Spotlight: Under a Storm-Swept Sky by Beth Anne Miller

An eighty-mile trek across the rugged, stunning beauty of Scotland’s Isle of Skye isn't something I imagined myself doing. Ever. This isn't a trail for beginners. And I'm not a hiker. 

But I have to finish it, even if it kills me. I have no choice.

With the ever-changing weather and relentless terrain, I’m in over my head.

Rory Sutherland, my guide on this adventure, is not happy. We clash with every mile, but we recognize a shared pain. Not only is the journey a struggle, but the tension between us is taut with unsaid words. And hope.

He’s broken. I’m damaged. Together, we’re about to make the perfect storm. 

Excerpt

Finally—finally—we reached the bottom of the path, emerging onto a pebbled beach. The others were already setting up their tents as far back from the shore as they could.

Rory gestured to a flattish spot with only a few pebbles. “You can set up here. Give a shout if you need anything.”

I set down my pack and rolled my shoulders, grateful to have the weight off me for the rest of the day. I undid the straps holding my tent and withdrew it from its sack, setting everything out in front of me.

I’d set up the tent before I left home. I’d watched YouTube videos on it, read the directions. I had this.

I reached into the tent bag for the directions. But they weren’t there. “What the hell?” I turned the bag inside-out. Nothing. I rummaged through my pack, messing up my meticulous packing job. But they weren’t there. I must have left them at home.

Okay, I could do this. It wasn’t rocket science. I unrolled the tent and spread it out flat, then picked up a pole and began working it through the narrow sleeve. So far, so good.

But when I got all the tent poles inserted and tried to stand it up, it caved in.

“Dammit! What am I doing wrong?”

“What are you doing wrong?” said Rory, looming over me with a frown on his face, like a teacher disappointed with his student. “Let me see.”

I couldn’t deal with him schooling me again. “No, it’s fine. I’ve got it.”

“Don’t be daft. Let me help you, or you’ll be sitting here all night trying to figure it out.”

“Then I guess it’s a good thing that I brought a flashlight with me, isn’t it?” I retorted. I knew I was being unreasonable—okay, bitchy—but it had been so mortifying to have him watch me struggle all day, and I didn’t want him to think I couldn’t do anything right.

He opened his mouth as if to shout at me, and then snapped it shut and closed his eyes for a moment.

I knew what he was doing—I’d done it myself often enough. “Are you counting to ten?” I hissed.

He opened his eyes, which were that same silvery color they’d been earlier when he’d yelled at Tommy. “Aye, I am,” he said, his accent rising to the surface. “Because I don’t know what the hell you’re tryin’ to prove. It’s been a long day, and you must be knackered. Why can’t you just let me help? You clearly don’t know what you’re doing.”

I stomped over to him. “Stop talking to me like I’m a child!”

His eyes flashed with anger. “Then stop goddamn acting like one and let me help you!”

“No!”

I could hear Carrie cackling, imagined her with a sack of popcorn, her head turning to one of us, then the other, as if she were watching a tennis match. But I couldn’t give in. Not now. “For the last time, I don’t want your help. I’ll set up my own damn tent.”

“Not tonight, you won’t.”

We spun to see Tommy standing beside my fully set-up tent, staring at us like we were both children.

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About Beth Anne Miller

Beth Anne Miller has a fascination for all things Scottish (including, but not limited to, men in kilts), which has influenced all her writing to date. Her first novel is a time travel called INTO THE SCOTTISH MIST; her second, A STAR TO STEER HER BY, has a Scottish hero; and her newest book, UNDER A STORM-SWEPT SKY, is set on the Isle of Skye, and was inspired by her own long-distance treks in Scotland. A native New Yorker, Beth Anne lives on Long Island and works in the publishing industry. She’s looking forward to her next trip to Scotland.

Connect: Facebook | Twitter: @1bethannemiller | Instagram: bethannemiller17 | Newsletter

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Spotlight: Redeeming the Pirate by Chloe Flowers

Redeeming the Pirate

by Chloe Flowers Pirates & Petticoats, #5 Publication Date: March 22, 2018 Genres: Adult, Historical, Romance, Standalone

AVAILABLE NOW FREE WITH KINDLE UNLIMITED!

