minutes.”

She can’t wait, though, and I eventually haul myself out of bed, trudging out into the October cold, opening the back door.

Artie ambles out and relieves herself, taking her time. She sniffs at this and that, and I know she can’t see what she’s doing. Her eyes are cloudy with cataracts, and she can’t hear a thing.

“Come on, girl,” I call to her, loudly, shivering. “Get in here. It’s cold.”

When she’s good and ready, she returns to the house, and after I feed her breakfast, I throw some clothes on. I go running every morning. It used to be for fitness reasons only, but now it is also to relieve stress.

Lord knows, these days I’ve got an excess amount of that.

I run my normal route, through the running trails at the park, through the trees. I can see my breath and my shoes crunch through the dead leaves drifted into piles on the ground. One foot in front of the other, pounding down the path, because this is something I can control. I can run and run and run, until all thoughts evade me, pushed out of my brain by the simple and basal need for oxygen. The need to breathe.

The human body is interesting in that way. It will allow your mind to play its games, right up to the point where the basic need to live overtakes all else. My lungs burn more and more. I ignore it as long as I can.

It’s only when they feel about to burst that I finally stop, my hands on my knees as I pull air into my lungs. It takes several long minutes of thinking about nothing but breathing before I come back to the present.

Back to reality.

The Chicago traffic hums in the distance, as people race to work, but I’m removed from it here. This park is secluded and quiet, tranquil and removed. It’s a nature reserve, and if you close your eyes, you truly feel like you’re alone in the middle of nowhere.

Until a twig behind me snaps.

Startled, I whirl around.

I scan the tree line and the moving limbs, and there’s not another human soul here. The wind blows and bites at my face, and there’s nothing out there but the sun rising in the distance.

I’m alone, as I always am on this trail at this hour.

No one is here, and Corinne’s paranoia has affected me.

I wasn’t alone, Jude! she’d told me, babbling until she lost consciousness in the ambulance. I wasn’t alone.

But everyone knows she was. The alarm hadn’t been tripped. No one had broken in. It’s understandable why she’s paranoid, after living through what she did so long ago, but the fact remains, she has grown paranoid.

She had been alone that night.

Just as I’m alone now.

Jesus, Jude, I mutter to myself, and I take long steps, jogging toward home, even now fighting the urge to glance over my shoulder. I’m being a dumbass. I take the porch steps two at a time.

My house is a mausoleum without my wife, enormous and quiet, and I hate it. I didn’t get married for this.

I’m resentful of my own thoughts as I shower and shave, the fog steaming up the bathroom mirrors. Corinne isn’t here to remind me to turn on the exhaust fan, so I don’t.

With her gone, I do everything as I always would. Something in my head tells me not to change anything, because to change things while she’s gone might set her back.

I don’t know if it’s true, but I’m not going to chance it.

I let the bathroom steam up.

None of this is Corinne’s fault. The very fleeting resentful thought that I had just means I’m a selfish bastard. I’m in a beautiful home in the suburbs, and my wife is in a psych ward. Even worse, I pray every day that she won’t remember everything that put her there.

Because I’m a prick.

I feel like even more of a prick when my phone dings a second later and the woman who sent the text is not my wife.

You doing ok? I miss you.

Guilt billows through me like storm clouds, through my gut into my chest. So much of this is her fault, this woman who isn’t my wife, and while I should stay far, far away from her, I can’t. For so many complicated reasons, I can’t.

I sigh as I head out the door to start my day.

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About the Author

Courtney Evan Tate is the nom de plume for New York Times bestselling author, Courtney Cole.  Courtney Evan Tate is her darker side... the side that explores shadowy places. 

Courtney lives in Florida with her husband and kids.  She has a passion for raising drug addiction awareness, the Marine Corp (her middle son is a Marine) and being introspective on the human condition. 

To learn more about her, you can visit www.courtneycolewrites.com. 

