Wistful Wednesday

 

Painted Jezebel: 

Excerpts and Review

 

Title:  Painted Jezebel (A Jezebel Jinx Mystery, Book 1)

Author:  Jolie Pethtel

Publisher:  Museitup Publishing

Length:  65,000 Words

Sub-Genres:  Comedy, Contemporary, Mystery/Thriller

AVAILABLE AT:

Museitup Buy link: 

https://museituppublishing.com/bookstore2/index.php?page=shop.product_details&flypage=flypage.tpl&product_id=212&category_id=44&option=com_virtuemart&Itemid=1

Amazon Buy link:

http://www.amazon.com/Painted-Jezebel-Jinx-Mystery-ebook/dp/B005Q37MGG/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1327931868&sr=8-1

BLURB:

Publicist Finn Mackenzie has always been lucky, until an ill-fated affair with a vindictive writer leaves him one chance for redemption: a spectacular public appearance by the elusive best-selling romance author, Jezebel Jinx.

Unfortunately, the cute but kooky writer refuses to cooperate. Jezebel believes she’s cursed with bad luck. Riddled with anxieties, she never leaves her home--until the gorgeous, albeit desperate Finn whisks her away to a writer’s conference, against her will.

After the initial shock wears off, Jezebel’s dormant hormones kick into high gear around the hunky Finn.

When his ex turns up murdered and Jezebel is the prime suspect, ill-planned sexcapades are the least of their worries.

EXCERPT #1:

“Someone was just murdered and I’m the prime suspect. Detective Tyler has gone around smearing my good name with everyone at the conference and here I am strutting around in a bikini. Don’t you think a one piece might have been more—I dunno—respectful?” Jezebel hovered uncertainly in front of the door marked heated pool. “Maybe a black one piece to show I’m in mourning.”

“You can’t flirt with lifeguards in a one piece. It just isn’t sexy enough. Besides, you aren’t in mourning. No one is. Did you see the celebrating going on in the bar? ‘Ding dong! The witch is dead’ is pretty much the attitude in there. If they could give you an award for killing her, they would.”

“I didn’t kill her,” Jezebel hissed.

“No, you didn’t, but if you want to prove your innocence you need to seduce some information out of that lifeguard.”

“My boobs are too small to seduce anyone. My legs are really my best asset, which I could display just as well in a one piece.”

“Rick might be a boob man. That is why you are wearing a size too small and we bought a bikini that lifts.” He mimicked cupping and lifting with his hands, without actually touching her breasts.

“I’m going in.” Jezebel stated as she rolled her eyes, and then stepped toward the pool area entrance. 

“Think sex goddess,” she ordered herself, adding some strut to her walk.

Finn insisted on the fire engine red bikini and matching strappy high heeled sandals. Who wore high heels to the swimming pool? This was wrong on so many levels.

“You look smokin’ hot, babe,” Finn called out. His idea of encouragement. Well, that was nice to know. Jezebel added a little roll to her hips just for his benefit, before pushing open the door and disappearing from sight.

She spotted Rick right away. He sat on his chair like a Greek Adonis, wearing nothing but snug bathing trunks, a whistle and a smile. The pool was filled with women vying for his attention.  Her self-confidence slipped a notch.

Jezebel hesitated a fraction of a second too long as she neared his chair, and then kept on walking. No way was she going to humiliate herself like this. They would just have to find another way to acquire the information.

“Hello gorgeous,” the lifeguard drawled following it up with a whistle and not the ‘behave in the pool’ kind.

Jezebel froze and then slowly smiled. Ah, an ass man. She attempted to spin around gracefully, but grace and spiked heels did not go hand in hand. Just as she was face to face with her target, she slipped and tottered drunkenly on the tiles. In her defense, they were black and the wet spots weren’t particularly visible. She had a brief unpleasant flash of déjà vu, and then the life guard was on his feet, catching her in proper heroic fashion.

“Feel free to drop in anytime.”

Ugh! Did he just say that? The man was so much hotter when he didn’t speak. All brawn, no brain. How disappointing. So what did she say now? Jezebel wasn’t particularly good at suggestive small talk with half naked strangers. She tended to fluster easily. The hidden agenda only increased her nervousness. Where were the cue cards when you needed them?

“You saved my life! How can I ever thank you?” she gushed, fluttering her lashes.

“Do you have something in your eye?” He frowned down at Jezebel, before setting her on her feet.

“I was just a little—um—disoriented for a second.”

“Are you sure? It looked like you were having a seizure there or something.”

“I’m sure.” Jezebel was absolutely mortified. Thank God Finn wasn’t witnessing this. She would never live it down. Just then she caught a glimpse of him pulling off his T-shirt and diving into the deep end in nothing but a pair of modest swim shorts. Not fair. Not only had he overheard every embarrassing word, his smug grin left no doubt, but he was holding himself to a different standard. He should be demeaning himself for the greater good by wearing a pair of revealing swim trunks.

The women swarmed around Finn splashing playfully and damned if he didn’t love every second of it. Jezebel wanted to strangle him. So he wanted to play it that way, then fine. She could play too.

EXCERPT #2:

Jezebel’s stomach lurched abruptly, jarring her back to consciousness. Flashes of bright, white light burst behind her tightly closed eyelids and she knew this was going to be one killer hangover. Her memory was a bit hazy—a complete blank really. She didn’t recall getting drunk and blacking out, but she must have. Happy Birthday to me.