Amazon: https://amzn.to/2HSgPsr>L (#FREE with #KU)

Paperback: https://amzn.to/2JeNWGh

SYNOPSIS:

He steals for the French crown. She heals for the Catholic church. He will heal her heart. She will steal his.

To complete a mission for the French crown, a former pirate must either commit treason or betray the woman he secretly loves. Betraying one sends him to the guillotine, the other straight to hell.

French Privateer, Captain Drago Gamponetti is given one final mission from his employer, the king of France: reclaim religious relics from a New Orleans cathedral and bring them back. Trouble begins when he’s forced by a mysterious, veiled, novitiate nun to swear on the Bible to protect the very items he was instructed to steal.

Worse, 60 British warships have amassed in Negril Bay, Jamaica, preparing to attack New Orleans. He must retrieve the relics before the British arrive and seize the city.

How will Drago complete his mission without failing his employer or breaking his vow and betraying the church and the woman who has stolen his heart?

Novitiate nun and healer, Eva Trudeau has secrets, and hides more than her face behind the veil. The convent has been her safe haven since she crawled, beaten and bloody, to its door nine years ago. When an old enemy re-surfaces and threatens to drag her back into the dark underworld from where she’d escaped, both she and her dark pirate captain stand to lose everything they’ve fought so hard to protect…including each other.

This series is about spirited, independent women and rakish bad boy pirates, wrapped up in women’s action and adventure sea stories. If you enjoy romantic action and adventure, action and action and adventure romance fiction, historical romance or women’s fiction, you’ll love the Pirates & Petticoats series.

ABOUT CHLOE FLOWERS

15% of Chloe’s profits go to the NATIONAL BREAST CANCER FOUNDATION.

On average, over 80% of their funds go to programs that directly support women through every step of the breast cancer journey.

Whether it’s dancing naked in a downpour at 3AM, zip-lining in a rainforest, or racing ponies, Chloe’s always looking for the next adventure.

Her pets have always been named after favorite characters or action heroes: Indiana, Luke, Gimli, Thelma, Rocket, Forrest, Al Giordino, Severus, Mushu, Mérida, Gibbs, Jack…Dead Pool (he’s a goldfish).

Chloe’s biggest fault is her apparent inability to say “no” whether it’s in response to a call for aid or a double-dog-dare to hike home through 30 acres of a snow-covered forest at midnight…during a full moon. It was early morning during said adventure when she came upon a group of sheriff’s deputies searching for a lost girl. So, of course she offered to help. Turns out, they were searching for her.

In addition to her addiction to adrenaline, she has a weakness for good red wine, dark chocolate and brown-eyed guys with beards, which is probably why she digs pirates and treasure hunters and writes about action and adventure, pirates and romance (which is the greatest adventure of all).

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Spotlight: Maid for Love by Marie Force

She made her bed, but she doesn’t have to sleep in it . . .
 
Single mom Maddie Chester is determined to leave her hometown of Gansett Island. For visitors, it’s a place for fun in the sun, but for Maddie it holds only bad memories and ugly rumors. Yet no sooner than she’s decided to leave Gansett behind, she’s knocked off her bike en route to her housekeeping job at McCarthy’s Gansett Island Hotel—by none other than Gansett’s “favorite son,” Mac McCarthy. 
 
Mac has returned to the Rhode Island beach town to help his father prepare to sell the family marina—and he has no intention of sticking around a minute longer than necessary. But when he realizes he’s badly injured Maddie, he knows he has to do the right thing. When Mac decides to help her heal and care for her young son, he discovers he just may be “maid” for love . . .

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About the Author

Marie Force is the New York Times bestselling author of contemporary romance, including the indie-published Gansett Island Series and the Fatal Series from Harlequin Books. In addition, she is the author of the Butler, Vermont Series, the Green Mountain Series and the erotic romance Quantum Series. In 2019, her new historical Gilded series from Kensington Books will debut with Duchess By Deception. 

All together, her books have sold 6.5 million copies worldwide, have been translated into more than a dozen languages and have appeared on the New York Times bestseller list many times. She is also a USA Today and Wall Street Journal bestseller, a Speigel bestseller in Germany, a frequent speaker and publishing workshop presenter as well as a publisher through her Jack’s House Publishing romance imprint. She is a two-time nominee for the Romance Writers of America’s RITA® award for romance fiction. 