Read an excerpt from Come Home to Me by Liz Talley

Message From Rhett Bryan, the Hero from Come Home To Me

Hello and welcome. Most of you may know me as Rhett Bryan, host of Late Night in LA with Rhett Bryan, but you may be surprised to know that I’m not a Hollywood native. I know, I know, I do all those commercials for the California tourism guys and spend way too much time eating fish tacos on the beach, but I actually grew up a small-town Southern boy in coastal South Carolina. So, yeah, beaches, but they were different. There were no rocks – just tons of driftwood and marshes butting up to the sand beaches. My hometown – Moonlight – was on the bay and it was pretty much quintessential small town USA. I played baseball in high school. I was a catcher which is probably why my knees hate me some mornings, and I, no kidding, dated the prom queen. So throw all your stereotypes at me. I lived with my Grampy Pete on a small island – there are groupings of islands on the South Carolina coast – and I learned to love the water and all the things in it. I was a decent student and had lots of good friends. I struggled in Calculus and so the smartest girl in our class tutored me. I really liked Summer – she was cool. But something happened to her on prom night, something that still bothers me when I think about it. So like most people from small Southern towns, there are memories that haunt me. I guess Summer Valentine is one of those ghosts. 

About the Book

Summer Valentine has returned to Moonlight, South Carolina, a very different woman from the naive wallflower who left years before. These days she’s straightforward and savvy, determined to do right by her son, David, even if that means cashing in her struggling music career in Nashville and returning to the town that drove her away. Sure, she took a fall. But at least she now knows where she stands . . .

Despite her anger over the past, Summer believes David deserves a relationship with his father, Hunter “Hunt” McCroy. Though Hunt’s illustrious career has faded, privilege still protects him from his worst mistakes.

Someone else is back in Moonlight too: Rhett Bryan, the golden boy of Hollywood, who’s taking stock of his own life after a tragic accident. As his rekindled friendship with Summer quickly deepens, she must reconcile the painful history that ties her to both men—one she’s finally forgiven, one she’s afraid to love—to claim healing and happiness.

Excerpt From Come Home To Me

“Pass me that spool of ivory satin,” Summer said, pinching the base of the orchids she was making into a corsage. She hated making corsages because they took an enormous amount of time for such a small reward. Summer much preferred helping her sister to create big, lush bouquets designed to grace pulpits or casket tops.

“So what’s he like?” Maisie asked, jabbing a wire between her lips and tossing the spool toward her older sister.

“Who?”

“You know damned well who,” Maisie muttered around the floral wire.

“Rhett? Oh, he’s fine.”

“I’ll say,” Maisie said, managing a smile around the wire. Or she had gas.

Maisie took the wire and wrapped it around the base of a white rose. Summer hated white roses. They made her think of death.

Summer’s sister may have been seven years her younger, but she didn’t look it. The recent divorce had weighed heavy on Maisie, and the young mother looked tired and worn. Which was why Summer was quick to pitch in when Maisie needed help. Her sister had someone who ran the front of the shop and handled deliveries, but when there were multiple big events like homecoming or a large funeral, she needed an extra set of hands. Summer wasn’t necessarily talented at creating floral displays, but she could trim stems and make bows.

“He’s not like he is on television,” Summer said, not wanting to talk about Rhett, mostly because, like years before, she couldn’t seem to get him out of her mind, but if she avoided the fact that late night’s favorite son was staying next door, Maisie would be suspicious.

Yeah, he’d been on her mind too much. So what?

Lord, the sadness in his eyes haunted her, and, God help her, she wanted to make that better for him. Problem was, she didn’t know how, and she had no right to want anything when it came to Rhett. She’d learned that long ago. There had been something between them even back then, but it was not romantic in nature. More of an understanding, an acknowledgement that each could see through the bullshit life shoveled their way. Had nothing to do with the erratic beating of hearts or breathless kisses … at least not on Rhett’s behalf. “I mean, he’s charming and funny, but he’s not dazzling. Eh, I take that back. He’s dazzling but real. That’s it. Rhett’s still a golden boy, but not so shiny you can’t look at him.”