The day was a complete bust, of course. She’d have to write twice as much tomorrow to meet her deadline. All she wanted right now was some aspirin for her pounding headache and a good night’s rest. Maybe tomorrow her mind wouldn’t be so fuzzy.

Jezebel gingerly opened one bleary eye and then the other, trying in vain to focus on something—anything. She only succeeded in making herself dizzy and nauseous. The scenery passed by in a blur, with only one consistent focal point—a continuous row of palm trees and while Arizona was thick with palms, there weren’t any in her neck of the woods. 

The implications were sobering. Dear God, this had to be a nightmare. Even in her present groggy state, she could tell she was no longer safe and secure in her cabin.

Worse yet, she deduced she was in a moving vehicle, being transported to God only knows where, and with each second that passed Jezebel sped further and further from the only safe haven she had ever known. 

She would never have consented to such a thing of her own free will and with this realization confusion fled and panic set in. She was being kidnapped!

Jezebel wanted to scream and yell for help, but knew instinctively that if she did, her head would likely explode. The pain was excruciating. 

She touched carefully around her skull with the tips of her fingers. She suspected a blow to the head had caused her current unfortunate circumstance, but no evidence supported that notion.

“Hello, sleepyhead,” the kidnapper greeted her in a cheerful tone. She knew that voice. The familiar Irish lilt. It was that attractive, if annoying, publicist. She knew he was desperate to attend some conference, but kidnapping? The man was a lunatic. She’d witnessed his desperation first hand, of course, but never imagined he would dare go this far. How had he managed to lure her out of her cabin and into his vehicle without a single protest? Jezebel fought to remember. She should have screamed the house down. What he accomplished was an impossible feat, but he was more devious than she had given him credit for. There was only one way he could have pulled this off.

The bastard drugged me.

“What did you do to me?” Jezebel rolled her head to the side with considerable effort to give him her most fearsome glare. He didn’t even flinch.

“I just gave you some sleeping pills.” He shrugged.

“Some?” Her voice rose to a screech. “How many is some?”

“I don’t know. I just crushed a bunch and spread them over the pizza. Who would have thought such a dainty little thing could eat a whole pizza by herself?”

“You could have killed me!” Jezebel was horrified.

“You have been sleeping a long time,” Finn admitted. “I was starting to worry, but you seem fine now.”

“Fine? I am so not fine!” Jezebel began to hyperventilate. “Oh God! I—can’t—breathe!”

“Don’t worry. I came prepared for this.” Finn pulled over to the side of the highway and handed her a paper bag.

“What—the Hell—is this?” she wheezed, studying the bag as if it were a foreign object.

“What does it look like? It’s a paper bag. Cover your mouth with it and concentrate on breathing in and out slowly, until the feeling passes. You’re having a panic attack.”

Jezebel closed her eyes and did as instructed, albeit resentfully, holding the bag over her mouth until her breathing steadied. Still clutching the bag, she turned to face Finn. “Please tell me you brought my medication.”

“Medication?” he frowned. “I looked through your medicine cabinet and I only saw the prescription for sleeping pills. There were no other prescription medications.”

“I keep them in my nightstand in case I have an anxiety attack during the night,” she attempted to explain patiently. “Please tell me you brought them.”

“Sorry, no. It looks like for this trip we’re going to have to do it old school.” He gestured toward the bag. “No drugs.”

“Old school!” she shrieked, hitting Finn over and over with the paper bag. If only she had something harder that would inflict more pain. A blunt instrument maybe, but she had to make do with what was available. Heck, with a little luck maybe he’d suffer a nasty paper cut. “Are you out of your mind? You—are not—a doctor. You are not equipped to handle my condition. You have to take me home. Right Now!”

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:

Jolie Pethtel was born in Ohio, but raised in Arizona, where she met her husband Jim. Jolie has since moved to Indianapolis, Indiana where she lives with her husband and their six rambunctious children. Jolie is a Domestic Goddess by day and Writer by night.

Author Website: http://www.jezebeljinx.com

Fan Page: http://www.facebook.com/joliepethtel

Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=100002016243117

Twitter: @joliepethtel

My Thoughts:

One thing about this book is that it's a quick read, which is always a plus, in my own opinion. There's nothing worse than a book that drags along and makes you groan with its slow pacing (yes, I have actually encountered books like this and, yes, I have actually groaned in frustration with them). You want a book, especially a mystery, to whip along at a good clip - and drag you right along with it. The worst thing that can happen when you're reading is for the pace to be so slow, it gives you a lot of time to wonder why you're still reading the book. Luckily, that was not the case with Painted Jezebel. It might have started out a little slow, but once Finn got Jezebel out of hr cabin and to the conference, it picked up speed and kept me reading at a similar clip to the end. And boy, did a lot happen at that conference!

One thing I really liked about this book was the way the author kept the reader guessing. She provided a nice tableau of possible suspects for the murder of a not-too-beloved author and kept you guessing until the very end about which one actually did it. She even sent the characters after suspect after suspect, all of whom had motive, intent, and the opportunity to commit the murder. Nicely done. One thing I dislike about most so-called mystery stories is that (perhaps because I'm a writer myself) I can usually figure out who did it before the end of the story. I hate that. Although I want to try to figure it out, I want to be surprised by the end result. So I was pleasantly surprised by the outcome of Painted Jezebel.