Her goals in life are simple—to finish raising two happy, healthy, productive young adults, to keep writing books for as long as she possibly can and to never be on a flight that makes the news. 

Join Marie's mailing list for news about new books and upcoming appearances in your area. Follow her on Facebook, Twitter @marieforce and on Instagram. Join one of Marie's many reader groups. Contact Marie at marie@marieforce.com.

Spotlight: Iron Princess by Meghan March

He’s a mystery. An enigma.

His very identity is a secret buried beneath layers of deception.

He’s also an addiction I can’t shake. An attraction I can’t fight.

And then I found out exactly who he is—a man more dangerous than the devil himself.

Now I need him in order to save everything that matters to me.

I have to pull back. Protect myself from the danger that haunts his every step.

Which would be easy . . . if I could stop myself from falling in love with him.

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About the Author

A New York Times, #1 Wall Street Journal, and USA Today bestselling author of over twenty novels, Meghan March has been known to wear camo face paint and tromp around in woods wearing mud-covered boots, all while sporting a perfect manicure. She’s also impulsive, easily entertained, and absolutely unapologetic about the fact that she loves to read and write smut. Her past lives include slinging auto parts, selling lingerie, making custom jewelry, and practicing corporate law. Writing books about dirty talking alpha males and the strong, sassy women who bring them to their knees is by far the most fabulous job she’s ever had.

Sign up for Meghan's newsletter and receive exclusive content that she saves for her subscribers: http://meghanmarch.com/subscribe

To get the inside scoop on a daily basis, search Meghan March's Runaway Readers on Facebook and join the fun.

Connect: FACEBOOK | WEBSITE | INSTAGRAM | AMAZON AUTHOR PAGE | TWITTER | PINTEREST

Spotlight: FlightPath by Amber Addison

Being married young isn't a thing of the past in Louisiana. And for Madelyn and Seth, it's a way of life. Except, no one prepared them for the skies ahead.

Moving to new places more times than either of them could count with new battles to fight at every stop, their Flightpath to happiness is turbulent.

Between Air Force Pararescue school, deployments, a baby, and the strain that military life can put on a family, they’ve discovered life has to fall apart in order to fall back together again.

When a terrorist attack puts Maddie's life in grave danger, their lives definitely fall apart, and Seth knows saving her might be the only thing that saves them.

FLIGHTPATH can be read as a standalone or as book one in The Love and Valor Series.

*Previously released as a Titan World Novella, with New York Times best-selling author Cristin Harber…now available with an extended epilogue as a full length novel.⠀⠀⠀

Exclusive Excerpt

I was married to the most beautiful girl in the world, inside and out. We made it through basic training and a couple of specialized training schools, despite the time apart. I knew she was with me for the long haul. When we moved away from Texas and on to the next round of training, she never looked back. She squeezed my hand and told me as long as she had me and I had her everything would fall into place. It was always our thing. Maddie squeezing my hand or me squeezing hers. That unsaid reassurance both of us needed from time to time. When I was away from her, I of course missed her body—which she so graciously made sure I had plenty of pictures of—Thank you internet!—but I missed the way she squeezed my hand when I felt like I was struggling. I missed the way her eyes twinkled and turned super green when she saw me walking toward her. I missed the way her eyes turned dark green, almost brown when she was angry, and even how they turned blue when she was sad. I missed that gold ring she would get around her pupils on the “hazel days” as we called them. So yeah, I missed fucking her. But I also just missed her, and it was something not many of the guys understood.

The Pipeline, a seemingly endless chain of classes and schools across the country that I had to take over the next two years were easy in terms of our relationship, but hard as hell in terms of finishing each step and getting to the next. Maddie was able to be with me most of the time, and we got family housing. I felt like I was taking care of her while I was training. She kept writing. I didn’t want her to, at least not for money. I wanted her to write for fun. I swear she wrote all the time...unless she was watching those dumbass shows that make trauma medicine look like a joke. But she wrote a lot. Mostly random pieces in small online publications, but she said it gave her a sense of having something to do, and I couldn’t argue with that logic. It felt good to take care of my girl, though. So, I was always a bit torn but didn’t want to be that dude who looked like an asshole by telling his wife not to work. Growing up definitely wasn’t as easy as I thought it would be.