“Wow, you’ve really thought about this,” Maisie said, tossing a quizzical glance her way.

Crap. She’d overshared, and now Maisie might glimpse the former longing that had made a strong comeback. Fine. She could admit it to herself—she’d never really gotten over the crush on Rhett. He had always been her ideal, but she was also reasonable enough to understand that she’d built Rhett up in her head. Sure, he was a good guy and a Hollywood celebrity, but he was just a guy. He scratched himself, forgot to recycle, and probably didn’t tip the bag boy at the grocery. Everyone had flaws. “No. I’m just saying.”

“‘I’m just saying’ is everyone’s cop-out when they don’t want to admit something.”

“You sound like a therapist.”

“That’s because I’m seeing one,” Maisie said with a grin. She then jabbed the rose into the large spray, making it look somehow perfect. Summer’s sister was definitely talented and had become the go-to florist in town. There were a few other florists, but none had as artistic an eye as Maisie. “Can you date your therapist? ’Cause I think Dr. Weaver is really doing it for me.”

“I think that’s against some law or something.”

“Damn.”

“Let’s talk about Rhett Bryan some more. And that giant torch for him you’re toting around.”

Bull’s-eye.

How did Maisie know? She thought she’d gotten better at hiding the longing for Rhett. “I don’t have a torch for him. And if I did, who cares? Half of America has a thing for him. He’s cute.”

“But it’s more than that for you. I mean, Nessa once told me you were totally in love with him in high school.”

“I had a crush on him in high school. So did every other girl. And when did you see Nessa?”

“She came home a few weekends ago. You had a gig in Columbia, remember? She’s doing good. Nominated for preschool teacher of the year in her district, and her twin girls are so cute.”

“I missed Agnes and Bess?” Nessa lived in Charleston and came home a few times a month to see her parents. She and Summer’s sister had become good friends when Maisie lived in Charleston while Brad was in school. That they both had a set of twins bonded them even further.

“Don’t try to change the subject. I’m just saying every time I bring up Rhett’s name, I can tell. You’re still into him,” Maisie said.

“Fine. Once upon a time, I had a thing for him. But that torch has been extinguished. What you’re sensing right now isn’t about having a thing for Rhett. It’s just he’s an easy guy to like, and we’ve always been friends.”

“Okay, I believe you.” Maisie lifted a thin shoulder and flattened her mouth. “But if the opportunity arises go for it. Those Hollywood types sleep with anyone, right?”

“Thanks.” Nothing like being “anyone” to a man.

“You know what I mean. You won’t have to worry about, you know, him bringing emotion into the equation.”

“I’m pretty sure everyone feels emotion, even celebrities.” Summer turned toward the collection of blooms resting in metal buckets and selected a pale-pink flower to bring depth to the rose. She didn’t want to have this conversation, mostly because Rhett tempted her in ways she couldn’t explain. The rational part of her knew there was no way Rhett would see her in such a light, and even if he did, having sex, letting herself fall back into love with him, would leave her with nothing but a memory. Somehow having Rhett and then losing him would be worse than never having him at all.

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About the Author

A finalist for both the Romance Writers of America’s prestigious Golden Heart and RITA Awards, Liz Talley has found a home writing heartwarming contemporary romance. Her stories are set in the South, where the tea is sweet, the summers are hot, and the porches are wide. Liz lives in North Louisiana with her childhood sweetheart, two handsome children, three dogs, and a naughty kitty. Readers can visit Liz at www.liztalleybooks.com to learn more about her upcoming novels.

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Spotlight: Before Daylight by Andie J. Christopher

Genre: Contemporary Romance
Release Date: April 17, 2018

Perfect Strangers 

Ballerina Laura Delgado is just one solo away from a dream job with the New York City Ballet.  Then a drunken pas de deux at her cousin’s wedding results in the one thing she never wanted—a husband. TV producer Charlie Laughlin may be deliciously kissable, but she needs him offstage now, and out of her life.  