Although there were some moments that I thought were a little over the top, for the most part, I enjoyed this book and would recommend it to anyone who loves a good mystery.

Find out more about the Painted Jezebel tour at: http://cblspromotions.blogspot.com/2012/02/vbt-painted-jezebel-jezebel-jinx.html

Wistful Wednesday

Why Wolves?

(Image courtesy of FotoSearch.com)

Whenever I discuss my latest book, Sloane Wolf, people often ask me, Why Wolves? And I have to say, why not? Wolves are fantastic creatures that mate for life and are truly faithful to their mates (from what I've read), and we humans could learn a lot from them.

As it pertains to my book, however, it was rather serendipitous that I ended up writing about wolves. I didn't intentionally set out to do so, but a series of events conspired to make it happen. The first event came in the form of a book that was ultimately made into a movie that got me to thinking - and anybody who knows me can tell you that when I get to thinking, things begin to happen...in a writing sense that is! I can turn the smallest nugget of an idea into a story, if motivated enough to do so, and that is how this story started out, as just a nugget. So there I was, inspired by this other book/movie enough that certain scenes kept kicking up in my head (ahem, fight scene), but content just to imagine it in my head. 

(Image courtesy of FotoSearch.com)

Until event number two happened. That would be a contest that an electronic publishing company was running with the theme of - you guessed it - wolves. And so I thought, why not? I had some interesting scenes kicking around in my head, the contest was for a novella length story, so I had enough to accomplish that. And with the help of event number three - discovering an article about gray wolves returning to Massachusetts after a100-plus year absence - a true story began to formulate with legends of wolves and why they "reappeared" in the state after such a long absence. Wow, I thought, this was really going to be something, if I could get it all together in time.

Trouble was, once I started writing, I just kept on writing and I over-shot the word count. One thing I forgot when I set out to enter this contest: I have never been able to write short. I keep trying, but I usually have so much to say, it doesn't conform well to short stories or novellas. Not wanting to cut anything to fit the guidelines, I simply finished the book for me. And by the time I was finished with it, I knew that I had to try to get it published anyway, I felt that strong about it. And after several fits and starts, I finally found the right publisher for it in Muse it Up Publishing.

So there you have it. The serendipitous events that led to the birth of Sloane Wolf.

-- 

Tantalizing Tuesday

Best Bad Date Character Interview

by

Addison James

Addison: Today I’m pleased to interview the stars of my recently released romantic comedy short story, THE BEST BAD DATE: Dr Roger Lane and Ms Susan Wells, written by me, Addison James, and released in December 2011 by Muse It Up Publishing.  Susan, Roger, thanks for agreeing to be interviewed.

Roger: Thanks for inviting us.

Susan: Yes, it’s very sweet of you to ask us.

Addison: Well, I really appreciate you allowing me to document your story. I think the title tells it all, but can you two describe how your first date was and how did you survive?

Roger: (laughing)  Well, how much time do we have? (He looks at Susan and holds her hand.) Honey, would you like to do the honors?

Susan: (smiling) Well, I could, or we could do it together.

Addison: let’s start with how you met. That’s interesting.

(Roger and Susan look at each other and burst out laughing.)

Roger: Um, interesting is a good word.

Susan: I’d say unusual.

Roger: Memorable.

Susan: Unique.

Roger: Special. (gazing into Susan’s eyes and ignoring Addison)

Susan: (looking at Roger) Very special.

(Addison coughs and the couple refocuses their attention to her.)

Roger: It was a bachelor auction.

Susan: And he was worth every penny!

Addison: Yes,that’s unusual. And special. And the date itself? The most memorable first date ever?

Roger: Ever!

Susan: Everything that could go wrong went wrong.

Roger (counting on his fingers): the dyslexic printer, the parking ticket, the doggie do...

Susan: You’ll never forget that , will you?

Roger: (smiling) No dear (continues counting) The waiter spilling, the parking ticket…

Susan: The porn movie…

Roger: It wasn’t porn, it was artistic.

Susan: It was NC-17.

Roger: (holding her hand tighter) But, it all worked out. When you see how someone faces adversity, you know their character. And I knew Susan was someone special right away. All those events just confirmed it.

Susan: I felt the same way. Most guys would have become angry and accusing and defensive. Roger just took it step by step and we handled each problem together.

(They look into each other’s eyes again and Addison coughs, again. They turn to face the interviewer.)

Addison: So, the readers want to know how the second date was.

(Roger and Susan laugh together.)

Susan: Perfectly normal.

Roger: But perfectly wonderful.

Addison: And there have been more dates?

Susan: (nodding) Lots more.

Roger: Lots and lots more. We have a big date planned in June.

(Susan, glowing, holds out her left hand where there is a diamond solitaire on her third finger.)

Addison: Congratulations!

Roger: We’re at the age that we don’t want to wait. We want to start a family. We’ve had our starter marriages and relationships, at our age, we know the real thing when it happens and we don’t want to let it go away.

Susan: It’s been a whirlwind but wonderful. We’re very happy.

Addison: Well, that’s all we have time for. Thank you both for taking the time and congratulations!