There was a lot riding on my success in the PJ program. Maddie and I were kind of living school to school for a few months. If I failed, I’d be out and back to trying to decide what I wanted to do in the service. I wasn’t the only one who’d be starting all over again. We both would be. And, because I’m stubborn, I’d try to be a PJ again. I would’ve kept training and trying. I wanted to be a PJ more than anything in my life. For the first time, I knew my purpose was to love my wife and save people’s lives. Maddie tried to take a break from school for me while we spent a little over a year in New Mexico where I finished my Pararescue EMT/Paramedic and my Recovery Specialist courses. I wouldn’t let her though. I mean, she could’ve told me no. Maddie had no qualms about being independent. She was really cute, always thinking she would get her way. She ended up enrolling in school for two semesters in New Mexico. I still claim that as a point in the win column, even though it was only a couple of semesters. After that, they shipped us off to a new base in Arizona. I never thought I’d call Arizona home. But it sure as fuck beat that humid shit I was so used to in Louisiana. Maddie reenrolled in college while we settled in, and I continued my training with my unit for an eventual deployment. I was officially a PJ, and Arizona was home, for now. I had my wife. I had my passion. I was pretty fucking happy. It did scare me how badly I wanted to see some action overseas, though, and it outright terrified Mads.

It felt like years, but sooner rather than later, I was able to use my hard training. I was going to be more than a new recruit. I was going to do more than just train. I was going to implement skills very few people could.

I was going to war.

My first deployment was really hard on everyone. Myself included. Maddie was about to graduate college and there was nothing I could do to stop my deployment. In the military, you don’t get to call the shots. I wanted to be there for her. I wanted to be there to hug her, to celebrate with her. I wanted to be the man I was supposed to be. But, maybe I was. Maybe the man I was supposed to be could do both. I was sure as fuck going to try. There was nothing I could do to properly portray how much I would miss her smile in my life every day. She’d never understand how much I would worry about her. I tried to tell her. I tried to show her—in some of the dirtiest ways possible—that I wasn’t going anywhere. That she was mine. I was hers. War wouldn’t tear us apart. We wouldn’t be one of those statistics. Plus, the Air Force would be in and out of this conflict in no time.

The problem with my plan was that we weren’t in and out of the conflict in no time. When I enlisted, I knew there was a chance I’d go to war. I didn’t think it was likely, but I realized it was a possibility. I wasn’t a fucking moron. I also knew there was a chance I could very well die serving my country. That was a sacrifice I decided I was willing to make without consulting with my new wife. I never asked her how she felt about it. Later, I would learn to regret never asking her opinion. She might’ve told me how much she’d hurt without me. My little copilot, having to pilot life on her own. She always did a fine job, but I know now that she always wished I was there to keep her on course.

But when I’m honest with myself? I would’ve chosen the same anyway. Saving lives? That’s a feeling I’m unable to describe. Saving kids, being the one to save my brothers and sisters at war, knowing I could save the life of an innocent civilian? That’s what I was supposed to be. That was what I was always supposed to be, even before I knew it. I just hoped I didn’t lose the only woman I would ever love over my need to do something for the greater good.

It had been nice stateside, pretending war wasn’t looming in the background. I never thought it would actually happen, not to an extent where I would need to be deployed. Wars were a thing of the past, right? But, when terrorists attacked Americans on United States soil, it was only a matter of time before we got called to serve. That whole thing happened rather quickly. I went from being a pretty carefree, happily married young man, the man that loved coming home to my wife every night and fucking her in ways that only I knew how. I equally loved holding her hand during a movie night on the couch or having her crawl into my lap and go to sleep as I played video games. Life was easy. It was good. Life was unreal.

But life got real. Shit got real. Shit got real in a real big fucking hurry.