Perfect Disaster

Charlie’s ready for marriage and kids, and on the lookout for just the right woman. Laura doesn’t fit the bill at all—but Charlie can’t stop thinking about the sultry way they moved together. And he can’t help but wonder if he can change the gorgeous dancer’s mind about leaving Miami with heated kisses that promise as much as they demand . . .

Perfect Partners 

Annulling their sham marriage is all Laura wants—until she gets to New York and realizes that leaving Charlie behind is easier said than done. Can a relationship that began as a hot mistake become the kind of love that will last forever?

Excerpt

Stock still, Laura Delgado stared at her Grandpa Rogelio with her mouth open. All the oxygen and all good sense in the universe had been sucked out of the room. Her dressing room had turned into the upside-down. Then, her knees gave out, and she dropped to the couch without meaning to.

Married!? My what!? The word husband echoed over and over in Laura’s head. The two syllables sounded foreign and hostile. The disjointed—and altogether frightening—sounds reminded her of a Russian ballet master she’d once studied with. He’d thwacked her with a violin bow when she missed a step. The bow was less painful than the idea that she was actually married.

In her mind, marriage had always equaled death—a slow, painful, wasting disease suffered while handcuffed to the cause of death. And she’d just found out that she was terminal.

“Unless we get his signature, I can’t file your taxes.” Two days from the deadline. Her grandfather had the audacity to smirk at her as though he found this situation funny. He thought the fact that she was married and only found out about it...funny. If she didn’t love her Grandpa Rogelio so much, she would be tempted to punch him in his still-handsome face. But, given that he was her favorite relative and he’d done her taxes without incident since she got her first paycheck from the company at eighteen, she just clenched her jaw.

And to make things even worse than the mere fact that she was married was the guy she was married to. Charlie Fucking Laughlin. With his artfully scruffy beard, his too-long hair, and naughty-looking mouth. He was smooth-talking and smug. Everyone loved him because he was so nice, but no one was that nice. Laura didn’t like nice. Didn’t trust nice. And now, nice-Charlie Laughlin was allegedly her husband.

She’d never intended to get married, and she certainly didn’t picture ever ending up with someone like Charlie. He was too much everything—too handsome, too tall, and too sexy. By the time she was fourteen, right before she’d left home to join the ballet, she’d decided that she wanted nothing to do with marriage. Her parents had screwed it up enough to put her off the institution entirely.

There was no way she was going to end up tethered to someone like her father. Unlike her father, Charlie had a sense of humor, but he had the same charisma that her father used to try to control everyone around him. No way she was about to give herself no escape but the bottom of a pill bottle. Even though Charlie wasn’t an emotionally abusive dick bag, he would end up trying to control her—he would want more of her than she could give.

How many Mai Tais—and how much tequila—had she had to drink? The only way she would have gotten married was if she’d been bombed out of her mind—or if he’d tied her up and dragged her down the aisle. But that would have left a mark.

If she had been on her guard, acting like herself, this never would have happened.

Images of a pink beach and matching pink drinks flooded her consciousness. The soft caress of the Indonesian breeze, the fuzzy joy at seeing her cousin, Carla, joyfully happy on her wedding day, and her disquiet at how much she didn’t miss dancing during the three months she was out of commission from a groin injury slammed into her mind from the recesses of her memory. Since returning to the ballet, she’d stuffed thoughts of that night down so far that they exploded back like matter packed too densely in space.

But, every so often, her mind drifted to kissing Charlie at sunset, away from the crowd. It was the craziest thing she’d ever done—kissing a stranger. She couldn’t get the feeling of his lips on hers out of her head. It was as though he’d stamped an impression on her, an invisible tattoo of his effect on her. Her entire life up until that point had been about discipline, training, dieting, and taking in criticism. She’d been a changeling at the behest of everyone in her life, and she knew that she could never let anyone know what was underneath her exterior. But there was something about the way he’d looked at her that had penetrated the wall she’d built around herself to avoid the pain of feeling she was never quite good enough, never quite the best. The feeling of his gaze on her skin—the feeling of him really looking at her—lingered along with the imprint of his mouth.