THE BEST BAD DATE BY ADDISON JAMES

Brief synopsis

When is a bad date good? Susan Wells finds out when a bachelor auction leads to a date with handsome  Doctor Roger Lane, and a night to remember. What could go wrong? Everything. Will love find a way through this comedy of errors? Absolutely.


Book blurb:

 “It’s for a good cause.”

Dr. Roger Lane repeated this mantra over and over again as he was dragged onstage in front of several hundred screaming women.

It wasn’t supposed to happen like this. Roger knew today was the day of the bachelor auction fundraiser for Saint Albans Hospital. Marge, the head of the Ladies’ Auxiliary, even sought him out specifically to participate--“Our own Doctor McDreamy” she was quoted saying).

Roger purposely arranged to be out of the hospital today, but there was an emergency surgery that required his attention. After the surgery Nurse Williams decided to show him a super secret shortcut back to the physician’s parking lot, which somehow managed to reroute him so that he ended up in the auditorium on the stage where hundreds of women were yelling, “Take it off! Take it off!”

Author Bio:

Addison James spent her childhood with her nose in a book, ignoring the natural beauty of her native Vermont. She went to the right schools, got the right jobs, and spent her early adult years being responsible and stable. Then, her long repressed urge to write emerged and she has been feeding it ever since.

Website:
http://addisonjwriter.com/


Twitter: @addisonj_writer

Author page on Amazon:
http://www.amazon.com/Addison-James/e/B005EOQGWS

Author page on GoodReads: http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/4959100.Addison_James

Google +: Addison James





Link to purchase book—book published December 16, 2011.
http://museituppublishing.com/bookstore2/index.php?page=shop.product_details&flypage=flypage.tpl&product_id=284&category_id=69&option=com_virtuemart&Itemid=1%2F&vmcchk=1&Itemid=1

Twilight Thursday

My Special Guest Today:

Lindsay Townsend

author of A Christmas Sleeping Beauty

Excerpt 1.

His roving eyes fixed on the single ornament. "I know she likes yellow iris."

A dry pitter-patter of applause startled him. "Well done, Orlando! There may be hope for you yet. She loves Christmas, too, and we are fast approaching Christmas Eve. Three days to go, by my reckoning."

He was about to reply, with some sarcasm, that he too knew it was the darkest, longest day of the year, the winter solstice, but a thread of caution made him ask, "Three days?"

"Three days to learn of her, to woo her, to begin to care, my prince."

"For a kiss?"

"Have you ever been in love, Orlando? Have you ever felt what a true kiss is like?"

Orlando said nothing, for the fairy guardian was plainly talking nonsense.

"Should you fail, you will be spirited back to your own lands, with no memory of this place."

"That is unjust—"

"Truly, Prince? As just and fair as the gold coach that carries you, while your footmen wear broken shoes?"

Excerpt 2

The girl curled on her side, fast asleep in the middle of the twilight-blue silken sheets, was glorious, fit for any prince, even for him. Small, with long, glossy black hair, she had a lithe, flawless figure and the most perfect pink little mouth. Lips sweeter than sugar cane, he wagered, congratulating himself for a third time.

He rolled her onto her back and straightened out her slim, taut limbs. She did not stir. Her breath was sweeter than peppermint and her skin like ivory, tinted faintly with rose. In this gloomy chamber, unlit by windows or torches, she glowed like a pearl, as if lit from within. Her nightdress was white and trimmed with lace, the kind of old-fashioned gown his grandmother used to wear. He imagined himself ripping it from her, plundering those lush pink lips for kiss after kiss as she gasped her thankfulness and gratitude, and he made her his, right here in the great bed. And after that, of course, the kingdom would be his, for her parents would make him their heir.

A swift marriage in the cathedral before Christmas, and all would be well. He would hire tutors for her, to teach her the modern ways, but if she was as soft and obedient as his grandmother had been, then all would be very well indeed.

And I am going to marry her, he thought.

He tugged off his boots and sank onto the bed. He would kiss her forehead first and then her mouth, he decided. He caught her wrists in one of his large hands, so she would not scratch him when she woke.

Her flesh was warm and fragrant. A small pulse thudded in her temple as she responded to him. The weariness of his long hunt for this fabled kingdom dropped away as he knelt on top of her, careful not to crush her with his weight, and lowered his head.

A snap behind him had him sprawling off her, knife ready, shielding his prize.

He relaxed, realizing a log had collapsed in the fireplace, and turned back.

"None shall take her from you, eh, Prince?"

Out of nowhere, a woman had appeared beside the carefully laid fire. She was nearly as tall as himself, with iron-gray hair and a handsome, if sharp, face. She was robed in the latest fashion and carried a sheath of yellow iris which she proceeded to arrange into a tall blue vase beside the bed. "I suppose you tried to defend her, at least."

Orlando fingered his dagger. "Who are you, woman? Some kind of ghost?"

"There." She gave the flowers a final shake. "These are some of her favorites. Have you brought flowers?"

"What for?"

"For the princess!" She gave him an expression he had last seen on the harassed face of his Latin tutor. "Do you expect to woo her with nothing?"

Cursing under his breath, even as he felt the heat of his temper pound in his head, Prince Orlando decided things had gone far enough. He slammed his knife back into its sheath. Next, defying the mysterious stranger, or rather ignoring her, he lifted the sleeping young woman into his arms and kissed her firmly on the lips.

Her head fell back a little, but she slept on.