The day before my deployment snuck up on me, and before I knew it, I was facing months without my girl. I knew we’d be okay. We’d made it through plenty of long distance periods. But each one hurt just as much as the first time, and as time went on, each one hurt as bad as the worst times. I was better at hiding it than she was. She was so free with her emotions. I had always been pretty open with my emotions around her, too. But the closer deployment came, the more I began to try to turn a lot of my emotions off. I knew my training, while it was the best around, was nothing compared to the wounds I’d be seeing. I knew learning to close a body bag would be nothing like actually doing it with a lifeless body inside of it. I knew what war did to my friends who had been and come back. I thought if I started to shut down before I left, I would definitely be okay. The problem with that plan?

My beautiful, emotional, Maddie.

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About Amber Addison

Amber Addison is a southern mama who writes about real life love in small town USA. She enjoys writing contemporary romance that has it’s ups and downs just like the trials that we face in our day to day. Love isn’t perfect and she doesn’t pretend that it is.

Amber writes anything from swoon worthy military guys to sexy soccer players. When she’s not writing about hot guys and strong women, she’s reading or cleaning up an endless trail of toys left behind by her dog and daughter or getting tattoos.

Nominated for Best Debut Author, 2017, UtopiaCon

Connect with Amber: Website | Facebook | Twitter | Instagram | Goodreads  | Newsletter

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Read an excerpt from Don't Look at Me by J.P. Grider

Haven:

A diligent hand carved this hole in my face.

It stole my confidence, my identity, and ended my short-lived career as a broadcast journalist.

I am now unemployed. Alone. Ugly.

And expected to get over it and move on.

Go on living life as usual—as if the world doesn’t judge the grotesquely unattractive.

Quest:

It’s been three years since I was kicked out of the Army for nearly killing the opposition’s militia commander with my bare hands.

I am now unemployed. Alone. Angry.

And expected to forget the nightmares that hold me hostage and move on.

Go on living life as usual—as if the world doesn’t judge a dishonorably discharged ex-soldier.

Don’t Look at Me is a modern-day Beauty and the Beast tale—reversed and twisted. Because even the ugly need a good story, and even the beautiful are ugly deep down.

Excerpt

(This is not the warm and cheerful Mr. Vescovi)

I drive to the bookstore, wishing I’d see Mr. Vescovi behind the desk, with his silver-white hair, stark against his olive skin. His big smile greeting me in his slightly broken English. “Mia bella, how lovely to see you today.” My heart is heavy with the longing to hear his voice one more time.

Parked out front, my stomach uneasy, the dark store adds to my grief. Undeterred, I step onto the pavement and walk up to the window. Peeking in through the glass door to see if anyone is inside, a cold chill runs up the back of my sundress. The store is dark, lifeless. 

I walk to the corner of the building and take a peek through Mr. Vescovi’s display of Little Golden Books mixed in with classic children’s books such as Charlotte’s Web, Where the Wild Things Are, and The Complete Tales of Winnie the Pooh in the large window. A light is on in the back storage room, so I figure someone is probably here after all.

“Hello, hello,” I say in vain, as if anyone can hear me through the glass. Instead, I ball up my fist and knock hard on the window. “Hello. Is someone in there?”

A dark shadow appears in the storage room doorway, so I rap the glass again and wave. “Hello. Hello.”

The tall image with broad shoulders and large torso raises his hand and waves me away.

I find myself suddenly pounding the glass, going from using my knuckles to my whole fist.

I see him, rather than hear him, say something as his hand flies at me in another go-away gesture. 

I don’t relent and continue rapping on the glass until the figure moves forward, revealing himself to be even larger than I’d first thought. The dark tee-shirt pulling across his chest exhibits the muscles that help contribute to his size.

“We’re closed,” he shouts loud enough for the man standing on the corner, taking a drag off his cigarette, to look in our direction.  

My adrenaline high, I flap a finger toward the door, signaling for him to open it and let me  in.  Again, he shouts, “We’re closed.”

At this point, a pride of lions couldn’t stop me from entering Mr. Vescovi’s store, so I continue knocking until he finally unlocks the door and pushes it open an inch or two. How generous. “I said, we’re closed.” This is not the warm and cheerful  Mr. Vescovi. This man may be tall, handsome, and twenty-something, with eyes the color of a Van Gogh sky and hair as black as midnight, but he is the complete opposite of his gentle-hearted predecessor.