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About the Author

USA Today Bestselling author Andie J. Christopher writes edgy, funny, sexy contemporary romance. She grew up in a family of voracious readers, and picked up her first Harlequin Romance novel at age twelve when she’d finished reading everything else in her grandmother’s house. It was love at first read. It wasn’t too long before she started writing her own stories — her first heroine drank Campari and wore a lot of Esprit.

Although, she set aside writing fiction for a while, her love of romance novels stayed with her through college, law school, and multiple cross-country moves. During one long East Coast winter, she decided writing a book would be a good excuse to avoid braving the elements. It was love at first write. Her heroes are dirty-talking alphas, and her heroines traded Esprit for Free People. (None of them would turn down a Campari, though.)

You can visit her online at the following places: Website | Facebook | Twitter | Goodreads | Amazon | BookBub | Instagram | Pinterest

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Spotlight: Eyes of the Tiger by Patricia Rosemoor

Eyes of the Tiger
Patricia Rosemoor
Publication date: April 19th 2018
Genres: Adult, Paranormal, Romance

Jewelry designer Gemma Hewitt has a gift. Gems and jewelry speak to her, which inspires her designs, and also sends her on dark adventures across the globe as she seeks out historic pieces. After her mother is brutally murdered, Gemma inherits her famed jeweled collar, which she hopes will lead her to see the face of her mother’s killer and bring him to justice. Instead, she’s thrown back to 1901 India where she sees the young woman about to be married with a pendant that matches her jeweled collar. When she’s hired to find the entire bridal suite, she hopes she can use the jewels to save her family’s fortune. Can she trust the handsome, enigmatic man who promises to help her on her quest, or is he the one she should be running from?

British reporter/photographer Raj Sinclair wants the bridal suite for his own reasons. Attracted to Gemma, he senses a connection with her as if he’s known her for a very long time. When danger stalks her, he will do anything to protect her.

The treasure hunt takes them to cities from the US to Britain to France, ending in India where the bridal suite is finally rejoined… and three reincarnated souls get another chance to make things right.

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EXCERPT:

Washington, DC

Finished with breakfast at a nearby café, Raj decided to return to the suite to freshen up and decide what else he could do before Gemma made that call to meet at the museum. He was surprised to learn she had gotten back to the hotel before him.

More surprised to hear her agonized wail as he opened the suite door.

“Gemma, what’s…”

His question died on his lips as he entered the living area, swinging the door shut behind him. Gemma was in the middle of the room, not standing, but crouching, arms up, as if trying to hold onto something invisible. Sobbing as if her heart would break.

He moved to her side, softly saying, “Hey, Gemma.”

She didn’t seem to hear him. Didn’t seem to know he was there. Words tore from her between sobs. Foreign. Hindi. He recognized the language from his childhood, even if he no longer understood what she was saying.

What in the world was happening to her?

She was wearing the hathphool…

He wanted to pull her up into his arms, but he feared that might panic her. So he crouched next to her, murmuring, “It’s okay, Gemma. I’m here now. You can talk to me, tell me what’s wrong.”

Somewhere in the middle of his coaxing, her sobs quieted and she seemed to regain presence. Looking at him through tear-swollen eyes, she focused and appeared a bit shocked to see him.

“Raj?”

Nodding, he stood. “C’mon, let me help you up.”

Taking the hand he offered, she wobbled to her feet but couldn’t look at him. He could almost hear her mind flying, searching for the one explanation he would believe. He led her to an upholstered chair, found a box of tissues and offered them to her. She grabbed a handful and mopped her face.

“Do you want to tell me what that was about?”

She didn’t hesitate. “No.”

“You weren’t yourself.”

She sat frozen, again not looking at him.

“You were very distressed. Not only crying but saying something that sounded like your heart was breaking.”