Blurb:


Handsome, confident, a touch arrogant, Prince Orlando thinks that now he has found Sleeping Beauty, his kiss will wake her at once. When it does not, he realizes he has much to learn about life and love.
Princess Rosie, trapped in her enchanted sleep, dreams of a mysterious man. Is he a rescuer or a nightmare? She must fight to recover herself and all before Christmas, for time is running out.


About the Author:

Lindsay Townsend is fascinated by ancient world and medieval history and writes historical romance covering these periods. She also enjoys thrillers and writes both historical and contemporary romantic suspense. When not writing, Lindsay enjoys spending time with her husband, gardening, reading and taking long, languid baths – possibly with chocolate.

AUTHOR: LINDSAY TOWNSEND

BOOK TITLE: A CHRISTMAS SLEEPING BEAUTY

PUBLISHER: MUSE IT UP PUBLISHING

BUY LINK: http://museituppublishing.com/bookstore2/index.php?page=shop.product_details&product_id=196&flypage=flypage.tpl&pop=0&option=com_virtuemart&Itemid=1&vmcchk=1&Itemid=1

As well as writing for Muse It Up I also write for Kensington Zebra and Bookstrand. I have two other stories coming out in December - my latest medieval historical romance, THE SNOW BRIDE (coming out Dec 27th with Bookstrand) and a re-issue of my romantic suspense, THE ENGLISH DAUGHTER (coming out with Lysandra Press).

My website is here: http://www.lindsaytownsend.net

Wistful Wednesday

Everyone NaNo!

As I write this, I am knee-deep in the wonderful world of NaNoWriMo. I'm sure by now, everyone knows what that is. If you don't, it's when a bunch of creative, wildly optimistic, slightly-off-their-rockers writers decide to write - along with millions of their writer buddies - 50,000 words in one month. Can it be done? Sure it can. Is it crazy? Of course it is! But so are so many other aspects of this wonderful, wild world we call writing, so it's all good. But why would anyone want to put themselves through that craziness, you might wonder. Well, I'm sure there are as many reasons as there are writers accepting the challenge, but I think, basically, it's the kick in the pants a lot of writers need to get themselves going. Plus, you get pep talks and support from an amazing community of friends and what more could a writer ask for?

Have you ever considered doing the NaNo thing, but were too afraid to start? Me, too, back in the day. But some crazy notion inspired me to try and I've been doing it every year since. Sometimes I have moderate success, sometimes I have great success, other times...not so much. But it doesn't matter if you complete the 50,000 words in the designated time or not. It's more important that you START. Once you start getting those words down on paper, you are well on your way to completing a manuscript. So don't let the time constraints scare you. Just use it as an incentive to get yourself to write. And if you write a little every day, you're already a winner.


So let's NaNo! Incidentally, if you are in the NaNo community, my name there is peefie23. If you ask me real nice, I might tell you how I came up with that nickname (wink)!

Margay Leah Justice

Sloane Wolf, available now from MuseItUp Publishing.
(Direct link)

Phantasm Friday

News Flash!

Hey, all, I just wanted to pop in with a quick bit of news that is exciting to me - and hopefully to you, too! My new book, Sloane Wolf, makes its debut today on MuseItUp Publishing! I'm so excited! You can read all the details about it - plus catch an exclusive, the first posting of an excerpt from the book - here:

http://margayleahjustice.blogspot.com/2011/10/welcome-to-world-sloane-wolf.html

Sorry about the transfer to another site, but I wanted to give my author blog some love, too! Thanks in advance for stopping by!

Wistful Wednesday

Catching Up With Me

Hello, All! Lots of changes happening with me lately, so I figured I'd take the opportunity to catch you up on them.

First, my personal author's blog has a new home, thanks to the wonderful Moonlight webmistress Carrie. It's still a work in progress, but please stop by and visit me here.

Next, I have a new publisher! MuseItUp Publishing is releasing my next book at the end of this month, which I am very excited about! I will share more details soon. In the meantime, I was interviewed by a fellow Muse author and would love for you to stop by and check it out here.

And probably the most exciting news for me is that I have a new book coming out entitled Sloane Wolf. I will be posting more about it in the future, but for now, here's the awesome cover:

And the blurb:

For more than a hundred and fifty years, the gray wolf has failed to roam the hills of Massachusetts, leading to the belief that they are extinct. But with a spattering of sightings across the Berkshires, the legend of the gray wolf comes to fruition. The product of that legend, Micah Sloane will go to great lengths to protect his kind from the threat of outsiders, who seek to exploit the legend for their own interests. One thing he didn’t count on, however, was finding his soul mate in the company of such men.

From the first time she predicted a stranger’s imminent death when she was little more than a child, Shiloh Beck knew she was different. Wishing to cultivate her gift, her parents made the fateful decision to enroll her in a private school for paranormally gifted children. Unbeknownst to them, the school was just a front for a research facility simply called the Institute, whose secret board members weaned gifted children from their families to exploit their gifts. Shiloh has spent the better part of her life trying to escape the Institute and reunite with the family she was told had abandoned her.

From their first meeting, Micah and Shiloh share a connection that goes beyond the normal to bond them in a way that love alone cannot. But before they can build a life together, they must deal with the fall-out when the legend of the wolves collides with the men behind the Institute.