“What do you want?” he growls, his voice is deep, charred from either years of tobacco use or a lifetime of yelling at people.

“I’m Haven Quinn.”

“I don’t care if you’re Angelina Jolie. We’re closed. Indefinitely.”

“But. I’m Haven—”

“Yes. You’ve stated that,” he interrupts.

“Your grandfather named me in his will.”

If I think that piece of information will bring out his warmer side, I am mistaken. Pushing open the door a few more inches, so he can scrutinize me from head to toe, he lets spill his assumption. “You’re a little young for my grandfather, aren’t you?”

“Excuse me?”

“Why else would he leave you a collection worth five hundred and forty thousand dollars?”

“Five hundred and forty thousand!” I blurt childishly. “I think you have the wrong person. Your grandfather left me an Ernest Hemingway book. One.” I doubt it's worth five hundred and forty thousand dollars.

“No,” he sneers. “It’s you. Besides that one book, he also left you my entire collection of signed first edition Ernest Hemingway books. Totaling about five hundred and forty thousand dollars. Those books are the most expensive collection he had,” he continues through gritted teeth and fluttering nostrils. “I hope you were a good lay, and it was worth it for him.”

“You don’t even know me to make that kind of assumption.”

“I know your type, gorgeous. You get by on that long golden hair, those deep brown eyes—” He eyes my body top to bottom again. “—those long lean legs. You expect the world to cater to you, and you don't care what you have to do to get what you want. Including getting old guys off in exchange for their fortunes.”

“Who the hell do you think you are?” My two inch heel grinds the cement step. A stinging warmth of perspiration collides with the salty tears forming on the rim of my burning eyes. Reality hits me in an instant. Forever gone is my kind, old friend, mentor and nurturer who shared my love of books. I fling open the door and hold my hand flat against it so he can't pull it shut. “Your grandfather is probably looking down on you shaking his head in disgust. I don’t need the Hemingway book. I’m just here out of respect for a dear friend.” I turn on my heel and walk away, heartbroken for a man I’ll never have the pleasure of talking with again and maddened by a man I hope never to see again.

Not ten feet from the door, my hopes are already dashed.

“Wait.” Not even a please.

“What?” I say with just as much contempt when I turn around.

“Sorry I was rude, but a half-million dollars is a lot of money.”

He expects me to respond, but I turn back around and take a step toward my car.

“Maybe—” he shouts so I stop walking. “—we can discuss this pathetic stipulation further. When I get back from California.”

Once again, I turn to face him and sigh. “I don’t even know what you’re talking about. I received a phone call from a Mr. Samuel Hart saying that I was to pick up the Green Hills of Africa book that Mr. Vescovi left me. He never mentioned anything about a five hun—”

“Right. Well, there’s a bit more to it. I don’t have time to get into it right now, I gotta be to the airport in an hour, but can we meet in two weeks? I’ll bring a copy of his will.”

“Fine.” Aside from being a regular customer, it doesn’t make sense that Mr. Vescovi would leave me anything, but I can’t just ignore his grandson, rude as he may be.

“Is there somewhere we can meet around here?”

“Oh. We’re confirming plans now?”

“Unless you want me to guess where you’re gonna be.”

Jackass. “I can give you my phone number.”

He holds up his hands. “No pen.”

“Cellphone?”

“Not on me.”

What. An. Ass. “Fine...There’s a diner on route 206 in Branchville. Jumboland.”

The guy snorts. An immature ass.

“So I just need a day and time,” I say.

“Monday the twenty-sixth. 7 p.m.” 

“I work in the evenings.”

“Doing what?”

“None of your business.” My voice cracks. Betrayer.

“I can find out on the internet if I really want to.”

“Be my guest.”

“Does noon work?”

“Noon works.” It goes against my nature to leave a discussion without a proper farewell, but that’s exactly what I do when I turn on my heel and leave Quest Vescovi once and for all.

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About the Author

J.P. Grider is a New Adult and Young Adult author who is a sucker for a good love story - whether it's reading one or writing one. And when she's not reading or writing a fairy tale, she's living one.

Website: https://www.jpgrider.com/

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