Finally, she asked, “What did I say?”

“Beats me. I’ve long forgotten much of the Hindi my grandfather taught me. You have no idea?”

“Not that I was speaking Hindi.”

“Tell me, Gemma. What’s going on with you?” He flicked a look at her hand. “Was it the hathphool? Does it have some mysterious power, as legend claims? Did it make you see something that upset you so?”

He didn’t think she was going to answer him. She removed the jewels from around her wrist, pulled off the ring, then looked around the room until her gaze settled on a table bearing a sandalwood box similar to the one that housed the jeweled collar. She started to pull herself from the chair, but he put a hand out to stop her.

“Let me.”

He fetched the box from the table and gave it to her. Her hands shook as she replaced the hathphool on the velvet interior before snapping it closed. Without a word, she passed it back to him. Setting it where he’d found it, Raj took the chair next to hers and reached out to cover her hand with his.

“Tell me, Gemma,” he said again. “Whatever happened to you… not good. If I’m going to protect you, I need to know from what.”

“Not this. You can’t protect me from this.”

“From what?”

Her jaw clenched and unclenched. She couldn’t avoid his question any longer. Her eyes held a mixture of fear and defiance. “The past. You can’t protect me from the past.”

Raj kept himself from visibly reacting. “What past?”

“What Shardul Nair’s magic has shown me.”

Her words made him tense.

She went on. “The life of a woman who lived during the British Raj.”

He somehow kept his voice even when he asked, “What woman?”

“A maharaja’s daughter named Mayura.”

Mayura! Raj started. He should have known. Maybe he had on some level. But he still had to process it as she opened up to him, the words pouring out of her without hesitation. Each piece of the bridal suite had warned Gemma of danger awaiting her. Yet each had let her enter Mayura’s world.

A world he lived in every time he lost himself in Harry’s journal. What the hell? Everything she told him synched with what he’d read. How was this possible without some kind of supernatural force being involved?

“I don’t know how I can keep doing this—finding the other jewels and testing them for more information—but I have to,” she said. “For my mother.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Don’t you see? It’s all coming together. It’s clear the murderer wants the jewels.” Gemma retreated as if she was seeing another reality. “The jewels keep giving me glimpses… I don’t know how to describe it… maybe into his dark soul. Madam Cybil said she saw me through the eyes of the tiger, that the jewels would help me do the same so that I would know how to use my power. I didn’t believe it at the time, but now… maybe it’s possible. And somehow, this Mayura is part of the equation. I saw her with the mangalsutra that bore the jewels of the Navagraha.”

Raj’s pulse thumped, the rhythm speeding up. The mangalsutra his grandfather had passed on to him along with Harry’s journal when he’d become obsessed with it. Should he tell her now?

“I don’t know how much more I can take.”

He took a deep breath. No, not now. When she was on a more even keel.

He couldn’t think of a way to explain without Gemma’s thinking the worst of him. He hadn’t told her up front because he’d begun the treasure hunt well before she had, and he’d been determined that nothing would stop him from seeing it through.

But then the connection with Gemma… the feeling he’d known her his whole life… had thrown him.

His goal hadn’t changed, no matter how strongly he was drawn to her. But Gemma intended to sell the collection to an entertainer! How could he resolve that? Seeing the collection put back together was not only an obsession, but a matter of family honor for him. That was his priority. Somehow, he had to make this go the way it was meant to. Hopefully, he would find a time… find a way to tell her everything.

But not now.

Later, when he was certain he could make her understand.

Author Bio:

New York Times and USA Today bestselling Author Patricia Rosemoor has written 100 novels for 8 publishers, has more than seven million books in print, and is fascinated with watching, reading and writing about "dangerous love." Patricia won a Golden Heart from Romance Writers of America and two Reviewers Choice and two Career Achievement Awards from RT BOOKreviews, and in her other life, she taught Popular Fiction and Suspense-Thriller Writing, credit courses at Columbia College Chicago.

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