Wistful Wednesday

Murder is a Family Business: Promo and Review

Blurb:

Just because a man cheats on his wife and makes Danny DeVito look tall, dark and handsome, is that any reason to kill him? The reluctant and quirky PI, Lee Alvarez doesn't think so. But the 34-year old ½ Latina, ½ WASP and 100% detective has her work cut out for her when the man is murdered on her watch. Of all the nerve. Set in the present, Murder is a Family Business is the first in a series of humorous mysteries revolving around Lee Alvarez, a combination of Sue Grafton’s Kinsey Millhone and Janet Evanovitch’ Stephanie Plum, and rest of the Alvarez Family, detectives all. Seemingly light and frothy on the surface, the novel nevertheless explores familial love, the good, the bad and the annoying.

Completing the family is Lee’s Never-Had-A-Bad-Hair-Day aristocratic mother, Lila; computer genius brother, Richard; beloved uncle “Tio;” and her energetic orange and white cat, Tugger. When this group is not solving murders, they run Discretionary Inquiries, a successful Silicon Valley agency that normally deals with the theft of computer software. The love, humor and camaraderie shared within this family are what set this series apart from others.

Excerpt:

Chapter I

The Not-So-Perfect Storm

"God, surveillance sucks," I griped aloud to a seagull languishing on a nearby, worm eaten post, he being my only companion for the past few hours. He cocked his head and stared at me. I cocked my head and stared at him. It might have been the beginning of a beautiful friendship, but a nearby car backfired and he took off in a huff. Watching him climb, graceful and white against the gray sky, I let out a deep sigh, feeling enormously sorry for myself. I eyeballed the dilapidated warehouse across the parking lot that was hanging onto the edge of the pier for any signs of life. I didn’t find any.

I knew I was in trouble earlier when I discovered that this was the only vantage point from which I could stay hidden and still see the “perpetrator’s place of entrance,” as I once heard on Law and Order. That meant I couldn’t stay in my nice, warm car listening to a Fats Waller tribute on the radio but had to be out in the elements, hunkered down next to a useless seawall.

For three lousy hours, rambunctious waves from the San Francisco Bay made a break for freedom over this wall and won. Salty foam and spray pummeled my face, mixed with mascara, and stung my eyes like nobody’s business. Then the wind picked up and the temperature dropped faster than the Dow Jones on a bad day.

Speeding up Highway 101 toward Fisherman’s Wharf, I’d heard on the car radio that a storm was moving in. When I arrived, I got to experience it first hand. Yes, it was just winter and me on the San Francisco Bay. Even Jonathan Livingston Seagull had taken a powder.

I concentrated on one of two warehouses, mirrors of each other, sitting at either side of a square parking lot containing about twenty cars and trucks. “Dios mio, do something,” I muttered to the building that housed the man who had caused me to age about twenty years in one afternoon.

I struggled to stay in a crouched position, gave up and sat down, thinking about the man I’d been following. I was sure he was a lot more comfortable than I and I resented him for it. Two seconds later, I realized the cement was wet, as well as cold. Cursing my stupidity, I ju

mped up and stretched my cramped legs while trying to keep an eye on the door he had entered, lo those many hours before. With me being the only one on the job, I couldn’t keep an eye on the cargo bay on the other side of the warehouse but I felt pretty safe about it being a non-exit. Without a boat or a ship tied there, it emptied into the briny bay. The perp, thankfully, didn’t look like much of a swimmer, even on a nice day.

I tried to focus my mind on Mr. Portor Wyler, said perpetrator, and the singular reason for all my misery. I kept coming back to this burning question: why the hell was a Palo Alto real estate mogul driving 42-miles roundtrip two to three times a week to a beat-up, San Francisco warehouse on the waterfront?

After that one, I had an even better question: what the hell was I doing here? Oh, yeah. Thanks, Mom.

My name is Liana Alvarez. It’s Lee to my friends, but never to my mother. I am a thirty-four year old half-Latina and half-WASP PI. The latter, aforesaid relatives drip with blue blood and blue

chips, and have been Bay Area fixtures for generations. Regarding the kindred Mexican half of me, they either immigrated to the good old US of A or still live in Vera Cruz, where they fish the sea. How my mother and father ever got together is something I’ve been meaning to ask Cupid for some time.

However, I digress. Back to Portor Wyler or, rather, his wife, Yvette Wyler. It was because of her I was in possession of a cold, wet butt, although I’m not supposed to use language like that because Mom would be scandalized. She had this idea she raised me to be a lady and swears her big mistake was letting me read Dashiell Hammett when I was an impressionable thirteen year old.

My mother is Lila Hamilton Alvarez, of the blue blood part of the family, and CEO of Discretionary Investigations, Inc. She was and is my boss. Yvette Wyler had been a friend of my mother’s since Hector was a pup, so when Mrs. Wyler came crying to her, Mom thought we should be the ones to find out what was going on. That didn’t seem like a good enough reason for me to be where I was, assigned to a job so distasteful no self-respecting gumshoe I hung out with would touch it, but there you have it. Leave it to my mother to lay a guilt trip on m

e at one of my more vulnerable times. I don’t know who I was more annoyed with, Mom or me.

Furthermore, I had no idea what my intelligent, savvy and glamorous mother had in common with this former school chum, who had the personality of ragweed and a face reminiscent of a Shar-Pei dog I knew once. Whenever I brought the subject up to Mom, I got claptrap about “loyalty” and “friends being friends.” So naturally, my reaction to the woman made me aware of possible character flaws on my part. I mean, here Mrs. Wyler was, one of my mother’s best friends, and I was just waiting for her to bark.

About the Author:

Heather is a story teller by nature and loves the written word. In her career, she’s written short stories, novels, comedy acts, plays, television treatments, ad copy, commercials, and even ghost-wrote a book.

One of her first jobs as a writer was given to her by her then agent. It was that of writing a love story for a book published by Bantam called Moments of Love. She had a deadline of one week

and then promptly came down with the flu. She wrote "The Sands of Time" with a temperature of 102 and delivered some pretty hot stuff because of it. Later on, she wrote short comedy skits for nightclub acts and ad copy for such places as No Soap Radio, where her love for comedy blossomed. Many of her short stories have been seen in various publications, as well as 2 one-act plays produced in Manhattan, one at the well-known, Playwrights Horizons.

Her novel, Murder is a Family Business, the first in the Alvarez Murder Mystery series, has been epublished by MuseItUp Publishing in January, 2011. The second in the series, A Wedding To Die For, debuts April 22, 2011. She is currently writing the 3rd of the series, and says they are a joy to write. Heather gets to be all the characters, including the cat!

You can visit Heather online at www.heatherhavenstories.com and her blog at http://heatherhavensays.blogspot.com/.

My Thoughts: I don't feel that I can give this a proper review as it was a dnf (did not finish) for me. I wanted to like it, I really did, but several chapters in, I was still wondering when the story was going to pick up pace, but it never did, so I stopped reading. There were a few problems for me. One, the protagonist's name wasn't even revealed until somewhere on page two. For me, even if this is part of a series, I believe the name should be stated on the first page, especially for those who might be coming into the series in a later book. Personally, I like to know who I'm reading about from the beginning, so I can get in their head, so to speak. This may be a minor thing, but it kept me from getting right into the action, which started me off in the wrong mindset.

Next, the action - or the lack thereof, in this case. As I said before, I kept waiting for something to happen, but it never did. Sure, it started off with a murder, but the revealing of it was in such a matter-of-fact manner, I felt like I was reading a news clip. And then there was a lot of time spent in a police station, a four-legged feline distraction, and the introduction of Lee's family, when all I wanted was to get to the important factor - the story. Maybe I'm just used to watching crime stories on television and so have been spoiled by the pacing, but this one never hit its stride before I gave up on it.

But this is just one person's experience. You must decide for yourself. If mysteries are your thing, give this book a try. The author shows skill and obviously knows how to put together a story. Maybe you'll have more patience than I did and eagerly read on to the pay-off. If you do - or if you've already read this book - I invite you to post a counter-review in the comments and tell everyone, myself included, why you think this book is a good read.

Wistful Wednesday

My special guest today is the author of Rast. Please welcome Christopher Hoare!

Hanging in there by Christopher Hoare

This blog entry is about not giving up on a novel. The novel in question is my newest – the fantasy Rast released this March. Rast features the young prince, Egon, who must take control of the dangerous magic that destroys his father, th

e sorcerer king. Jady, his sweetheart, offers a strong supporting role in her action as guide for the princess who is destined to replace her as Egon’s consort. The story is both about overcoming the dangers to the kingdom and the resolution of the couple’s forbidden desire to marry.

It is the fifth of my published novels, but in fact is my oldest. I had it half written in the summer of 2002, when I had to put it aside to prepare for my winter contracting in the oil fields. I picked it up again the following summer when I joined the online writing group NovelDoc. I worked on progressive drafts over the next few years as it went though their successive month-long complete novel critiques.

One of the members had her own publishing company. She left NovelDoc due to pressure of commitments but a year later contacted me to do a read through and help polish her latest fantasy novel. In return she said she’d take a look at Rast. The next message I received was that she’d liked Rast ... a lot, and offered me a contract for it. Wow, that was easy.

At least two years passed, and then her deadlines slipped another year past release date – she had accepted more novels than she could now handle. I believe she’d lost a partner in the business. I hung on, because I was engaged in a long wrangle with the IRS for their potential pound of flesh – the ITIN I needed so they could tax my earnings as a non-American. Eventually, I gave up on the IRS, I had heard so many Americans express so much hate for the outfit I began to think that perhaps I didn’t want anything to do with them: not if I could avoid it. So I asked for and received a release of contract and started looking for a new home for.

Rast then started on a long trek through publishers who would accept the un-agented submission. It spent more years in in-trays and in piles on editors’ desks than were sufficient to glean responses like, “not for us”, or “we no longer accept fantasy” – or perhaps “oh, did we forget we had this?” that I would have found more honest. The submission before the last, Rast garnered scathing criticism of the first few pages.

So, when Lea Schizas at MuseItUp said everyone liked it I was quick to accept her contract offer. I think that Rast after all its tribulations has at last come home – and now we are sending it out to the readers who will decide whether the long journey has been worthwhile. Never give up.

Christopher Hoare lives with his wife, Shirley, and two shelter dogs, Coco and Emmie, in the foothills of the Canadian Rockies. As a lad he lived, breathed, and dreamed aeroplanes, won a place at RAE Farnborough learning to engineer them, but found the reality didn’t fit the dream. Did a stint in the army and then away to Libya to join the oil circus. Flying objects only appear as tools when they now appear in his writing.

His stories never take place next door to the lives most people live; the less charitable find similarity in characters who tend to be stubborn, independent, and contrarian. Perhaps there’s a connection between the worlds he portrays in fiction, and his working life in oil exploration in the Libyan Desert, the Canadian Arctic, and the mountains and forests of Western Canada.

He has written stories set in Anglo-Saxon Britain, in modern industrial projects, in the alternate world of Gaia, and the fantasy world of Rast. Sometimes known to satirize jobs and organizations he knows. Likes to write central characters who are smart, beautiful, and dangerous women who lead their male counterparts to fulfill dangerous duties they'd rather avoid. Gisel Matah in the Iskander series is perhaps the most Bond-like of these, but Jady in Rast can match her in many aspects.

Visit his website at http://www.christopherhoare.ca/ to learn much more, and download the free novella “Gisel Matah and the Slave Ship”. You can find his blog at http://trailowner.blogspot.com/

About Rast:

In Rast, magic is not a convenient parlour trick, it’s a deadly force that takes no prisoners. Those who must wield it are doomed, for it never ceases to work within the mind and nerves until it destroys its master.

And now, the time of the interregnum is here; the reigning sorcerer king, the Drogar of Rast, is struggling for a last grasp on magic power while his heir, Prince Egon, must take up the deadly mantle. Egon is fearful but courageous in his duty. Not one peril threatens Rast, but many.

While he struggles to tame the magic to his command the mechanistic Offrang adventurers arrive to seize the land for their empire. The Offrangs don’t just disbelieve in magic, they treat any attempt to discuss it with withering scorn. Then, when the Drogar falters, the North Folk sweep out in their multitudes to cover the land of Rast at the behest of their depraved Casket of Scrolls. Deepning too, a creature of earth magic in its mountain pools, stirs to gain power enough to conquer Rast.

The Prince’s sweetheart Jady does her best to support him, but she is not strong enough in the power of the lineage to bear him a magic wielding heir. She sets out to meet the caravansi of the cousin princess who is sent to be his consort with duty and anger both warring in her mind. The crisis will reveal surprising enemies, surprising friends, and as the Drogar tells Jady, “Even a Drogar may not see a future not yet determined.” While Egon goes west to spy on the Offrangs and Jady makes her way east, the oracle provided by the Pythian that lives in a cavern beneath the palace reveals, “You have no high point to see the scattered threads but must trust to those who grasp them.”

Everyone, enemy and friend, has a part to play in the preservation of Rast.

Wistful Wednesday

Hello, today I would like to welcome my special guest into the Moonlight, MuseItUp Publishing author, Nikolai Due-Gundersen, who's sharing with us an excerpt from his new novel, Heart's Lone Desire.

Chapter One

They had prepared the room as instructed. Tall candles littered the chamber, their light inviting shadows, and at the centre, the tub stood waiting, its deep brass polished until gold shone from its depth. Wisps of steam snaked from the water within. Hot, thick twists joining scattered shadows, playing among the bitter light.

Monsieur Lilac sipped his wine with deliberate slowness. His tired eyes went to the windows, longing for escape. Outside, the first fall of snow had begun. As Paris slept, dots dropped down from the heavens, the flakes of stars gracing the earth of mortals. He finished the wine in one slow gulp, savouring the burn of its taste. His hand trembled. Today, he truly felt the pain of his years. It was the weakness in him; the weakness in all men. Mortality pulsed through his veins like a plague. It wrinkled his skin. Tightened his chest. Tonight, he would escape it all.

He disrobed, his servants taking firm hold of his frame. Water bubbled as his body met its warmth.

“The curtains,” he gestured with a weak hand.

Winter disappeared from view.

He breathed, and leaned further into the tub’s warmth. There was no further need for him to speak. His loyal servants knew what was to be done. Cold hands were upon his chest, nails marking his flesh with thick dots…something sharper. The chill of metal—of medical instruments. The skin underneath curled against the cold whispers of steel.

He closed his eyes, wheezed his last sigh. One by one, the candles were extinguished. He prayed for the comfort of nothingness.

The hands were upon his own, holding him down. Thick cloth closed the charm of his mouth. The aristocratic mouth that had argued, threatened, loved. The pain in his chest was sharp, as expected, his flesh folding to metal wielded by loyal hands. Old blood spilled from fresh wounds. His weakness ripped open.

He forced his eyes to remain closed. The sound of tearing flesh, breaking bones.

And underneath it all, the weakest form. His poor heart, still thumping, not knowing when to stop, not knowing when life had become a patient death. Hands dug into the redness of his chest, and with twists and tugs, the heart of old was finally disconnected.

A gasp escaped from his still suppressed lips. It was enough to make him open his eyes. He watched it fall to the floor, and waited for the gift of light.

AUTHOR'S OTHER WORKS:

‘Angel’, published by Necrology Shorts (Under the pseudonym N.D. Gundersen: http://www.necrologyshorts.com/2010/01/30/angel/)

The Heart’s Lone Desire; to be released May 2011 by Muse it Up Publishing

‘Hair Today, Gone Tomorrow’, published by Death Head Grin magazine (http://deathheadgrin.com/id251.html) and Dead Man’s Tome/Demonic Tome (http://demonictome.com/Aug2010.pdf)